A whisper for peace

 At the current rate of global warming, we will have ice-free summers in the Arctic in the next decade. The snows are drifting away from our planet. First it disappeared from the exotic peak of Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa. The glaciers are gasping under the heat. In the same series, the summer snows will vanish from the Arctic and so will the majestic polar bear. But for those who run this world it's almost a nonissue. Who cares for vanishing snows? Especially when there are wars to pacify individual and institutional egos, when there are more territories to grab, more mines to be dug into earth’s gut to take out the still remaining things of utility.

The modern Czar has burnt down an entire country in pursuit of impearlist dreams. Beautiful homes, lovely orchards and gardens have been charred by falling bombs and missiles. Homes have turned into rubble. Death and destruction is dancing freely in Ukraine. The ants, dogs, wild animals, homes, cities, gardens, agriculture farms all are charred to ghastly rubble of broken dreams and decaying humanity, while the Czar is going full throttle, creating present time hell to capture past glory.

Sadly, the mankind is ill-fated to live in disorder and strife. It seems to be in our genes. We abhor peace and harmony. To be human seems to be unruly, chaotic, aggressive and angry. We keep creating more and more chaos with modern inventions and discoveries. Power blocks and superpower aspirants are sharpening their swords to once again unleash blood and mayhem. Just like it’s been going for thousands of years. We seem to be under the curse of this self-destructive mind that keeps spinning out fears and phobias, prompting us to guard ourselves and attack others.

Despite all scientific advancement, we have the same archaic old malady of ego, violence, selfishness, hate and anger. Earlier we killed with stones and sticks. Now the same hate can annihilate entire earth by just pushing a button. What has changed? Nothing. It’s the very same fear, agony, insecurities and discontent. Modern civilization seems a pile of dry fodder to burn at mere sparks. All ready to defend themselves and grab more clout and influence. The plague of unrelenting ambition infecting each and everything; diseasing all from individuals to groups to nations to blocks. And a dying planet helplessly watches all this, sadly marveling at the species that got so ambitious to start chucking out its own house. A behemoth snake twisting and coiling to attack its own tail and devouring its own back from its front.

The air we inhale is poisoned, the food we eat is full of chemicals, the people we stay among have stressed, burnt-out minds, all ready to go blasting at the slightest provocation. The seas are polluted. The sea creatures die slowly. The polar ice melts. The polar bear takes last breaths. We too will meet the same fate if the way we run this world isn’t overhauled completely.

More missiles, more bombs, more jets, more hate, more anger, more greed. More noise while bird songs go achingly silent. What will be the outcome? Destruction. Strictly calculated from the scientific equation of input and output. Out of so much systematic hate only destruction can be the logical outcome.

Pristine forests vanished, beautiful birds became extinct, majestic animals went off the scene, and so did pure air, water and peace. On this dying planet, the natural physiology of the mankind will be unsustainable within a few decades. A weird semi-human, semi-machine species equipped with artificial intelligence will replace we the real flesh and blood ones. We have to take it as the game of evolution only. Take it any way but that’s how it will happen.

So as one of the last lucky generations to see blue skies, forests, streams and the free seas make the most of it. Cribbing won’t help. What’s done is done. Mother planet has suffered irreversible damage. So smile thou the last of real homo sapiens and make the most of what is left. Go into the forests and hug giant trees standing for centuries but won’t be there for long. Swim in the streams that aren’t stinking nullah yet. Inhale pure air in some solitary valley, keeping its secrets still intact somehow. Listen to the whispers of air that still has free oxygen.

And never forget to smile at people because they still are humans and would appear godly in comparison to the mechanized monsters of the next centuries. The new species will write our history then. It will be the sorry tale of a species that went extinct because of its inherent weakness to be stronger and stronger. But till then enjoy whatever little is left brothers and sisters. And let the angry leaders fight. They will fight come whatever it may.

The sage of bottom mud in a sea

 The sea cucumber fellow is a weird creature so much so that even the most laughable sea-dwelling guy would find him funny and worth cracking endless jokes. His face, if one can call it a face at all, is always stuck into the mud at the sea bottom. The guy with its clumsy courage got so busy in grazing the bottom mud that forgot to respirate through mouth or nostrils. So these vanished over the millennia and, as nature would have it, his other opening, rectum, began to function as a breathing hole as well apart from being the usual excreta dumping point, both functionalities operating with reasonable integrity. Call him a weirdo, a contrarian, a spirited non-conformist or anything sounding funny, he is perfectly unperturbed by all the dirty disclaimers flung around. He isn’t bothered. He would ignore gales of giggles and shivering squalls of laughter from those who stare at his bottom and stop to crack jokes.

As it funnily turns out, the same dumping-cum-breathing hole becomes a grand opening, an opportunity, for another creature.

Sea cucumber is like a gentle, snaily rock, all happy with its snout stuck in the mud. Hardly anyone is bothered about it. But the pearl fish cannot miss the opportunity. It’s a little fish. A docile slim thing, it’s always at risk from many predators. And like all those little ones facing risk from bigger predators, it’s looking for suitable hiding places. And the sea cucumber’s double functioning rectum comes to have third utility: the pearl fish’s hiding hole. The little fish houses itself for safety; a very interesting interlacing of fun and expertise.

Sometimes, a couple in love, shy and afraid of the big world out there, takes shelter in the opening provided by the non-objecting sea cucumber that is happy to enjoy its mystic innocence in the mud at the bottom. There they make love in perfect safety beyond the fiery incandescence of the game of survival. The sea cucumber is thus a slowly moving den for the pear fish lovelorn couple, a kind of love hotel, to hide and enjoy naughty moments. Wonders of nature: the rectum with a roomy rectitude to harbor soft, vibrant, seductive moments and space for another species.

The bottom of the sea is full of mysteries brimming with their dilapidated grandeur and we know just a little fraction of what all that goes unnoticed in the silent majesty under the turbulent surface full of crusading carousel, the survival game. 

Braving the hot winds

 The red-vented bulbul is a brave, noisy bird with lots of heads-on attitude. When the heat is at its peak in the afternoon, it sits grandiloquently on the dead boughs of the dry neem tree and bravely faces the sun. Maybe it challenges the sun to burn its wings. I have seen it in this position quite a few times. Or maybe it wants to get tanned to look handsomer. He looks a mystical comprehensor of strange realities, sitting under the hot afternoon sun, staring into the distances.

