A bit of clean-up drive

 

There is a pre-Diwali clean-up in the house. Thanks to the festival spirit, morose strains of discontent and apathy get dispelled from the soul. Loud-mouthed disorder and clumsy disarray get confronted finally. Festivals bestow you a moonlighted spirit and carry a genial touch of humanity. My cleaning the house, as a Lord Ram worshipping Hindu, to welcome Diwali, leaves enough amusing nuggets for the Muslim trash-picker to make him really happy. He is not-a-boy, not-yet-a-man.

Due to the shake-up drive, the crickets are startled, a conference of frogs gets disturbed under a rusty piece of iron, a lazy lizard scurries away as a plastic case is taken out, and spiders struggle on their arthritic, shaky legs as corners are cleaned. The shoebox tied to a not-in-use ceiling fan, fixed to serve as a nest for the birds that never accepted the tenancy offer, has stinging hornets. Well, not all tenants are submissive. They save their house in the cleaning drive. A fighting attitude helps these days.

These are balmy late October days, the autumn holding the little world in cute enticement. The clear sky hanging with a swanky magnanimity. The stars leave a fluorescent nightglow. Peace and harmony hit a peak when the monkeys aren’t around. But then some liquor-lover comfortably fills up the vacuum. The wives of the liquor-lovers have to daily stretch their patience to accommodate newer domestic troubles.

There are myriads of anecdotal stories in nature’s kitty. A hailstorm strikes to send down the message that not everything is under our control, at least for the time being. It’s a heavy lashing by the skies. There are broken branches and decimated paddy in the fields. Who can help it? There are still confusing contours of myriads of mysteries above.

An old alpha male monkey, fuelled by his vintage sexuality, has a child bride towing him these days. How I wish that he gets at least a dozen strikes with big icy clods from the heavens!

The banana cone is still there. Its layers open with gentle succession. A purple sunbird is busy at it during the day. The bats get its possession at nights. The monkeys have stoically spared it so far. They just pluck away little banana fingers as these unfold above the cone.

The little frog in the kitchen seems distraught that the ever-eating Trummp is gone. It was a good source of food. Little crumbs would fall from the cage and the little frog would dine under the cage. The gluttonous parrot proudly looked at the tiny frog below. Well, that reminds me of Trummp again. I missed to mention that as it finally emerged from its charming spell about eating and emerged from the cage, I shouted, ‘Ja Shimran jee le apni zindagi!’ Let’s hope she is having a nice nuptial inning with her husband. I would prefer to call it Shimran now because there is no need of using cuss words now.

It reminds me of another parrot. My brother’s friend has a pet parrot in Kashmir. It drinks wine with his retired father in the evenings and after that in eased-up spirits whistles at any woman who comes visiting the house. He isn’t bothered about the men entering the house. Maybe the cosmic sense of masculinity itself carries the strains of lecherousness.

Mistri Sat Prakash, a native of Jhansi, informs that the parrots born on an old, grandfatherly neem tree are wise and clever and can be taught to speak. But those born on mahua trees are dimwits and enjoy their foolish tete-tete only.

Sat Prakash is helping me restore a semblance of order in the dilapidated and disarrayed yard. The bricklayer is a small frail man with strong hands. The latter fact is more important for a mason because only strong hands enable you to keep grasping at life, especially if you are poor and have to work daily to survive.

Last night, after he had finished his work for the day in my yard, a smart teacher lured him and others to transfer his provisions to the town. ‘It will take just an hour,’ he told them. But that one hour got completed at three in the morning. So he and his helper are sleepy as they work for me on the next day. They work very lazily and I allow them their semi-sleep. Exploitation there has to be compensated here with some lenience now. It helps people in keeping their faith in humanity.

He is extremely soft spoken and a simple man. You point out the most glaring fault in what he has done, he will listen to you very patiently; he would continue listening though your suggested solution and would finally add, very gently, that this is exactly what he was going to do. His best quality is that he doesn’t trouble his brains with his own plans as a mason. He would do exactly what you tell him to do.

In his sleepy state, taking the afternoon tea, to make up for the inefficiency at work during the day, he gives me new nuggets of information. ‘A prêt has just three of the five primal elements, a sort of spooky concoction of air, sky and ether. So we shouldn’t worry too much about them. They lack solidity and ground to do something physical directly,’ he informs me. Well, that makes the ghosts pretty harmless to me now. It seems a highly scientific explanation.

His helper is big built, very suitable for the physical tasks of digging, lifting load, mixing concrete and the rest of ilk that a mason expertly orders his helper to do. The boy is smeared with soil and cement and grumbles about his slovenliness. ‘Who has ever washed a lion’s face?; who has washed a male buffalo’s behind?’ Sat Prakash eggs him on, making him a lion and a robust buffalo both at the same time.

