The cyclical livewire

 

Infinity is possible in a cyclical way. The seasons change in a sequence. All the natural processes follow a cyclic path. Countless little cycles going on and on as part of the ultimate cosmic cycle. A human body is also a cyclical process involving millions of tiny cycles at the cellular level.

From birth to death, we are on the course of a cycle. But there is a linear force at every point on the curve of our life’s cycle. The linearity of the intention to live, to survive, to retain this shape, to achieve something, to create something, to give some meaning to life, to realize dreams. This central linearity is the directive principle for all the smaller cycles to flow along a central path in the larger circle. In its absence the system breaks, giving free space to as many probabilities to take hold as it is possible. The closely defined system loses its shape and melts to a bigger shapelessness. For example, leave a new car unused in your yard for many years. The core linearity of its purpose—a vehicle for transport—is broken. All the little operational cycles that toe the line of the bigger machinery’s cycle fall apart; the binding linearity ceases to operate, and random cycles open up, taking recourse to further little cycles in the absence of a central linear push.

The clearly defined linear push is the force that pushes point a to move to point b on the cyclical path. The linear push is what gives a thing, person, animal, bird or process a specific identity and purpose. If not claimed and bound by this central linearity, the different components of a system, thing or body are claimed by various small processes. Most of these are random and there is no coherence among them. That is disintegration from the point of view of the original shape of that thing, process or body. So an unused car will lose its identity over the years. It will be pushed into shapelessness by the random forces operating out-of-bound from any linear push. In fact, the only doing force here seems to be the undoing force. So to keep evolving we have to always keep in mind the central linear idea—the one pushing all the cycles in themselves and along the curvature of the largest cycle of our overall existence—alive, kicking, fresh and invigorated.  

The open window

 

As you stand lost in your thoughts, and you smell the fragrance of a rose. Know that it’s smiling at you and sending a message through a fragrant whisper—that there is hope, love, sunshine and smile. The moment you are open like this to a thing of beauty, you realize that you had built a shell of your weakness and crawled into it for safety. The shell made of fears and insecurities. It’s a big fort. It will make friends look like foes and foes like friends. It will block freedom, joy and sunlight from trickling in. But it will allow the agents of infirmities creep in. It wants to retain its prisoner. Because what jail is worth if not for the prisoner inside?

Beyond the web of factual right and wrong

 

One can commit violence even using the naked sword of ‘truth’—the so-called matter-of-fact truth. It’s a bland, statistical, mechanical bit of information. A soulless entity. It’s an arrow that’s strung on the bow of ‘honesty’ to pierce, to hurt, to settle a score. Most of the so-called ‘outspoken’ and ‘blunt’ people, who assume that they are truthful, are in fact using the facts to hurt and settle scores with the people they don’t like. They are no worshippers of truth.

The real truth is in spirit. Beyond technical accuracy, it has a soul. It possesses a sweet core. It’s a feeling, lively entity. A really truthful person will not unleash a factually correct arrow to outscore some rival in a debate or argument. The facts that hurt someone can be retained and left unused. And if you need to use these facts at all, it should be with love, care and an intention to guide and bring positive change in someone’s life, not just the plain intention of judging and showing someone in bad light and humiliate him/her.

So the intention behind what we say is the real decider of what is truthful in spirit. Even slightly modified facts that are meant to help someone, make her feel better, guide her on a nice path are far more ‘truthful’ than the naked, fanged facts that hurt someone and are basically used as weapons to pamper our ego.

The fight, the perennial strife

 

There is a dramatic and pulsating drive to build among the humans. Most of what we build is born of fears. Fear seems to be the predominant element of life on earth. Peace is a dream. We are always either fighting or preparing to fight. Therefore, the global military expenditure is 6.7 billion dollars per day. This huge amount of money is willingly spent, even eulogized under the jingoistic nationalistic banner. It’s taken as a matter of pride. On the other hand, at the climate summit the major countries are fighting to muster up just 300 billion dollars for climate financing. It seems unimportant to us. Little do we realize that climate-induced ocean heating leading to a super-cyclone dents the economy by as much as the entire amount proposed for climate financing.

