The outlook

 Don't look down upon people just because they are poor and look dirty. Every soil has its own characteristics worth gold. We try to see in others what we ourselves lack. Before condemning and degrading someone else over looks, wealth, power and position, we have already condemned our own selves for lacking the same. How will you judge anyone without having been a thorough judge of your own self. The prejudice that we cast on others is first practiced within the workshop of one's own self. How will you hate anyone if you haven't been hating yourself secretly about your supposed failures, shortcomings and expectations.

God's sweet self reflection

 The sea has but no option other than to feel its existence through each and every drop cradled in its immensity. Each drop has the very same code of creation as the entire sea. Similarly, the entire cosmos has the only option to feel its lively, enthralling expansion, its pulsating consciousness, through you, me and all of us around. Each sand grain, each particle in the air and the void itself bespeaks of the very same code of creation, the very same primal consciousness. When you know more of yourself and others and the life in general, the cosmos is in fact engaged in a sweet self-reflection.

Small things in a poet's little corner of life

 Nesting birds are all ears and concentration. Be it parching heat, torturing cold or piercing rain, they are steadfastly manning the watch-post to first save their eggs and later the hatchlings. The risk factors are always bustling around.

An Indian robin bird couple is scowling with indignation. They have almost successfully raised a chick. It’s maybe just a week away from full flight. Till then it has to remain hidden among the tree branches while they feed it. Of course, whoever happens to come near the tree is an eye-sore to the parents. All impulsive and afire they are snarling with shrr-frr angry notes on the curry-leaf tree in the yard. It’s their tree for the moment because their just-out-of-nest tiny chick is huddled in a fork on a leafy branch.

Presently the cause of their ruminations is a squirrel that is trying to climb ‘their’ tree. Hurling their angry monologues they are flying around her, trying to distract or even give her an outright fall. When they are protecting their chicks, even the softest and mutest birds become gut-wrenching, freewheeling energy personified. I don’t think the squirrel can eat their little one. It can steal eggs of course. But her presence makes the parents all itchy with anger. Maybe it’s the same squirrel that has just moved in with her little ones a few days ago. It must be on the way to her nest on the parijat comprising the same clump of trees in the yard.

To support the underdog is an aesthetic marvel for we humans. One gets a feel of being a visionary genius. In fact, a tailorbird is already sniveling from the side of the robins. I also add to their voice, stomp my feet and throw little dry twigs to scare away the squirrel. But to the insecure parents I’m no countryside gentleman. In their innocent alertness they almost graze against my shaven head. An aerial attack I would say. I leave the field. The chick is safely hidden at its leafy perch.

For many hours I see it exactly at the same place. It’s an obedient chick following its parents’ instructions. It of course increases its survival chances. That’s the best thing to do till you don’t have your own wings to fly. It will be good for the little one to do as its parents ask it to do. Then it can set out on a flirting furlough with life one fine day. It will have many moths, even years hopefully, to spend the strength of its youth’s reserves. But till then a meek complaisance to the parental plans will be good. And that’s what it does. It safely makes to the end of a very critical day, each second important, each hour adding strength to its tiny wings. I leave it safely tucked in its place as a humid twilight sets in.

As I write this and take a break to go out on the terrace, mother nature gives me a sight to add to this write-up. The wire-tail swallow couple has their chick out as well. The family is extended now. Three of them sitting on a wire, the parents on both sides of the chick. The parents all alert and anxious and the chick full of awe and wonder on this bigger stage outside the mud nest. It has dull grey head, which will grow to chocolate brown like its parents. The wings look very mild purple. These will grow to shiny metallic blue. Its tail will grow wires like its elders. But for that the parents will have to give their all to add enough strength and skills in its wings to fly freely. Mothers are extra possessive. As I look at them from a few feet away from the perch cable, she comes chipping and takes a swift turn around my nose, giving me a warning to stay away from her child.

It’s a lovely sight to watch a fruitful nesting and the expansion of a birdie family. It’s a bit more hopeful morning. The sun partially out. Yellow little butterflies fluttering among the flowers. The trees laden with fresh, young leaves. And the family of three, having crossed a milestone, looking to successfully cross over to the other.

Unlike the robin chick, the swallow youngster has to get its training under the open skies on the wires and cables in the locality because their toes don’t allow a firm perch on the tree branches. I can just add my prayers for their cause. I can pray that the crows and the shikra (who is usually stalking the locality to fly away with any lazy bird or lizard) are busy somewhere else and won’t come here as of now.

The rivals to mankind's inherent sense of mischief and nuisance

 

The monkeys leave me fuddled with vexation many times. The swaggering simian sense of mischief leaves this taciturn and tottering poet flummoxed beyond limits. They have to temper with normalcy all the time. The rest of the species are after food and mating. The monkeys know how to enjoy life beyond this realm. So they move assuredly, vivaciously with errant finesse. For example, beyond picking—sorry tearing—fruits from trees, they are aware that more fun can be drawn by spraying mugfuls of rascality among the branches and decimate the canopy. Looking at them I know exactly from where our rioting sense comes from.

I’m feeling the affable touch of early morning monsoon breeze, a sense of equanimity resonating in my being. It gives a meditative experience. I would say it’s almost a walking meditation. Eh… pah… so much for the prancing merriment of the monkeys! It’s a group of three young troublous wastrels—goondas even from the normal simian standards. Their chief jumps with a lacerating sense of criminality. My sonorous spell of ease is shattered. A big bough of champa, fully adorned with fragrant flowers, cracks and falls with a painful thud. The murderer is jubilant and jumps on the roof of my little car as if trying to squash it to junk like a nefarious press machine. Luckily, the car doesn’t break like poor champa, so he is sniveling and sharply livid. I stare at him with copious loath. There I see him confidently cantering home, fleeing with glee. I’m wincing with impotent hate, the flowery big bough in my hand. What egged him to this rascality, I wonder. I inhale the fragrance of champa flowers to douse the whirring oblivion of hate. In what delirium these desperados carry out such normalcy-slaying attacks?! Pah… ! I think they are excellently accustomed to the elements of chaos and disorder. So many times they’ve broken into the house and robbed fruits in broad daylight, leaving me feeling like a half-wit. After the raid they vanish all exultant and gay, while I stand morose and desolate.