Despite all the strength of his hands, his handshake carries a feather touch. It feels like you are holding a lifeless hand. It seems he has shaken hands for the first time in the late fifties of his life. Who shakes hands with them? The people usually shake and jolt the littlest semblance of dignity and respect their soul still carry.

And irrespective of the day’s concretely frank and upfront tidings, the nights can be gentle, affable if you have the aesthetic signpost of some slow-paced, gently characterized Iranian movie to guide your way through the night’s oeuvre. The Iranian movie ‘A Cold Day’ is another warm, little story. To like an Iranian movie, you need to be a lover of small-time beauty of nature, hills, flowers, streams; the unhurried pace of life; smiles, soft emotions, simplicity of life and dollops of nature. They beautifully make up for the absence of song and drama.

It’s a little school among small, rolling hills. A teacher saves a little second grader from the fire in the school and gets serious burn injuries. Little Ali is the boy concerned. He is plagued with self-reproach as the teachers blame him for the episode. The teacher has burns on his face and is hesitant to appear before the students. Ali breaks the ice by visiting the teacher who has gone into utter isolation on account of his changed looks. They face each other with frankness, dignity and respect. The smiles return.

A Pilgrimage

 

Through the cut and thrusts of life, as a formal authenticity of my faith, I sometimes go for Govardhan Parikrama. Walking miles on naked feet saves the disillusionment from turning into cynicism. Pilgrimages are significant in their psycho-spiritual dimensions. Bleeding hearts and their taut indictment of the covert and overt shades of fate get a respite. The creeping monotony of life withdraws its steps for some time. The sense of peace felt, despite the hardest of moments, is inherently intriguing.

There is a sadhu in a wheeled tin cabin stationed along the pilgrimage path. He is reading from a scripture. He looks like a well-kept exotic bird. He has shifty eyes and looks at your hand as you approach him. If your hand doesn’t enter your pocket to take the wallet then you are a transgressor into his hymn-citation space. A person not only commits the mistake of not touching his wallet but also performs a double whammy as he tries to click the sadhu’s picture as if he is clicking a rare bird in a big cage. The sadhu loses temper, breaks the sequence of his mantra and retorts, ‘I don’t take a selfie!’

Nearby a mammoth alpha male is having the fun of his life. He is lying sprawled on the sand, his belly up and all fours spread out. His queens are giving him a nice massage by rummaging their nimble fingers through his fur to pick lice. Another one is busy fulfilling the basic instincts on his queen consort, the primal religiosity of all living beings.

At a path-side temple, the priest proudly informs me that around five crore pilgrims daily visit the temple. The mathematics leaves my head spinning. I try my level best to show that I believe him. I succeed and he pats a nice blessing on my back. It props out something from my wallet. But he doesn’t seem too happy about the effect of his blessing pat.

An exclusive signboard says: Chunmun Bandariya ke liye 1000 jamun ke ped, meaning one thousand jamun trees for Chunmun baby monkey. It’s a nice little grove of fruit trees. Blessed be the Babaji who asked his disciples to set up this little grove of fruit trees. In fact, many monkeys show that it’s fulfilling its intended purpose as they romp around among the fruit trees.

As I get tired while walking, I try to take inspiration from those who cover the entire distance by prostrating, stretching their bodies on the ground all along the way and cover the whole length by measuring it with their bodies. Such flawless faith makes you a God or Goddess without doubt.   

The Story of a Aaam Family

 

This is October end. There is a ceremonial frenzy of the season through falling leaves, almost a rain of dew at nights, fleecy mist at dawn, dew-drenched flowers at sunrise, paling sunrays, cool breeze, lots of festivals and much welcomed freshness in social mood. The air carries some floating salubrious emotions. Rashe and his younger brother Karne are sitting under a tree. It’s day off from work. Well, their case needs a mention here. They have a smalltime, ambling past, a little history of their household.

Rashe’s brother Karne went missing at the age of ten. He was spotted last time at the nearest railway station at Sonipat. Everyone accepted that he boarded a train but whether he went north or south nobody had any clue. Well, his parents had three sons and a daughter, so he wasn’t missed much in the one-room house of a poor landless family lying almost at the base of the socio-economic hierarchy. The most popular version about him was that his organs had been harnessed by the medical mafia and he had completed his purpose on earth.