We are comfortable to kill each other on a dying planet. We are fundamentally inclined to lose our peace and feel restless. We get bored even with love and create disharmony and disputes. We even get bored with our freedoms as well as the mechanisms and institutions meant to ensure our individual and collective freedoms. When we get bored with freedom, we turn cynical and show apathy to the organized degradation of democratic process and institutions. Presently, the world seems to be bored with democracy. Democracy is gradually degrading over the world. Autocratic maneuvering is stealthily taking a firm grasp on the throat of democracy.

On the face value, democracy seems to follow the time-tested process, but behind the screen the indirect, subtle forgeries, lies, manipulations and misuse are eating into its soul. It’s not that people can’t see and feel it. They understand. They know that the spirit of democracy is being compromised like never before. But just like we get bored with love, we are receptive to the processes of democratic degradation. It’s like we are ready for chaos and autocracy; a collectively depressed, anxious society getting addicted to autocracy.

While we smoothened and plastered our walls as the outward measures to cover the gaping holes inside our souls, the sparrows lost chances to build nests in niches, grooves, holes and crevices in walls, roofs and ceilings. The sparrows are now fighting to grab the abandoned wire-tail swallow mud-nest in the verandah. The mud-nest cup has a little space where they can put some grass sinews and lay eggs. The sparrows are cheeky, chirpy, petite, querulous ones. About a dozen couples are fighting to occupy the prime property. The moment a couple lands on the property, the others chase it away with angry, shrill notes. It’s a big fight since morning—a little ounce of the same ghastly battlefields where one country is bombarding another to grab land and resources. They twirl, swirl, dive and shout to discourage each other from occupying the property. Finally, the most stubborn couple will win the rights. One angry couple even chased the poor flycatcher around the yard. They just banged into him the moment it perched anywhere. The sparrows in bad temper and the poor flycatcher has to pay; just like angry world leaders make the common people pay for their bursting tempers.  

The thief of divine grace

 When I’m near Gaga Ma I somehow go footloose. Walking on Her banks or on the landscapes shaped by Her torrential flow becomes my meditation, my ritual, my tapasya. I just find myself keep walking. The pent-up energies, emotions, karmic entanglements all start flowing as if pushed by Her blessing shove. I just walk. Gently. In a fine flow with myself. No destination. No goal. She does what is supposed to be done; what is needed for Her child’s growth.

This is late April and I’m staying at Dharali. I’m here to walk with Ma Ganga Doli Yatra from Mukwa to Gangotri—the colorful procession starting from Her winter abode to culminate at Her summer home. It’s a soulful procession, full of colors, redolent with local hill people’s unquestionable faith in Ma Ganga. No words can describe the feeling. I walk with them and simply keep looking at Her beautiful, kind, pious face visible through the small opening in the little silver shrine being carried by the bearers. I’m just soaking myself with as much darshan as possible. Plundering the divine prasada actually. Greedily. Copiously.

It’s a lovely little trek lasting about 22 km. When the procession reaches Gangotri, the entire little pilgrimage town lines up to welcome their mother. The place is as good as nonexistent without Her. No wonder it’s abandoned during the winter months when the mother is away at Mukwa.

There is a suspension bridge over Ganga Ma linking Dharali on this side to Mukwa on the opposite hill. During nights I keep walking from this end of the bridge to the other. The hill people usually stay indoors after the dark, so I have the bridge all to myself for meditative walks. It’s a spiritually heady cocktail of elements: the mountain wind rushing through the valley, Ma Ganga’s roar, my seeking self and pristine open starry sky above. All the elements forming a tiny intersection defining my path.

I keep asking people whether they know some real saint to recommend for a meeting. Almost all of them say—with helplessness—that presently it’s all about money, power, authority, perks and privileges; religion is more or less a big business and political tool now; the babas are powerful and do liaisoning work facilitating big interests of powerful people. But when was it not so? The ritualistic part has always engaged with worldly matters more or less on the base frequency.