Their flagrant digression into illegality hit a new high the other day. Any chance of India coming near winning a bronze at the Olympics embraces us with sparkling courtesy. I’m lost in the bronze medal match on the television. There he hits below the belt again, the head hoodlum; thus disfiguring morality forever. My cheering for the Indian player has come at a cost. He has smartly opened the door, opened the refrigerator, rummaged through it, without making the slightest sound, and not finding anything to its taste there enters the other room and opens the other refrigerator. He hits gold here. Our player has missed the bronze. I’m shocked, my words are frozen in the air. I’m stunned and surrounded by the walls of silence. It’s a proof of the culture of violence challenging any sense of peace. The mangled, pulped mangoes are littered around, many just bitten once and thrown away, their pulp oozing out on the floor. It’s a pulpy yellow mayhem. The shock waves hit me. He looks relaxed and unbothered. I let out a terrifying verbal innuendo. Hearing the echo of my own words, I lose self-esteem and dignity that still remained. He gallops away with glee, leaving the mess behind for me to clear. My confidence is crippled and maimed. What glorious freelancing of illicit fun! He stops to give me a horrid angry snarl from the wall and turns his lurid pink bottom towards my face and gallops away to further glory.

I have seen The Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes movie. And looking at the putrescent remnants of his rascality, cleverness and smartness, I have no doubt that what is shown in the movie will be reality some day. I look on helplessly. He is industrious, in full earnest, mischief egging him on forever. After the mango-slaying feast, he is huffily trying to pry open the lid of a roof-top water tank. I cannot just twiddle away time by impotently staring at errant monkeys. I have better things to do. Already the fleas from the entire neighborhood have arrived to enjoy the funfair. I have to clean the mess. With throbbing, pulsing verses of mute anger, I get down to the business—to put the house in order so that he can slay it again and bring disorder with his pink bottom.

Flexibility: The mantra of survival, growth and evolution

 We are born very supple and flexible. That’s why we bounce back after a fall. Nature gives us that physical flexibility so that we can get up after a fall. And fall we have to many times to learn to walk. Then we grow up and physical rigidities set in. The same fall would now result in multiple fractures.

At the physical level, we can do a lot to stall and postpone this rigidity through exercise and proper nutrition. But there is another aspect of us where we can stay flexible like before. I mean the flexibility of mind. We can retain the suppleness of our mindset, attitude and belief system to allow it to be positively shifted along the alignment of the uncontrollable forces of nature and the shifting shades of time.

The suppleness of mind and attitude saves us from breaking relationships as well as our own spirit. It’s essential to have this flexibility to continue growing and evolving as a person. An old man with a withering body having suppleness of mind is a nice combination.  

In total acceptance

 I give a big bear hug to all that is, was or will be. Holistic acceptance. I accept all dimensions of my existence - past, present and future. Because that's how my body and mind's biological apparatus -- brain -- operates to give me a concoction of emotions from the saddest to the happiest. I'm in acceptance of this leela that pulls the individual cart of our existence. I won't judge my past or future at the cost of the present. That's what pulls my creativity, my urge to be, become something more, something extra, something unique. To be a creator. I carry the steak of this marvelous expansion of mother existence from my end. I just give a huge bear hug to all that was, is and will be on my path. That defines my life. That gives one more little line of cosmic expansion. Let's celebrate our body and one of its states of being -- mind. Let's accept the body's ways of survival through reflections about the past, present and future. Why belittle one at the cost of the other. This is a lovely Leela. Colorful. And it happens because there is this beautiful quality of the human brain to enable our body to be shoved in multiple dimensions. That gives poetry, art, science, everything. It is the driver of all this thoroughfare. Enjoy. Let all this happen. In total acceptance is liberation from all this, not in negation.

A foxy poet

 I believe in traditional Indian family values, especially the ones that give a free pass to the elder brother in grabbing privileges and boons at the cost of younger ones😄 I make good use of my elderly status when it comes to imposing demands on my younger brother. Advisory note to all poetic elder brothers: Make good use of your younger brothers, especially if they stand at 6 feet 1 inch; make them slog out for you; use their long legs in riding heavy Himalayan bikes across the tough mountain roads. I am a clever user of my elder brother status. I'm three years older than him but would pretend to be 30 years older -- even start coughing like 80 plus men -- and bunk most of my turns to ride and enjoyed 15 days of almost day-long rides across the length and breadth of Ladakh. We are friends basically. I throw tantrums. He just grumbles dissent. Finally I have the final say. I always keep reminding him about the values of our traditional families. To my advantage. 😜 So the handsome six footer ended up being the slogging mule of this journey while I inhaled deep intakes of Ladakhi peace and solitude. It was like a poet on wings. I'm filling page after page of those experiences. All thanks to this handsome man! Nazar na lage! God bless him with health, wealth, peace, prosperity and a long fruitful life! He is the gem of a person, far better than yours truly in many-many things. Let him always be blessed with good fortune!

The fragments

 

We, individually, are fragmented stories; almost incomplete stories somehow patched up together by various factors like family, friends, town, country, jobs, fears, joys, agonies, advantages, disadvantages. These fragments are always falling apart, trying to run their own course, to become complete stories in themselves. That’s why we feel tension and restlessness.

