Don't be a pollutant

All of us carry an aura around us. It comprises an electro-magnetic field born of the flow of life energy through and around our bodies. It exists at the interface of physio-psychological and superior selves. The quality of this aura is a function of our mental, physical and emotional states. Anger, regret, fear, jealousy, desperation, sorrow, rejection and hopelessness create a sort of negative energy and consequently a negative aura. It means we carry bad aura. It pollutes the surrounding environment like a heap of garbage. Now isn’t it our bounden duty to keep the environment clean by remaining positive, happy, smiling, poised, relaxed, sympathetic and compassionate? It's our duty brothers and sisters! It's as good for others health as it is for our own. All the steps to the cleaning of all types of pollutants start from the self. Stay happy. Stay clean. Just by doing this we do a social service.

Lip-kissed lies and soul-kissed love

It is springtime in ancient India. Snow is melting in the mountains. Flowers smile and let out perfume that is picked up by the cool air to be scattered in love loops. This town in the Gangetic plains is awash with fresh hopes. Butterflies dart around in the air full of love and procreation.

The air is blowing with a seductive message. A young, handsome monk is moving through the streets. His steps are slow and face has a faint smile. He has a begging bowl in his right hand. A cloth bag hangs from his left shoulder. The spring air is redolent with both giving and receiving. This saffron clad man but has just the goal of having one time meal.

He is passing in front of a luxurious small palace. It’s decorated for love and enjoyment. It seems like a place where one can just surrender the self to quench all thirst. He is but moving all unconcerned and detached from all worldly splendor. A pair of beautiful eyes looks at him from the ornate balcony. Her heart stops for a moment. If she is the ever restless river, he appears like the calmest sea having the immensity to swallow her thirst, her restlessness, her quest for destination, her final fulfillment. She realizes her hunger. It is plain desire. He is so handsome and so aloof from all worldly charms.

She has the world at her feet. The most beautiful woman of the state, she has the title of nagar vadhu. Her life stands for love, opulence and luxury. Wealthiest traders, strongest noblemen, most creative artists all kiss her feet to appease her and take a sip from the fountain of her beauty. Any man feels lucky if she holds her look on his face for more than a second.

The young monk with the begging bowl moves with ease. At ease with his being. All restfulness. It’s a calm, unperturbed lake. It doesn’t happen that she is still holding her look on a man’s face and the man’s eyes move on. Her charms are so spell-binding. She has been proud of this power. The feminine avatar of power. With a faint smile he just moves on. There is not the slightest change in his demeanor.

The hard shell of her ego cracks. It disturbs her. She even gets angry. She can see his back. He is now moving slowly in the street. The anger in her again turns to desire. Till now men desired her. This loveful spring morning has changed the tables. She desires this calm sea. She needs some rest. The spiteful torrents of her youth want to submerge into his silent depths. It just attracts her senses like anything. She feels helpless.

She sends her maid to call the monk. Her heart is pounding against her breast. She is gasping for breath and at loss of words. Her hold over masculinity is giving in. She feels like a helpless, fragile woman. And finds it such a moving feeling.

Her reverie is broken. The monk is standing in front of her door again.

“What do you want?” she asks, shyly, dropping her gaze around his feet.

Where is that domination of men, her servant thinks.

“Beautiful lady, I just want one time’s meal,” the monk tells her.

She laughs in a mocking way. “You should ask as per the status of the person. Even a farmer can give you that much,” she is feeling offended that he isn’t taking notice of her charms as if she is just like any other woman around.

The monk smiles. “Well young lady, this is all I need. It doesn’t change with people.”

“You can have me, my palace and my luxury if you stay with me,” she sounds desperate.

He is as cool as before, as if nothing has happened. “This world is my house. I take the minimum as charity to survive, just one time’s meal. I am looking out for the path to give more. I am searching for the path to a destination when each particle of my being will be ready to give selflessly.”

“I am also ready to give all I have including myself and my palace and wealth. Isn’t it the same?” she asks.