I’m more into spirituality. Moreover, this is kaliyuga—the age of darkness and expecting satyuga purity in kaliyuga sages would be asking too much. To me it’s pretty simple. Earlier in pure climate you had massive trees lasting centuries; now we have lesser trees struggling to survive in the changed climate. The same is the case with the sages in the changed, degraded social climate. They are also the stunted version of the lofty mythical sages of the ancient times. But at least they are carrying the lineage and deserve respect for that. So I’m not too judgmental and usually try to have satsang with kaliyuga saints.

Mahesh, the gentle and kind hotelier, is a thorough gentleman; always ready to do something for the babas and matajis of the entire area from his place till Gangotri. I ask him about any serious baba. He also says with sadness that it’s all business now. ‘But you can try meeting this avadhuta. But it depends on his mood. Usually he asks the visitors to leave within a couple of minutes or straightaway refuses to meet,’ he tells me.

This babaji stays at the other end of the bridge towards Mukwa. As you emerge on the other end of the bridge, the main steep climb goes to Mukwa up the hill. The baba has a tiny hut of planks and tin fixed against a rockface on the left side a few meters above Ma Ganga’s stream. To reach his ramshackle little gate, one has to walk under the bridge along the bank and cross over to the other side of the bridge’s base.

As I reach the tiny indicator of the start of a human’s domain in free wilderness, I see a stocky figure sitting under a tree on a platform in front of the hut. I gently hark his attention from the gate. He waves his hand asking me to come in. I walk gingerly. I’m extra cautious, full of additional politeness in order not to disturb him. As I come near, with a swift action he throws a small durri piece on a beaten down wooden chair near him. I touch his feet and sit at the chair’s edge with folded hands.

‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you swami ji. I just wanted to see you. I simply come as an empty vessel. Ready to accept whatever you bless me with,’ I cautiously approach with respect and acceptance of his graceful presence. He laughs with childlike innocence.

I keep my promise of being an empty vessel and just listen. The baba talks. I’m lucky that he is feeling happy to talk today. He is a Begali baba initiated into Ramakrishna mission. But he found the ashrams too binding and has been on his own for the last six decades, most of which he has spent in this area near Ma Ganga including the last 37 years here at this place. Earlier he was at a cave about one kilometer up the stream for some years and before that at Gangotri.

He speaks with a cute Bangla accent. Quite hale and hearty for his 77 years. The baba is happy to share his life story and even tells me about his family. It’s a nice satsang for an and hour and fifteen minutes. He is quite vocal about a sadhak keeping the vow of celibacy. I have my opinion on this but I know he knows more than me and I must listen to him.

‘O narayan ji, why are you unnecessarily entangled in this worldly maya? Leave it. Quit,’ he says it very naturally like he feels that’s what I should do now. ‘Sit for sadhna. You can sit in my former cave some distance from here. I’ll ask the villagers to help you initially. In any case, what does a sanyasi need? The basic needs are met by mother nature. So you need not worry about that,’ the baba is quite optimistic about me taking full sanyas and abandon all worldly connections.

‘Can’t one achieve peace even while staying in the world with its issues?’ I ask. He says a firm ‘no’ and doesn’t explain it further than this. I have arguments in my talkative mind but I don’t say anything.

Even Kaka Maharaj, who stays outside the village, asked me to abandon everything and sit for sadhna somewhere by the canal in the area where he has been staying for the last many decades. In fact, my brother laughs that I have been offered two penthouses by two babajis. But I know I’m not for complete severance of worldly ties. I’m for a balanced life in all matters. More than that, I believe in reading and writing and that I will do till my last breath. I’m not worried even if that creates situations not conducive to absolute peace. No problem.

‘If you don’t quit, the God will force you to leave all this worldliness, which stops one from enjoying the grace of absolute peace,’ the baba says emphatically. I just clear my throat apologetically.

As I take leave and stoop down to touch his feet, the baba puts his loving, kind hand on my head and gently pats my back saying, ‘Peace be with you! Peace be with you!’ He gives me two apples, a bit stale, dejuiced, somewhat shriveled. Actually all his apples were like that. He isn’t bothered about freshness of fruits. But the fruits are fresh with divine grace.

