Pomegranate seeds in a dung cake

He is looking deep into the well of nostalgic memories. “What does August 15 mean to us? It only means that rains are almost over. A mark of change of seasons. Similarly, January 26 means the end of the real cold,” he gives his peasant interpretation of the Independence Day and the Republic Day.

And the anecdotes follow. His dim eyes are looking back to enliven some memories buried deep in the layers of his brain.

Nobody grew vegetables as a cash crop during those days. It was called dum kheti, named so after a caste legendarily popular for their leisure ways, no physical labour, who survived on singing folk ditties and smashing drums, and that too on rare occasions like when a son was born around. In 1952, it was his family that sowed peas, and not just sowed the seeds but chartered a new path. They had a huge dung disposal pit, where they would dump basketfuls of dung taken out in the morning, as the buffaloes, bulls and cows defecated freely through the night in the bark. A faculty with a domesticated cattle is that it can continue eating through the night, and letting out the waste from behind. And this faculty served as a manure factory during those simple times. In the dung pit, they would pour bucketful of cattle urine. And over months and years it turned into most fertile manure. There was hardly any artificial fertilizer during those days. So they sowed the peas. And not only sowed a vegetable, they sowed the prospects of a new farming way. The pods grew this long, he is indicating from the top of his middle finger to the lower middle of the palm. It even comes as some crude gesture. Some peasants laugh. Even he himself gets conscious, then makes it more polished. The pods had 22 grains, can you believe it, I myself counted these, in fact I learnt counting with those pod grains.

Sugarcane was as thick as this much, he has sprawled his fingers and thumb in opposite directions to accommodate the maximum girth. And what did you need to grow the sweetest wonder? It was just human effort, manure from the dung pit, and sprinkling alkaline soil from the alkaline waste land outside the village. You just chew one sugarcane stick, drink water on the village well, take a bath in its cool water, and mind you, you had to run to your house to avoid dying of hunger.        

He is then telling about the legendary wells among the farms. Their waters were so sweet that you never missed sugar during those days. Then he is telling how everybody was so healthy, so healthy in fact, the healthiest of today would still fall short of the weakest of those times. He is telling of legendary strong bulls which pulled carts that a tractor would struggle with. He tells of buffaloes whose bursting udders would compete with a whole dairy’s output. He tells of mighty farmers who could pull a whole cartload by themselves, in case the bull went on its knees, and still pat the animal on back as if it was his son who needed some help.

Well, it seems the best is long past. Gone with the wind.

******

He never knew that his craze for cricket will turn into a dream that will be kept alive somehow. Growing up in the seventies and eighties, the madness would get into his soul on dusty pitches in the playground outside the village. He could have done batter in studies if not for this obsession with the willow-lashing game. But what did the countryside urchins know about cricket, except Kapil’s famous feat at the world cup, and that two people run madly between the stacks of bricks facing each other from some yards, with a dusty land in between, somebody throwing mindlessly, and someone swinging the tattered bat still more mindlessly, and still more people running madly after the cork ball which had all the possibility of taking whatever course it preferred to take. Well, this isn’t even the A of cricket. It starts many notches further. It’s a very technical game having thousand nuances and mind-games. So it was more of baseball cricket which gripped rural India during the seventies and eighties and it ate countless hours as much as it ate all other sports. Having spent a major portion of his youth in baseball cricket on dusty, holed ground, he got into Delhi Police as a constable. He kept the flame alive, and gave the best of affordable facilities to his son. Settled in a town, sent him to coaching, pushed him to Jim, gave him expert diet. The boy rose above the level of baseball cricket to play cricket, but not beyond the city club level. He isn’t dejected. The dream is still alive. Such big innings are played across three generations at least, he says. I have got him to a level where he will be able to guide his son to at least national level, he has the patience of the Pacific Ocean in just being there for centuries. Well, it’s more suitable to keep the dreams alive. Across generations, in fact. Then they stand a chance to get fulfilled.  