“But you want to give only with the ambition of getting something back for your ego. You want to receive a monk abandoning his path for your beauty. There cannot be a bigger ambition, a bigger tool to pacify the ego.”

The monk is unperturbed. She is shaking with rage over the denial.

“At least stay with me for a night!” she is helpless and appears almost pleading.

“Do you really need my help? I can see wealthiest to strongest are ready to help your needs,” he gives her a kind look.

“Please please…” she is imploring. “I really really need you. If you spend the night with me, I will forsake all men. Believe me!”

The young man gives a pitying smile. “I will come and stay when you really need me.”

She is tearful over the denial. The monk takes onto his path. She watches him till the far end of the street.

Life then moves on. Like it was before. She gets more wealth, more men falling at her feet. And the young monk moving slowly on his path of selfless realization.

It has been two decades since that spring morning in front of her palace. The same monk is walking towards the city, the same city. Years of penance has taken him miles down his path of selfless seeking. He is graying but looks wiser, calmer and even stronger. He can see the lights of the city. It’s just nearby.

He hears pitiable moans by the road. He stops and moves to the ditch by the path. A woman is crying in pain and agony. He sits by the bundle of misery. She is in terrible agony. Eaten by leprosy her open sores are oozing with stanching fluid. It’s as bad as it can be. So much of pain. He isn’t repulsed by the stench. He gets tears of sympathy. The calm surface of his being is jolted by emotions.

He lifts her in his hands and carries her to a nearby inn. They refuse to let him in with the foul-smelling patient. He decides to set up a hut outside the city to keep her. The rest of the night he spends under a tree. She lying by his side, moaning less now. Human touch is a remedy in itself.

The spring sun rises in all freshness. He has been sleeping for the last couple of hours. The woman is also asleep. He opens his eyes and looks at her face. The evil-work of the disease has failed to completely destroy the vestiges of her former self. He recognizes her. From there to here. What a chasm. What a trail of misery. More tears drip down his eyes. He meets the destination of his selfless giving. She was lying there in the dark night to test the validity of his selfless love. And he has passed.

She opens her eyes and is surprised to find somebody crying for her.

“You said you needed me and I said I will come when you will really need me. See I have come. And you are the destination of my penance. Of selfless giving. Of loving from the core of being. I was not sure of myself till I found you. Now I realize it has been worth it. All this search.”

So the monk took care of her. Helped her in easing all her miseries. Stayed with her when no other man didn’t even come near her.

She needed him now. And he was there at a stage in his monkhood when he was all there to give. Just give. Without taking or expecting anything in return. 

Ice cubes on desert sand

Summers. North India has started to burn. Heat has broken the record of past many decades. Temperatures above 40 in the last week of March. In the desert state of Rajasthan things must be even worse. Sand as the birth soil isn’t too attractive. It must be having its nostalgia, but on a day to day basis it appears a curse. Ask the ones who are born there. So many people come out of Rajasthan to avoid the burning cauldron during the summers.

Two lanky boys are moving across the streets of this Haryanvi village. Haryana is a semi-arid state. But for somebody belonging to the desert state, semi means almost full: full with life; full with bread; full with water; full with green trees.

They are tall and thin. They have migrated from the desert state. Necessity has pulled them out of the sand like water flows from higher level to the lower one. They have to beg. But begging has its own share of pitfalls including reprimands and harsh words.

“Why don’t you study? Why don’t you work?”

So they have put the saffron sail cloth on their poor boat. To sail safely. Holding onto the winds of faith. Their clothes are soiled. But the saffron sashes around their necks indeed cover a lot of holes in their personas. They expect to be taken as wandering ascetics. They have even mastered the artful words of bringing blessings to the house they stand in front of.

The woman chides them the moment they knock against the rusty iron gate. They but decide not to be deterred by the initial rebuke. Stealthily they steal glances at the two small cars parked in the front yard. These are old cars. But to them a car is a car. Hummer or Maruti 800 doesn’t make any difference.

