China'a Himalayan Drills

My two neighbours have been at loggerheads for long. One is strong, financially and socially in a decent position. The other is comparatively lesser on all these accounts. The stronger one will not miss an opportunity to badger the opponent and would not lose a chance to prove his strength and the other's helplessness. One day I heard the one, always at the receiving end, saying, 'I am going to an all out with him. Even if he beats me its better to be fully defeated instead of getting insulted all the times!' Driven by the concept that he brooded over his insults, he went all out with the neighbour at the next provocation! It was unexpected given his unresponsiveness of long. The stronger opponent was taken back and before other villagers intervened he had god bloody mouth and many bruises. Moral of the story is: sometimes it serves to hit hardest when you are pushed against a wall; when you have been completely cornered!

Repeated Chinese transgressions into Indian territory and India's helplessness in this regard may a serve a corollary to the episode narrated above. China, on account of the War and repeated intrusions, has taken it for granted that India will remain inert to all provocations. Can India act ultimately like my weaker opponent? If China can cross over into our territory, cannot we go for the same exercise sometimes? Suppose China reacts at the level of using force at our China-type intrusion, we will earn a right to ward them off at the same level if they play the mischief again. It will only define the LOC more definitely---after all you are supposed to put your stamp of authority on you claimed land through the use of forces to their utmost capacity. It will just balance out the position.           

Amarnath Yatra

Life is all about exploring the self--its limitations, its specialties, its weaknesses, its strengths. Putting yourself in inhospitable conditions can be one of the means for this. The holy cave of Amarnath is situated in the frigid heights of higher Himalayas. As you move along the rain-lashed, slippery and stony mountain track, you find yourself caught in a dualistic chasm. Pleasure and pain side by side. Sighs of agony as well as excited palpitations of heart over nature's masterwork. In the misty heights melting glaciers are a visual delight; but the hazy heights lacerated by gloomy, craggy tops gets into your heart like some ice-cold stare of a corpse. 

Gasping like a fish without water, for the oxygen is seriously low, you find the next little step as the most unachievable task in the world. One look however at the melting glacier on the opposite side of the valley uplifts your spirits like Phoenix. You see the signs of warmth triumphing over snow: emerging pastures side by side with snow. Yes, green gives solace! Mountains lost in their massiveness just take your tiny existence into their mystic oblivion. You just surrender! I do not think many of us try to over-impose our self-worth against such massiveness surrounding us. Mostly, we just realise what we are--mere parts of nature, who can just smite our existence away in just one angry stroke of little finger!!!!  

You look anxiously into the sky for traces of rain. The clouds building up around the surrounding hilltops send down still chillier sensation down your spine. But then a look into the deep gorge across the sheer precipice carrying the track, gives you an outwardly sensation of fear and excitement mixed with a strange elation that cannot be explained in words. You see fellow devotees struggling along the ponies. These are the rare moments when you can really feel the agony of a fellow human being because you are put in the same cauldron. 

The last portion of the valley leading to the shrine is still covered with heavy snow. As you walk on it, you slip and regain control like a toddler learning to walk. After all we are always God's kids. Kashmiri Islam is beneficent. At no other place you will find a Hindu Religious occasion being supported by so many Muslims. All the hawkers, stall operators, tent vallahs, porters, foot massagists and alms-seekers are Muslims. At no other place in the world you will come across a Muslim stall operator welcoming a tired Hindu pilgrim: 'O Bhole Mata Parvati ke liye shringaar le lo!' In delicious Kashmiri the locals call you 'Bhole!'. And once inside the majestic cave, you just find yourself lost in the divine trance of the ice lingam, Baba Barfani!!

Waves in Love

They were like two distant waves on the endless watery fabric of the sea. Waves! The turbulent sons and daughters in the lap of the mystically musing father hidden somewhere deep down in the undisturbed silence and bluish calm. Waves take birth with an airy titillation, sprinkle foam of joys and sorrows, hit against each other, meeting orgasmic crests higher than the sky and sorrowful troughs far deeper than the depths of the sea. Then they just die out spreading the self willingly-unwillingly in the same primal substance, the water. But then there are waves that just don’t die out that easily. On the watery chessboard of sea they dream of a sea-less identity, a shelter somewhere, a fellow soul-mate wave, one preceding as well following the other, always pulling as well as getting pushed by each other, a couple. But sea being sea, a disturbed mass, a delusional slayer of such harmless dreams, a sadistic monster drawing its life force and excitement out of heartless mastication of such soft hearts!!!!

