The beginning of a new day

 The morning turns best by default when you wake up after 8 hours of dreamless sleep. Even a semi-cloudy musty day appears as bright as it’s on a full sunny morning. The flowers give you a better smile than you remember. Aren’t they the same flowers? But the eyes looking at their smiles are more fresh today. A butterfly, a Common mormon to be precise, is resting on a sadabahar leaf. It’s a beautiful black butterfly with whitish spots running across the hindwing. Its wings are spread, not drawn taut together in instinctive mode to fly away at the slightest danger. A resting butterfly with spread out wings is a great treat to the eyes. You get a chance to observe its colors and patterns more closely. While flying, it’s a teasing flirtatious speck of colors that titillates the heart but deprives the eyes of the beautiful patterns. A small grass yellow Eurema hecabe, drunk with youth, is all impatience and eagerness as it makes the most of its short life through airy dives and nectar sips. Probably, the resting Common mormon is middle-aged like me and knows the importance of rest and repose also after flying high. The Indian silverbill, a cute little pale white bird, has redecorated the globular nest of the Scaled munia and is happy with the proceedings so far. The monkeys have rarely allowed a successful hatching of these cute little birds so far. They are too restless for other’s peace. They just snatch away the nest. But all is well at least today and that’s more important. Tomorrow may have bright sunshine or a storm, that’s time’s problem. A pair of angry tailorbirds darts in and sits on both sides of the refurbished silverbill house. They are angry over something and have a lot of complaints. They are too loud for their tiny size. The silverbill just trills feebly like the jingling anklet on the ankle of a little girl. May be it’s a bully pair of tailorbirds who are still angry because their well-hidden leafy nest was spotted by the monkey and torn away, throwing away the chicks. As I had run to turn its bum redder for the crime, I could see one chick in its hands. If it’s a rascal monkey, like they are without an exception, it will have its breakfast. If it’s a kind monkey—which is the most improbable thing on earth—it may raise the chick and create history like the wolves did in rearing Maugli, the jungle boy. Well, the angry tailorbird are too much for the meekly trilling silverbill. Depression of losing one’s home and kids is understandable. Maybe they find the silverbill docile enough to vent out their anger. This world is but full of bigger bullies. The tailorbird’s pinchy shrills attracted a few babblers. There they arrive on the scene to settle the scores. Can anyone match a babbler’s chirpy anger? Not at all! They can give even the most querulous, cantankerous peasant woman in the neighborhood a well-heeled run for her money. The tailorbirds are outshouted immediately and they leave the field. The silverbill sneaks into its nest. The babblers sing the song of their victory for a few more moments, challenging any more mai-ka-lal to take panga with them before flying to arbitrate in some other quarrel among the lesser bullies on some other tree. And thus picks up another fresh day on its slow march to speed up later to go slumberous again at the dusk.

Time reaping the furrow: Angels to dark-angels to demons

 Time is the master ultimately. In the long term, lush green forests give way to barren deserts, mountains get broken, mighty boulders become puny, round, kickable pebbles. Nobody and nothing can have a way against time. All we can do is to make the most of what has been given to us on the scale of time, like one takes a fistful of water from a swift running river. Splash a bit of it on your face, take a tiny sip to drink and sprinkle a bit to play like a child.

Even the oceans will dry one day, that’s time playing football, scoring goals after goals. It plays the same trick with our life also, and most significantly does the same to our relationships. The once shining angels turn to dark angels, finally to become demons to be shunned altogether.

But we have some choices here. We can stall the rampant march of time over our lives. That’s what we can do with our consciousness. Finally, it will have its say, no doubt about that. But we can play our own interesting football with the fistful of time that we have in our grasp.

Time will of course play its tricks by putting horns on the heads of the smiling angels in our life. Things will surely change through shift in situations, circumstances, needs, goals, ambitions and many more. But we should try our level best to at least change the shining angels from turning full throttle demons in our lives. Let time do its tyranny, we can but stop the degradation of someone’s status in our life from turning a demon. It can be any relationship. Let’s fight against time’s tyranny and stop a bit short of allowing someone become a full demon in our life.

Of course, the once shining angels cannot stay the same forever. Things change. Circumstantial winds are too fast to allow the wick glow steadily forever. It will shake in response to the weather elements. It is helpless in that regard. Change as we know is the only law. But we can avoid the time’s all out tyranny in our lives. Allow time only this much tyranny to turn your angels into dark angels, nothing lower. An angel is still an angel, and a dark angel is far better than a demon. The last one will give us stabbing pain with its sadistic glee. The former will give a mild, tolerable heartburn.  

The demons in our life are far more damaging to our own selves. A demon hardly cares about itself because it is a demon in our perception. Within itself our demon may be somebody shining angel for the time being. So whose loss it’s in petting a demon in the mind?