We are merely bigger fragments made of smaller ones. The bigger fragment wants to pursue its own completion; the smaller ones their own. At different times, we are both larger and smaller than the sum total of all the fragments in us. It fluctuates. Our sum total. When we feel bigger, we look confident of going in a specific direction; when smaller, we are pulled apart by anxiety and uncertainty. A rambling house actually.

Many times the pieces fall apart and we rush to gather them in panic. With what we call our life, we maintain an invisible line around us, our boundary, the decider of our domain—our ego, our vulnerabilities. We are fighting to keep our fragments within this dominion. Because beyond that is the plain fear of falling apart beyond collection, getting destroyed, melting in oblivion.

Abandoning the knife-edge

 

If you are feeling lonely despite the crowd or the sprawl of nature around you, it means you are just walking on the edge. A razor-sharp slice, the knife-edge. The narrowest path possible for anyone to walk. You are cut off from the companionship of both humans and nature. A sharp edge whereupon only your isolated self can walk. There is no space for anyone or anything to give you company.

It’s primarily because you have rejected the offer of companionship by humans, books, trees, birds, animals, or some hobby, or any part of nature that gives company to someone in need. And as you walk on this edge, you cut your soles. It’s painful. It develops a vicious circle. All your energies are focused on your cuts. It further insulates you from the friendly overtures of some wild flower, some tree, some bird, some smile, some lovely emotion. You are cut off from the fabric of life. A feeble thread; fragile to be broken and blown.

Jump off this self-lacerating edge. Walk on the ground where there are people, birds, trees, books and lovely hobbies waiting to be acknowledged by you. It’s like coming back to the joint fabric of life. You can still stay aloof from the things and the people who don’t suit your structure of life. You can even walk alone on this broad plain. It doesn’t cut your feet. There are no edges of isolation.

By jumping off the sharp knife-edge, you have already accepted the little threads of coexistence, be it free air only. Now you are on the plain of many things even while being alone. You are not lonely. You are in solitude. In solitude you are equally near and far from everything around. It’s a feeling of grand equanimity.

Tiny chits of peace-slayers

It was a silent little garden. The birds had their nests. A squirrel also. The birds sang. Everything changed since the kittens' arrival. It's just an endless noisy day full of birdie distress calls. The garden lizards have vanished. I saw one of the kittens vomiting a semi-digested stuff...looked like rotten lizard pickle. So my forecast comes true. The squirrels who used the cloth line to go to their nest on the tree are playing safe. The tailorbirds, the prinias, the robins, the bulbuls. All have to use a major part of their energies in shouting warning calls all through the day.

One of the tiny hunters was seen escaping with what looked like a sparrow tail in its mouth. Was it one of the prinias. I can't hear their meek peen-peen-peen today. The miniature leopards are taking full advantage of their light weight and reach nests tucked among the highest branches about 25 feet above ground. Not that I haven't tried to bribe them with malai milk, that too pure buffalo wala, in order to keep their hunger satiated. They but prefer the raw furred delicacies. They leave the milk with a mocking smirk and go hunting.

It's play as well as dining for them. A lethal combo. In just three days it's a different world in my small garden. Even slugs get unnecessarily slayed, for sheer fun because they don't eat them, just kill them for practice I think. A shrew has been a garden resident for the last two three years. I took it as a lucky sign. I'm preparing myself to come to terms with its mauled corpse one morning any day soon.  I just watch them helplessly. They are all males. That makes it even more troublesome. Girls behave slightly better. I get annoyed at them for slaying the peace in my birded garden, the little winged friends who give me so many tales to write. But when the big fat rascally feral tomcat came to kill them to keep his harem intact and unrivaled in future, I contrived with my brother to teach the lampoon a lesson. He got a stick strike on his bum from the hands of my brother. We feel like protecting them; we feel like caning them for killing birds and lizards. It's a strange feeling. They play. They kill. Nature. But it's heartbreaking to hear the distress calls of my bird friends. I can just watch helplessly. I know this is natural. But would I be a poet if I accept this fact so easily. Well, I only pray that these hunters grow soon and leap away on hunts beyond our garden. Then me and my birdie friends will take a sigh of relief. But will they leave any bird alive till that time comes?

PS: An update. Just now one of them has been seen with a squirrel baby nicely tucked in its mouth.

The lonely plant

 

It was a lonely tulsi plant in a far corner of the brick-paved and cement-topped yard. A chance sprout; a little seed falling in an almost invisible hairline crack in the cemented yard. And there it grew; a stunted plant for the lack of space around it. A tough life; but it came helpful during the winter. While many big, luxuriant tulsi plants couldn’t cope with harsh cold, it kept alive with its unassuming, low-profile self. The situational disadvantage, in terms of a cemented surrounding, provided an advantage also—a little projecting slab on the wall kept it safe from an open exposure to the frosty sky during the coldest months. It survived. Next spring, looking at this tiny fighter was a lovely sight; like basking in a roomful of light. The other day I gifted it with a neighbor. I put a flowerpot bearing a nice green flowering shrub near it. I hope they will turn friends. Their branches touch. I’m sure the lonely tulsi plant, away from the flowers beds, will surely feel happy about having a neighbor.

PS: A few months down the line it gets proven that even a plant feels lonely and would love to have a friend, neighbor or companion. The said plant has grown to four times its earlier size. Hail Bonhomie! Build yours guys!