A swallowtail couple tried the feat on a nearby electricity wire. They looked a nice pair and much in love as they sat side by side, his tail wire prominent and hers barely visible. They gave competition to the sun-daring bulbul for some minutes but then the lady gave in to the heat. She flew away with a lovelorn song-girl’s quintessence. He too swooped and entailed her balmy beauty. I’m sure they flew away to chatter in the shade of some leafy tree. Lovebirds have better things to do than challenging a crazy bulbul on a hot afternoon. But the bulbul noticed their flight and taking it as his victory and their defeat gave a shriek of laughter.

As the loo sighs with its chauvinistic attributes and cruel determination, carrying pools of scorching heat to bake the village, the honeybees have to fetch water to save their larvae in the heat. It’s a busy bee-world around the water bucket in the yard. A lot many tumble into the water, many swim back to safety and many die. But they have to carry on. They live a collective life and that is the main reason of the survival of their colony. I try to keep the water level to the brims so that those who get a tumble into the water can swim back to the rim edge. It’s a happy sight to see them coming ashore, all panting, sloshed with water, their wings cutting the water like oars. They shake and flick their snouts and wings to dry themselves and get on with the mission.

I put some dry stalks and parijat leaves to make a floating life-saving platform for those who might not make it to the shore by themselves. The world will be sweeter with a few more honeybees around. Isn’t it? In the natural scheme of things, life and death may look a blind roll of dice on the board containing deft expressions of destiny, but it serves the purpose of mother nature if we create chances for life’s thriving, however minute it is. If you actually act to save an ant, bee or some insect, it’s highly probable that you will at least have empathy and kindness for bigger species including your fellow human beings. 

The sacred non-events of an ordinary life

 The spring was at its peak when I got these five saplings of different colored petunias. These are delicate flowers, vibrant but soft and vulnerable. They make the most of the spring here, spread big lollops of un-fragmented love, and fill many a gloomy yard, balcony and little garden with hopes and smiles.

The woman at the nursery won’t give false hopes. ‘They will flower for one month at the most,’ she said. ‘And sometimes for a few months,’ she added after some reflection. She is proven right. They are still there, not at their smiley best though. We have to understand. They cannot smile at their best in all this heat. They are under the merciless bombardment of sunrays till noon. They almost melt under the impact of the fiery sunrays and droop down like wax, the petals almost ready to turn fluid and go running as a colorful stream. But when the wall shadow comes over to give shade and a sip of life, they slowly come out of their fluidy slumber, regain life and smile through the pining evening and thirsty nights.

There is hot sighing loo whirling around with a statutory, dry, ill-humored brusqueness. It sucks moisture from everything around. These are summer flowers, long doing their duty since their prime during the short-lived spring. Septuagenarian flowers full of wisdom and deep meaning of life in their petalous eyes. They are faded, beaten, stunted and shrunk with age; old soldiers with their sagging, drooping bodies but with wisdom in their frail bones. And to me they are flamboyantly heroic. They seem proud to have long beaten their stipulated time. It’s a big assurance to have them just in front of my verandah, welcoming like a dot of fresh spring; spreading their smiles around holy tulsi mata they look like an offering to the holy plant. They complete the stage of my faith at dusk when I light a little sesame oil lamp under the tulsi.

The resident gecko that stays in the flowery world creeps out and waits patiently for some crazy parvana, the fabled moth, to come near his beloved shama, the flame. Then it sticks out its tongue and licks the lore of infatuated love.

Well, these are the sacred non-events of my ordinary life. They enable me to vaguely surmise the eternity’s magnitude. Have flowers in your life for they will make you genuinely, perennially prosperous. In a stiflingly smart world, ever trying to reach materialism’s apex, forever fanning a chaos around, buzzing and howling with excitement, the flowers stand as little symbols of pause, tiny smiling commas pointing to love, beauty and truth.

In pursuance of faith

 Why do we seek God’s guidance? Well, maybe because God is the titular summation of all the profound mysteries, glorious ambiguities, inexplicable vagaries, celestial certainties as well as uncertainties. So where else we the poor mortals ought to go for guidance? Unmanageable monstrosities somehow slacken their grip from our fears and insecurities due to the multidimensional inspiration of the symbol of the unknown, i.e., God. Even profoundly ideological presiding deities in sects and shrines pump real-time flesh and blood into our systems for action, reaction and enterprise. The idols thus become more real than the people around. The belief and willingness to accept the reality of God beyond the vague shadows allows the soul to enjoy delectable dance. Many times it fuels a burst of rapid creativity as well.

As a poet, painter, artist of any kind, crusader, leader or anyone else you set up a fine cornerstone around the mammoth palace of Godhood. With the light of faith in one’s eyes one can overlook the thorns of life lurking around and see and smile at a dew-jewelled rose. Faith has some deep foundations. It allows even the façade of our terminal afflictions and fakery to stand tall and allow us a sense of becoming something, the process that we call ‘life’. You don’t dread the dry rasping sandy blizzards even when the spring’s colors have been drained out. You see an oasis beyond the ribbed sand dunes. You come to feel the deep throbbing of life in your guts, above and beyond mere gastronomic sensitivities. You see, smell, touch, taste and hear something in a higher dimension, beyond the dimension of mere sense perception. Faith maybe is the soul itself, or maybe God itself. 

A trucker

 We started calling him Fauji just because his father was in the army. We were classmates at the village school from class one to ten. With the coming of age he became a trucker and was more than happy to go trucking across the vast swathes of this country.

Classmates share a special bonhomie. One may become a minister and the other a beggar but when they meet there is a deep touch, still a space in each other’s heart. Maybe spending the best time of one’s life together, that’s childhood, leaves a permanent mark of affection. It rules out class bullies here because we remember them with clenched fists. In any case they are an exception only.

Me and Fauji were hardly in touch but whenever we came across he would be pretty honest and open about life in general. ‘I joined as a truck helper just to have good times with the women who would signal by the road at night. I said “hello” to at least 1,000 of them. So when the time came for marriage I got the HIV test done three times to confirm I didn’t carry AIDS. Why spoil someone’s life for the fun you had solely in your own capacity?’ he sounded so honest. Aww, the very same childhood buddy not ashamed of sharing things!