******

China is rabble rousing boundary issues with all neighbors to retain its CPC dictatorship. Keep them believing that there are foes outside, who have committed crimes against the Motherland, and they will forget about their own irritation at the ruling party’s manipulation of their lives. But there is a danger that it will snap like in the USSR. Russia went boom to bust from 1917 to 1991, 74 years of an experiment, which is inevitably bound to fail. Let’s see how far China can manage the experiment which started in 1949. It has been 68 years. Even they may not have as much time as they think. Things may just crumble up. Only reason is, the communist model carries the seeds of its own destruction. Right now Chinese leadership has to have more and more enemies, real and imagined, to keep the people hooked onto the idea that has failed everywhere else in the world.

Too much of laws, rules, regulations, legalized forced discipline creates a facade that goes too perfectly to soar too high. It then crumbles. Perfection rarely sustains. That's why communist societies fall apart. Like a castle of cards. It crashes. Like it did suddenly in Russia. To survive, a society has to have its pitfalls, imperfections. The facade doesn't go too high. It sustains. There are plus and minus which cancel out each other. Oh, the glorious imperfections of democracy. That's why it thrives. In the same way, the well managed, rigid facade in China will crumble. It will collapse. Well, unless they voluntarily introduce some imperfections themselves, some traits of democracy, to make it pliable, some allowance of mischief, some humour, some criticism to bring down the upper stories of the facade which has gone too high. It won't fall then.

******

Ever wondered why so many Muslim boys take to the self-destroying path of violence? Polygamy may be responsible. Multiple wives, many children, family strife, children grow beyond the axis of love and affection required to groom a loving and caring newborn. Long before you love the world outside, and become responsible to keep things in order, you need to have your own quota of love, your share of affection, your portion of trust. In polygamy you get tested. You get isolated when you need your near and dear ones the most. You end up competing instead of being loved and love in return. A polygamy family lacks the positives of a cohesive unit, nurtured by the sweet shower of parental and sibling bonhomie and affection. Life becomes a struggle at the home itself, the point you start from, and where it should be stable to groom a healthy personality. Your father abandons your mother at his mere fancy, gets a new wife, your mother either sulks as a secondary object in the same house, or leaves to either rot in poverty, or remarry, and you with your real brothers and sisters, get pushed around the corners. How will a young sapling take roots? Childhood gets uprooted. All religions have adapted to get attuned to changing times. Muslim clerics and theologians should encourage monogamy. It will sow the seeds of trust, love and stability in the family, the point a child begins his journey. Islam means peace and monogamy will help the real spirit of Islam as wished by the Prophet. With peace and trust in families, Islam will become the great religion it is meant to be. Just have a look at the data.   

******

Watch your words, your sentences and speech. If you take a stock of the overall pitfalls of your life, your words, not the real bloody punches you gave out, might be the spoiler. It’s not usual to have a war. Even real fights and bloody noses are exceptions. These come rarely. In between most of the time we are blabbering. So buddy it’s the words that carry the risk to land us in testing, awkward, painful situations. And of course words take us to the best moments of our lives also. 

