Ravan's little lamp of righteousness

There is a beautiful episode in Ramayana. Sri Ram looking for Sita Mata finally reached the southern coast of India. There was a vast chasm of the sea separating his monkey army from the mighty Ravan’s bastion, Lanka. There were two choices for him to get back his wife: First, through persuasion if possible; second, to wage a war if that was the last resort left. As a righteous man, Sri Ram sent his ambassadors to persuade the Lanka king and return Sita without unnecessary bloodshed. All options were nullified by Ravan’s ego and pride. So war was the only option left.

A daunting task of erecting a bridge and fighting Ravan’s mighty army faced Sri Ram. Before starting on such a huge test, it was thought befitting to seek divine intervention in his favor by performing an elaborate puja and other rituals. It involved performing a yagna to propitiate Lord Shiva and seek his blessings. Only Ravan, the best Vedic scholar and Brahman, was suitable to conduct the rituals and the grand ceremony. To Sri Ram’s council of war advisors and other allies it was totally outlandish to seek the priestly duties from one’s enemy. They were shocked and surprised to hear the Ayodhya prince’s intention to have his enemy as the officiating priest for the ceremony. They were but mere mortals having a typically defined sense of one’s enemy, of seeing one’s opponent in binary colors only. But Sri Ram, an evolved soul with enlightened self, saw a persona in totality. He could see one’s utility above the boundaries set up by ego and pride. He could see the littlest star of light shining in a dark personality.   

Hanuman flew with the message. The proposal was met with much consternation, guffaws of laughter and peels of anger in Ravan’s council. Everyone expected their powerful king to spit on the proposal and insult the carrier of such a preposterous scheme. They were shocked when the Lanka king looked serious and gently agreed to the invitation. Ravan, the proficient Vedic scholar Brahman, was no ordinary being. He well understood that as a Brahman he was duty-bound to accept the proposal to officiate a yagna ceremony. He himself was great in his own ways beyond the strict confines of arrogance and pride through which we know him usually. Even at his worst with his pride, arrogance and haughty demeanor he remembered his duties as a Brahman.

So here was Ravan surprisingly at the puja venue to officiate and conduct a ceremony meant to seek blessings for the victory of his enemy. His role as the conductor of those rituals and ceremonies demanded a flawless approach, an approach that should not be allowed to be tainted by his other self as the head of the army that would be fighting against Sri Ram’s soldiers. So he gave his best as the officiating priest of the ceremony conducted to get Lord Shiva’s blessings for victory in the impending war.

Ravan expertly inspected all the arrangement and found something missing. ‘You have made the arrangement quite nicely O Ram. But there is something very important missing. As the host of this ceremony, you cannot install Lord Shiva’s idol without the company of your wife. As per shastra edicts, however high and mighty a person is, he cannot perform this ceremony without his consort,’ Ravan explained the missing link required for the successful performance of the rituals.

Sri Ram, the ever-poised and mentally balanced sage warrior, kept his composure and thanked the great scholar on his pious sense of duty in his role as a conductor of ceremonies. ‘O Lanka king, you have righteously followed your duty to make it a flawless arrangement and pointed out the thing that needs to be attended to. Now kindly suggest a solution to the problem because it also is part of your duty,’ the graceful Ayodhya king gently said with a smile.

Even in the face of war with his rival Ravan knew his dharmic duties and suggested a solution. ‘I shall arrange to get your wife here for the successful performance of the ceremonies. But you have to give a word that she will be allowed to be taken back to Lanka after the puja is over,’ Ravan said. Sri Ram agreed to it.

So all the arrangements were made and the great scholar Brahman expertly conducted the ceremony. The flawless performance meant that Lord Shiva would be blessing Sri Ram’s army with victory. Moreover, as the chief officiating priest of the grand ceremony of exquisite rituals it was Ravan’s duty to bless the puja host with victory. To Ravan it was a challenge to fulfill his dharmic duties as a priest even if it meant blessing his rival with victory. ‘Vijayi Bhava!’ Ravan fulfilled the last of his priestly duties. To him it was nothing short of victory in the game of ceremony proposed by Sri Ram. The great Brahman in him knew that he was cursing himself with a defeat by blessing the enemy with a victory.