He was lucky to have escaped the virus and is now happily married. A little bit down the rung from his first love, that’s women, he is in love with drinking. To be followed by smoking beedies. Wine, women and smoking: a pretty heady cocktail. ‘Just three pegs at night when I drive. Not more than that! Never!’ he looks convincing about this control.

A couple of years back he suffered a heart attack. A stent was implanted and the doctor gave a stern warning about smoking and drinking.

One more thing, he can put a horse to shame in giving a full-jawed grin. He has been doing it since as long as I can remember. It’s a yellowed smile. Maybe some toothpaste brand can use him as a model declaring if you don’t use our product even your 24-carat gold smile will fall short of copper or even iron. In any case, it’s another cocktail of smiles and laughter. He looks fitter than when I saw him two years back when he suffered the attack. Life situations have changed but his trademark grin-cum-laughter has remained the same. He greets me with the same welcoming grin. Strangers might take it as sarcastic but those who know him have reasons to take it as a friendly grin only. He is definitely fitter than when I saw him the last time after the surgery.

‘Just couple of beedies less and one peg more is the mantra of good health,’ he declares. ‘And lots of happiness inside,’ I add to his health formula. ‘Yes happiness also, he grins and I am amazed by the sight of his perfectly symmetrical pristine white teeth. Maybe some toothpaste maker can use the wonderful white shade, unaffected by culinary times, of his teeth to claim superiority in marketing. I thought he is using some wonderful paste to wash them so spotlessly clean. ‘And smile also,’ I say as a compliment to his blazing white grin. ‘Yes, smile and with fake set of teeth it’s even better,’ his grin has taken a very high point now, a type of euphoric proliferation. Well, now I knew his 32-carat brand new blazing smile-grin or grin-smile is fuelled by a set of artificial teeth.

But this guy is far more open and honest than scores of so-called better presented men—socially—who put a varnish over the gray shades insides. It’s wonderful to enjoy the exchange of fresh and old nuggets with one’s school days pal. 

African Nostalgia

 Almost fifteen years back I had the opportunity of spending some time in Africa. It’s a beautiful landmass with still more beautiful people, simple, elegant and very much close to nature; a world slightly off the nature-mankind crossroads. There mother nature is yet to be fully tamed by the mankind and that makes it an exotic land. There is a teasing tussle between the forces of nature and the human response to it, a kind of exorbitant ambiguity about life and living. All this makes this planet exotic in multilayered proportions; almost epical.

Platinum people and gold people, with rubies and pearls shining in their eyes, might see perfect heaven in the developed cities of the Western world but for a poetic soul the night’s slow-paced ambience, starry silence, palm-dotted misty verdancy are far more pricy than high-rise apartments, malls and swanky cars. To me the lost mists in pristine forests and scentless flowerbeds are far bigger losses than golden treasures. To me Africa with its hunger, its clear skies, its beautiful dark people with flashy smiles and its wildlife spins out a chequered legacy that will help the future poets weave their nostalgic fancies.

However, the sun at noontime shone so brightly overhead as if it would drill a hole in the scalp with a red-hot iron rod. Now looking at the atmosphere in the northern Indian plains here, when the temperature hovers dangerously close to 50°C, it reminds me of those African noons. And we are thousands of kilometers to the north on the globe. Do we still need to shout about the risks of global warming? It’s largely written all over the wall. It’s high time that we rein in our unchecked profligacy and expeditiously vicious ways in pursuit of our never-ending desires. 

A little chronicle of intimacies

 Old Taus and Tais would pour out their hearts to me. I have been lucky to listen to their very personal tales, the exciting chronicles of their youth. Dozens of old people from the village shared very personal stuff with me. For the sanctity of their trust, I would keep their names secret and call them Tau A, Tau B, Tai C, etc. I don’t think that even if I mention them by names there would be any big scandal. These are routine things in the countryside in the lives of the farming community. But still from my own code of conduct I should keep the identities secret. Most of them are gone and a few survive almost like God with that marvelous surrender and cool detachment. But it’s exciting to imagine that they were once warm-blooded with hormonal excitement. Further, you never know some semi-criminalized grandson of one of them might break the hand that writes about the histories of their forefathers.

I remember Tau A fondly retelling those glorious old days when society was simpler and the sense of brotherhood among clan members and extended families ruled supreme. ‘Those were real good days! Brothers shared a great bond. We tolerated very easily most of the things for which there would be bloodshed these days. See son, I would be out during winter nights irrigating the wheat crop and would return after midnight. And most of the time I saw my younger brother hurrying out of the quilt of my wife. I knew it. But I always pretended not to see it. Most of us pretended it and allowed the younger brothers to have good fun with our wives. Where would they go?’ he told it so easily in full flow without slightest inhibition.

I was pretty small then but I recall the episode pretty clearly. Tai B was telling the episode when intimacy was forced upon her by Tau C—good lord, was it the same Tau C who appeared so disciplined after joining an ashram during the old age. It was clearly a case of enforced intimacy but her hollow-cheeked laughter makes me feel that she had long forgiven if she carried any anger. ‘I was cutting fodder one noon. There wasn’t anyone around in the fields. He came very politely and asked me to help him tie his fodder bale. I followed him to the place where he indicated his fodder was lying. He kept saying a bit further into the furrows of tall Jowar. Then I found there was nothing to tie down. It was a ploy to untie…my cord. Once it started I thought there was no point in resisting. If it is so, then let it be! There were bigger issues for us to sort out than this. At least he wasn’t bad at it!’ she laughed nudging at the old ribs of another woman. All of them heartily laughed. ‘If it can be passed so casually, where would ‘rape’ fit in then?’ I wonder now. Well, it depends upon people’s own choice. It started without her consent but ended with her approval so much so that she compliments Tau C who is no more and must be feeling proud of his virility in the other world.

Tau D was too proud of his wee-wee. He would pretend to urinate when young women passed. Getting tongue-lashed was very normal for him. But then he ran out of luck and got more than a tongue-lashing. A Banjara woman—an audacious gypsy woman—hit the item of his pride with a mulberry switch. He nearly fainted. His flashing escapades withdrew. Maybe the concerned anatomical item withdrew into its shell after the strike.