During our interaction the baba has a firm idea that I’m a bookworm. He opens a bundle of soiled cloth and from the stack of very old books randomly picks a part of an old, dog-eared book. ‘Read it! But reading scriptures is like using a thorn to take out the thorn in one’s flesh. After taking out the thorn both thorns have to be discarded,’ he says. The baba knows the utility and futility of knowledge. He is after all a graduate himself.

There I walk back after hitting the jackpot—satsang with a saint, two apples and an old book about the lamp of knowledge. The rumpled, crumpled book has been thoroughly thumbed; possibly during his former knowledge-seeking days. The thorn of knowledge which he used to pull out the thorn of ignorance. The pages bear extensive markings, underlines, sidenotes and scrawls in Bangla to give me an idea how extensively babaji has gone through this book. He seems to have gone into depths over each world and phrase on the banks of Ganga Ma over the decades. This is a prized catch—in worldly lingo. I might not be able to read it as extensively as the baba but its mere presence among my books is enough to dispel the dark corners of ignorance in my study. It’s enlightening just by its presence. How it can’t be? After all, it has stayed in the hands of such a longtime sadhak who has definitely attained a joyful state. I feel that joyfulness in my head now. A feeling of ease. Palpable. Not many ideas swimming in the brainy pool. Just an emptiness. I feel the grace of his peaceful touch as I walk back.

Yea, missed to tell it. The baba listens with the cute excitement of a child listening to fairy tales. I was telling him the story of a Zen monk and he looked and listened in rapt attention, a childlike smile on his face all along the narration. 

The fulfiller of cosmic will

 

All this is a little funny innocent thoroughfare around. This creation is just pushing a unique expression through our identity, our point of existence in Her infinite folds. So let’s be proud of what we are doing. Our karma is nothing but a contribution from our end to help the eternal truth in maintaining its sanctity, its mystical depth. So let’s create well in full honesty to our own self. Spool your webs and feel that we are fulfilling a vital part in Her scheme of things.

Each step we take is in fact Her step to realize Her full potential. We are merely an expression of the infinite potential lying at the quantum level to take more and more shapes and expressions. So do your karma in action, thoughts and emotions in full sincerity, with full awareness, with full presence. And you make Her happy, happy about Herself because She is you and you are just a drop in Her vast cosmic sea. She is happy when you are happy. She is sad when you are sad. She feels like a majestic creator when you are consciously creating something in full awareness. And She is right there in you when you are aware of your full presence.

A little message for the traveler

 

Usually people, most of us, walk through a grey zone of shifting shadows. It’s not totally dark, it’s a mundane journey. Neither too painful, nor joyous one. It leads to a common destination as well. But some people have to walk through a dark cave, you may call it ‘dark night of the soul’. It’s painful involving lots of suffering. Many perish in the folds of darkness. But those who choose to continue, they finally come out and face the brightest dawn, the dawn of the soul in evolutionary terms. Such people are leaders, guides and inspiration just by default. They need not even try to accomplish anything. Just by being there they do goodness. And if they choose to guide fellow human beings, they make good masters.

So remember this, always, as you walk through your dark nights, that you are such a soul. And the patches of darkness will keep arriving periodically till you see the sunshine finally and be an inspiration to others. So keep walking. With a smile. And keep in touch with the people who care for you. Don’t allow the darkness to build more walls around you. Best wishes brothers and sisters!

A little story of selfless love

 

Here is an inspiring little story of a farmer in the locality.

A poor almost illiterate farmer with a little patch of land. A nice man but into alcohol. His son a very diligent, disciplined and hardworking boy. He did tapasya for medical studies in India. Sadly couldn’t get the admission. His father sold his little plot of land and sent him to Russia for medical studies. The boy is excelling in studies there. The father is slowly dying and fading away but he is peaceful for keeping the HOPE alive in his son’s life. There is a smile on his face even in the face of death.

That’s what life is. If we are lucky we get people who help us in keeping our hopes alive. But even if we are all alone, we have our own SELF to keep the HOPE alive.

Here is another story of Hope.