So they continue with their blessing words of good fate, long life, endless prosperity, and more. It’s morning and yesterday it hailed and rained a bit to take temperatures a bit down. To them it seems like a land of perpetual rain and prosperity, although it rains marginally more than from their homeland. They have thorny trees there; here there are some semi-arid varieties like neem etc. And that changes the world for the best. It’s a shift from worst to best.  

They see the woman cannot cross certain limits to turn outright abusive and threatening. This is the chink. They have to prod their way in.         

“You have hard words but heart of gold. You can never think ill of others even if you sound rude,” the elder one nails it.

“What do you want? No money I tell you! I can only give you some flour,” her voice mellows down.

They let their foot further in. It’s an opening.

“There is no better doing than feeding the hungry. A direct holy deed. God sees it instantly,” they take their chance.

She seems to be awaiting God’s attention on some front, so agrees. They barge in. It’s a spacious house with peeling plaster and mundane furnishing like you see anywhere in a village in Haryana. To them it’s an abode of prosperity. They sit down on the unplastered brick-laid floor in the courtyard.

It’s too early for the family to have their lunch, brunch or whatever. So she makes chapattis for them. The vegetable curry is already done. They can see the chapattis are coming straight from the tava, not the stale leftovers from the previous night that people usually give them and thrown to the stray dogs. Every times she comes to put another chapatti they are ready with more words of blessings from the God.

The younger one asks for ice. They must be having refrigerator he has guessed right. It is available in every household here. Ice is luxury to him. He comes from burning sands. Pitchers burn like hot oven there. They drape sack clothes around these and pour drops of precious water to prevent it from boiling. He has already many ice cubes in his water utensil. He opens the lid and checks out to see how far these have melted. He is concerned. It’s melting. He wants replenishment.

“Please give me ice,” he is literally pleading.

She laughs at him. “It’s not that hot this morning. There is cool breeze,” she says.

But he looks at her with eyes that are crying for ice. She has to get it.

As she pours the cubes from the tray into his utensil, she can see the twinkle in his eyes.

Ice that is just ice to her, is precious to him. He has seen fire in life. Fire that seeps in everyday life. In desert. Ice has a bigger meaning to him than anyone else place better than him.

She notices it now. His clothes are also wet. Not dripping exactly, but he must have been completely drenched thirty forty minutes back.

“What happened? Did you fall in water?” she asks.

The elder one is laughing. “Water turns him crazy. Hardly any water back home. We take bath almost once a week. When he saw the pond outside the village he straightaway jumped into it,” he is laughing.

Water that is just water to her, is luxury to this boy. She tries to fathom the reason for his ecstasy over ice cubicles and pond waters where buffalos waddle, but fails to understand. Little does she realize that people run out to count drops of rain on the sand at his native place. So water is luxury to him.

Like most of us fail to understand that the things that seem dustbin cheap to us might be luxury to so many others. That a broken doll on the garbage heap, a shiny wrapper, a single wheeled broken toy are still items of luxury to many others. If we do, then we won’t begrudge about the problems in our life.

The art of emptying

Well before you take steps to fulfill your dreams, learn the art of emptying, of letting go, of letting out unwanted mossy dregs in the container of your destiny. Emptying isn’t defeatist. It’s not surrender. It’s a calculated step towards victory, towards fulfillment. It’s the preparation for gain, the beginning of filling up. Instead of running after the mirage of fulfillment, focus on emptying. Fulfillment is just a step away. Fullness starts at the moment of complete emptying. Wash, scrub, rinse and drain out the muck from the pot of your destiny. Wash away hate, anger, jealousy, ignorance, desires, phobias, complexities and overblown ambition. Drain these out. Let it be a perfectly clean and swanky pot of emptiness. The universe is expanding. It wants clean chambers to pour its energy into. It will sneak into the clean house in the form of your dreams and aspirations. The swabs clinging to the bottom are the repellents to fulfillment. Clean these. Work on emptying. Work on emptiness and you are in fact moving towards fullness. In a perfectly clean container there is no limitation on fulfillment, no hurdles to materialization of dreams, no restrictions on infinite cosmic harmony pouring its vastness into the container. A scribbled canvas has limitations of painting, a clean one has infinite possibilities of shapes and pictures. Scrub the slate clean before you start the journey. Even if it means a lifetime of emptying, it still will not be a loss. Even a second of fulfillment will be worth it. It will still be better than pouring the nectar of your efforts in an unclean pot, and just adding onto the stinking broth that never gives happiness and satisfaction. A clean empty house is a magnet. It pulls positive forces by itself. It's natural like gravitational force. It invites fullness. Complete emptiness invites fullness. Put your house in order. Set up your invitation to fullness on the door. Forget about the rest. Very soon you will hear the knock of fortune on your door. Like water flows to pits in earth, good luck naturally flows to clean, emptied, tidied containers. Come on, let your share flow in!  

