The remnants of a musty noon

 If we believe we have the capacity to do what we are supposed to do, then there is no reason to believe in the higher powers supposedly guiding our way. But the question is, do we really know what we are supposed to do. All choices and decisions stand on the verge of either falling this way or that. Faith, at some point, is bound to have its final say. Faith is pretty free flying. Tether it to reason and logic, it hides immediately behind the dark clouds. It’s not there to be tamed by the chains of reason. It is good to put reason at the forefront of your skills like the steely jaws of a mighty earthmover. That’s a convenience, a skill to lead life on a day to day basis. Reason is a very good servant. Faith but is the master that guides the overall operation of life. By faith I don’t just mean faith in the Gods over there in the sky vaults. It primarily comprises our faith in ourselves, in our soul’s intimacy with the possibilities of joy, an urge to lead a meaningful life. Extraterrestrial faith is a mere supplement to our inherent faith in ourselves. Isn’t it faith in ourselves that we use all the reasons and logic to not only survive but also strive to be happy and joyful? In fact, we hatch ‘reasons’ to nurture our ‘faith’. Never lose your faith. It’s like losing what and who you are.  

**

Rains and more rains. Mold in the pickle jar. White coral mushroom on the rotting plank. Potatoes with spikey sprouts. Baby frogs everywhere. Lots of nests in the trees and plants. The sky laden with flying insects. Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads. Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers. The air with a musty smell. The railings more rusty. The sky just a cloudy canvas. Hot teas and spicy pakoras. Smiles. Gossips. Love and loss in the season of moss. Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in and take a shelter in the autumnal camp. Well, it has been too damp. Welcome now the sunny lamp.

**

Many situations of life turn meaningful, and hence bearable, the moment we accept our share, our part in shaping the things as they stand.

**

Avoid the things that cost you your smile and laughter. It will never be a loss in the long term, I can assure you. Avoid also the things that fetch you an instant grimace. That's an instant gain. So start now with a smile!

**

For the angels to stay relevant, there have to be demons. Well, that's too big a price for goodness. Let there be no demons, even if that means all angels losing their status and turn ordinary entities. Just a pleasant commonness! Why go for the extraordinary? Especially when the cost is too high, like having to do with demons just to have angels around.

**

If you can't avoid pride altogether, have principled pride. It's a bit better than the unreined one. The latter is a sort of unsheathed sword. There is an equal risk of injury to both the beholder and the people around. Principled pride is at least a sheathed sword. It carries lesser risk. And what is this principled pride? It's the pride inside a fencing of certain principles that we won't compromise come what may.

**

The first provisional Indian government in exile was formed by Mahendra Pratap Singh in Afghanistan in 1915. He stayed in exile for 35 years, having taken a vow never to step on the British-occupied Indian soil. He returned a happy man post 1947. Surprisingly he was an educated Jat. Seems there is more to Jats beyond the JAT (just animal type) syndrome!

The remains of a sunny morning

 An absolutely bright sunny September morning, all fresh and breezy! The main advantage of having more than enough rains is that the sky is extra blue, being washed of our sins, i.e., pollutants. There is a silvery spray of scattered fluffy clouds floating merrily across the blue playground. The lush green leaves shine with a happy gloss under the sun. The insects and butterflies seem gone berserk with joy as they claim the best of the short time they have on earth. The birds are pretty vocal too about their agreement about the good weather elements for the day.

Potatoes in the kitchen of a bachelor staying alone have a particular advantage. They get enough time and space to enhance their status and sprout soot and sapling in order to hurriedly change their status from the meek eatables to live plants. A potato is all inclusive in growth. It sprouts from all angles, seems like it has the procreative urge all across its body. Isn’t it an expression of the instinct of expansion in the universe? There is enough moisture in the rain-lashed air, so the potatoes have decided to be plants and avoid the status of getting piteously frying in the boiling pan.

Potter’s wasp also carries certain advantages of occupying a bachelor middle-aged writer’s house. It has more options to choose its clay house location. The scooty hasn’t been used for more than a fortnight. So the nice rubber on the handle grip grabs the wasp’s fancy. The grip has a clayey addition now. A house is in making at a furtive pace. The wasp is really busy, doesn’t get tired. It won’t lose focus and energy till the final brick is laid. I feel inspired by its diligence for the cause. Well, I decide not to be a spoilsport at the moment. But if I need the vehicle very urgently, the wasp will have to ungrip its grip on the scooty grip. If I find myself in too lenient a mood, I may decide to put the old bike rusting in the barn into order and let the wasp fulfill its tenancy. There is always choice and scope for kindness.

