A bike ride

 I'm going on my old bike. It was there when I was in college and was a suitable partner in a few typical youthful follies. But that was then and now is now. Both of us are rusted and greying fellows with the shine of wisdom seeping inside. 

A big truck has collapsed leaving a narrow passage for the vehicles from both sides. There is a young man struggling to maintain his vertical. Vehicles have to crawl to pass through the narrow opening. He means to have a lift. Who would give a lift to someone who can barely stand. An old tauji almost kicked him away shouting, 'You will fall from my scooter and die if I give you a lift!'. And now I find him almost slumped over my bike's handle pleading for a pillion ride. I repeat the old man's retort that I just heard. 

Who says perfectly sloshed men are out of their senses? He can at least smell the feeble traces of humanity in me. Some vibes, the way I speak or look or whatever. He must have felt that I carry the maximum probability of allowing him to get onto the bike. Before I realise he has marvelously heaved himself for a sloshed out pillion ride on my vehicle.

A snake has the instinct to bite. A farmer's first instinct in such cases would be to slap at least. I carry the same farming blood. So the first instinct is to give him a backhanded smash on the face. But then I have been trying to convince myself that I'm on the path of spirituality and the people on the path don't react, they respond. So I take a huge gulp of anger down my throat. The effort nearly chokes me, because anger directed into the guts literally shakes you up. With my anger thrashing my gut now, I try to talk him out of his dangerous plan to ride pillion in such a state. We are both putting our respective cases, me in irritated tones and he in slurred, pleading humanity-arising notes. The passage is blocked. A fat man is dying to reach his house -- most probably to get thrashed by his wife -- and honks his car horn very madly, 'O hello, you two, resolve your issues somewhere else. Why block the path?' Both of us give him a very angry look and to make his blood boil a bit more I prolong my arguments in the drunken case. But then many horns are honking so I have to move my vehicle with a load that is swaying in all directions. 

I stop at a distance by the side but he is already feeling safe, all secure, holding my back and almost slumped over my shoulder. I remind him that if I allow him a ride on my bike he will surely fall and get crushed under some incoming vehicle. 

Now he is crying. Fresh, salty, warm human tears on my shoulder. 'Koi kisi ka nahi hai brother. Sab matlabi hain. Only you are a real good man!' he muttered holding me to avoid a fall. How can you act against humanity if someone has just declared you to be the gem of a person? So I move with utmost caution, at a very slow speed, just by the road's edge so that he doesn't get crushed under a passing tyre if he falls. He sways like a long, thin eucalyptus sways to the wind. All this while he is muttering, 'Diamong hai diamond. ..this brother of mine!' I was lucky to drop him safe at the place of his choice. He walked a few tottering steps and then sprawled himself on earth, the ultimate bed. Maybe taking rest before hatching a plot to get another pillion ride. A young man, soiled clothes on account of dusty tumbles due to inebriated senses, out of the driving seat of his life. It was a sad affair. Very sad. I moved on with a little resigned shake of my head. The government knows drinking destroys countless lives. But then the liquor industry pays billions in taxes so the government is happy with the affairs. And then it's for people like me to carry dead drunk citizens to their destination.

Far away from the maddening crowd

 

This peacock has a hand-length of plumage. It looks quite handsome with it, something of rugged little stubble charm of masculinity. Full fantail is cumbersome. It keeps it tethered to the centricity of amorous passion, making it a love-haunted soul. It also means a lot of effort while flying, almost bum-busting effort. And the total absence of plumage also gives too much of a clean-shaven look to a peacock. But with this short plumage, it looks dapper smart and can fly to its satisfaction.

The red-vented bulbul is seen after two-three months. I believe it had gone visiting some relative. Maybe got bored with the uneventfulness of life here. Now it looks fresh with profound and impressionistic attitude.

A cat got onto the neem tree. The cat has no business there. So a crow, a couple of mynas, three-four pied starlings and some babblers raise such a din that it has to jump off the tree. The compendium of birdie platitudes starts a little chain of repercussions. The intimidating squirrel, which has grabbed the millet bowl all for itself after shooing away the sparrows, now runs away trippingly. It thinks the cat has jumped with a decisive attempt at its life. The fresh-from-journey bulbul gives it a nice chase over the wall top. The sparrows shout in merriment.                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Little Nevaan's small world

 

Nevaan’s words during the online classes are highly censored. A little soul’s words of innocence can expose mountains of elderly hypocrisies. Childhood innocence is startingly stylized for truth. It comes from a resounding depth of purity sustained by an unconditioned and uncustomized self.

One day he is given freedom to give his uncensored speech on the topic of mother. It falls with the force of classical weight on feathery modernity. ‘Mama is very good. She does all my homework. She gets very angry also and sometimes pulls my hair,’ his rare repertoire of praising words leaves his mother teary eyed. ‘I devote my entire day for his welfare and look what I get in return,’ she is inconsolable. But then she has realized that he is free in his opinions and is swimming with powerful frog-kicks in the pool of childhood independence.