Ravan was now convinced that he would be killed in the war. Such mystical levels of puja to earn the blessings of Lord Shiva would surely bless the puja host with victory in the war. On top of that he himself had to bless the host with victory. One more puzzle faced him. As the officiating priest he was duty-bound to accept some dakshina from the host. He was in a dilemma. As a rich, proud king he had been a giver of charity all his life. But now he had to adopt the role of a humble Brahman receiving the charity from the puja host with full humility. Taking any material wealth would have wounded his pride because he had imprisoned Kuber, the lord of wealth. But he had to perform this duty as well. As the officiating fees for the puja performance he asked Sri Ram to respectfully stand near him while he took his last breaths in the battle. Later, when Ravan was dying on the battlefield Sri Ram kept his word and respectfully stood by the mighty Lanka king. The victorious Ayodhya prince stood there in utmost humility and paid respects to the departing soul. His supremely balanced self didn’t show any trace of pride and haughtiness that we usually see in victorious kings and princes. No wonder, we worship him as Bhagwan.

From this episode we can say that there is no absolute evil, there is no perfect darkness in a persona. Ravan, whom we portray as the symbol of all-pervading darkness, had his own light of truth and duties deep inside his soul.

We are part good, part bad. We have to keep lighting the lamp for the good in us, to help it maintain its righteous glow. And we have to keep fighting against the darkness of the bad in us. This is the war of the soul to attain a righteous self. After defeating the enemy within, we have to emerge victorious and reach home, triumphant, like the great prince Ram coming back to Ayodhya after winning all the wars. Then we are entitled to light lamps in celebration of conquering the darkness. Then it’s the festival time for the soul liberated from the darkness of fears, hate, anger, jealousy, judgments. Then we become the rulers of the kingdom within the sanctified precincts of the soul, our very own Ayodhya. 

Keep the little lamp alive

 

Light a little lamp of friendly bonhomie and care among your small circle of friends and family. We should always remember that there are a few people who would have tears of sympathy for our pains, smiles on their lips for our gains, a friendly hand to help us rise among slippery rains. It's a very tiny lamp burning with its little wick, throwing gentle pale rays around us, helping to light a stage, a tiny stage in the infinite darkness around, the stage that defines our existence, a stage that is set up for us to understand the meaning and purpose of this life. It's a very small lamp and needs tiny drops of the oil of trust, support, encouraging smiles, tears of empathy, gentle words and an assurance that we are there around you, keeping you safe from the darkness ready to encroach from all around. It's a gentle light, with soothing rays. But it lights up our lives like a bright sun, helping us move over the little troubling pebbles of life scattered on the path. Keep this little lamp burning. It's a delicate, fragile light but has the strength the beat the darkest clouds of loneliness and pain. And like all delicate things it needs a very careful, gentle attention and protection. Keep your little lamp of hope and friendliness burning. Keep it safe. Keep your palm around the glow to save it from chance winds. Keep supplying tiny drops of love, care and share. This is your little lamp to help you on your journey. Praying for the light of your tiny lamp. Keep it glowing. People will come and go from the little dim-lit stage around the little lamp. That's inevitable. But you have to keep your little flame alive so that you aren't in dark when someone passes by you. Maybe others need the light of your little lamp. Keep it alive. The flame of hope, love, belief in people, happiness and joy. And when you light lamps on Diwali tonight, see the sanctity of your little lamp in all the flames around. Wish you all a very happy Diwali!

Woman with the Lamp/Glow of Hope by SL Haldankar (watercolor,  1945-46)

A day in the life of a writer

 Even my small publisher flatly said ‘no’ to publish my next book. Well, he has a right to discard almost non-selling writers from his list and start dreaming big. To grow you need to have authors who give you numbers, who themselves build a social media brand for themselves with their own efforts thus increasing the sales. I hardly did anything in this regard and he felt very much let down by my lack of interest in starting YouTube channels, giving interviews, getting paid reviews. Of course all this needed money and I always feel my contribution to a book ceases the moment I write, rewrite, edit and re-edit it to my capacity. I don’t care much beyond that. Then I shouldn’t complain. The market also wouldn’t care and didn’t. But this is no hall of shame to be an unsuccessful writer.