His father had one leg afflicted with polio. So they christened him Langda, the lame one. Langda was very hardworking and would give a tough challenge to any two-legged human around in completing tough labor tasks. He loved drinking after the day’s hard work. And once he was fully sloshed, he would give a test to his lungs by shouting so loudly as to be heard even in a neighboring village on clear, silent nights. He didn’t say too offensive things. He just targeted an ex village head who had denied his request for a below poverty line card that would have made him eligible for free ration and some help for repairing his one-room house. Langda wasn’t in the sarpanch’s good books, so his name didn’t enter the beneficiaries, while people far richer than him got their cards that entitled them to receive government subsidies. So Langda would shout ‘Dalbir sarpanch mar gaya!’ throughout the night. It meant the sarpanch is dead. The ex village head stayed at the farthest end of the village but he would regularly hear the declaration of his death because Langda shouted better than a big loudspeaker. Finally, they had to give him a few slaps. Langda simply brought down the volume a bit but continued with his declaration nonetheless.

One night a fully drunk Langda was hit by a high-speed car while crossing the road outside the village. The family received ten lakh rupees in compensation from the party in their out of court settlement. That helped them in making a better house. His widow would acknowledge God’s help as she saw their better home. ‘Thank God their father’s bones sold well!’ she would say.

Then Karne returned after ten years. He had grown tall like a giraffe. He had actually boarded a train heading north to reach Punjab. There a good-natured Sikh farmer kept him as a helper on his farm. As a goodwill gesture, I gifted them a big speaker lying sullenly in the store. Karne and his brother, Rashe, the gentle giant, loved music. They must have really liked the gift because they played songs at a riotous volume throughout nights. The soul of their father must have felt propitiated, hearing his legacy being carried forward in a nice manner. Rashe and Karne would work on the farms and construction sites and would enjoy ganja whenever possible.

Well, ganja has been quite a popular choice in this part to forget the hardships of life. During the good old days, people would smoke ganja sitting on the last seat of the last bus and its fumes would take everyone in the grip along the aisle. The driver would baulk that his head is spinning and he would crash-land the bus into the roadside ditch. ‘Please do it, you will also die with us!’ they would encourage him to keep his words.

During those grand old days of theatres, when people danced in front of the screen on popular songs, there would be some ganja-lovers inside the cinema hall who would leave a big plume of ganja smoke leaving dozens coughing and sneezing. Ask them to stop it and they would threaten to help the troubled person by beating him to pass out and hence turn impassive to the offensive smoke. Those were the days when women won’t dare to step into a theatre because the crudest words were hurled in the darkness infested with grossly atrophied masculinity. Well, coming back along the ganja strains to the little tale of Rashe’s house.   

Their brother, named Munna, is a bit higher placed on the scale of cleverness and sophistication in thinking. He works at a needle factory in the nearby town. A few years back he took an overdose of ganja. People said it entered his brain and he shouted all through the nights for almost two years and kept the family tradition of night shouts alive. Well, on a dull drab overcast autumn morning, the song of the birds holds the hope of a bright sun sometime. The fate of the only witty son in the family also got its sunshine. He got his mind back and stopped shouting. In fact, he seems a silent sage now and speaks only the least words required to sustain his job.

Rashe is my favorite of the three. ‘How are you Rashe?’ I ask. ‘Even happier after meeting you,’ he replies. He did some work for me and after paying him I asked, ‘Is it enough?’ ‘There cannot be any shortage in your reign,’ he replied. He prefers payment in liquor. Handing over the favorite beverage after the completion of another task, I ask him, ‘Hope this is sufficient.’ He points his fingers to the sky and declares, ‘God will definitely give more.’ So I have to give him more to fulfill God’s wish. He has a cutely slurred speech thanks to the immobility of his lower jaw that went out of action after their horse hit him on jaw when he was an infant.

Their mother is a much-at-ease woman. She is a big lady and moves slowly with ease and comfort. Any type of restlessness is farthest from her persona. She is incapable of holding any ill will against anyone or anything. The villagers take these uncompetitive traits as signs of her foolishness and say that she is weak in mind. Being competitive, restless and quarrelsome are taken as signs of mental health. She is thus beyond any malice. There is an exception though. She has a mission against the monkeys and that makes my head almost bow in reverence before her. The roots of this animosity go back to her childhood. She cannot forget that a monkey snatched away the sweetest mango she has ever tasted in life. Unpardonable. The simians got the duel further when an irritated monkey sank its teeth in her calf muscles. She took hold of its fur and bit even harder. The monkey carried the bite mark to its grave just like she carries hers on her leg.

A Romancer of Loads

 

This one again dates back to the eighties of the last century. They gave him the name deplume of Bhunda Nai. Bhunda derived from his features, which stood as pompous adversaries to any sense of symmetry. There was a gross inaccuracy in their alignment with a sense of normalcy. They shouldn’t have named him Bhunda, ugly. To me he looked pretty interesting with his strange features. Nai was derived from his caste, barber.