Tai E was very liberal in the matters of intimacy and explored the groins of many farmers during her prime. Now all of them were drooping with age and fragile bones. I remember her as a petite woman. She wasn’t hesitant about publicly discussing how much milking she had performed on a particular bull. We remember her doing her duties till the fag end of her life as she would unabashedly visit an apish Tau F who seemed to be still active in his old age.

Tai G was more comfortable without her skirt than with it on. So we need not repeat the obvious. She was known for her rivalry with Tai E for the much-in-demand Tau F. He must have been a good bull for milking because everyone agreed that he was still active in his eighties.  

Tau H had lost his wife many years back and thus carried a big load of lust in his bulky body. In his late seventies he lunged at a chance to vent out all his pent-up lust. A middle aged Banjara woman was roaming in the streets asking fodder for their cattle. It was a hot noon. Tau H got her into the barn on the pretext of giving her fodder. He was successful in his mission. But he turned a miser at the time of payment. He had promised her a big bale of fodder and thought of duping her by giving just a little amount of wheat husk. I think he underestimated the audacity of these gypsy women. There she was shouting expletives at the top of her voice. The little amount of fodder was put in the streets and her top-voiced denouement of Tau H went sashaying across hot air. The people came out of their houses. ‘See-see, this is what this shameless oldie has given me! Just a fistful of fodder for all that devilish *** he gave me!’ she was shouting. She was putting up her stick to notify the measurement of Tau H’s endowment. So everyone came to know how much Tau H measured and what he did. ‘He is a cheater!’ she declared.   

The first and the last lady don of the entire area from our village, Tai I, can fill up entire chronicles full of her sex trafficking, robberies, charity, bride abduction, armed squad and much-much more. She ruled the prime land of Jat patriarchy during the thirties to the sixties of the last century. Those who were born after her demise still know her name. So that gives the idea of her popularity. I tried to gather material on her from the old men in the village. But they were all dismissive about her. It’s understandable because she had hit very hard on their wee-wee at a time when a woman was considered even lower than a buffalo in a farmer’s house. If I get enough material I plan to write a book on her sometime. Regarding intimacies, it’s understandable that she was far-far advanced than her times. 

Tai J turned out to be a pioneer in the art of intimacy. She was reputed to be very beautiful in her youth and carried faded traces of that charm even in her seventies. One of my classmates from the village school was eying her granddaughter. He was around fifteen at that time. He started visiting Tai J's house quite regularly. Tai J, experienced with age and full of wisdom, smelt the hormonal storm going inside the teenager for her granddaughter. As a wise matriarch she channelized the direction of the storm towards herself. The boy was expertly seduced and looked very happy during those days. Tai J looked even happier on having a lover of her grandson's age. I came to know about the reason of their happiness when only the old neighborhood dog and me were left out of its knowledge. He shared the information a few years back only. 'You didn't know? I thought only the cattle, dogs and cattle were out of the loop of this open-source knowledge!' he wondered when I shared that I never had any clue to this. Tai J carried the most contended smile among all the elderly women of her generation. In fact, I interpreted it as the smile of a sage. Now I know the worldly causes of the saintly smiles. God must have been very creative in fabricating such an interesting world. 

You are special

All of us are gifted. All of us are blessed. All of us are extraordinary. All of us are adorable to mother existence. With one condition attached—all of us are unique in all these blessings. But our senses are outer bound. We are looking at reality through what we see outside of us. That makes us forget all our unique gifts and blessings as individuals. Most of our pain and suffering is born of comparison of the self with others. We find ourselves in a hostile environment, surrounded by the superior or inferior competitors. Long before we realize, we are part of the rat race that is forever taking us away from the incomparable self. The comparisons widen as we move further on. Judgments—both for the self and others—creep in. We are then in a perceptibly hostile environment. And how will one feel at ease by staying in an apparent hostile environment? There is always threat, fear, anxiety. We are always on our toes. I know that we have to be part of the rat race to meet the basic necessities of life. We can do it if we always remember that all these are the means to an end. The end is one’s own self. So stay in the rat race but irrespective of what are the results always remember that you are unique. You are gifted, blessed and extraordinary. The moment we compare ourselves with others this blessed feeling vanishes. We have to practice to feel blessed, loved, gifted and extraordinary. Just telling the self all this on a regular basis will be sufficient.   

From the old book of wisdom

 These are the precious gleanings from old granny’s book of wisdom. Shining like golden letters on the placidly plastered dull surface of sweet-sour simplicity and teasing uncertainties of village life. They are not pricey things. They are age old but still wonderfully carry compellingly contemporary relevance. I sometimes use them and they come like reloaded revolutions against little nagging problems confronting we the common people. These are not the elements of super-reality. These are little faded diamond, emerald, onyx and jade of mother earth lying very close to the ground reality.

Put dry chili on clothes. It keeps away bugs. But be careful when you wear the clothes. The bug-guarding chili agents may take you as a bigger bug and strike where you are most vulnerable, eyes.

They say an onion under one’s armpit gets you fever. Students, during the punitive old schooling days, would look forward to it. I tried it a few times but failed to induce a fever. I carried bad smell in armpits though.

One can use turmeric as an antiseptic on one’s bruise. Maybe the bruise is deeper than mere skin. It will ease festering on the skin and that maybe will save the bruise from taking deep roots and get embedded in the bedrock of our ego.

Massage desi ghee or oil in your belly button, navel, to get well-hydrated, moisturized lips. The navel is a major junction of nerves. It was the door to our nourishment in mother’s womb. In spiritual practices it’s a key spot. So making it feel better with a gentle massage definitely spreads the strand of wellbeing across our self.

Some fruits that have met expiry dates in your estimation can be used as agarbatti stands. Who knows some of the lower gods, that’s the guardian angels, might take them as fruit offerings. Maybe they aren’t bothered about expiry dates because they operate in a dimension free of space and time differentials.

Cloves stuck in lemon slices repel mosquitoes. The mosquitoes cast almost an evil eye on our peace so lemon slices scare away the slick movements of bad luck aiming us through the dirty snout of a mosquito.