The sneeze which topples the snuff

There is a cosmic law of just being, of things and phenomena floating effortlessly in the graviltyless space-time continuum. Certain events and occurrences just happen, naturally, effortlessly, without any fuss, needing no pushing or cajoling. Harmony thrives on such effortlessness. It sustains life, it retains the cosmic balance, it nurtures the eternity. You may have a supposition that after taking a pinch of snuff powder, one sneezes. Well, you must have seen many old people doing that, or even experienced yourself. Well, snuff gets one sneeze. Agreed. But only as long as a free ‘effect follows the cause’ principle is applied in the natural form. Smallest interjections from mind will topple the scale. This universe loves its harmonious sequence of cause and effect. Tamper it with your conscious meddling, it will repel the transgression. Charles Darwin did an experiment. He called ten snuff powder users and asked them to take pinch of snuff and then sneeze. He put a gold coin in front of each of them as a reward if they sneezed after taking the snuff. On any other day snuff and sneeze would follow as natural companions. But not today. Today there was a forced will to win the gold coin in between. The snuff users became so eager, and consequently super-conscious, to get the sneeze that the natural balance between the cause and effect was broken. They won’t get the sneeze. Their faces contorted in all directions at funniest angles, their eyes watered like anything, but the accursed sneeze, which came hurtling down so effortlessly every day, will not come. Certain natural things are better left alone as simple occurrences without our stone-pelting the sequence without super-conscious, egoistic meddling. Sharpen your natural instincts, allow them to guide you, trust in them, and be a follower. There are lot many human affairs where we can meddle with our brain games.

Walk slowly and reach your goal with a smile; you will beat the fastest runner

The moment you grasp the meaning and purpose of your life, you become indispensable for the scheme of things around. You become a requirement for this whole universe. You are no longer a burden for this cosmos to drag on. You just don’t survive accidentally. Yours becomes a planned journey, shaping and reshaping the environment not just for meeting your end, but also carrying the effects that go onto touch many lives around. The sea cannot survive without its tiny drop. Suppose a drop goes missing, the sea gets a hole in its heart and it just cannot miss its drop. Similarly, this universe cannot sustain the hole left by you. It sustains by you as much as you sustain by it. The only condition being that you live consciously, that you know what you are doing, that you pick an option only after deliberating over it. From chance living to well-meant steps purposeful for the self and the larger humanity, all it takes is a small realization. Just look back and see the trail of decisions you have taken in life. How many of these were taken consciously, you being fully aware of the range of options? How many of these were just pushed on you by the random happenings and chance occurrences? Unfortunately, a vast majority of our options are born of random throws by chance factors and we just grabbing some involuntarily. And a life dictated by uncalculated, random options and opportunities, hits and mis-hits ends in a confusing travel across the endless twists, turns, U-turns and back outs from dead ended streets like in the puzzle game. We get wasted and wearied in endless turns, re-turns and U-turns, always pushed on by the random factors that happen to spin out of the lot. No wonder, even after travelling a whole lifetime, we are almost at the point of start. We feel we haven’t done anything at all. It’s the puzzling zigzag. It cannot be called a path leading to your destiny. Across the serpentine criss-crossing and entangled turns of random paths and choices, there are most suitable paths laid out for all of us. All we need to do is to start living consciously. Walk slowly but mindfully. You may see others hurtling fast on the racetrack around you, raising dust, crashing into sidelines, shouting with trophies at some corners, but mind you, no journey is complete and meaningful if one doesn’t feel contentment at the end. No journey across the blizzard of accidental turns can result in the peace that you are looking for at the end of the day. So plan your journey even if it means walking slowly. You can even delay your onslaught on the exams or other important tasks of life by a year if you decide to go into self reflection, weighing your abilities and limitations, look at the competition. It’s better to watch from a distance first. It’s better to walk slowly if you know what you are doing. Mindless dash towards the finish line has no meaning at all. Stop if you have been running. Pause if you have been mindlessly allowing yourself to be held by the collar by the monster called life. Sit down if you have been standing for too long. And then look around and think. Look at the zigzag pattern of your mindless run so far. The actual distance covered will surely be very short. Walk slowly like a wise man. A wise man walking slowly will still beat a reckless sprinter at the end of the day. It’s better to walk slowly to the finish-line, with your breath still under control, your legs still able to carry you. The end becomes meaningful, preparing you for the other journey. Running out of breath to the end line, and crashing straightaway has no meaning. This is no victory. This is nor the destination. It’s not meeting the goal. It simply means collapsing. The whole journey turns meaningless. Victory means being able to smile after reaching the destination. So stop, look back, see the mindless work and the stampede, pause for a moment, look ahead and walk to your sweet goal with a smile on your lips. You become a winner instantly.