Simpler, the better

 

My mother would always praise me for my simple ways about food. She would sometimes forget to put salt in the food and I would eat it without even knowing if something was missing. When she would eat later and come to know about the most crucial thing missing, she would laugh and tell me about it. Believe me, when I’m hungry eating a raw boiled potato or a spicy pizza are just the same. I swear on this. And I feel so good about it. It’s a gift from nature. I know the basics of cooking and that enables me to prepare a few necessary things that only I would like to eat. People normally are very particular about so many things but to me a few basics matter. So salt, spice, ripe, overripe, cooked, undercooked, baked, over-baked, or the shape of chapatti hardly have any effect on me. I can relish whatever I make even if a street dog would not feel comfortable in enjoying it. So it’s very simple regarding culinary matters. Simpler, the better. And there are so many ways one can survive upon. Like Sadhguru survived on a frugal meal for many years. It involved a fistful of raw peanuts soaked in water overnight and a banana. So one can have many variants of eatables either eaten naturally, boiled, fried or whatever. I had a discussion with Kaka Maharaj (who stays outside the village in a hut) and he told me that a devotee basically survives on bhajan or call it sadhna.

Flexibility and adjustment to the social mould

 

I write a lot and I speak a lot as well when I’m with family or friends, almost like a chatterbox. But it’s quite strange that I don’t miss speaking to anyone when I’m alone for even a month. There are many times every year when I’m all alone for extended periods and hardly speak for almost a month. And it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. When all we siblings and our children are gathered at one place, I’m part of the group in chatting terms. And when all are busy and at their places, I straightaway get into my mode of seclusion involving reading and writing without missing anyone. I find it strange sometimes. But that’s how it is. There doesn’t seem to be any hangover of those pleasant gatherings and routine talks. I find both speaking and not-speaking relevant in their own contexts.

Most of my friends belong to the non-spiritual category, so there I have to be just like them. It makes them so happy that they never feel any carryover from my world of academics and spirituality. In fact, most of the people appreciate it that I just mix with them on their frequency. The nicest compliment I have received is: ‘He meets an illiterate and poor person as if he himself is perfectly illiterate and even poorer than the person’. A wise village elder once said this about me. And I feel exactly like this. I just allow people to be what they are; try to be in their mold while I’m with them. It makes them comfortable with themselves.

This year's quota of kittens

 

A friendly feral cat visits once a day, eats a chapatti or whatever else is on offer. Brushes against the legs of anyone who is comfortable with the feline touch. It has been going for the last few years. Every year she brings her kittens, leaves them in the courtyard, goes out to hunt for rats and squirrels. The rest of the dietary supplements are taken care of by her foster human family. This morning her three children have arrived to fill up this year's quota. It's sad news for the garden lizard couple who has the entire courtyard to them. They would spend most of the time on the ground. The kittens are enough grown up to maul them to a funny chameleon pickle. They better beware. The tiny hunters are snoopy and are enquiring every nook corner. Suddenly they spring in the air and snap up some little house lizard baby or some complacent cricket from the wall. There are nests: squirrel, silverbill, spooted munia  and tailorbird couples have their nests among the clump of trees in the unkept garden of this countryside nondescript poet. Obviously the bird parents are panicked. The squirrels are continuously tiktikking and chitchitting. The tiny chits of tigers roam the little forest with their typical hunter's attitude and poise. Full of caution and opportunism. One of them was seen eyeing the silverbill couple with such amusing greed that I burst out laughing. Well, it's nature's play. The cat has timed her delivery for this time when there would be enough rodents to hunt. The birds have laid eggs in the monsoon season to cash on the abundance of insects. Little loops of food chains, overlapping, giving rise to this entire gamut of survival games. 

The kittens usually spend sometimes a few weeks, sometimes a few months. When they grow up sufficiently they scale the walls to taste the feline freedom of a feral cat who is comfortable with human touch sometimes..

Gratitude: The miracle-maker

 

I feel gratitude for having little-little privileges in life. All of us have our own challenges. I shouldn’t be comparing people’s challenges. That shouldn’t be done. There is no common yardstick to do so. All of us have our unique privileges and challenges. Like anyone else I have both. But I cherish the little privileges I enjoy. I play down the challenges because I feel gratitude for whatever little privileges God has blessed me with. So gratitude is the key.

You may see some lucky people around you who don’t have to slog like a mule to lead a comfortable life. They look blessed to you. But working to earn one’s livelihood is no lesser blessing. It puts one on a testing stage, which is in fact a far bigger opportunity to know the Truth. It’s a workshop basically. I’m sure you too have your own little privileges of a different nature. Work hard. Earn your privileges if you feel you fall short on them. Then ask God specifically in this regard—after giving it your full dose of pure karma—and you will have it. Believe me!

Imaginations are supposed to be colorful. If we take this liberty of imagining the best for us, then why not make it colorful. It refreshes the mood. Doesn’t it?

The divine feminine

 

A person can be in perfectly celebratory mode only when he is totally balanced. I try to be balanced. I practice to remember it as many times as possible. But I have my fluctuations, especially with this unfoldment of the divine feminine (kundalini) within me. Ma Shakti knows exactly how to make one dance to Her fluctuating tunes till one is reshaped as per Her grace. I just flow with the tide, allowing myself to be touched by Her grace.  

There are many religious people who are doing tapasya to become spiritually uplifted beings. But there are really spiritual persons in practice also, which is far more substantial than most of the people trying to be spiritual. My mother herself belonged to this category.

I have an opinion on women: they are lovely, undulating beings; cast in the mold of the divine feminine; like butterflies flying over a stone, the replica of the divine masculine. I have limited personal experience with women in terms of a strictly man-woman relationship. But I have personally heard and my friends shared their own as well as their friends’ share on this issue. It gives me a large sample of females to make me arrive at this opinion. In any case, it’s merely an opinion of someone who is himself a seeker on the path. So it’s to be taken lightly, smiled at and discussed about.