Use coconut husk for washing and scrubbing utensils. They are hard spongy fibers and come down heavily on the oily smudge on the kitchenware.

Toothpaste can be used for light burns and pimples. Why should the gums and teeth have all the fun? The pimples have their unclean teeth also. Toothpaste is handy for that. And when applied on the burn the coolness cleanses a lot of pain.

Rice water can be used to starch clothes. With starched white clothes you can have a feel of empowerment like powerful politicians do. You carry the smell of paddy with you and become a son of the soil. With the ‘son of the soil’ tag one can easily become a father of many destinies.

Squeeze orange peel into the eyes. I think it serves as a nice eye cleanser, especially those who don’t see the beauty in you. It’s a suitable eye-cleaning exercise to remove the debris from their vision.

It’s advisable to look for further opportunities—in terms of utility—which your fruits and vegetables seem to offer you. Why throw them immediately. Keep them for a couple of days. You may need them against unruly neighbors as catapults from the citadels of your balcony. 

Romancing with loneliness

The house carries a vulnerably wholesome air; carrying even some kind of spiritual underpinnings. There was plenty of love in the air for the lizard couples. As a proof of the deeds of the glamorous creepy lovebirds, dozens of tiny baby lizards are scampering across the house. One baby lizard made its territory around the stack of old newspapers in the verandah. It had its luck and would crawl out to take a nibble at some careless fly. It would then vanish around the paper stack, its castle. But sadly it ran out of luck or maybe the rockchat was luckier that day. As the ambience of a fly-topped breakfast came acalling, the little lizard crawled out of its castle and turned into the rockchat’s breakfast. We can say that even the fly was lucky that day because its predator became a prey. We must not forget that nature’s soft hand carries talons also. The rockchat couple that makes good use of the old, open countryside house, carrying an antiquated aura, is enjoying feasts of baby lizards these days.

The blistering heat and drowning humidity of June does wonders for the love appetite of koels. The female koel gives a rippling, tentative, anxious series of notes. The male is melodious, letting out sweetly cadenced notes as a proof of the effervescent authenticity of its eligibility and mating claims. Maybe males are more in demand in this species. A few lady koels are spreading monsoony, pining, lonely notes for the last few days.

The little room in a corner on the terrace is my writer’s hideout. It’s pretty hot inside during the summers. However, the solitude here makes up for all the heat-born discomforts. Life is only a few ‘plus’ things coupled with a few ‘minus’ at all points. For a lonely writer it’s a highly appropriate hideout. The room has a little verandah to protect against the sun and rain. There are not-in-use bulb holders and hooks on the walls. Many wire-tailed swallows fly in to inspect the site for their mud-nest. Then they peep in through the window and carefully observe the struggling writer inside sitting like an old recluse spider and fly away. Maybe they don’t find me suitable enough to be their neighbor. Once, when I happened to be away for some time, finding the room empty one couple started making their mud nest, drawing a muddy arc across the both ends of the bulbless holder. Construction work was in full swing when I arrived with my typical mankind disturbance. With an energy-exuding aura, they were enthusiastically ferrying mud in their beaks from the pond. But when they found that this fellow keeps sitting in the room looking at us all the time, they abandoned the project unfinished. The way we have tempered with mother nature, maybe our very presence evokes some illegal ingenuity against the natural laws.

In a verandah downstairs, the electricity meter has an iron box cover. There is an inviting doorway in the tin box for the electricity man to note down the meter reading. It seems a cozy house to many birds. Two sparrow couples are squabbling over the property. One of them would surely win the rights to own it for nesting. No problem in that. I’m impartial to their respective claims. But occupancy would mean they would stuff handfuls of grass into the meter box. To a sparrow couple their nest might appear ornately enchanting but from the human, and more so in case of an electricity meter, it would be a soggy mess. There may be a fire and the verandah might be smoke-suffused long before the hatchlings jingle with their frail chirps. So I cannot allow them the rights of this particular portion of the house. I fix a dark pink polybag over the box. It ruffles in the wind making an effective scarecrow, ‘scaresparrow’ sorry. One couple instantly leaves. I’m sure it’s the one that would have lost the rights to it anyway. The other couple shows more staying power. They make love on the nearby wire, staring at the pink house. They try to sneak in but the door has been closed so they fly away to seek a place somewhere else. 

A smart worker

 She is short, chubby, dark, funny-featured with a clearly discernible moustache. My niece has fever and we are sitting in the waiting hall of a hospital at the town. There are dozens of patients on the steel chairs. She carefully scans the scene. A smart hunter who knows whom to approach without dicing with danger too much. The target is locked. A struggling countryside writer is most eligible to be hunted. She reaches me, wincing with pain, looking like someone in urgent need of medical attention. ‘Can you please give me fifty rupees?’ she asks. ‘Are you running short of money for the doctor’s fee?’ I ask with full sympathy and complete bookishness.

Writers are very imaginative so my imagination saves her from the trouble of explaining her woes. With my fragilely inflated sense of pity, I see myself opening my wallet and giving her fifty rupees. She waits for three or four minutes then gets up with an effort. ‘I think the doctor will take some time to arrive so in the meantime I can take some fresh air outside. It’s suffocating here,’ she informs me. I shake my head mutely. After all she looks so confident about her act. She goes out, never to return. Well, she will of course return but not till we are supposed to be here.

All I can say is that begging is getting improvised. Poverty is always busy in the act of fervent procreation of miseries for those falling in its grasp. She has to be innovative. The business rivalry is picking up. Attractive, scent-laden, panoramic transgenders with tight-fitting jeans, gaudy shirts, colored hair, luscious red lips and jutting pointed bust—a bubbly assemblage carrying starry ambience—get far more in alms than dirty mothers with malnourished infants suckling their dry breasts. True tears and silent screeches hardly sell in the market of alms and charity. It has turned plaintively exasperating having run its miserable course over the centuries. The real show of genuine poverty is a prodigious waste in eliciting emotions these days. Maybe it has become too normal, a routine thing to see stray dogs and dusted, dying humans by the pavements.

But I reckon this sweet imp has plenty of skills to survive in the game where the dogs of hunger are perpetually preying upon those without a roof over their head. 