In the Himalayan villages there are some reports of some village elders willing to go into the forests so that they become prey to the tigers. These are very poor people. A tiger victim’s family gets one million rupees in compensation. But is it only about money? No. It’s about keeping the HOPE alive in their families even if they are no more. So dear friends, just imagine people are ready to even sacrifice their lives to keep the hope alive in their families. Hence, all the rest that one can do to keep the hope alive should be a mere cakewalk.

In celebration of life and living

 

Good day everyone! Brace up for a lovely day of Karma, learning and smiles. I find it suitable to share the story of Dr Joe Dispenza. I always wondered how come this medicine man turns out to be such a mystic! And here is the cause.

He met an accident at the age of twenty-three, breaking six vertebrae in the spine. Paralyzed. The doctors said the only chance at walking would come after inserting two 12-inch long steel rods along the spine. He said ‘no’ and asked to be discharged from the hospital. For three months he lay on his stomach at his friend's place and reconstructed his spine using creative visualization...step by step...with extreme focus, intention, awareness, being present in the body...and made a new reality using his mind power, by being open to the infinite mind that has all the solutions to all the problems. He got up after three months and simply walked away to glory. He hasn’t had back pain in the last three decades. He says it’s not just about the body; we can heal our life in the same way by recreating better careers, relationships, everything in fact.

Wish you all a happy refabrication of life!

A mason's dharma

 

He is a middle-aged man, stocky, solid, graying with wisdom of experience and hard work. His nicely curling moustache on his weather-worn face seems to justifiably boast a life well-lived with honesty, hard work, integrity and discipline. Equipped with this impression on me, Fauji mistri visits me.

When you are born in a so-called lower caste, it’s like beginning with a huge deficit, disadvantages piling up over the generations to hold your head low, grounded, non-assertive, humble, cringing. It’s like being born under the water. Right from the first instant you are aware that you have to at least come gasping onto the surface to survive and then struggle to reach the shore and then begin your journey from where most of the humans take their first steps after getting born in better caste hierarchy. You start with a big minus and even to reach zero takes the major part of one’s life, and if you achieve that, it would make you feel successful. All around you people are born with multiple of pluses, a launchpad for them to shoot out into the sky. You are meantime laboring on the ground, merely spading the dirt, while they go and grab the stars.

Fauji mistri started as a mason. He worked very hard, honestly raising his family. Then migrant Bihari bricklayers started to arrive, looking for better options among the endless private and public construction going on. Individually they don’t feel safe in working on the construction sites because many people would chuck out the wages of a migrant worker. So they tie-up with a local contractor who gets them work and ensures payment, keeping a commissioned amount for himself. So Fauji turned a contractor as well. All this while he has been working himself as well.

He visits me and appears to be seeking some solace. He looks disappointed, hurt, stressed and downcast. I don’t ask him the reasons for his feeling so low. They are bound to be the same old stories of hurt, complaints, anger, cheatings. I’m not interested in the repetition of these stories. All of us know them too well. I feel he seems to have lost faith in his mason dharma of hard work. There must have been reasons. But one’s faith ought to be restored.

‘It’s a reverse world. What appears solid is a shadow. Those whom you feel are prosperous are maybe unlucky because the majority of them are earning money through unjustified means. And following a fake path can never take one to truth. So maybe they are unlucky and have been penalized for their past sins to be born among circumstances where there is a lot of unjustified prosperity. And those who look struggling maybe are the lucky ones, blessed by God to be given a path that requires them to an honest, hard-worked life, every penny earned through blood and sweat. As Jesus said those who seem standing last here will be standing first there. Since you dig a well daily to see through the day, you have to believe that you are very dear to God. He has put you on a path that will see your soul marching nearer and nearer to truth. You will realize and feel it at the end of this journey. You don’t need pilgrimages, rituals, fasting, meditations, charity to pursue your will to be dearer to God. You already are. You worship Him with each brick that you lay with your hardworking soul. You already follow all the rituals in spreading cement to make solid walls. You light up incense in erecting roof over people’s heads. You have your own dharma of sweat and blood, your temple, your own priest, your own scripture. You don’t need any guru to be guided to a nobler path. You already are all that it requires to be a human being dear to God. Just remember your dharma with each brick that you lay to erect a wall. Don’t forget it. And it will always maintain a smile on your face,’ I told him.