On the question of whether men too are as fluctuating as females, my humble viewpoint is that even with all their dynamics, the men are still pretty solidly cast in one-dimensional mode. I don’t think men are seeking too many different flavors in a woman. With a few exceptions, most of the men are looking for the same connect with a woman in terms of desire, his ego requirements and other typical physical expectations. I find them within a predictable set of needs and expectations regarding a woman.

Snakes Vs Earthworms

 

An earthworm is the mildest, most harmless version of a snake. Similarly, the common man is the mildest and the most harmless version of a politician. In both cases, the former ones crawl to survive and eat muddy crumbs for survival; while the latter ones are fanged, poisoned and slither around to hunt with impunity.

PS: Within the snakes and the politicians, there are different types. Some are vipers, cobras, kraits and mambas. The lethal ones. The others are rat snakes, sand boas and many other harmless crawlers who carry the fear and stigma of the lethal ones in the genre.

Damaged democracies

 

The fall of Sheikh Hasina government in Bangladesh is very worrisome for the Indian strategic interests; just like the fall of Rajapakshe clan in Sri Lanka must have bothered the Chinese communist government.

For a country like India, whose democracy is always on the livewire, it’s suitable to have democracies in its neighboring countries. Bangladesh under Sheikh Hasina—however milder version of democracy it might have been—is always a better bet for India in comparison to any other option.

She was firmly in the seat for the last fifteen years. Despite all the diluting elements of a proper democracy—like ‘crackdown on the opposition, including the jailing of leaders, stifling of dissent, and muzzling of media’ (was she too inspired by the strong, autocratic leaders who are emerging world over of late?)—she has been the best shot for the Indian interests. Her ouster acquires more worrisome shades given the fact of unfriendly regimes in Maldives, Nepal, Pakistan and the military junta in Myanmar.

When you are a proponent of strongman (or strongwoman) politics, there is a very fine line between what is tolerable and intolerable. Dissension builds up over a period of time and if you aren’t prudent enough to keep safety valves for the seepage of extra effervescence—thus avoiding an explosion—you might become a villain suddenly. The fuel has accumulated over the years; now it needs just one trigger to ignite mass sentiments. There were people swimming in the private pools of the mighty Rajapakshes and now you have people taking away framed picture and paintings from Hasina’s official residence.

She could have easily enjoyed her fifth term. What was the use of bringing job quota for the descendants of freedom fighters? One can give positive incentives in so many other ways instead of directly antagonizing the younger section of the population. It was foolish on her part; as farcical as would be the Indian government’s job quota for the descendants of the founding members of the Hindu rightist organizations in the country. Instead of allowing the fire to spread while hundreds died in the protests she could have shown a clever side—staying adamant at all costs is being very foolish, even if it makes one feel strong—by revoking the said job reservation; like Modi did once during the farmer protests by taking back the unpopular farming laws. This is the only time I have seen him allowing some space to the voice of dissent; otherwise it has been a steel frame. But this one kind and considerate decision fetches much respect in my eyes for the powerful Indian ruler. It’s fortunate that he did it because it saved India from a bigger fire. But the way female wrestlers were treated—and the oppressor facilitated—still rankles the soul of most of the people in the peasantry class. And the less we say about Manipur, the better it is. I know it’s a far more complex situation over there than anyone of a common person like you or me can understand. But despite all the nitty-gritty, the country’s premier can at least take some symbolic measures to put balm on the bleeding Manipuri wounds. 

It’s fortunate that the collective Indian psyche is far more mature and would respond—not react—through ballot paper during elections under similar circumstances, like it did during the recently held general elections. In the face of the talks of threat to the constitution in the country, the Indian voters’ response has been to dilute the power structure by denying the BJP government an absolute majority in the general election. Despite the alleged misuse of agencies and partisan role played by the election commission—due to which many critics take the result with a pinch of salt and the opposition seems convinced that there are enough reasons to believe that election wasn’t as fair as it’s supposed to be in the world’s largest democracy—the BJP lost its majority and hence the power to rule with an unsparing rod is diluted significantly. A coalition government is the best shot for the social harmony of the country at the moment.

What is it that undoes the position of a powerful authoritarian leader in a democracy? I think, it’s the plain old overconfidence. An illusion that what has been passing for long will continue to do so. As the most powerful person in the country, you think that the alpha male type tactics are the only signs of strength and power. You think any adjustment of other’s opinion is a sign of weakness.

About 700 farmers lost their lives during the cruel summer and winter months during the yearlong agitation. A kind leader—and kindness doesn’t decrease the strength of a leader—would have met his farmer subjects. When the champion and elite female sporting icons were crying on the road for justice, a kinder ruler would have expressed his willingness to listen to them. Manipur is burning for more than a year. A kind ruler would have visited it during the times when his subjects need a healing touch. Just mere presence and soft words will do. He is after all our ruler and such kind symbolism puts balm on many wounds. All said, we are lucky that the Indian voters are far more mature and respond through ballot box only. And that’s the strength of Indian democracy.

Amarnath Yatra

 

Lucky are the ones who get Mahadev’s blessing to go on Amarnath pilgrimage.

Lord Shiva agreed to tell the tale of immortality to Ma Parvati. With sweet resignation to His wife’s insistence, He, with an enigmatic smile, took care that there was no one apart from Mata Parvati to hear even a single world about the secret of His immortality. Gods have mystical sentries guarding the entry and the exit to the portals of real knowledge pointing to the ultimate, unqualified reality, the absolute truth. The gem of truth is hidden in the chest of illusions, the manifesting maya. That’s why this remote cave, the holy shrine of Amarnath, was chosen for the purpose of telling the tale of immortality. It’s a remote area in high Himalayas, the barren cliffs covered with snows for most of the year.