Bhunde Nai ka bharota, Bhunda Nai’s fodder bundle, was part of local fables. He had spun a dynamic legend about it. Apart from his customary job of cutting hair, shaving beards and filling hookahs during weddings, he worked as an agricultural laborer. During those times, in the harvesting season, a laborer would be paid in fixed maunds of wheat and fixed number of fodder bales. He couldn’t do anything about the wheat because it would be measured. But the equation was open in terms of the number of fodder bales. A bundle could be as big as per the carrying capacity of the bearer. He made it the largest in the area.

He was a small man but very strong in bones. He had sewn himself a huge piece of sackcloth in order to accommodate maximum amount of fodder chaff in a bundle. The people comfortably agreed that his huge piece of cloth could easily accommodate a quintal and half of wheat chaff. Then he would walk like an ant carrying a huge grain of sugar. He was technically entitled to it. As per the norms, the farmer couldn’t say no to his load as long as Bhunda could carry it.

Then one day he fell while carrying his load from the farm to his house. They measured the load. It was dangerously near to two quintals. The village headman, a wise old man, had to intervene. ‘We have to fix the amount in measurable terms for fodder also, otherwise he would break his neck some day,’ he said. So the rule was changed and fodder chaff also came to be fixed in weight so that Bhunda won’t put his life at risk by carrying the heaviest load as per the old rule that allowed specified number of bales irrespective of their weight.

Bhunda was disgruntled. ‘You higher caste people make rules as per your advantage. What business is it yours if I break my neck while carrying my load,’ he cribbed while shaving the beard of a very old farmer. ‘We have all the business in doing so and save your life. Don’t we take care of our strong bulls who plough the maximum furrows for us?’ the old farmer asked in a gentle tone. Bhunda Nai had to agree to the logic. Strong laborers were as much indispensable as the strong bulls in agriculture during those days.

Why is the real poetry a thing of youth only?

 

Most of the real poems are written during the turbulent twenties of a poet's life. In the early twenties, one is pursued by the glorious uncertainties of life. It’s a slippery, exciting and critically opinionated path. Don’t worry, it’s just a surge of extra energy, nothing else. The stage is shaky and realities are yet to get a foothold. You trample a lot of turf like a young colt spraying legs in all directions and galloping just for the sheer causeless fun of it. Of course, there are consequences but they hold their miserable importance in the eyes of the elders only. To the youngsters they are just irritable speed-breakers on the thrilling path.

One’s hormonally buzzing self floats in a hazy mist of unripe, raw, juicy, sweet-sour tart of dreams and imaginations striking the moron mass of established norms. The hormonal-storms-fuelled beliefs, views, opinions and dreams create sparks and sometimes thunderstorms. Nothing wrong with that! That’s all part of our making. It’s a pretty noisy and shaky groundwork born of your ‘making’ that provides a bit of stability later in life. Ask anyone, most of us are very lenient and forgiving towards our youthful gallops even if these have given us many bruises after the hard falls. We wear them with pride like the symbols of our reaching the peak of the mountain.

Tossed by immaturity and the raw power of youth and age, one hits the extreme ends of emotional scale. It’s a massive range of most painful pangs of heart to the ecstatic most reverberations of spirit. It’s a churning of our existence pulled by totally different strings. The product is quite fatty and butter-laced. No wonder, poetry is the handmaiden of the youth. The sediments, the cuts, the corrosion, the erosion, the torrents all unleash a gushing stream of emotions and adventures that swirl past the hard-established conventions and taboos to create a niche for the self.

There is an entire emotional terrain from the bleakest to the brightest as a youthful soul tries to manage the precarious walk on the shaky rope of young age. The same was the case with yours truly. It was a far simpler world in the nineties of the last century and it seems a long time since then. But it’s never easy for the youth, be it any age or century. They have their own challenges, agonies, follies and ecstasies.

The sheer shakiness of life in youth propels a multitude of streamlets in one’s heart. There is a teasing pull between the head and the heart, wherein the latter most often wins the lots in its favour. The elders may disagree but young people have an entire parallel world, a world that challenges the mundane and boring and firmly etched norms and conventions. We may compromise later in life and settle for a far more contained and restrained life but all of us carry pining nostalgia for our youth because that is when we really challenged the chains that curtail our free flight.

Our follies, which we committed during our youth, still stand better than all the rights of our later years. This is in celebration of youth and its tendency to throw us literally to hit against the ceiling. And the bumps, bruises and little scars that we get along the way never fail to bring a smile on our lips even in the grey years of our old age.