Fauji mistri smiled and looked vastly comforted. Well, at least that much you can do. You can help people in retaining their faith.

The monkeys of Delhi

 

The rest of the species have meekly caved in under the human pressure. But the rhesus macaque monkey holds the baton of rebellion with its red face and pink bottom. It’s now classified as an urban animal by the Delhi Forest and Wildlife Department. It’s now the MCD’s duty to manage the simian problem just like they handle cats and dogs problems. As urban animals the rhesus monkeys can no longer hide under the protective umbrella of the Wildlife Protection Act.

However, they continue to enjoy respect under the mythological laws for being part of Lord Rama’s army in his fight against Ravan. The MCD (municipal corporation of Delhi) is sprucing up its monkey-catching drive by recruiting more monkey catchers. Despite paying an impressive INR 2500/monkey catch, the national capital has only ten monkey catchers.

The already smart monkey is even smarter now, shrewd and clever in fact. They know better than grabbing bananas from the trap cages. This much brain they possess. In any case there are millions of devout Hanuman followers who have enough bananas for them to avoid visiting the trap cages.

It was in 2007 when angry monkeys claimed a VIP casualty. The deputy mayor was attacked on his terrace. He fell from the roof and died of injuries.

Presently the MCD captures them and dumps them in Asola Bhatti region. But the Tughlakabad forest area hasn’t any boundaries. The rhesus loves its genetic look-alike and returns within a short span of time. The resident welfare associations demand sterilization to check their population. But who is to ordain human sterilization to checkmate our ever-increasing population?

The mother

 

She is a widow pensioner in her late sixties. Her husband who was in police expired long ago. She successfully raised two boys and a girl. It was challenging as usually it is. She lost her daughter to dowry sharks. It was a huge trauma. Both her boys are settled with their families now. She stays with the younger one. There was a time when he was struggling with his small business. During those times her pension was handy for the family budget. Economic dependence fetches its fair share of loyalty and obedience on part of the dependent to the benefactor. So he was a sweet boy, caring with his tongue when it came to dealing with his mother. Then his small business picked up and he turned moderately well off. Now he was no longer dependent upon the contribution of her small pension in running the household.

What can a mother expect from a self-sustaining boy? He wasn’t directly insulting but due to his newfound economic independence she felt him to be dismissive of her. It pained her. She shares this sadly with me. Now she has to be reminded that it hasn’t gone waste, her struggle and support.

‘Sweet, sugar-coted, flattering words of an economically dependent boy are far lower than the practical, matter-of-fact, official sounding, formal words of an independent self-sustaining boy. As a mother what would you choose? A boy who speaks sweetly just because he is dependent on your pension to run his affairs. Or a boy who sounds dismissive of you but is respectfully earning his bread.

‘The latter,’ she replies.

‘As a mother what was your duty? It was to help him grow up. His speaking over you is a sign of his growing up to be independent. Which mother would want a cringing dependent son? So sister, feel happy and proud that you have raised a man who is standing on his own now. Growing old is being transparent, mellow, adjusting and understanding. Most of the unwanted stuff ought to pass through you without getting stuck up and create pain inside. Listen and smile and keep blessing your children,’ I try to assure her of the wisdom of old age.

A smile comes on her face. She now feels the joy of raising independent sons. 

Smartphone solace in solitude

 

The sun at its baking best on this June noon. Who would come out in such fire unless forced by the circumstances ?But a writer needs to accede to his whims sometimes. My head draped in a towel, I’m walking on the canal embankment. The water seems vaporizing right there while on its course. The grass and bushes almost famished. The trees dispirited. The birds silent, probably taking a siesta. A little flock of sheep is grazing on the sunburnt tufts of grass. The sheep in their woolen coats look like an old man draped in a thick military blanket on a June noon. They look suffering under their coats. But during the winters it makes them look so comfortable and warm.

A sheep is startled to see someone out in such heat. The shepherd is lying under the not-so-dense shade of a small tree. Far away from the world. He is a poor boy in shabby clothes. But he has a smartphone. The panacea for all your vacuums. The world is at your fingertips. You don’t need anyone. You easefully pass time from the airport lounges to the faraway places such as this one. Virtual socializing consoles us in this lonelier than ever world. Beyond all the cacophony, we are lonelier than ever. The smartphone is a faithful companion to the billions of lonely humans.