As the Lord told the tale in a pensive, loving and kind tone, perchance (or was it secretly planned by destiny acting independent even of the Gods’ will) a pair of pigeons overheard the story and became immortal. The pilgrims get excited and feel validation of their faith if during their darshan in the holy cave they see white pigeons fluttering under the high, craggy roof of the cave.

The holy cave is located in a narrow gorge at the farther end of Lidder valley at an altitude of 4000 m. Since that mythical episode, beyond time’s whence and thence, the ice lingam kept waxing and waning with the moon in complete solitude and isolation for many centuries. The cave is mentioned in ancient scriptures but was lost to humanity for many centuries. Finally, about 150 years ago a shepherd named Buta Malik discovered the cave. He was grazing his sheep and goats when he met a sadhu. The sadhu gave him a bag of coals. Back home when the shepherd opened the bag, he found gold coins instead of coal. He ran back to the place to find the sadhu. Buta Malik found the cave while he was looking for the sadhu. That’s how the Muslim shepherd found himself face to face with the holy ice lingam and two more ice formations, which we now revere as Ma Parvati and Lord Ganesh. A sadhu appeared (believed to be Lord Shiva Himself) and asked the Muslim shepherd to make arrangement for annual pilgrimage to the cave. Unfortunately, these days there is a mischievous effort to separate Hindus and Muslims from each other’s religious places.  

Buta Malik’s descendents took care of one of the holiest sites in India? Did that diminish its holy status? No. Then times changed and religious polarization became a major factor in Indian politics. In 2008, Shri Amarnath Shrine Board (SASB) did away with Malik family’s management of Lord Shiva’s shrine. There were three parties involved: the pundits of Mattan temple, the Mahant and the Malik family. The SASB offered 1.5 crore each to the parties to abandon their custodianship, so that SASB could be made the sole guardian. The two parties accepted the money but the Malik family refused the money. A gentleman of modest means from the family told the governor, who heads the SASB now, that mosques and temples can’t be valued in terms of money. They maintain that they were never after the proceeds from the offerings; rather it gave them spiritual satisfaction in doing this seva work. They still keep a charity medical stall to give free medicines at the shrine. In remembrance of the old, more secular times, many sadhus visit the Malik family during their stay at the Nunwan base camp before taking the arduous journey.    

It’s a difficult trek, especially for the common plainsmen like me who are at the most below average amateur trekkers. Barren, stern mountains stare down at you with a foreboding look. You gasp for breath and take a grasp at your faith to help you struggle ahead. I have been lucky to visit the shrine thrice so far from the Baltal route, which is a short-cut but involves a very steep, risky climb. It might be difficult to look at the pilgrimage as one unit. We have been conditioned to deal with parts and fragments. So that’s how one can proceed to make it easier. Baltal to Domail is 2 km. Walk with spring in your steps. Give your best and focus just on reaching Domail. From here on, brace yourself with a bigger challenge. Domail to Barari is 5 km. This is where you are supposed to be steady, almost warmed up, your lungs now inhaling the thinner put pure air with increased efficiency. Barari to Sangam gives you a 4 km of tougher challenge. Most of the walkers are now on the down-slope of strength and energy. So add your voice to the chants of Lord Shiva to give a kick to your lungs and legs. The 3 km final stretch from Sangam to the holy cave is the most arduous one. Each step a milestone on the path of faith. Here one leaves oneself to the Lord’s mercy. This is the classical calculating way to rationalize the tough pilgrimage. One can mix it up with the poetic, romantic approach as well to make it more joyful.

Why not reach three days in advance before your scheduled registration date for the climb? Your lungs and legs will get acclimatized to the high altitude conditions. Roam around leisurely like you are at a funfair. It indeed is a big festive environment with tents, music, dance and free feisty langar food in plenty at the Baltal base camp. Go on small walks in the picturesque Baltal valley on the foothills of Zozila mountain pass. Enjoy the encouraging escalade of Amarganga on whose banks Baltal base camp is situated. Amarganga emerges from the glaciers around the holy cave. The joint flow of five streams from Panchtarni meets Amarganga at Sangam. Further on from Baltal another stream from Machoi glacier joins Amarganga to become Sindh river. The latter flows for 108 km to join Jhelum, which in turn rests in the lap of the Indian ocean. So enjoy the langars, dance to the devotional music and enjoy strolls through Baltal valley meadows, which further extend to Sonmurg’s golden meadows few kilometers down the valley.

The more you observe, the more you learn and know, the wiser you become, the better life seems. There is more light under the sun of understanding.

Snow leopard is the flagship species here. They have become rare but you can visualize the silent snowy serenades of this solitary hunter on the slopes surrounding you. In the nearby meadows enjoy the violet or dark blue Himalayan bellflower and colorful dwarf rhododendrons. Inhale the freshness while walking through vibrant herbaceous community of aster, jurinea, morina, anemone and primula. See the stoic muse of the willows lining up along the shallow mountain streams. Peek into the lofty heights surrounding you and have a feel of the cold, imploringly impartial and majestically neutral game of mother nature where snow leopards and Tibetan wolves hunt mountain goat, goral, blue sheep, serow and Himalayan tahr. Open your face to the blue vault of open skies where avian predators like lammergeier, golden eagle and Himalayan griffon scan the predator radars for more colorful and agile preys like blood pheasant, western tragopan and Himalayan monal.