The peeping crow is still at its favorite pole. But then it’s a bright sunny day. It will have to pay with a lot of sweat for its fun. I hope it doesn’t starve itself to death in lieu of its inter-species addiction.

Saw an 8-10 inches long krait snakelet sneaking into the wildly unkempt yard. It sneaked in through the space under the lower grills. Despite my stomping of feet, it managed to occupy the property. I think we get more scared in dreams than in real life. I woke up with palpitations. It was a dream guys. But given the condition of my yard, the reality of a snake sneaking in is far bigger than the dream. Well, if it has really managed to come in, I don’t worry too much. The kittens are there. It’s an equal match in size and age, a kind of fair play. If they win, they learn successful hunting. If the snake wins, it learns the basics of stout defense. All this is same to Mother Nature. By the way, a krait couple seems to have managed a very successful hatching season. Two little ones have been found in a neighbor’s house. Including the one in my dream makes it three. The bigger one that we killed in the yard was probably the Ma or Pa snake. That’s better to avoid further proliferation of the species. Well, unless the remaining one doesn’t turn out too romantic and woos a partner soon.  

A farmer accosts me over the gate as I am suspiciously looking around the place where the dream-snake sneaked in.

‘I need to take your advice and opinion on a very important issue,’ he says.

I know he is the mini-celebrity of the village. Even if he has to buy a needle, he has to ask at least 15 people on the issue. No problem in that, one should consult others. The only problem is that he has never abided by anyone’s inputs, without exception. He will do his own stuff later. It rubs a lot of salt on the people’s ego. Probably, he asks others only with only as much intent as to rule out those points at least. The rule of rejection, I suppose. He basically asks people what not to do, but people won’t understand. I am also not much interested in his new problem, so I have to dodge him.

‘Just now a big black snake has sneaked into the flower bed. First, of all please come inside and help in removing this problem. Yours we can discuss later,’ I reply.

Of course, he leaves the scene without his one more ‘what-not-to-do’ thing.

Kalla is raven black with equally white teeth and eyes. His smile is infectious. He is thin and looks like an undernourished long-distance athlete. He smiles and greets as I brush my teeth standing in front of the yard gate. He moves with ease, not much concerned with life. He started as a truck helper to get promoted to a full driver. There is prohibition in Bihar and he found simple provisions for his truck too boring. His truck would then carry cartons of wine into the forbidden state. A few sorties are very successful in such matters. So he had extra money to spend. In great spirits, he joined a group of trampish happy-go-lucky group of youngsters going to Manali for drinking and carousel. During the bus ride, he got the moment of his life for which he can afford a contended smile till his last breath. His co-passenger on the seat was a backpacker from the far away fairy lands. She was as white was he was glossy black. She found Kalla too cute and innocent with his big white eyes and innocent, shy grin. The bumpy ride dozed her off into a sleep. The best travelers are those who make the most of what they get on the path. They don’t crib about the lack of it. She too was resourceful and to extend the comfort of her sleep, she slid down onto his lap and slept peacefully for hours. Kalla felt so much obliged and honored that he absorbed all the shocks of bumpy ride but didn’t move an inch lest she got awake. Ogling at the angel, he just sat through the hours-long journey. As they say, all things come to an end. The journey got completed. He had even missed his tea snack as the bus stopped by a roadside eating point, his friends winking and urging him to eat something. He but flatly denied through roll of eyes—he couldn’t afford to shake even his head in denial, risking waking up the sleeping angel—and looked the other way. At the destination, the tourist smiled at him, hugged in fact, shook his hand and moved away with perfect ease without even looking back once. What a detachment from worldly matters. ‘How can you move away like this, as if you don’t even know me, while every cell in my body is yours now!?’ Kalla was left wondering. Well, that was the moment of his life, all possible because he had extra bucks from ferrying illicit liquor to Bihar. Then the moment of paying back for fun arrived, as it inevitably arrives. He was caught in Bihar and put into jail. Now, Bihar being too far, his farmer father said the crops are in urgent need his presence here. ‘How can I go there and spend weeks to get him bailed out. Someone has told me that the food is nice in the jail there, so it shouldn’t be a big problem,’ he wasn’t too bothered about the situation. So Kalla enjoyed the Bihar trip for a good six months. That was when his father had enough time; his duties in the fields allowed him some spare weeks to go visiting Bihar and bail out his son.