A visit to Delhi

 

I visit Delhi only when it’s unavoidable. Despite innumerable new bridges and flyovers, traffic congestion and pollution is almost the same from as long as I can remember. The reason is thousands of new migrants and scores of new vehicles on the road every week. The national capital is a sufferer of over-expectations. Urban planning will be better with diversification of focus on smaller cities and towns.

On a recent trip to the national capital, something interesting caught my attention. There was something written at the back of a car of some senior government official. On the road it moves like a stern disciplinarian message. The people mind their driving business well and follow the rules in the vicinity of such a vehicle. I think a cool proportion of drivers on the road are illiterate. But even they understand the pictographic meaning of these red words.

One such vehicle moved in front of my car. I’m already cautious while driving but I turn extra-disciplined now. Then on second reflection I read it again. ‘Great of India’. Well, it looks the same to even those who can read. We are used to read it as ‘Government of India’ and get extra disciplined when driving near it. While, the illiterate ones would give it the same guard of honor as to any official vehicle. The white ‘Great of India’ Swift Dezire moved with honor among the motley crowd. Many drivers gave it space to overtake to allow the high government functionary to reach his destination on time.

World cycling day

 

I never knew there was a world cycling day falling on June 3. I came to know of its existence through a pleasant coincidence. We had once bought a very nice bicycle for my niece. But she turns out to be unsporty type. The bicycle rusted on the roof. Then my nephew came of age, the time when six or seven years olds fall in love with cycling. Thinking he would love it we sent it to a mechanic, getting it totally refurbished. It looked well-oiled and properly greased to pedal a childhood to joyful glory. But even seven-year-old Nevaan, coming during his school vacations, hardly showed any interest in it.

Stationed in the verandah, I again saw the signs of rust gathering on the lovely cycle. That sounded so derogatory to a cycle, especially when there are so many children who would lose their sleep out of sheer excitement if they get a cycle like that.

There are two little boys from a needy family in the locality. I gifted the cycle to them. In the evening of the same day, the sultry silence was broken by a sweet trilling by the familiar bell. The elder one rode, the younger one riding pillion, there they went sashaying across the streets, their dreams on swift pedals. A few moments later, through the ever nosy social media, I came to know that it was the world cycling day! What a beautiful coincidence?

May musings -- 2024

 

The month of May was unexpectedly cooler. The coolest May in the last four decades in fact, thanks to the western disturbances. But the heat will put up its grip in June, the loos will sigh, the sands will fly, the street dogs will walk with their tongues hanging out, the flowers will get charred and vanish (except peregrina). The deep red little flowers stay through the year, except for the coldest moth in January. But the sadabahars also are quite brave. They aren’t bothered about winters and summers.

The curry leaf tree is in full bloom. Smallness is no handicap for smiles. These are little bouquets with tiny white petals. They are so small that you see them only as a pale collectivity from a distance. They have a faint jasmine kind fragrance. They are countless like ants. So many drizzle like a mango tree’s flowering. Yet there are so many left to invite an entire colony of bees to feast through the day. Big yellow-brown stinging wasps also drone among the clusters. To have your stinginess you need to have some sweet core inside. Purple black berries would form later. They taste sweet. I remember the Morni hills trekking times when a huge curry leaf tree would welcome the solitary walker and offer its ripe, sweet berries.