Last in its lineage, the grand Mogul, the peacock

Rain-washed green has painted the countryside. Nature seems to have been besotted with only one colour on its palette, bold green. It’s very soothing to the eyes, and more so to the spirits. Trees look like they will survive mankind’s onslaught against nature. Clouds unfurl their sails across the sky and moist wind creeps into any nook corner that may still be dry. Monsoon is going well after all.

The fields around my village are splashing with as much green paddy as possible. Raise your eyes in any direction and you will see a green sea. Monsoonal sun across the corners of flying lumps of clouds gives the best glimpses of nature's bounty. But the travelling shadows also try to cover up silent, invisible man-made tragedies. Farmers have been cornered like never before. One day they are forced to dump tomatoes in roadside holes, the fruits of their labour not getting more than INR 1/Kg. The other day the price may go as high as INR 80/Kg in metros. Driven by intensive agriculture, born of costly inputs and decreasing landholdings, farmers just mindlessly dump poison in all forms of pesticides, weedicides and insecticides. So this lush green is a merciless stroke of brush on the canvas of nature, swiping away the natural world of many insects, worms, reptiles and rodents that make nature holistic and encompassing in its game of give and take across food chains. So guys, its just green paddy and poisoned soil below.

Peacocks survive on insects and reptiles in the fields. Nothing is left for them to feed upon, so food-less where would they go. A peacock's plumage swinging to gentle breeze in open surroundings of the countryside is a treat, and we were lucky to witness it countless times during our childhood. Now the last or second last generation of these destitutes, who rarely get an insect in fields, has landed with an airy resentment in the village. An irony: the poison giver is somehow better than the poison itself, at least in the short turn. In the foliage of neem and acacia trees, they just pew out their miseries. To the infants and younger lot, it gives a chance to get acquainted with the national bird's sound, and of course help them in learning the initials of human language.

My mom has an almost regular bird visitor, who perches upon the neem in our courtyard and pews out its begging song as if pleading, ‘Mai Roti do!' While she dispenses her routine chores across the yard, it continues to draw her attention. Roti delayed, it is forced to come down and enter the inner reaches of the house just to make his presence felt through his luxuriant plumage. Once roti pieces are thrown before him, it has to chuck up the offerings as fast as possible because crows line up in their accusing harsh tones, blaming him for being a transgressor who has infringed upon their rights. Crows are very clever. Some of them get behind his plumage and take a pick at his feathers to distract him. One defensive look behind and a few pieces are stolen by the other crows waiting in the wings. I call it the 'beggar peacock', my mother does not like the title though.

If that is the fate of the national bird, it’s hard to imagine the condition of others. Looking at this marvel of nature, whom mom sometimes accuses of being ungrateful -- when it comes without its plumage, all the feathers having been shed somewhere, and mom cursing it for being so mindless to waste them somewhere and not shed them in the courtyard -- I just feel sad on account of the fact that may be it is the last or at the most second last in its lineage.

Kill a mouse like a mouse only; not like a lion

He has done it again. The feeling of victory is carried by the air around his swollen breast. These are the steps of a warrior. A victorious warrior walking triumphantly can literally create an earthquake with his stomping and swagging steps. The King was effusive in praise as he again emerged as the most skillful swordsman of the kingdom. The Lord’s words are ringing in his ears as he steps down from his chariot. Holding the most coveted sword in the state, he walks down the flower-bordered path to the entrance of his impressive mini palace. He has been awarded and rewarded so many times that he has lost a trail of his swordsmanship.        

The competition has been long, tedious and tough. He bears many cuts as a testimony to the arduous path to the trophy. He is tired and wants some immediate rest. There is group of female servants who run to help him ease up. He just dismisses them as if he doesn’t even feel they are around. He wants to soak each and every moment of the victory. He wants to retain his scars for some time. It keeps the smell of victory nearer for some time.