A thunderstorm

 A terrible spell of thunderstorm and rain struck on the evening of May 29. Despite all the sandy howls preceding the raindrops it’s a blessing against the heated furnace. These pre-monsoon showers save us from getting baked like desert sands. Sometimes they are soothing, breezy with a fine drizzle’s courteous verve; almost like mauve mist at dusk. Other times they come blindly spiraling, unleashing storms of sand, hail and rain. This time it was a thunderstorm. The windstorm broke many trees and nests. But didn’t it scatter the seeds far and wide? In the same way, the adversities that we face in life spread the seeds of our potential on a broader platform. And the new saplings of fresher traits, skills and attitude add to our persona and we emerge a new model of ourselves.

Next morning the garden and the yard present a thoroughly beaten shape under the weather’s robust exhortation. What else is life if not about again putting your house in order once the storms fuelled by larger forces shuffle, ruffle and shake your hair like a big neighborhood bully roughening up a little coy boy?

The marigolds are ok more or less. They are in shade and being under the shadows of bigger trees has its advantages. They may feel jaded about bigger trees bossing over them. But being big has its disadvantages also. You are front in the line of assault by still bigger forces. A few bricks, put on the garden wall, fell upon the marigolds. That’s incidental, a chance fall in a particular plant’s fate. They don’t complain. The crushed plant is showing signs of recovery.

The babbler couple’s nest-making assignment is stalled. It was three-quarter complete. But I think they will have to redo it. And surely they will. They are too absorbed in their work to complain. Aloe vera is mauled. Its pot fell and broke. The badly wounded plant gets a ground hold now. Mother earth herself is its new pot now where it can spread its roots to the depths it wants. It’s injured and it will take some time to recover but when it will, there will be open earth for it to bloom. Adversities, sufferings and pain usually carry the prospects of a bigger stage in their wake.

Probably the hibiscus under the parijat in a corner envied the other one basking in full glory under open skies. The former (red-flowered) must have nurtured a complex against the latter (the white-flowered one). The white-flowered hibiscus grew nicely and quickly added bulk to its canopy. The other one had limited options that gave it a bit less than moderate growth. Now the storm has given a severe bashing to the fat one. It has fallen and it needs surgery to get its overgrown mass pruned to give it a chance of life and to make it stand again. So maybe our apparent limitations and disadvantages save us from storms, like this red-flowered one is almost unscathed as if there has been no storm at all.

Flower pots tumbled, a few breaking and others getting cracks as bricks fell from the top of the garden wall. All this exposed little colonies of slugs that were enjoying their soft, silky solitude in their damp hideouts. They are fat leech-like snails, a kind of shell-less snail. Some are squashed to pulp and juice. A wailing refrain never helps during the times of such tragedies. With sadly pervasive air, though with apparent lamenting rectitude, the others are very slowly crawling back to their preferred damp, hidden corners and crevices. A slug must be carrying some repugnant slime to deter the birds from having a burger or cream-roll because I have seen many of them happily going at their snail pace in broad daylight, right in the middle of the yard and hardly any birdie guy interested in them. Well, they are regrouping now. The little world in the vandalized yard and the small garden is also trying to get back to shape.

That’s what life is. We just try to regroup and retake our shapes after being shaken by storms. It cannot just be only about manifold rhythmic recitals, dolefully dewy delights and starry sights. There will surely be times when the circumstances beyond our control, fuelling themselves with a pernicious passion, will shake-break ruffle-shuffle tear-shear our established order. Be sure that they will do this with immaculate cynicism. Then dear readers it becomes our duty to keep the holy edifice of our values and principles intact and don’t allow these to seep out of us along with our broken spirits. You have to walk through the debris in the direction of that mystically mingling mist lurking over the horizon. You may be just a silent shadow of your illustriously kicking past but you are duty-bound to keep travelling and allow things to get stabilized and then you can try to take a firm grip on your situation. 

The clever bania

 The following happens to be tau Hoshiyar Singh’s favorite quip, or fable or moralizing story that sums up his life’s totem, exquisitely outlined in his rheumy old eyes full of wisdom—don’t mess with fools, they will have someone of their own ilk to handle them. A subdued veracity and virtuous fragrance honed in the cauldron of a tough peasant life. It turns almost into a kind stimulating spirituality even though these old farmers hardly care about religion, rituals or spirituality. A rough summary of his story goes like this:

The knuckle of a crooked index finger itches to have a tasty strike at a just-shaved head. The naughty barber felt water-mouthed at the sight of a shining just-shaved head, his own handiwork with a glee in the eyes and a gloating heart. As if dying to put warmth of life into his frosty fingers, he gave into the impulse and got a sadistic tonk at the customer’s head, who happened to be a cool-headed baniya. The man of trade and shop-keeping well versed with the boons of patience and non-reaction in the face of provocation. A reaction spoils the game; a calculated response makes opportunities for you. The strike was naughty, playful and a bit more than a casual friendly banter. He could feel the pinch of its impact. After all, it was done with a sadistic glee.

The baniya kept his composure and almost self-denyingly paid an extra anna for the knuckle-tonk on his shaved head. The barber, proudly pleased with this addition of skills, thought it pays extra to give a naughty tonk with the knuckle of an itching index finger. ‘Maybe it tickles a satisfying nerve on the scalp, making the customer happy,’ he thought.

Then a Jat wrestler came to get his head shaved. It was a shinier and bigger head, almost a new, shining clay pot, a gracefully symmetrical shape pleading at him for initiation into a fresh, auspicious start; very attractive and pleading for a knuckle strike to get inaugurated like a bell strike in a temple. So expecting some extra bonus, and egged on by the inspiring anecdote dating a couple of days back, the barber performed the ritual again. As can be expected the rough and rowdy Jat wrestler, carrying a dangerous shiftiness in mood, plonked him all over the body with crude slaps and fist-work and threw him around like a sack of potatoes a few times practicing dhobipat since the opportunity presented itself. ‘Hai mar gya!’ the barber cried.

Having received the news the baniya visited the barber. ‘You got it the very same day when I paid you the extra anna for it. I had paid you for your folly, not skills,’ he consoled the sullen, blackened and bruised barber. 

The groom-hunting squad

The villagers fondly called him Pahalwan. And pretty aptly so; just that he would look suitable for wrestling with skeletons only, having just a slight addition of skin over the bones. A wrestler of extreme feather-weight category I would say.