As I spit out the toothbrush foam, a farmer neighbor is spitting out the choicest expletives on his buffalo, o sorry on his wife. Most probably, she has had extra(marital) fun instead of breakfast this morning. The farmer is around 40 and she is in her early thirties.

Years back when he was freshly married, he almost came running to me as I glumly wandered about the village pond looking at the ducks.

‘What fun do you derive out of this boring duck watching? The real fun is in getting married. A wife is real fun!’ he gesticulated.

‘Good that your wife is very happy with you,’ I smiled.

‘She has every reason to be happy. I give her pleasure almost all the time!’ he turned reddish, probably recalling some memories.

‘Well, too much of everything isn’t recommended. Pleasure arrives with pain also,’ I cautioned.

He was disappointed a bit. ‘You are almost a Babaji, what do you even know about a ‘Wife’?’ he laughed. Both of us laughed in fact.

Years passed. He had two kids and his ability, urge or intent, or all of them together, grayed like the pace of his oxen slackened while pulling the cart. But his wife had the same old expectations from her carter. This gap was easily fulfilled by young and upcoming carters, who are on a look out for such gaps in matrimonies in the neighborhood. The husband was of course wounded to begin with, so he thrashed his wife. But even an oxen won’t increase its pace beyond a point after getting whiplashed. Acceptance is the biggest tool to lead a tolerable life. He spared his hands extra effort in whiplashing his wife after beating the bull and started giving extra effort to his tongues through abuses. Well, that was pretty ok with the wife as well. So here he was doing the same after her latest round of extra(marital) fun.

The big rascal alpha male monkey carries the best pink color on its bum in the world. It comes walking over the yard fence followed by three females all carrying little ones on their backs. The rascal has been very busy in adding to his progenies like Chengez Khan did centuries ago. It goes with uncaring majesty. It has seen the toothbrush in my hand is no match for its fangs, which it bares as a warning not to mess up with his harem as it trains over the wall. Arrogantly it shakes a few branches as a further warning. Bare-handed, or even with a toothbrush, it’s too much for a human.

It remembers our last encounter. I had disturbed the train of his harem on the terrace. The ladies screeched away in horror. He was very much offended as the king of panicked queens. I had a very thin six-foot long bamboo stick. A flimsy weapon I tell you. Its ends were split and I doubt whether even the kitten will mind too much if I strike it with full force. Thank God, the monkey can’t see through the chink in the armor. To him, it is a weapon and he gauzes its lethality by the striking distance, not the quality of its strike. It bared its fangs and mocked attacks from a distance of 8 feet, pacifying its vanity that I am not all afraid of you. I had to add to my weaponry by picking a full brick and threaten a strike in full force. Now that too was a mock attempt, just like a monkey feigns fierceness. Who will throw a full brick with full force on one’s terrace? It will surely miss the monkey and will do more harm to the roof without even ruffling a single hair on the rascal. Again, good that they can’t see through these things and take things just literally on the face value. We have some extra things that we take in spirit. Well, we just have bigger brains, nothing else.

It remained on the front till it saw that the Mamas of his children are safely on a neighbor’s roof and are gleefully looking at the interesting fight from a safe distance. He then showed me his shameless pink bum, looking back once more as if to say ‘I will see you some other day’ and ran away. The next day, I found the terrace messier than before. I have a doubt that he indeed remembered the fight and performed certain extra criminalities on the way back in the evening. They keep the route by the way; come whatever I may do to divert the trail route.

Forgot to tell you, the sturdiest of the street dog was heard howling in pain one afternoon. People ran to find out the big rascal holding the panicked dog by ears and slapping it profusely. Since the dog is a favorite of many drunkard farmers, the monkey king has lot many more enemies now. During their customary brawls in the evenings, when they routinely get sloshed up and need an object to vent out their fury, they have now taken up the fat monkey as the common enemy. The maddest words still do the rounds in the streets but they are less offensive because they are targeted at the monkey.