It’s getting dark. A restful night is round the corner. He is belching. His stomach is full with numerous delicacies the King had ordered in the royal kitchen to celebrate his victory. He ate and drank to his victorious self. He is full with food and victory. He doesn’t put off his robe for the night. He decides to go to sleep like he is now, just to carry the aura the next day as well.

The sword but needs to be placed on the holder on the wall. It’s a sanctimonious ritual. He loves and reveres his sword. As he is moving to place his sword, he sees a mouse on the cushioned chair by the wall. The tiny trespasser is twitching its muzzle, almost like poking fun at him. He gets angry. How dare a mouse keep its presence for longer than required in front of him? He expects the little thing to scurry away at the mere sound of his step. His expectation is scuttled.

His ego gets a dent. By natural instinct his hand grams the holster of his sword. But then he shakes his head in irritation for even thinking of using his sword against such a tiny irritant.

“Just the sound of air through my nostrils should be sufficient to scare this idiot!” he thinks.

He has let out a few noisy breaths. The mouse but is relaxed on the silky cushion like it is a special guest. The champion swordsman’s irritation is turning to anger. His hand is itching to just finish it off in one masterstroke. But won’t that it be an insult to his sword? To use it against such a tiny creature. He moves on to place his sword at its place expecting that his crossing the room will scare away the tiny foe. As he turns back, he is surprised to see the mouse still there. Unmoved and relaxed like the room belongs to it.

“This is too much! This little one is inviting sure death!” he claps and expects the mouse to literally faint with fear.

It all but normal to expect a mouse to be most cowardly creature. It is linked to so many tales of chicken-heartedness. The mouse is still unmoved.

“This bloody tick of a mouse seems to be deaf and dumb!” he mutters.

The defiance seems to be a challenge to him. He picks up the wooden practice sword and waves it around hoping the airy swirls will be sufficient to scare the mouse and run for its life. His expert swings in air in front of the mouse fail to budge the tiny opponent. Now he is flabbergasted.

“What the hell! Does it want to commit suicide or what? How can I put a dark spot on my heroism by even accepting challenge from something that will be buried under my shit?” he is offended.

The things that take a detour from the normal of course unsettle us. He moves towards the cushioned chair hoping the cowardly creature will scuttle away, twitching its tail. They are face to face. The mouse isn’t moving. Now it’s getting into his nerves. He feels like putting it off in one strike. But then to stoop so low to start accepting challenges from mice. After all he has slayed mighty warriors in bloody combats. He seems intent to give the mouse more chances to run for safety, accept its defeat and go as things go normally in the world.

He puts the lower end of the wooden sword on the cushion just inches away from the small rival. The mouse is still unmoved. Now it’s really eating into his nerves. He is in no mood to pass off such things as jokingly one offs. The bursts of clapping and shouting sloganeering is thundering in his ears.

“And now this bloody mouse! Go little one go, don’t mess with my patience. I don’t want to put a blot on my bravery by being a mouse slayer.”

He feels like cutting it in two even with the wooden sword in an expert stroke. But killing mouse with his artistically bravest of swordsmanship.

“This little nuisance is worthy of being killed with a stick. Poor mouse,” he raises his practice sword to hit back like a stick.

But to strike a sword, even if it is a wooden practice wooden one, like a stick is an insult to the holy art of swordsmanship. His hands just give in. He cannot do it. He cannot kill it like a sword, he cannot use his sword like a stick. A mouse is too lowly a creature to be killed by him. His mind is full of so many ideas that he even gets panicked for a moment regarding his dilemma.

“This suicidal chit of a bird-drop needs a suitable punishment. I cannot bring myself so low to turn a demon slayer to a mouse slayer. The fate of a mouse is to bee slaughtered by a cat. Yaa that seems justified and natural. And this little rascal will pee at the sight of a cat. The little devil.”