The hypocrisy of portraying half-Muslims

Muslim women cannot wear burqa and men cannot support the typical beard that gives an Islamic man pride. Marriages cannot be held as per Islamic rules. Nikah is not allowed. Marriages are to be secular in nature. Polygamy is not allowed. No madrasa education in mosques. It has to be secular education. You are not allowed Ramzan fast. It’s Xinjiang province in China, the home of Uyghur Muslims.  

Well these are the basic roots a common Muslim identifies himself with his religion. Cut these and what is left? Does it mean the Uighur Muslims of Xinjiang in China are half Muslims?

Pakistan, the self-appointed official voice of Islamic conscience, is comfortable with these measures. China is an ally. And Muslims there, despite all repressive regulations, are full Muslims. And China is the best prospect for Pakistan’s growth. One simple message: economic and geostrategic measures are far weightier than talks of religious rights. The latter, even if these are raked up, are just simple tools to score strategic battles having nothing to do with religion. Religion is just a tool of bigger battles and the instrument of spilling innocent blood.

Come to India. Triple talaq, an exploitative practice of female repression and which has been banned in many front-running Islamic states including Pakistan, still pervades in India. Mullas wear this right on their sleeve, brandishing it as an identity. Ramjanambhooomi, a place as holy to Hindus as Kaba and Mecca to Muslims, held in abeyance to pay service to the nation’s principled secular constitutionality. There is not even a single law in India that stops Muslims from following any of the ritual in theological rulebook. But to Pakistan still India is a Satan repressing minorities forcing its biggest minority into half-Muslimhood. And Pakistan gets diarrhea over this. China gives it the pill to cure it.  

Conclusion. Geostrategic animosities have bigger causes than merely religion in fuelling the fire. Religion is just one of the many dry woods that are hurled into the fire of hate-mongering.

Pakistan accuses India of repression in Kashmir. Every single Kasmiri Muslim can go to the end of earth in following his religious rituals. Indian state absolutely doesn’t exist in this domain. They even allow triple talaq, at the cost of thousands of lives destroyed and future of Muslim women put in dark, to keep the principles of secularism afloat. Indian security forces have absolutely no concern about the beard, Ramzan fasts, pilgrimages, polygamy, triple talaq, madras education, mosques and each and everything identified with Islam.

Still China with Xinjiang regulations is a friend, a benefactor of the champion of Islam. And India with its Himalaya high heaps of Islamic rules, customs and regulations with Maulvivs and Mullas sitting over them with their secular shield against any transgression, is a repressor.

It has nothing to do with religion and repression. It’s all about power and land. Religion is always a dry fodder, liable to catch fire. Throw the missiles of hate into it. It will burn. And it burns in Kashmir. At the cost of innocent lives

Is it a holy war there? No, it’s a dirty war of ambition and territorial aggression. It’s a simple power game. To substantiate their lip-service to the cause of Islam in Kashmir, Pakistan must openly criticize Xinjiang regulations against Muslims. Otherwise it exposes its hypocrisy in Kashmir. And with the hypocrisy exposed, it basically becomes a law and order problem in Kashmir.