‘We will keep it chained and make him drink wine only till he turns well-behaved like us,’ one of them gave the expert opinion, which was agreed only to the extent that of course the monkey would be sloshed first but later on would be thrashed for all the sins till it learns to hold human feet and plead for mercy.

It’s impossible to find a well-behaved monkey. They form the foundation of all the misbehaviors that we are engaged in as humans, destroying planet, disturbing the laws of nature. What they do on a small scale in a yard, we do at the bigger scale only. There is no qualitative difference, just there is quantitative difference. That’s why the rhesus monkey loves staying among humans. Out in forests, it gets bored to death.

They pry open the lids of rooftop water tanks and dive in and come out sleek and all brushed up to perfection. They get disgusted with any type of orderliness around. They have to put it into disorder as per the laws of entropy that says the cosmic disorderliness is ever on the increase. So they are the cosmic agents of entropy in fact. The trees have suffered. They just jump from rooftops into the canopies and commit as much damage as possible by flailing their limbs in all directions. Poor trees! A few of them just love rope walking, sorry wire walking. Many a houses go powerless at nights given the extra wire-walking fun by the monkeys. They cannot bear the ignominy of seeing a tree branch bearing the burden of a nest. They have to come to the trees’ aid at any cost and free the rent holding. A few of them have too much of sex in their mind like humans do. They would just walk in all bonhomie on the parapet walls all solemnly, for a break, and suddenly one idiot rides the haunches of the one in the front, irrespective of the gender of the carrier, and mocks licentious movements that can embarrass even the most shameless ones among the farmers.

I just hope that the kittens are spared monkey slaps. That would be too much for them. The other day, it was partially cloudy. They are becoming lazy and over-dependent on milk. Everybody gets spoilt by the free facilities. Who wants to stretch one’s limbs if there isn’t too much urgency for the same? They are no exception. They just wait and wait and wait for the bowl to get its contents. They have stopped going out into the bushes outside the yard to learn hunting. All day they just lie down comfortably and sleep. Well, to me a cat that doesn’t hunt is no cat. So I decide to teach them a lesson in attention and patience, the necessary requisites for hunting.

They keep on observing my every movement, waiting for that particular one that may fill the bowl in the corner. It’s very irritating, I tell you. This is plain greed and puts me off. Grumbling I fill the bowl but I put it in the open as a fine drizzle has just started. Driven by their greed, they run to lop up as much as possible. A cat abhors getting wet. She hates rains even more than the dogs. The misty drizzle turned to a rain and they had to run into the verandah, leaving the bowl still three quarter full. A torture, definitely, to them. So the fear of getting wet is more than the love for milk. New observation. The skies are with me. The rain turns into a storm. It rains cats and mouse to make the cats learn the lesson in patience. So huddled in a corner they stared at the bowl without batting an eyelid. Concentration and patience are good for hunting. I am happy. It keeps on raining for an hour. The bowl is full as a fruit of their patience. They have braved the storm, thunder and lightning and didn’t go hiding like earlier. They run out happily as the clouds take leave off the scene. Well, sometimes even patience doesn’t carry a sweet fruit as we expect. Their patience has carried a lot of water in the bowl. They lop up a few sips and move away making weird faces. I get my revenge for their insolence and laziness.    

Life and times in solitude

 You always need new angels in your life, or rather we turn ordinary people into angels to fill the vacuum in our life, to rub off the slate and make it clean of the image of the former Angel-turned-dark angel-cum-demon. Our mind is a very suitable instrument to create new realities. We are very innovative with our justification for this dusting, cleaning job. Well, human mind is a wonder indeed. No wonder, we have so many parallel realities. A kind of complex web. Like spiders weaving web to catch prey. But spiders are better weavers than us because they don't get caught in their own weaving generally. While we get tangled in our own yarn usually. So fellers, keep your web simple. It's difficult to walk out of it.

**

Life is like a rubber string. It’s dead and limp without any stretching, taut tension in it. So guys if u feel stretched just enjoy the pleasant pull because that simply proves your lifefully throbbing status. We can enjoy this string-walk as long as there is tensioned tautness under our toe-hold. The pull and tension gone, we just crash-land and turn maggot feed. But tension under our toes is one thing, tension on face is quite another. We just have to be careful during the rope-walk. Later on we can even learn to smile while walking carefully on the rope.