Coming back to these two ways. Tossed up by teasing circumstances, they had been suddenly spurt up in different corners of the sea. Cast out in the dragnet of meaningless anonymity around, these two were looking out for meaning to there being at all. Their souls standing at their toes at the rising crests born of their puffed up enthusiasm to see beyond the fellow wave-heads, above them to sight a fellow driving force that could push as well pulled by them beyond the crashing wave-heads and sprouts of tiny wavelets being born around.

They say as a wave you don’t move; just transfer the force of your spirit to the next crest or trough. The tragedy of being a wave: you cover distances, still you are at the same point. Across the cauldron of this watery monotony, they got watered glimpse of each other as they were pulled and pushed about like a helpless human in a crowd on rampage. They jumped a bit more, these watery waves. The twosome who wanted to travel in a world of there own, beyond this noise, listening to self as well as the other's dreamish splash. The desperation for meaning, for shelter, for a travel hand in hand, of being pushed and pulling at the same time, of hitting the other for more substance to the self and the other as well. They could see each other's faces from a distance.

So oblivious to the jostling futility around they just struggled across the mess to meet each other, their hands stretched out in agony and ecstasy at the same time. Wetter and perspiring than any other wave, they then hit into each other. An ecstatic storm! Big bang as well as non-existent at the same time! Their watery molecules seeping deep into each other, unmindful of the transgressions from all around! The fusion! Streaks of each others' identity groped farthest into the other like the most adventurist tourists at heavenly strange places. A force! So powerful—born of such tiny unison on the fathomless, massive bosom of sea! They travelled in combo. Relation-less, just bound by a strange chemistry. Perplexed sea just stood apart at the audacity, nothing else.

The waves travelled transferring crests and troughs of agony and ecstasy to each other. Eyes shut to the futility. They knew sea is stormy, the slayer of such freedom and individuality in its domain. But they had decided to reach a meaning and a point of no return at a place where at least dying mixed might be possible, if not more. So tossed by bigger storms and destructive waves, they entwined like the folds of a rope, twisted protectively around each other. Painful twists; but so solacing with the feeling of at least saving that much portion of the companion wave! Angry sea bellowed devilishly and gave the killing push. On the pining sand of a forlorn shore this twisted-into-each-other mass of two waves was thrown out. It’s mixed, happily dying water seeped into the sand. It but left a mark on the sandy apron of time.            

Holi

I can remember one Holi. At least 7 or 8 years back. Drunk and mired in all bad colours like toads in filthy waters, we had hitched upon a tractor and went to Sonipat city to spoil the appearance of our friend's beautiful wife. After spreading disharmony in his household, we the lampoons were coming back to the village. Tractor was giving a stiff competition even to cars. We yelled at the top of our ebriated, coloured rascality. There was a scene by the side of road, which instantly gives a high to almost all Haryanvis. A man was thrashing his wifie. Possibly the result of an argument while they travelled on their scooter. Poor Chetak was the mute spectator to this gross act. But the hooligan-carrier tractor came to a halt and first instinctive reaction of my demonic friends was: 'Aur maro saali ko!' And they laughed at the scene.

As a presumably better educated human being my instincts immediately clobbered down the common Haryanvi instinct and I yelled: 'Aurat pe attyachhaar!' They respected me, those father-defying idiots. So they just jumped down and many heart-ful fist strikes found the man bleeding from mouth in just few seconds. The lady cried: 'Harramjado ye hamara aapas ka mamla hai. Ye tumhara jeejaji hai, aur Haryana police mein hai!' So all daredevilry was gone in an instant. The policeman was dazed beyond all limits. We just chickened out of the scene even more efficiently than a murderer ever did. My friends cursed me, ‘Your bookish ideology got us in trouble. It would have been better to laugh.’ Police in Haryana is barbaric. A bloodied policeman can get you in serious trouble. The tractor was mired in mud, even the number plates. So by appearance it just gave clue to its manufacturing company, nothing more. All nasha gone, we washed it cleaned in village pond and took a vow to send it to the sheltered barn for at least a month. I prayed to all my Gods for rescue. You would not believe what happened further. Next day, one guy from our beating squad was reading newspaper outside village. A policeman came and asked for the approach route to a neighbouring village. 'What happened' my scared friend asked. 'Yaar yesterday some goons on a red tractor gave a bloodied jaw to one of our policeman! Look at the guts!!!'    