So absolutely no problem with his decision. He had a reason to drop diplomacy and bare the truth. After all, it’s his business. Just that I wasted five months in the bargain. The manuscript was typeset and a nice cover design was finalized. It was in line for printing when he suddenly changed his mind. The onus, as I have already told you, is on me. Despite many attempts I couldn’t give him even a single book that sells, forget about best sellers. He became sure that there was hardly any chance that I will ever give a profit-making book, not just to him but to any publisher. But so what? That’s not a catastrophe. The hell won’t break loose for the lack of a best seller by Sandeep Dahiya. And will heavens bloom on earth with the presence of a best seller by me? It wouldn’t. A few people find my writing meaningful and that’s enough to justify my sincere efforts for months over a book. Moreover, writing is a kind of distress-dissolving exercise for me. All of us have our Ikigai, our distress dissolver when one forgets the drag and drudgery of life.

These days I don’t even think of approaching the mainstream publishers at the top rung. After decades of torturing their mail boxes with my endless submissions, I finally realized that the exercise can be safely avoided for peace at both ends. They have their smart editors who have their own notions about what sells. And rightly so. They work so hard. Good content is just a small part that decides a book’s success. I think, beyond what you have written, it’s more important who has written the book. And to become that influential ‘who’ you have to create more than content. I frankly cannot do this. So why should I crib?

The nearest I came to be published was when a commissioning editor at an upcoming name in publishing, with many successful books and a major presence on digital platforms for books and stories, showed some real keen interest in my submission. There was a trail of mail exchanges on the official mail and then some interaction on WhatsApp. ‘I need to know more about you,’ she wrote. Of course as the commissioning editor she had a professional right to know everything about the writer she was going to publish. Mainstream publishing is a small cozy circle sustaining on socializing and networking. But what would a small-time writer staying at a village know about these high-end things. Of course my reply should have been ‘ok, let’s meet’ because that’s what she meant. But I hardly had any clue to it. What I did was that I bared the soul of my journey so far in an audio clip. I talked like a pulpit preacher lithely revealing the real meaning of life based on my sweet-sour experiences. I heard it a few times and it sounded like iconized encapsulation of absolute truth. I sounded femininely sensitive yet manly. Or maybe even immeasurably impassioned. I thought I may win more than just the publishing contract. It was one hour long and very happily I sent it to her, dreaming of the big thing that a reputed publisher will at last take up my script. But what would she do with a low-quality audio crackling with the suffering notes of a defeatist sullen-voiced writer? I don’t think she even heard it to the last. Maybe it just sounded like a dry rill, a paranoid testimony to my unsuitability to be a bestselling author. So I dropped her a message on WhatsApp. ‘Did you listen to it?’ I asked. ‘Kindly drop me a mail for any query regarding your submission,’ she wrote. I must have sounded like a hostile parishioner to her smart, suave urban self. So I wrote a formal mail. The script was summarily rejected, as you can understand. After that I haven’t had the courage to approach any big gun.

So, after my fallout even with my small publisher, who didn’t charge me anything because I submitted print-ready files which gave him some courage to publish maybe 100 copies, I chose a still more welcoming platform for my latest discard. So there won’t be even 100 copies to begin with the first edition. It will be strictly print-on-demand. But even that will do. A book is a book after all. The book is published. It’s available online on Amazon, Flipkart and the publisher’s website. That’s more than enough for me, to be frank. Like your child is the best in the world, my book is nothing short of a bestseller to me.

Then I celebrate the occasion. I carry a virtuous spring in my walk and requisite resilience in mind. A friend has to go to Delhi and his car has time and space for a few hours. So I take celebratory drink after maybe four-five years. Two bottles of cold beer in the cool confines of a little car, with old lyrical but sad-with-acumen songs blaring as it went gently over pot-holed roads. The musical highs and lows whispering, ‘Why be in a hurry? All the time is yours.’ In boozed spirits I didn’t miss to vent out my grudge against the editors of big publishing houses. ‘Bloody supremacists mired in pathetic indulges lying in their silly slumberland,’ I mutter. My friend has no clue to the target of my ire. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘Nothing,’ I reply. For a few moments vehement and vitriolic bitterness seemed to catch hold of me, taking me off guard during my eased-up spirited moments. But I overpowered it within a few minutes.