There are bouquets of beauty waiting to welcome you everywhere. Do your research on local flora, fauna, geography, culture and places. This knowledge and understanding gives a totally new meaning to your presence here. If you are an above-average observant of what passes on your path, just start soaking the unfoldment of mother nature in your journey from Srinagar itself. Pale yellow elderberry flowers hold a bouquet of their gentle smile by the roadside as you move from Srinagar to Baltal. Pines on the hillsides stand with grand elderly patience and fortitude. Say hello to the fresh, summer meadows blooming with roseroot, poppy, lousewort and aster flowers. Feel your ascension into higher mountains from the paradisiacal valley as the tree line gradually gives way to twisted, stunted rhodendron, juniper, stunted birch; green coniferous forests slowly surrendering to alpine shrubs and grasses between the tree line and the snow line. Keep going, following your faith, pampering the adventurous pilgrim in you, to reach the dark brown barren mass of sky-kissing rocks and cliffs wearing snowy tiara, finally to pay homage to the divine ice lingam, God. Feel the change in life forms from chinar and willows in Srinagar to the divine ice stalagmite formation as the drops of divinity from the cave roof fall for the benefit of devotees to form the representative of the majestic Lord.

Taushif, the taxi driver, is a happy man. An expert driver with quicksilver reflexes he would grasp narrowest chances to overtake on the heavily burdened narrow mountain road. At the dead-ends in traffic jams he flaunted an army taxi vendor card to get a special privilege to proceed. The long line of faith slowly crawling to the Lidder basin, a 40 km long and roughly 3 km wide escarpment surrounded by Pir Panjal and Zaskar ranges. And there the Lidder river fed by the glaciers at the looming heights flows to the tunes of mountainous serenity. Among all this snowy barren wilderness stands the holy cave made of limestone and gypsum. The people of faith from the plains make their way up panting for breath. The local Muslim Bakarwal Gujjars offer their services to the Hindu devotees.

We had to wait for a couple of days before we could start our trek from Baltal. Landslides in the upper reaches kept the pilgrimage suspended. The rains made the route to the holy cave very dangerous. Finally we found ourselves moving in the squelching mud while it was still dark early in the morning. By daylight the mass of pilgrims formed a bottleneck at the check post where one has to show the required papers. It comes a big reprieve to come out of that tight squeeze.

Our ageing bodies not up to the mark of taking up this difficult track and return in a single day, we got ponies as we struggled in the squelching mud on the narrow foot track. With three days of pilgrims stranded from both sides struggling to push and jostle ahead there was a thick wall of humans, ponies, horses and palkis. At a place the palki bearers slipped on the treacherous slope. They rolled down the stony slope like melons. Thanks God they didn’t fall into the narrow gorge below.

It was taking too much time to move even a few yards. It was a frail pony I was perched upon. It was shivering even under my modest weight. The owner would wallop it cruelly from behind. I felt like a culprit torturing this poor, weak, possibly ailing pony. To avoid being the cause of its death, I got down, paid the owner full fare and started walking. I was lucky to even find some place to dismount. It was just a foot away from the edge of the dirt path overlooking a deep fall. I was even scared that the shivering weak pony might fall and roll down taking me with it. So kindness and fear were both equally involved in my decision to start walking on foot.

My friends had sturdy ponies bearing them and they were so stuck up among a mass of ponies that even to get down would be a serious challenge. I left them in their jammed, crammed security and comfort. It had been a gloomy, overcast, freezing day. It started drizzling on the way to the holy cave during the last phase of walk in the gorge.

It was something beyond tiredness. You get numb. You realize the significance of a single step. I walked past the makeshift tents bearing shops, night-stay accommodation and bhandaras hardly able to think anything or even feel. There were long lines of pilgrims stuck up on the wet steps leading to the holy cave. It started raining a bit more intensely and I simply allowed myself to be pushed by the crowd, letting myself to be moved by the energy of the humans squeezing from all sides. An early evening fell as I reached the holy place.

There I stood staring in awe at the majestic, tall ice lingam representing Bhagwan Mahadev. It felt like reaching home finally. The whitish glimpse of divinity as a prasad for all the troubles faced during the climb. We humans are habituated to link one’s effort with the result or the outcome. We view them as inseparable. From this equation, what a beautiful outcome it was at the cost of all the trekking troubles! Such places are massive spiritual charging ports. We need not do anything special to get a sip of divinity there. All we need is just to be there, open ourselves and allow the high-frequency energies to give us a better alignment as per the natural laws. All that needs to be done for our evolution is done automatically, if we just stand there with acceptance, reverence and gratitude.

The pilgrims aren’t allowed to carry their mobile phones during the pilgrimage, so there was no avenue to get in touch with my friends. As a gloomy, wet, cold night looked imminent, I started for the return journey. And finding it a very tough task to trek in the dark with the rain pouring, and having taken no rest, I hired a horse. I chose wisely this time. It was a robust one and hence costly. But the Lord wanted me to take the entire trouble of walking to bear the burden of my faith on myself. I got my test just 3 km down the trek. It was an impassable jam of ponies and horses jutted stomach to stomach on a narrow ledge. Just a big mass of animals, so thick that one couldn’t see the land below. I had to draw up my legs in order to save them from getting crushed and lacerated by the saddles of others. Ponies from both sides blocked each other’s path in a narrow pass. There was some fresh landslide somewhere. The army had forbidden the movement of ponies from that point onwards. It was a scary night, a freezing rain pouring, and cold wind howled on the narrow ledge where we were stranded.

The ponies would get jittery now and then and a stampede loomed large. If they got out of control, many pilgrims would find themselves in the gorge below. Getting down was the biggest challenge. There was hardly any place to land your feet and if you tried the ponies would squeeze you from all sides. So I struggled to get down and after almost half an hour of effort I was lucky to hang onto the inside cut of the ledge like a little monkey and crawled to the narrow path on which some of the pilgrims were already moving to take the footpath. The horse guy won’t agree to part payment. ‘I’m ready to wait all night and take you to the destination. It’s your choice to get down, I’m not asking you to dismount,’ he had a point. So I paid him the full amount and started my long, struggling walk to the base camp. There was hardly any energy left in me. I was tired to the core of my muscles. I literally crawled, chanting Lord’s name and somehow managed to reach the rented tent in the wee hours.