Those were the days when the fabled Indian arranged marriage was at the peak of its authority over the society. It churned out fabulous pairs. Six-footer burly guys got paired with thin, midget-sized gals. Or an above six feet girl had a tiny dulha whom she could easily carry in her arms like a baby. Or an extra-heavy girl had a thin groom whom she could easily crush with her weight. Or a prince charming in looks got a wife that would make anyone run for life after looking at her face. Or a demon-looking guy got a heavenly houri.

People would just fall into the pools of matrimony with a distinctly unassuming self, sweetly giving into the tersely teasing illusions of youthful desires. It was more of a draw of lots. Luck was the supreme decider in what did you get. It could be a grain of sand or it could be a nugget of gold. Those were but extreme cases. Most of the time it was a rundown mix of all the good and bad in both sexes involving physicality and natures. And with all the expected frictions, altercations, fights and quarrels the creaking cart of matrimony would drag on with its drama. Despite all the triggers, there was no tear-jerking drama. The teasing travails of a rough and tough countryside life made a motley mix of everything available.

Beyond brooding over twisted destinies and doomed fates, after the brief spells of buck-passing, the sediments settled at last, and people usually accepted what fell in their lot and moved on with life. The seamless conundrum of marriage carried a huge social sanction and breaking it on such inconsequential grounds would amount to breaching social and divine law. So divorces and partings were an exception even though the husband and wife were the most ill-paired ones.

During those days, parties of elders from the girl’s side would go scouting for a groom. They walked authoritatively in a file, wearing starched dhoti-kurta, carrying well-oiled sticks and their big turbans fitting majestically like warrior helmets for the groom hunt in the battle of matrimony. They carried an onus to hunt successfully. Someone would recommend a name and there they would go creating ripples of excitement among the youngsters of marriageable age.

A party on scout for a suitable groom arrived suddenly at the house of this Pahalwan. He hadn’t been forewarned. He hardly got any time to turn presentable. He was washing clothes on a stone slab wearing only a sleeveless vest. They stood around him. He panicked like a little hare hounded by old turbaned wolves. The leader of the expedition inspected him closely and calmly said the words of wisdom becoming his age, in fact chimed matter-of-factly, ‘Don’t take him for pheras, take him to a doctor!’ The file of groom hunters walked out silently. 

The actor

 Life is a big drama and one needs to be a good actor to wade through tricky plots. The acting skills aren’t just for professional actors. They are for all of us. Like Uttam proves it very successfully. He has his age-old little Maruti 800 and loves driving it fast. He is hesitant in lowering the speed to a safe level while taking sharp turns. It gives the look and feel of a racing car. The passengers would get goose-bumps.

This particular day, there is a brand new Eco-sport in front of him. Two burly drunks—drunk with youth and pride which is a far more dangerous cocktail than mere wine and spirits—are driving their small SUV pretty fast. Then they put up breaks suddenly. Uttam’s old little car decimates the back-bumper of their new, big car. Now as per self-derived traffic law on Indian roads, it’s always the fault of the one who happens to bang from behind—even if the vehicle in front suddenly puts up breaks to come to a screeching halt from a speed of 150 miles/hour.

Uttam is well aware of the law. He sees them getting down. They look capable of giving a painful thrashing. All of us need acting skills to survive. He acts well in this regard. He has performed the feat to good effect a few times. He slumps over the steering wheel and is found fainted due to the impact. A crowd builds up. The two aggressive guys are on the back-foot now. A mob also has its law. It sympathizes with the underdog, the small man pitted against the big guy. Our five senses allow us to observe the fake finery only. Fainted Uttam is secretly listening to each chime, trill, thud, shout and whisper. He has fervent faith in the crowd’s law. A new car’s terribly twisted bumper loses value in the face of a fainted driver of an old, little car. Public anger is ominously smoldering. The mob then becomes meanly mechanized for dispensing justice. A mob carries multi-layered sensitivities. You just need a little needle to prick them to action. The politicians do it wonderfully.

The big guys of the bigger car know they have to forego their sadistic vengeance and promptly run away to save any trouble that is building around. Uttam is then treated softly, gently and caressed by caring hands. And a miracle happens. Who says love isn’t a magic potion? It’s man! Uttam slowly recovers. This time he acts even better, getting into consciousness by degrees to make it look realer than the real. First he mutters something, then moves a little, performs weird contortions of face a few times, gives gasping sighs and slowly comes back to life. Vow, the confident metaphors of a part played well! Thanks to the marvelous Bollywood masala movies all of us can learn similar acts befitting different adverse situations in life.

This acting assignment fetches him instant rewards. He saves at least ten to fifteen thousand rupees that the big car bullies would have plundered from him. He also saves himself from a minimum of half dozen slaps that would have preceded the bargain. Acting is very profitable—in life, in movies, in soap operas everywhere. 

Feeble footprints of little moments on a mundane day

 It’s either a mature millipede or a baby centipede. It’s crawling in the verandah. Centipedes aren’t cool to have around. But squashing them on the floor with a chappal strike should be avoided. It’s a form of life having a meaning of its own. Why become the cause of its untimely demise unless completely unavoidable. I take a big guava leaf and put it in its path. And there it goes over the garden wall to become a part of the larger game in the open. Dear friends, practicing kindness at such small levels, at the level of ounces in quantity, may douse the seed of hate in us, lying predatorily to get sustenance from small acts of cruelty and flare sometime as a monstrous fire.

Practicing kindness, however small quantitatively, still sweetens the soul because each work of charity and kindness carries the same divine quality of love irrespective of the small or big nature of the task. Enlightened will doesn’t pour down upon us from the heaven. We have to work for it, gently pry away layer after layer of our rigidities and reach the stream of fluidities. And the littlest acts and thoughts of kindness and charity are the scalpels in our hands to accomplish the task.

The babblers are making a nest on the small parijat tree. Given their querulous ways, they are usually successful in raising their brood; just like the doves are generally unsuccessful in completing a successful nesting due to their docile ways. The doves then cry amidst groundswell of sorrows for a couple of days. Who would feel a dove’s suave sensitivity? It’s a tough world. All those who take advantage of the doves’ coyness get on the backfoot while tempering with the babblers’ nest. Squirrels, crows, shikra, cats and even snakes get forewarned. Not many of them have the lungpower to bear up with their high-pitched verbal resistance. Their war songs are exhaustively lavish. The garden would lose its calm though because the babblers keep shouting imprecations at all and sundry throughout the day. Is this world fit for angry, shouting people only?