So now he has to do his own homework. His mother has said a firm no to do it for him after his sting operation. He is asked to ‘write five lines on Nevaan’. He is seen very  busy for twenty minutes with the below given essay in the middle of the page:

‘Write five lines on Nevaan. He doesn’t like reading and writing. He wants to play all the time. He wants to watch cartoon TV all the time. He wants a roomful of chips.’

That marks his little summary of paradise. This candid and instamatic write-up brings more tears in the eyes of his mother. With a lyrical fluency, Nevaan is sauntering around to do full justice to his essay.

He is seen standing in front of Labrador Tuffy, the friendly pet from the neighborhood. Labrador Tuffy barks in a friendly tone. ‘How are you Tuffy?’ he asks. The dog wags its tail and replies in soft friendly barkings. Nevaan also starts doing bho-bho in varied tones. The conversation goes for about fifteen minutes. An objection is raised against Nevaan’s barking. ‘But we are talking in his language. I tried and thought he would reply in our language. But seems he cannot do it, so I changed my language to talk to him in his own,’ he replies in a prescriptive tone.

Easy times with a few birds in a little garden

 

An asian pied starling is carrying a few feet long thin strip of light fabric in its beak as it flies to its construction site. It’s a busy world engaged in making, breaking and remaking. She has an equal right to make something as anyone around. The tiny tailorbird plays mischief and takes a snipe at the lower end. The big group of house sparrows raises a laughing chorus. A brahmani mynah shrieks with delight. A peacock looks eagerly with the stately extravagance of its colors. A squirrel scuttles around with a kind of gestural vocabulary. On a neighbor’s wall an alpha male monkey moves with a haughty demeanor. Looking at him, I realize we carry a pretty hoary ancestry.

The honey buzzard hasn’t yet forgotten about its honeyed lunch. It’s circling above in the sky, maybe staring at me accusatively as I sit on a chair in the courtyard near the tree bearing the hive. I intend to write something here, but then he doesn’t know that it’s only a struggling countryside writer. He supposes that the honeybees have summoned my services to scare him. I’m thankful to him that he is scared because if he attacks I’ll run sooner than the honeybees.

There is an eerie stillness after the ripples of birdie noise let loose by the tiny tailorbird’s adventure. The little garden around me seems capable of maintaining a sustainable and dynamic paradigm. I sit with a retrospective aura, a kind of thin-veiled misty cloud around me born of engaging self-reflectivity. All of us possess multilayered individual histories shaped by the sharp edges of irony hitting at our existence with a kind of gentle madness. A gentle breeze blows with its suggestive touches at the leaves of the trees.

On the threshold of a colorful spring

 

The spring is always waiting in the wings; like a spiky creeper looping around her cold lover. Basant Panchami, falling on February 5 this year, amounts to sowing the spring seeds that would blossom smiles in March. It’s the start of sunnier days with a balmy tonality. The seasons have an amazing, tactical flexibility that allows healthy transitions and undisputed takeovers.

The festive occasion is but a kind of setback for the honeybees. They have been brave and tried to undo the limiting definitions of inclement weather to survive for sunnier days. Sadly, their nice round hive is attacked by the honey buzzard. His beak pecks with a notational intent. The hive gets misshapen as he steals away their precious store of honey. I watch from a distance. I can feel that something is missing. Dry leaves tumble down because the big predator’ wings ruffle the branches. We humans suffer the flatness of our sweeping conclusions. To my analytical wit, the eagle is an unsober and hostile bird. My reality is that the bees are buzzing in the air with a sense of loss. But maybe their truth is something very different from my feeling.

The eagle flutters away with a shrieking note. From my linear perspective, the hive seems like an amoeba now. But then my human-born pain withers away and some unconditional truth lands in my senses like a lyrical oasis. There is always a balance in nature. Still there is something left to build the house again, to make a new beginning. There is surely some reserve to last for some more days. They just need their queen to be safe for a riveting fresh start in the spring. The rest they will undoubtedly manage, especially now when we have the February sun smiling kindly. The spring will unfold its subtle coils and will unleash many flowery smiles.

Unlike we humans they don’t complain and waste their energy in the blame game. They have a vaulting clarity in their ‘being’ in contrast to our efforts at ‘becoming’ with our limpid ambitions. Within half an hour, the tattered house is far better in appearance. It’s not smooth and round like earlier. There are irregular edges as the bees work back to their former positions. The eagle is but still circling in the air. I’m sure it has taken enough for one square meal. There are so few eagles left and a small number of beehives. Looking at such little survival games, it appears as if all isn’t lost. It’s a bit assuring.