Ganga Maa Doli yatra from Mukwa to Gangotri

 

जन्नत में आग

 कश्मीर में निर्दोष पर्यटकों की हत्या घनघोर पापकर्म है। विडंबना ये है अब पक्ष और विपक्ष दोनो इसका अपने अपने तरीके से राजनैतिक फायदा उठाएंगे। त्रासदी का लाभ उठाना ही तो राजनीति है। पाकिस्तान के कुकृत्य तो जगजाहिर हैं। उसपे विलाप करना निरर्थक है। सवाल उठता है कि एक अलग थलग प्रयटन क्षेत्र के आस पास, जहां करीब २००० पर्यटक उपस्थित थे, उसके आस पास सिक्योरिटी क्यूं नहीं थी। अगर मीडिया रिपोर्टों को मानें तो उग्रवादियों ने फ़ुरसत से लोगों से उनके नाम, धर्म पूछे। इतना ही नहीं कुछ को तो कलमा तक बोलने को कहा। मतलब हिट और रन नहीं था। फ़ुरसत थी। और फ़ुरसत तब होती है जब विश्वास होता है कि सिक्योरिटी अरेंजमेंट बहुत ढीले है। यानी सिक्योरिटी गार्ड काफी दूर रहे होंगे। इसलिए हिन्दू मुस्लिम की आग में कूदने से पहले अपनी सरकार से हमें ये प्रश्न पूछना होगा की इतना बड़ा लूपहोल कैसे छोड़ दिया गया?

इस संबंध में ओशो का वक्तव्य सार्थक है: "दो तरह के लोग हैं दुनिया में। बड़ी पुरानी सूफी कथा है कि एक मूढ़ और एक ज्ञानी एक जंगल से गुजरते थे। दोनों रास्ता भूल गए थे। बिजली चमकी। बड़ी प्रगाढ़ बिजली थी। अंधकार क्षण भर को कट गया। मूढ़ ने आकाश में बिजली को देखा। ज्ञानी ने नीचे रास्ते को देखा। मूढ़ ने जब बिजली चमकी तो ऊपर देखा। जब बिजली चमकी तो ज्ञानी ने नीचे देखा। उस नीचे देखने में रास्ता साफ हो गया।"

इसलिए मूढ़ तो इस त्रासदी की कोंध में धार्मिक उन्माद की चमक ही देखेंगे। लेकिन ज्ञानवान आदमी इसमें रास्ता देखेगा। और रास्ते उचित प्रश्नों को उठाने पर ही निकलते हैं।

Tiny superheroes

 

Let us talk of tiny superheroes. They are not visible but can outfox even the wildest imagination. Conan the Bacterium is a little multi-celled superhero that grabbed the show from its discovery in the cow and elephant dung. It kept its bright orange smile in the face of sterilization, exposure to dangerous radiation and extreme temperatures. The Japanese researchers put it up for a Sumo fight in the space. It was left sticking to the outer walls of the International Space Station. It flashed its orange smile even after three years when they rechecked it. Now they estimate that it can survive for millions of years on the Mars. I think Conan the Barbarian (in a movie)did full justice to the name. Now, I’m convinced that the original shot of life was some such superhero microbe that came darting on the back of a burning meteorite and landed on this little planet.

Bacillus Subtilis breaks down toxic industrial waste and crude oil by almost 85 percent. Hasn’t it got wonders in its metabolic pathways?

Rhodococcus Ruber has probably the strongest gut on earth. It has a flair for eating and digesting plastic. It breaks plastic into nontoxic waste.

Geobacter is named Iron-Man Bacteria. It has a flair for flirting with toxic cobalt. It hunts like a great miner. It sucks cobalt from the surroundings and makes a cobalt suit with it and wraps itself in it. In this way it stops the poison from seeping into its cells. A cobalt suit it wears! Can you believe it?

Methanotrophs is methane guzzler. The best and the most helpful addict to substances. The more it abuses, the better it’s for us. As the permafrost melts in the Arctic, it releases massive amount of methane, the notorious greenhouse gas. And there in the frigid environment, this unsung hero fights for us by consuming methane.

Addicted to mother's milk

 

Despite the best efforts by his mother, Jhallu master won’t stop breastfeeding on his mother. He suckled at her breasts till he was in the eighth or ninth class. Her solutions like putting bitter neem paste and chilies on her nipples having failed to deter him. He would run to his house for lunch during the break at the village school. After eating rotis he would insist, ‘Maa, e maa kam se kamek doka de de!’ Mother, o mother give a little bit of milk. Doka (a tiny milk unit in the farming lingo, equaling just a quarter of a pint) was used for the lactating buffalos that would unwillingly give a few squirts of milk in the basket after much effort.