He is thinking of suitable punishment to the mouse without compromising on his sense of heroism. It’s fair between a cat and a mouse. He agrees on this and already has the instrument of punishment in his mind. The fat, well pampered cat of the wealthy man in neighborhood. He has a sadistic sense prevail over him as he visualizes the cat chasing the shitty little one, putting its teeth around its soft fur, and mowing down the squealing bastard. His hands are itching to grab this moment from the space-time continuum of happenings.

A servant is sent to fetch the cat from the neighboring house. Now the cat is listening to the exaggerated version of what happened in the warrior’s palace.

“Just imagine the guts. The devil is not scared of anything. Not even the bravest soldier of the land. Not that he can kill it. Of course he can. But he doesn’t want to put a blot on his name by being a mouse slayer on the day he has been crowned the state champion. But this little piece of arrogance by the tiny creature has forced him to mete out the harshest punishment to a mouse. And that is to be hunted down by a cat.”

The cat is listening. It doesn’t sound normal. There is something in it. It doesn’t seem like any other cat and mouse encounter.

“Of course it means it must be some special mouse. Otherwise why would master take all this trouble to look out for a cat? He could have taken rest after the hard fought victory,” the servant is nailing it down.

The well fed and amply pampered cat is becomes serious. Many things are playing in its mind. Its paws aren’t itching to slice through the soft fur. Its mind is clogged with calculations. It seems a daunting task. It doesn’t appear like any other cat mouse encounter like she has done hundreds of times in life. The poor mouse scuttling away at the mere sight of the cat, the cat preying upon, a minor one-sided scuffle and the inevitable happening.

The merchant is very happy over the prospect of being of some service to the King’s prized fighter. Holding his dear cat he walks with a swag to the scene of the looming encounter. With each step the poor cat is becoming more and more conscious of the fight. The news has spread like fire and people are toeing after. The procession moves.

“The mouse is definitely some special devil otherwise why would these humans make such a show of it,” the cat’s mind is getting bombarding with countless random thoughts.

Her judgment is getting clouded. All the natural sequence of hunting down a mouse is getting stretched to miles with so many distinct steps. And she has to face a mouse that stood up to the mightiest warrior of the land. Thoughts are randomly scurrying across its head, these are now changing to numerous apprehensions, these in turn are eating her natural inborn confidence in doing a small task like killing a mouse. Today it’s not about hunger. It’s about a challenge. The cat is fully fed. Still it has to kill with the impunity like it is the hungriest on the planet.

“What stance I should take before preying upon, and from what distance it would be safest to pounce upon? Should I put up a fierce avatar with my hair standing up, tail taut, and mewing and growling like a tiger? No. Yes. But wouldn’t a cool approach will ensure a better shot at the aim? Yes. No, because the idiot may take it as lack of character in me. Should I, shouldn’t I??” each word from the people around is putting out questions after questions in its mind.

At the end of it the cat feels like they are taking her to the altar to sacrifice her.

“Who knows it may even be a devil dog impersonating as a mouse!” she has completely forgotten about its experience in killing mice.      

By the time they reach the warrior’s house, it’s terrible pandemonium around. The cat’s head is buzzing with thousand questions, thoughts, fears, apprehensions and what not. It can barely see what is happening around. Now she is in a total daze, not able to think at all. It’s not about killing a mouse, it’s about defeating THE MOUSE.

Before she realizes she finds herself placed at a distance from the mouse. So many eyes are prying over her. Her natural instinct, her inbuilt dexterity, her inherent skill, her easy-going call to eat a mouse has abandoned her. The cat is conscious of the effort it will take to dash. It tries to think, but its mind has gone empty. Abandoned by all conviction, it sits there indecisively. It’s puzzled beyond measure.