If there is a demon in our life, it’s fed by our own anger, guilt, hate or jealousy. It will harvest more of these to fatten itself and pacify our ego through injured pride and bruised vanity. The equation of anger, hate, guilt and jealousy is beyond the factor of ‘whose fault is this’. All these are the same termites of the same species that eat into our physical and mental fabric.

Life is far better without demons in our lives. Life is a bed of roses with a few angels in our lives. It’s relatively worse with dark angels in our life because they feed on mild doses of anger, hate, guilt and jealousy born of our past with the angel-turned-dark angel. Life cannot be perfect. But it shouldn’t be messed up altogether. So retain your angels as long as you can and later on be kind and considerate enough to keep their status relegated to dark angels only. Don’t allow further degradation because this degradation comes at our own cost.

A rainy day

 The night was surely tired as the pre-dawn hour approached. So were the crickets after a licentious night-long song and revelery. Their throats had given up and they had fallen silent. A couple of Katydids however still carried on with their periodic bleep-bleep, breep-breep sound with so much regularity that it could be easily taken as beeps of medical instruments by a patient bed in an ICU. Probably a new love-couple that isn’t still tired of each other’s song, I thought.

Then the night decided to extend its stay as dark clouds marched in aided by the swift winds. ‘We will help you in hijacking the day,’ they said with rumbling, lightning mischief. The day’s march was stopped at a sultry, wet, gloomy dawn. The sun seemed on a holiday on this Saturday.

The sky surely had rainy diarrhea on this day, September 11 to be precise. It started raining at 5 in the morning and the day would stay stopped at its early morning grey till noon. The katydids lost their song, preferring to save their lives for the day and make love some other day if they survived. A few rockchats, who like to gossip heartily while others are asleep in the pre-dawn darkness on normal days in the neem tree nearby, kept their tongues well in check and huddled in the branches.

We are no longer used to the heavy rains. Monsoon has lost its sheen over the years in the north Indian plains. But climate has ruffled feathers, thanks to global warming, and we can expect drought or flood with equal probability anywhere in the world. So dear readers it started raining cats and dogs. The clouds rumbled, lightning flashed, wind blew, a kind of cyclonic stormy rain it was.

It hummed on the tree canopies and gave muffled drumming sounds like a massive umbrella was under the watery onslaught. After half an hour there was a brief pause that lasted for a couple of minutes. A tailorbird let out its accusative tittering, probably angry at the skies for spoiling its breakfasting hip-hops among the bushes. The clouds punched back with an angry growl and a full throttle cloud burst. The tiny bird must have pissed out definitely.

It rained on and on till noontime. I even got worried about a watery deluge. It was just one watery fountain. The kittens ran in, scared to their wits, their tails and hair up. They must have thought someone was trying to kill them with watery hits from above. A cat simply hates getting wet. It has to give its tongue a lot of effort to make itself presentable again. The kittens ran in so speedily and went into hiding among the things put in the verandah that they would have beaten even a snake in slithery sneak into its hole. I hardly had any clue where they went.

You have to bow down to rain. It carries its majesty and pride. Our adamancy might turn it prejudiced and then we are up for it. The trees stand in mute servitude as long as it’s raining. A peacock did the same. It sat on the roof fence and hid itself among the overhanging branches to avoid direct hits by the rainy catapults. It looked funny because it was shedding its plume. Only two long feathers were left apart from some shorter one. There it sat for a sunny day and full plume when it would again be able to woo the ladies with the fantastic display of colors of its jingling fan. And the rain went on drumming.

We are no longer used to big time rains. Looking at the roof drainpipes we become worried of some mishap. The houses leak, the snakes creep out of their flooded holes. Earthworms give the best of their sprints and move towards higher ground apprehending the mythical flood. I nearly killed one with my slipper, mistaking it for a snakelet because it was almost sprinting in panic. I had to give many a careful look to confirm its status because it had some serious urgency and purpose in movement. The mice and rats also jump from the sinking ship of their bushes and sneak in like the kittens do. The errant and nuisant monkeys also get thoroughly bashed up by the rains. They look so funny when they sit all soaked up and have to settle for good behavior and consideration for others.

Hundreds of frog hatchlings romp around the yard in hundreds. They come hopping into the verandah like jubilant children after the school. There they go around to go still farther from the rains, that’s into the rooms. A lot many manage to occupy the rooms also. They are almost domesticated frogs. You cannot afford to have an unkept yard and its charm to yourself only. You have to share it with many of the gardening and wilderness ilk. I have to be careful not to step over baby frogs.