Then we had hot burger from a ramshackle dusty food corner in the suburbs. The owner, believing in the impossibility of anyone disturbing him at noon to order something, was soundly sleeping under a brooding, sad-looking keekar vaulting above his food cabin. As we got him back from his five-star restaurant owning dreams he looked at us quizzically. Then the reality dawned upon him that there are guys who would get burgers from him at a dusty noon. All sleepy he made two sloppy burgers. They tasted rusty, as my friend told me later. But to me they were amazing. After two bottles of beer and in celebration of a self-considered best seller who won’t find any kind of burger at the pinnacle of taste? Foster your faith well. Why be bothered about the supreme excellence of best sellers. Write your books anyway. Keep your mood happy. That’s in your hands. Don’t allow it to be exiled to the filthy fury of dirty drains by other’s views and opinions. Be dismissive and feel enchantingly courageous.

And all this was condoned by the skies above as well. As I celebrated the launch of my book, a light thunderstorm applauded and greeted me with raindrops. The boiling May-end heat had turned it almost a sizzling cauldron. The dusty rumble of clouds announced some relief in celebration of a book launch. I could count the number of drops on the sand around my feet. Doesn’t that make them so precious? Then under the spell of dust, some raindrops, rumble of mediocre dusty clouds, a glass of Juse, a burger from the ramshackle dusty eating point, two bottles of beer and the launch of a new book on a platform that’s kind enough to accept all submissions, I remembered that I can club the occasion with my month of birth as well. Instantly a feeling of wellness hit a high vault. The uneventful birthday had come and gone without notice almost three weeks back. There is a thing called belated celebration. I got a third bottle of beer and drank to my birthday and would have dozed off if not for the Juse.

I had Juse you must be wondering. He loves his sugarcane juice machine. He has designed his signboard all by himself using the skill of his hand and all the education that he still remembers from his few years of schooling. ‘NIKKI JUSE CORNER’ it says. A big TAJA in Hindi follows. He is true to his word of freshness. His Juse is far better than the nicely packaged and branded juice available at famous juice points and malls. I pointed out his Juse thing to him. He is slightly embarrassed for a moment, then reclaims his natural juicy demeanor. ‘See brother, had I known the correct spelling, do you think I would have been a juse-maker?’  

A sad little story

 Parveen’s left leg is afflicted with polio. Earlier he had a seventy percent invalid card that entitled him for a little pension. Further, there was a possibility of getting a small government job under the disability quota. But at the time of the card’s renewal, the CMO at the district civil hospital was in the foulest of a mood. Was he beaten by his wife on that day? No. He had been publicly shamed by the health minister who suddenly arrived for an inspection of the facility. Having lost his composure and looking for the means to scatter his woes upon those who stood at the mercy of his mood, he looked at Parveen from a new angle, an angle of vendetta, and found him just thirty-five percent disabled. As if angels suddenly materialized and healed Parveen overnight, as if providence was on a pleasure tour and half-cut the poor boy’s bitterness. Parveen thus lost his little pension as well as the slim chance of getting a peon level job in some government office.

Fate seems to have found him an easy target to rob him further. Parveen was doing a job at a warehouse of second-hand books, performing his job very seriously. He was riding pillion with an office colleague when a speeding car hit the bike. He now has a big fracture on his strong right thigh and a rod implanted to support his bone. Sometimes, the fate’s affrighted whimsies take fancy for you and your miseries just pile up. And you will have angry CMOs and speed masters, all safe with their stylish criminalities, spoiling your little world, robbing you of even the little-little pieces of life’s joy. I have seen him trying his level best to be self-standing in life. An honest boy with limping normalcy, a kind of smooth peculiarity. But as of now he is totally dependent upon his family.

The ATM Guard's Igloo

 The temperature is almost 50°C and the heat index is still higher. You can feel the heat creeping into your bones and turn them to ashes. You can say it’s a burning fire almost. The ATM booth has a full blast of air condition. It’s practically a snowy Himalayan cave. The moment you open the glassed door, the greeting gusts of cold welcome you. And you, standing half in fire, half in snow turn a statue for a moment; paradoxes get paraphrased into the quizzical look of your eyes. There is no cash in the machine. Thankfully. The guard has put a ‘No Cash’ board on the machine and is peacefully sleeping. Snoozing serenely in his refrigerator because that’s what it’s as of now. He is safely cocooned inside his ice-pack and outside the blindingly envious loo whimpers and challenges the people to face it. ‘I will burn your eyelashes if you dare to face me!’ it roars. Well, this happens to be one of the few perks of being an ATM guard. One can sleep in a refrigerator when the world is on fire outside and there is no cash in the machine.