**

If you relegate luxury of life to the paradise after death, believe me you will not be lacking in spirits to turn your as well other's lives into hell here on earth. Joy postponed is embracing pain in the present. If you live just for outdated principles, customs and dogmas in the hope of hitting the jackpot of joy in paradise later, you are missing the point of life. Make love, compassion, joy, care and happiness the tenets of your living and you create your paradise here only. Why wait to die for all this. The only religion of life is to live a meaningful and happy life. God's and paradise are better left alone in peace. The paradise must be crammed to the ceilings because there have been billions who chose to suffer on earth to get a ticket to paradise. Why be in such a hurry to join an overcrowded place. Our little earth still has a lot of spaces left for love and laughter to bloom fully. All we need I just to realign and reshape this life.

**

A gloomy grey dawn. All silence except the lonely katydid who still kept its hopes alive for a mate through it unhurried breep breep. The sky hung spent. It overexerted itself in breaking September rain record. The earth below soaked full and lay sleepy like an overfed kid. No rockchats for their pre-dawn birdy chatter. Then the faint traces of a new day filtered across clouds. A handsome oriental magpie Robin took over the chorus from the tired katydid and the dandy black and white bird's teasing, naughty chitter broke the ice. Instantly a couple of peacocks gave gruffy hoots. A crow kawed. A dove sent its docile notes. A white wagtail chipped in. A few sparrows gossiped across the branches. The morning chorus singers increased in number and variety. It's the birds who announce a new day most beautifully. Listen to it. They always seem wishing you the best of a morning!

**

I can never recall a more rainy September day as today on the 11th. Continuous rains since 5 in the morning and still going well into the afternoon. There have been just few pauses in between. Everything is soaked to the hilt. Trees stand with bowed heads. And a butterfly, taking a chance during a few minutes of rain break, flits around. Hail life! Such wispy wings not only survived the watery onslaught, it comes out to claim its life and living as well, and imagine when it's still drizzling...now who says there isn't inspiration in life? I find this butterfly full of life and unmindful of the odds against it. Lesson learnt, we can always do better in any situation. It's windy...still drizzling...but the butterfly has to have its long delayed breakfast. So here it goes to take a few hasty sips from soggy flowers.

**

If Taliban is all for medieval forms in all forms of life, no problem with that. They aren't comfortable with modernity and Western values. Again no problem with that. It's their choice. But then they have to follow the same principle in fighting also. Why don't they fight with swords and spears, the medieval weapons of war? Why use the latest weapons? These are modern tools and mostly manufactured by the Western countries. I respect your medieval choice. But then you have to fight the enemy with your own weapons. Take up swords guys. We will applaud your endeavours!

**

I'm a common man with modest means and common people have to be conscious of their deeds that may justify their philanthropic conscience. They have their limitations and need to look for small avenues to satisfy the good spirit. I am no exception. I collect my tiny grains of good deeds. A potted rose feeling extremely thirsty, its buds and top leaves drooping despiritedly. Pour water with care and consideration. Within fifteen minutes you have the results. The branches straighten and leaves turn taut, the buds raise their heads again. They will smile fully tomorrow. Now who says good deeds don't fetch beautiful results?

**

Birds sing beautifully most of the time, except when they fight or are scared, which isn't too often. I can't sing. But I can at least say something about their songs. And I can write a few lines about music. Well, that makes me happy!

**

The day 

holding its last ray,

The dusk 

at its mellifluous cusp,

The breeze stops

to welcome dew drops,

To the nest

birds return for rest,

The leech

also has to reach

a place safe,

To crawl

cling and brawl

on a new day.

**

A richly yellow, thick, grand old guava leaf lets go of its grip on the branch and tumbles down to create a soft tonk on the car roof. The completion of a journey! Well, I believe some stately wise old man also died peacefully in sleep, after completing a joyful, meaningful life, in some corner of the world at exactly the same time.

**

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!