But there is scent in the air that overpowers noisy babbler notes. It’s a big joint family in the neighborhood. A happy and full of life group of people. There are a few young and adolescent boys and girls. Youth has its own special, seamless, musical versatility. If you are receptive to others’ joy, you can also warm your old bones, sitting elderly by the bonfires of youth around you. They are going to Manali for summer vacations. I was acquainted with this fact about the trip. But this morning, the entire locality got heavily clouded with Deo fragrance as the youngsters sprayed the entire bottles on them. We have lost most of the flowers, and also the sweetness in our souls, so even artificial smell will do. But isn’t it too heady and heavy? It’s like you just need a cube of simple sugar but you get saccharine. A case of overdose.

Nothing beats the sublimity and tantalizingly exotic touch of the petals on your olfactory senses. The blinding blizzard let out by Deo bottles is almost like an irresponsible adventurism. But even Deo smell will do in a creeping climate of hate, phobias and drain stench. In any case I wish them a happy journey. 

A close save

 I remember it once there was a fight between two panchayati male buffalos, called jhotta in local parlance, in the village. The angry bulls, fighting for territory, were pushing each other, locking their horns, trying their show of strength to impress coy buffalo beauties in the village. Now one romeo proved to be stronger than the other and it was pushing the other one down the village street.

It happened like this. There was this old tau who was sitting on his charpoy and he was simply so immersed in his hookah that he didn’t see the bull being dragged towards him across the corner. It was a close save. At the last moment he jumped away as one of the buffalos fell on his charpoy and crushed it completely. As fun-loving little rascals all of us were laughing like anything. Thank god tau you were saved otherwise you would have become the first human casualty of a buffalo love-duel in the village.

Shiva's Naga

 Indian mythology is full of beautiful fables and interesting tales. Now they have very mystical meanings if we analyze them, interpret them as per the higher laws of the bigger dimension defined by high vibrational frequencies. I always wondered why do they depict Shiva with a naga, mostly a black cobra, around his neck. My individual interpretation is something on the following lines.

A snake is one of the most perceptible creatures on earth. Their entire body is in a position to perceive things to a level that is almost impossible to even imagine for we human beings. For example, suppose there is a snake in its hole and there is an earthquake thousands of kilometers away. Now there is a high possibility that the snake will perceive the tremors because it is so sensitive to even the softest reverberations coming across its body.

We humans have almost a primal fear when it comes to snakes. Just think of a snake and you get goose-bumps. When we come across a snake it can perceive the fear in us. It can perceive and feel the change in our blood chemistry because when we get excited or get fearful, our blood chemistry changes and the breathing pattern also turns abnormal. Now a snake is so perceptive and sensitive as to feel the slightest disturbance in the vibrational frequency and chemical change in anyone or anything around. Even if we don’t show any outer sign of being afraid, but are scared inside, it can perceive the biological or chemical changes in our bloodstream. It then reacts to that fear.

It is commonly believed that wherever there are meditating spiritualists the snakes really like their company. Maybe they feel comfortable among those higher energies emanating from the yogis. I have read stories about meditating ascetics in the forests and as their mind goes into that state of equilibrium, that equanimity of temperament, that balance of mind and the consequent lessening of fear, a snake (especially a cobra) really likes those waves of higher frequency.

In the neighboring village there was a realized soul, Narayan Maharaj. He left his body about twenty-five years ago, but people accepted him as an enlightened human being. He arrived in this area as a young wandering ascetic. He used to meditate in a little scrub forest in the countryside. In his memoirs he has clearly written that when he would meditate there was a black cobra that would continue moving in a circle around him and that continued for at least five or six years. So it proves that a cobra has a special liking for those who are spiritually evolved or who are on the path of spiritual evolution because there are certain biological changes as a result of the spiritual practices, which create a kind of divine atmosphere where there is no fear, where the snake loses its instinct of fear and biting. In this divine little space around the meditating yogi, in the spools of unqualified love, he tells us that he saw opposites melting and getting unified at certain nights—a snake and a mongoose playing like children; a little fox and a fearsome wolf playing on the grass nearby where he had set up his asana. 

I think the reason they show a naga around Shiva’s neck is that Shiva being a realized soul, a supreme  being who was hundred percent established within himself, so there was no fear and the snake would find him just like a warm rock during cold winter days, where it could relax since there was no fear, no change in that great yogi’s blood chemistry  or emotions or thoughts or energy field. As established as a rock he was. A live rock! So a snake would be near lord Shiva the way it would prefer to crawl on a rock. According to me, the main purpose they show Shiva with a naga is that he was a supreme personality that was hundred percent realized and established like an unmovable rock within his human body; there was no turbulence either in his emotions or in his body or in his energy field and a snake would be so comfortable around his neck as it would be relaxed on a rock during harsh winter days in order to soak the warm sunrays. The adiyogi established his chitta in all forms, to be like a living rock, a supreme fluidity inside a supreme stability. And with someone so blissful why won’t a naga fall in love. It abandoned its fears and biting instincts. And there we have our beautiful Shiva with a naga around his neck.

Stand with Ukraine

Here is a simple message from a common Indian for the national leadership. Please stand with Ukraine! Please don’t trade your status of world’s largest democracy with cheap weapons and oil purchase from the autocratic Russian regime. In the short term, the latter might appear feasible and profitable. But in the long run standing for international order and respect for a country’s sovereignty will be more viable options because both Pakistan and China have claims on our territory. Staying neutral is no option. Suppose China violates international order and challenges our sovereignty by barging into Arunachal Pradesh. Would we appreciate it if the entire world stays neutral? Following international order and abiding by a country’s sovereignty are the bulwarks against communist China. As per their party manifesto they plan to annex Arunachal Pradesh after conquering Taiwan. So all those pro-Russia hawks deeply embedded in the military and diplomatic corridors, kindly see beyond your vision that is still spellbound by the Kremlin domes. Change is the law. And those who change they survive better.