I remember this frog feller who had made a comfortable home in the kitchen. That was before the rains started when there weren’t that many frogs. It stayed indoors, hiding behind baskets. It would hop out and have a tea time snack of flies while I had tea. It really considered the kitchen of its own. One day it was on an outing and found the door closed. It knew what it was up for. I found it hanging by the wire mesh of the door frame, peeping in with a surly look. I had to allow it in. After that it behaved well and got back well before the closing time. A nice frog it was. Then the rains came and it too came of age. A young frog has to woo its lady. It went out in all excitement and never returned. Probably a lot many of these baby frogs are fathered by him only. His children occupy the house now.  

A stray dog howled in the street. Probably its patience was wearing thin very rapidly. So it howled its imprecations. The rain meanwhile looked set to improve its all time statistics for the month of September in the region.

Around noontime, the sky thought we earthlings had enough of bathing so relented. The show of life that had been overtaken by the rain slowly crept out to take a look at the wet slippery stage. One kitten came out and I saw it going towards the flowerbed to relive itself. It gladdened me that it behaved well and held the urge till the rain stopped and didn’t mess up the place it had hidden in. A monkey came out of the neem branches and sat on the balcony fence of a neighboring house. It raised my spirits to see the foe so thoroughly soaked and well beaten. It will take an entire day for it to reclaim its foolish spirits, I reckoned. The birds arrived with their usual song, delayed though today. The peacock too shook its royal blue coat to expel the extra load. It looked surly and walked around the yard. The kittens looked at it with suspicion and fear from a distance. The peacock shed even the two long plumes in its feathery gear to look less funny now because now it had a few shorter ones only. A peacock feather is a treasure. I ran to collect them and put them in my room for faith and aesthetics.

The peacock must have felt bored because it invented a play to divert its attention. It went in front of the black glossy rain-washed glossy tiles—shiny enough to give a reflection of the onlooker—by the side of the inner gate and used it as a mirror and started kissing at the strange she-peacock in the reflection. It must have been giving it a lot of pleasure for it gave continuous rapping pecks at the lovely lady who reciprocated in equal measure. The requited dose of love and kisses uplifted the peacock’s spirits and it gave an effort and lifted itself to the garden fence, before launching itself onto a larger tree outside the boundary. A peacock is too big for its wings. It’s primarily for colors, not flying.  

In the afternoon, I went out into the garden to check out the rain-mauled garden. The plants were thoroughly beaten but already there were signs of resilience. The branches were getting their business back on track. They have no business to complain against the rain. They exist only because the rain is there. A potted geranium is sloshed with water. Its vase is still full of water. I get down to help the plant and a serious attempt is made at my life. The fighter scouts of the stinging hornets tried their weaponry at my head. Thank god I have overgrown my hair to make it look like the unkempt yard. Had I been ganja they would have gathered their prey very easily. There was severe angry buzzing. I now found that my head was almost touching their new-fangled nest even though I was stooping to tend the plant. The rains had brought down the branch bearing the nest. It needed to be removed. Either they fly or I stop walking in the yard because that was in the direct way. I am selfish enough to retain my unrestricted rights to roam around my yard. Here I declare war on the stinging hornets. I drape myself in a big chador like a Muslim lady in a hijab and wear my bike helmet on top of it. Then I pick up a long bamboo and walk down like a brave Knight to the battle field. The battle is quickly over and I win handsomely. The branch is broken in one clean strike. The enemy citadel falls. They are also reasonably angry and attack my helmet. I chuckle like a wicked witch from inside the helmet. They got their teeth broken also in the attempt.

As I came in triumphantly, the kittens but found me as an apparition. There they went hurtling over the garden fence, one of them even falling and rolling for a good few yards in panic. Only at night they could dare to peep over the fence because the memory and aroma of cow milk beats any fear. Even while drinking milk they took pauses and straightened their ears to look around for the ghost that had entered the house. 

A lazy walk to no-goal!

 In my forties now I realize that it’s not that important to go all the way. It just burns you out. It overheats you and you go panting like a sick mule on a treacherous slope. All that matters is that we take steps. There never was a final destination, nor will ever be. We just hold the baton for some time. Journey well feller!

The main cause of discontentment and unhappiness is that we are too hard on ourselves most of the time. We have almost something of everything in us, but we are always looking to change that into everything of everything. I should have that car, I should have that man or woman, I should have that designation, I should possess that much in my bank account, I should become a bigger star, my children should be world beaters, and scores of all and sundry matters that define our life keep us away from enjoying what we already possess. Always looking too far into the future gives many stumbles in the present and welts and bruises as well.

If you can’t have happiness and joy with what you already possess believe me running after the mirage is a futile exercise. I am not saying one shouldn’t be competitiveness. Just compete with a belief and gratitude that you already have many things, that life won’t be a mess if you don’t reach the intended target. Run after goals but always remember that you already many things that allow you to even think of going further. Stay in gratitude.