A mundane-morning of a common man

 A Common mormon, a black butterfly for the uninformed, lands on my bushy grey shack of hair. How do I know that it’s there? I see it in the landing pose coming straight from the front. It must have grossly overestimated my saintliness and sat a few ant-paces from the hairline. That is the most beautiful burden ever to carry! I hold myself still to prolong its stay. My neighbor proves he has a nice eyesight. ‘Hey there is butterfly on your head!’ he points out from the terrace. I just smile in response. It must have been a tired butterfly stopping to take a pause only. Soon it realizes, it’s no saint and takes to its colorful dives. I see it and wish it the best of a morning.

There is a monkey on the parapet, very relaxed with its legs hanging down the wall. One hand is taken back and the palm spread on the wall top to support the relaxing posture. What about the other hand? Do you think a monkey has enough patience to keep its both hands relaxing? Never possible, I tell you! He is fondling his endowment. Scandalous. Now I now from where our lust comes from. It comes from the monkeys because we share 96% of our gene pool with them. Monkeys have sex in their mind as well apart from their bodies, like we humans who have more of it in our mind and far less in the body. That’s disturbing a bit.

The kittens give a nice lopping exercise to their tongues as they get busy to lick out even the steel metal apart from the milk. They find it shameful if some drops remain in the bowl. Then one of them moves away with majestic contentment. It arches up and then downs its back, stretching its paws, opening its jaws to the full. I think it’s a kind of digestive cat-yoga that helps them in bearing up with the ill-effects of overeating. The other one moves away sluggishly. Probably, in order to give a stiff competition to its sibling, it has overfed itself to the extent of finding cat-yoga impossible for the time being.

On the terrace of a house in the neighborhood, there is a long bamboo pole fixed at a corner to serve as a cloth-line. A cloth-line doesn’t require this kind of length to sustain itself. The farmer must have used the whole of it, deciding against cutting it to lesser size, so that it can be used for some other purpose also, like thatch rafter or even breaking the rival’s head from a distance in the drunken street brawl, which are in plenty by the way. For the time being, a crow is using this extra length to its benefit. It spends most of its time on the top of the bamboo pole. I was wondering about the reasons for its taking this point as its favorite. I think I have found one. Right under the pole, there is an open-air bathroom in the corner. The farmer has four adolescent daughters. They are full of life and giggle mischievously at anyone from the age of 10 to 60, or maybe even beyond because I haven’t seen the older ones getting the benefit so far, provided the object of their giggle belongs to the opposite sex. Well, that’s just being young. What’s wrong in that? I hope even the crow hasn’t been emboldened by their free-spirited grins and sits there, waiting patiently for the roofless bathroom to be occupied. Well, if that’s the case, I find it really objectionable. I have learnt to take their grins at me to be cuddly daughterly ones and from that relationship I feel like shooting the crow down with my sling-shot.

That isn’t possible by the way. The Chinese sling-shot let me down on its first instance of usage like Jinping dumped Modi’s Phafda affection. The sling-shot was hung on the wall like a Knight’s sword, unused since it arrived from China with much promise of performance. It came out of its scabbard for the purpose of turning a rascal monkey’s red bum still redder as it threw around things on the terrace for the sheer rascally fun of it. A full criminal, I tell you. Like Jim Corbet, monkey-hunting this time for a change, I aimed to the last limits of my eyes and hands. The instrument gave its best. The tension was gone both from the weapon and the holder. The pebble was safely in my hand. The rubber snapped. Chinese rubber, why the hell I even expected much of it? The criminal just walked away over the parapet fence, unpunished, and most importantly, with the same shameful redness on its bum. I couldn’t contribute to the color. So I felt really disappointed.

Well, someone just asked, ‘Why don’t you tweet on Twitter?’ ‘I am not a sparrow, so I can’t tweet much. I am a frog rather, so I croak. Let them have a Croaker first then I will croak,’ I told him my real reason for not tweeting much.

Just now the kitten has crash-landed into the yard from the fence. It’s out of its wits and dashes straight into the barn to hide in the safest corner. A pack of babblers is after its life. Now it realizes that birds aren’t that delicate as its mother must have told. They aren’t just soft, juicy meat. They mean plenty of shameless expletives as well, as the pack of babblers prove now. They hang around in the barn for full five minutes, throwing choicest abuses and challenging the cowardly kitten to come out. It but won’t come out. Never mess up with babblers little cat.

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.