My friends were more prudent. They stayed at a tent near the holy cave and made it comfortably the next day after a night’s rest. As fate would have it, the next evening after our arrival there was a cloud burst near the holy cave and the rushing torrents of water claimed many lives.

When I dumped myself on the damp bedding under a thick musty quilt, the Pandit ji from Ujjain opened his eyes from the neighboring bedding in the tent. He was sharing the tent with us. He looked at me with genuine feminine compassion in his lovely eyes. I was too tired and fell asleep even before his loving, empathy-full look was over. He had started the trek on the same day and driven by his unquestionable faith in Lord Shiva had made it before anyone of us.

He was a loving man, spoke with extempore musicality of wit and humor or caustic remark as the situation demanded. He loved putting on different avatars. Sometimes a leopard skin print draped around his torso like a yogi; sometimes you found him in a sun hat and goggles in company with a swanky track suit and flashy sneakers like a celebrity from the entertainment industry. He was an impressive narrator of myths, bhajans and stories when the audience was receptive. But he could taunt and shut down the nonsense people with good effect. He possessed a beautiful feminine space in his sensitive loving heart. A sort of shakti looking for solace in her Shiva. He would hold my hand with a lover’s affection and I felt pressure on my palm. I respected his feminine outreach in showing love and liking for someone. I maintained a straight face and responded at a neutral, respecting level. During the time when we were waiting for the trek to open, we had a friendly outing in the pastures around the base camp. He loved getting clicked and honoring his social media needs I tried my best to operate like a professional photographer. On our return journey, I saw him strolling with gentle ease at Srinagar airport as well. He was a head turner with his style, feminine elegance and charisma in his male body. We greeted him and hugged him like real friends.

Me and my friends had stayed at Srinagar for a day before the return flight to Delhi. I gave myself a treat in a shikara in the Dal lake. Naughty boatmen sold beer and cigarettes. With a bang the little boat would meet the shikara and beer cans and cigarettes changed hands and money passed on. I had two bottles of beer. And being a non-drinker who reserves this entertainment for few odd occasions not lasting more than two-three times in a year, I was on a high. I wanted to swim in the Dal lake with my clothes, mobile phone and purse. But my sober friends somehow held me back.

The next morning we hired an auto for taking us to visit Shankaracharya temple, Dilshad garden and Nishat bagh. The auto-driver was a kind fellow giving us full hospitality like a caring host. He also offered salvation in jannat: ‘Hindus are very nice people. If a Hindu reads the kalma, he will definitely go to jannat long before common Muslims like us.’

Well, I know kalma but I somehow didn’t recite it while on the way to the airport. Who knows he would have jumped with ecstasy on seeing a kafir getting salvaged by his Muslim faith and it could have toppled the auto. So I thought it better to end the journey on a happy note. We were nearing the airport, so I thought it prudent to let things remain normal.

‘But we are already in jannat! Isn’t Kashmir jannat on earth?’ I politely asked. He was thinking of some finer argument but luckily we reached the airport and the discussion was left incomplete.   

The house makers

 A fresh breezy morning. Night blooming jasmine clad in bright green new set of leaves after the spell of autumnal detachment when it shed each and every leaf and looked an old man. Now it's young and sways to intoxicated gusts of mansoon wind. The natives return. It's a spotted munia couple. Beautiful rusty brown birds having a chessboard pattern on the breast. They trill even more beautifully. It's the same branch and the same section of twigs where they had set up a nest last year. I am sure it's the same couple. If I am right then birds seem to have more fidelity than humans because meantime millions of men and women must have parted ways on bitter notes over trivials. Well, none of my business to comment on our foolish ways. I enjoy the making of this irregular globular nest. It's a masterwork in deception. To a predator it would appear like a broken, abandoned nest. In reality, the eggs will be safe in an inner chamber. The father ferries big pieces of grass. He has to pay for his lusty overtures...haa haa. The mother is busy in decorating interiors. She has to pay even bigger for her emotional surrender. Last year the hatching wasn't successful. A squirrel comes and visits the tree. She is just a guest. Not a resident of the tree. I enjoyed the sight of her old womanish tiktikking...little did I know they are egg stealers also. So she must have been the culprit last time. With the addition to my knowledge about the ways of squirrels, I m better prepared this time. Will keep an ear for the agitated notes of the little birds to find out the cause of distress, like I did yesterday around noon. Busy in writing I heard the plightful softest of notes and ran out to find out the squirrel scouting around the new house in making. Had to chase it away. Lost my meditative balance also by the way. What to do? Have to support the underdogs. A birdi life saved is more important than a squirrel missing a meal. It seems so at least till I cross the final hurdles to beat the paradoxical plays of duality to see everything in the same way. Well, till then the squirrel has a tough time I tell you . I am determined on my mission born of emotions for the underdogs. And if it results even in a bump on the lined back of the irritating tiktikking nuisance, whom I found cute earlier but now find a villain due to the addition in my knowledge, I hardly care. I have turned mean in following my basic instincts guiding my emotions for the beautiful birds. I know it will play truant many times. I am but ready for the job. I have a weapon also in mind to punish it with. Taken out a flexible single strand of switch from my mother's Bamboo broom. It's waiting for the culprit. Though it won't harm the squirrel critically but I see it can definitely give her a painful back if she messes with my birdie friends. All the best little couple. Let there be a successful episode in your love tale.