Why be tortured to be a perfectionist when you have your friendly sweet-sour amateur self goading you on the path of life? A joyful amateurish clown may turn out to be perfectionist one day. It’s very much within the grasp of normal laws, nothing miraculous about it. Be a happy joyrider, not a grumpy one. The latter only creates nuances on the pathway for others as well.

Why think in terms of the best cook masters in homes and hotels and thus never give it a try yourself? Bake your bread. It may come near the funniest boundaries of the weirdest country or region in the world. Does the tongue discriminate between the best shapes as it turns the best and the worst in the same saliva-saturated mess? Make it eatable to a degree first. Set your own parameters of improvement. Eat your funny bread with gratitude. Give half of it to the dirty stray puppy, mauled by the bigger bullies in the street, lying coiled up near your gate. I do the same. It makes up for the lack of taste born of my amateurish effort. Boil your soup, make your sandwich, fry your eggs, prepare your vegetables as per the capacity of your hands and cooking aesthetics. Hold this slim chance in your hand. One day you will cook to the satisfaction of many people around you if not the entire continents. Isn’t that success?

Eat in moderation, your food, money and even designation. Don’t overeat any of these. It gives indigestion of both stomach and mind. I tried gulping down an entire little of pure cow milk in a few sittings in a day and got to know that I need just half of it. An extra visit to the loo reminding me the difference between need and greed. So the kittens that have occupied the unkempt yard are the beneficiaries of this realization. Their mother doesn’t visit them anymore. Grown up as they are. They are learning the art of life in the yard before jumping onto the larger stage of life. Till then I can play a bit of part time role in getting them still bigger. Looking at them cutely gulping down the milk, their moustaches having milky dews, the milk in my stomach gets an extra digestive juice to give me more benefit.

I am learning the art of giving the extra. It stops the stomach from bloating up as well as keeps my pride and vanity within tolerable limits. If we disburden ourselves of the extra, believe me we will have a far more joyful journey than we expect and will go several extra miles. 

Life is nothing but a funny, farty play. Enjoy it!

 

Matter and energy overlap each other so holistically, so comprehensively, so thoroughly that one is the other looking backwards. The unfolding phenomena make them appear different. In essence, though, they are the same. Matter is nothing but energy in hiatus with the foundations of atomic and molecular structure. It’s a transitory state from uncertainty, probability and full potential of the pure energy in the void chambers of nothingness to a kind of fixity, certainty and harnessing of the already-existing potential in the form of visible particles. It’s a mere fluid pause of energy in space and time.

Energy is matter free of its molecular and atomic bondage at the lowest rung of visibility. As we move up to pure energy from the material manifestations at the lower order, going through various transitory states at the quantum and sub-atomic level, the fixity goes on decreasing. You may say ‘from everything to nothing’ in our laymen terms. Patterns, certainty and identity melt away. The last of the tiniest quarks give way to almost nothingness, pure energy, pure potential. The visible matter is just a fruit on the tree of pure potentiality that defines pure energy in the vacuum of nothingness.

Take earth for example. You have water, ice, air—different transitory states of the same element—in the environment. Beyond our planetary atmosphere we have the dark void defined by cosmic rays and dark matter. This is an incidental bubble in the pop-up play of creation. Gravitational forces and other favourable factors help retain this bubble. The sunrays provide fuel to the cyclical game of matter-energy transformations within the bubble. A beautiful system of regularized events and phenomena emerges. At the cosmic scale, it’s a bit more sophisticated atomic and molecular arrangement of energy, nothing more than that.

So my dear human-centrist theorists, please recognize that this earth and the drama of life on it is a bit larger atomic arrangement. There is hardly any qualitative difference between a simple atomic arrangement and earth as such. They are just numerically different. If you feel too large for your skin, stand on the terrace on a clear dark night and stare into the starry distance. To the cosmic immensity, an ant and an elephant on earth are the same. Well, but the ant and the elephant are entitled to their grandiose plans here on this little mud ball. You, me and all of us are entitled to the same. Play your drama joyfully. Don’t miss the little things that bring a smile. Appreciate the smile of a flower, applaud the airy dives of a butterfly, hail the rains and go stomping in the monsoonal mud, feel the kiss of gentle kiss of the breeze on your skin, salute and acknowledge the ferocity of storms, roll in the green hilly pastures, bathe in mountain streams, enjoy your tea at a roadside tea  stall, bless a child, give a coin to an old helpless beggar, throw grains to the chirpy birds, chase away the bully feral dog and come to the aid of a meeker one, share your food with others at the office canteen, congratulate the office peon for looking smart and energetic, the list is endless my dears. Little thinks that can give us a smile are countless, so why wait in vain for the bigger reasons which are so few. Little causes of smiles are the sinews that will one day make the nest of your happiness, which one day gets us joy, appreciation of life and gratitude for being alive. Keep smiling my dears!