Frog Fella

There was this frog fella in a well, in a village rather; for what else is a village--a small world, where the water in the well, they think, is the world, and the round patch of sky visible above is the whole universe. This frog fella croaked a bit differently from the rest of them. So the mustached bull frogs who croaked like worst-throated donkeys declared him the prince Alexander who could conquer the world. 'Son now is the time to jump out of this narrow confine and tell those non-frogs outside who make so much of noise that we mean business now!' they croaked in chorus.

They propelled him out and it landed in the noisy big world of super-sophisticated frogs. It nearly got crushed under the wheels of a speeding car! Well, the Alexander frog on a mission! But what to win and run after!? The world of these smarter frogs seemed lost in directionless circles, madly frenzied, circles after circles, and still going nowhere!!! 'I will take fastest circles!' the new arrival thought. Caught in a dizzy it fell and rolled out of the trajectory to find itself by a cheap wine outlet. When it came to its senses, a stray dog stared at it sympathetically. 'I licked your face to bring you back to senses!' the dog-humanist smiled. So our Alexander aspirant reconsidered its options. These fellows cannot be beaten in circular orbits, I have to revise my strategy. So the frog reconsidered its options. It just decided to walk, not run, in circulars. 'At least I would not fall and get a face-wash from a dog!' it thought.

Back home there were buffalo female frogs, who could carry him on their strong backs. Strong, sturdy, manlike!!! Here the frog saw, for the first time, the ones who would pass by your side and still not create typhoon around you to make you land on your poor ass!! 'Ohhoo...its a wonderful place yaar' our dusted, to-be-Alexander frog fella mused. He denounced the old world full of brutes and devils. Fell in love with the new world. There was this still prettier phenomenon. Male and female frogs going around with uneventful bonhomie! It was in sharp contrast to the pairing back home: it was just fighting both in lovemaking and the rest of the time.

Its eyes popped out of its sockets when it saw such a beautiful girl frog. The poor guy just lost his sense. It put all that world-beating, gung-go and brave spirit into one particular surrender to a sentiment. Back home it earns a few kicks by the whiskered bull frogs or even by the man-like girl frogs. The frog guy put all his bravado in open submission to this sentiment. It felt like a world beater! Just landed in a pool, confined itself in this sweet prison. This is the world, it thought. In the silent pools of its majestic waters, it swam backstrokes on full moon nights and sung love-croaked songs in the noisy chaos around that no longer existed for it. Now it would not listen to the Tau-frogs. 'Come out you idiot, we will pull out you skin and make a cap for the ugliest boy frog in our place!' they threw pebbles. It just dived and did not resurface for amazingly long periods of times, staying underwater in hibernation, lost in that girl frog's imagination.

Off and on that girl frog playfully threw a few stones into the water that created further storms both in the water and in its heart. Few of these pebbles even hit its snout and turned it redder than before. But it felt so happy for its bloodied fate. They sounded better than the embraces of those devilish girl frogs back home. 'You just take care fella, if we find you out we will just de-juice you in a crusher along with you hypnotized spirit and love-infested heart!' the fattest Tau-frog yelled. 'Tau you just go back and get beaten by Tai in your effort to ride her!!' our love-lorn prince protruded its tongue at venerable Tau, even showed index finger, its latest learnt things at the smarter place.

They just waited for him. Silently. The chap croaked so many love songs day in out that its throat gave in. Summers came. Furious. Smart girl frog had many cooler things to attend to. Water in the encaging pond started evaporating. It went on getting muddier with the rising temperatures. So our frog fella appeared blackish, mossy like a tiny crocodile. 'Let me see U Chappaganjuu how long you remain out of my stick's strike' Tau-frog waiting patiently by the ingressing shoreline harked. 'Tau go away, i will throw mud at you!' it tried to defend.

So, guys, one day as it was supposed to happen, our frog fella was found almost half-dead in the muddy moisture of his escaping prison. Tau just picked it up, gave a few good strikes to steal its still left out senses. They then dragged him back to the old world, threw him into the small well. 'See how much mud it carries' they croaked. ‘Turned out to be bad,’ someone said. ‘No its not his fault, there is just mud outside,’ another one consoled. ‘It’s a city-returned, I will take care of it,’ a sturdy girl frog volunteered and lifted the half-dead, muddy prince.