It’s a blind’ futile dash. With a very awkward movement it leaps. The mouse coolly shifts to its right by a few inches. The cat doesn’t know what is happening. It goes rolling like a lump of earth thrown aimlessly. It hits it head on the wall, loses balance and a brass utensil falls on it from the windowsill. There is noise. It’s senses are in a riot of panic. Yaa, it’s not some cat. It’s devil and I am attacked. The cat runs away for its life. The mouse looks curiously at the peoples standing at a distance.

Well, that’s what happens when mouse become THE MOUSE.          

The news spreads far and wide. It’s no ordinary mouse. It doesn’t scamper away at the sight of swords and cats. The King’s still more pampered cat listens with its innards shivering with fear. What if they send me? What if even I fail? I will lose all this royal luxury. Lost in the painful reverie, the poor thing doesn’t even realize before the onerous duty of dispensing justice has been handed over to her.

Now there is bigger hoopla. Lot more people are talking about the incident. There is more noise. And consequently thicker are the clouds of apprehension in the royal cat’s mind.

“It’s not scared of a sword, nor of cat, and now the presumably the finest cat in the state is summoned to get it done. It cannot be a mouse even if it impersonated like a mouse.”

Simple mouse is becoming a still larger THE MOUSE with each step they cover towards the place of the incident. The royal cat seems surrendered to a doomed fate. They appear like enemies who are pushing her to her doom and fall from royal grace. Her worst days are coming. There has been a shift in her destiny. The winds of misfortune are pounding the fabric of her well pampered self. Chronic panic has set in. She thinks of everything expect the art and craft of the natural art of killing a mouse.

The royal cat was in a far bigger dilemma by the time they put her in front of the defiant mouse who seems hell bent upon retaining the seat like it was the crown of the universe. The cat is shaking with nervous excitement. It goofs up even more miserably. The mouse just jumps to its left and doesn’t move. The cat seems to have wasted all weapons in its armory.

Even before the fight she has been thinking of the aftermaths. How the king will laugh at her and kick her impudently. She is thinking of the life away from the disgrace. More than killing the mouse, its mind is plagued with thoughts of where to run away from the disgrace. So having missed the aim, the cat runs away from the scene of its disgrace.

The news blasts through. There is an unheard of mouse which is not afraid of cats and swords. Almost everybody appears unwilling to put his cat through the ordeal and the impending disgrace. Nobody showed eager to be called the owner of the cat which couldn’t kill even a mouse.

An ascetic stayed in his hut outside the state capital. The task of accomplishing the deed reached his doorstep. He listened to them patiently. There were long and wordy narration of the incident. It was made to appear larger than life. People looked overawed of what happened. The ascetic’s demeanour was calm. He listened to the tales with a smile on his lips. His kind eyes shone with a divine understanding. Knowingly he looked into the eyes of his cat. The cat too appeared unperturbed.

“Go and do what you always do with the same attitude and mindset. A mouse is a mouse. Remember. Always. Everywhere. And expect a mouse to be just the same mouse you have eaten so many times in the past,” he pats his cat affectionately.

The molehill has become the biggest mountain. It is being talked like nothing else. It beats the pulsating humdrum of a thoroughfare. Everything seems to have been pushed into the background. Everybody is talking about it. But the cat is beyond all this hoopla. Its mind is the same like on any other occasion.

They place the cat in front of the mouse. It twitches its tale with the familiar conviction. There is surety in its movement. It holds its head at a form predatory angle. It beats the mouse in the dozing game and buries its teeth into it. The mouse squeaks. People cheer around. A great thing has been accomplished.

“A mouse is a mouse only. Why burden your mind with so many things which a poor mouse himself can never relate to in the wildest of his dreams,” the ascetic is telling the people who give his cat to him.

The cat has eaten the mouse and mews contentedly. There wasn’t anything complicated about it. It was a straight matter torn and skewed into numerous phantom shapes and appearances. And when that happens, even a simple mouse becomes THE MOUSE.