A simple man of faith

 There is a simple man in our village. He is in his early fifties and a grihastha. He is a small farmer but his wife is a government teacher. His son and daughter and their spouses are in government services. People say Almighty has been very kind to him in giving him almost everything, without much effort; in fact, most of the things that the other villagers struggle to achieve seem to be given to him on a platter. Whenever I meet this man, I can see a spark of the divine feminine in him.

As we know this universe has a divine polarity comprising divine feminine on the one side and divine masculine on the other side. It is not necessary that a person who has been born as a biological man or woman or any other gender identity will essentially have the corresponding divine male or female aspect or element in him or her. We categorize people either as a born male or a born female or some beautiful combination overlapping genders. But irrespective of their categorization in terms of biological genders, people have a subtler layer of classification: divine female element or divine male element defining their personality. This latter subtler, more nuanced characteristic is not necessarily bound to the biological male, female or any overlapping gender identity. A biological male can have the spark of divine female in him, defining him as a soft, elegant, receptive persona. Similarly, a biological female may possess the divine male spark in her personality, making her aggressive, dominating and loud. The neighborhood peasant women, most of them, fall in this category. A few of them even beat their husbands, sitting on their chest, gnawing their face, shrieking loudly. I call them the clan of warrior women. 

Now this person that I mentioned is biologically a man. But he possesses the divine feminism beautifully personified in his personality. He is very soft with notes and gentle with words, almost whispering apologetically. He is elegance personified the way he moves his body, the way he takes his soft steps, the way he smiles, everything. You can say he is a very nice personification of the divine female element. His emotions are poetry personified. But this spark of the divine feminism in his male body is intriguing for the people around. Things get still tougher in a male-dominated Jat society where being a man is about being loud, aggressive, raw, rough and tough. On account of this visible contrast in the material world, the contrast of a male body having feminine elegance, there are many who would just laugh at him. Many people pass sarcastic remarks. But that is their problem. This man is not bothered about what people talk, think or say about him. He is very busy on his path of bhakti. The people with divine feminine element in them have a great potential for self-realization through bhakti marga involving total surrender to the deity. It stands on the pillars of complete receptivity of faith and unquestioning acceptance of the omnipotent and omniscient deity. How can it be possible without the mellow, fluid strength of the divine feminine?

I have seen and heard about him following various gurus in the region. He would go into the ashrams and do selfless work. He organizes kirtans and sings wonderful bhajans of love for the almighty. In fact, there is a group of women in the village who almost take him as their guru who is there to guide them on the path of bhakti. It’s a wonderful sight to see him and his group of women going for religious congregations, following pious rituals or singing devotional songs. I always had this feeling that this man is on a very solid footing, with his feminine steps, as far as the ultimate realization is concerned.

Sometime back I found him standing in front of our gate, very submissively, even hesitatingly, as if lost in many inhibitions whether he should knock at the gate or go back unannounced. By chance I saw him standing there otherwise I believe he would have even left without calling on me. He greeted me in his gentle, elegant voice and manner and asked if I can give him a bit of time because he needs to talk. As we started talking, there were tears in his eyes, the tears of an unrequited love for the almighty, his divine lover for whom his soul has been doing tapasya; the stream of tears almost a river of sweet suffering to meet his divine lover, the almighty. After decades on the path, despite being a great selfless servant to many holy men, he openly confessed that there is the same restlessness, the very same suffering, the same stress as it was when he started on the path decades ago. He asked me frankly what was the use of selflessly serving all those gurus, what is the need of that selfless work in the ashrams, what is the purpose of holding those kirtans and nightlong singing of songs in the Lord’s praise. A huge why staring at his soul.

‘What was the use of all this if after so much time and service I feel I am where I started from? There is the same restlessness, the same suffering, the same torturing feeling of something missing. Now I wonder has it been worth it,’ he seemed thoroughly shaken.

I felt that he was disgruntled with his gurus, with the manner things are organized in ashrams, the sweet-sour bickering among the devotees, all summing up to give almost a kind of feeling which you have in the society at large, or within your house.

‘Who am I to tell you? A novice while so many babas haven’t been able to guide you?’ I was about to reply. But a split-second reflection stopped me. And I would go on to explain a few things to him as per my level of understanding born of my journey so far. Why I chose to speak to him? It needs a flashback.

There is this girl who is a very distant relative of mine. She is a sweet householder with three beautiful children. From the derivative threads of relatives, I qualify to be her maternal uncle so she calls me mamaji. I had never met or talked to her in my life. She had heard a few summarizing bits about me, just vague biographical phrases. She is a devotee of Mahavatar Babaji. She called me for the first time and introduced herself. As per her belief system, she acts as a medium to convey Babaji’s messages. She goes into a trance, the pen draws of its own will, a psychotic trance, and meaningful messages surface, many of which have resolved problems for those asking divine intervention from their side. ‘Mamaji I hardly know Sanskrit and chaste literary Hindi words but sometime the messages come in such highly refined language that even I’m surprised and they help people,’ she told me. The problem-solving messages by Babaji helped many in her friend circle. She was intrigued and wanted to know more. She pestered Babaji to tell more about it and he would just laugh her away in her dreams or trance. Feeling more intrigued she thought of going to Sadhguru to get a clearer idea about things. But Babaji laughingly teased her that don’t go to him. His mission needs people like you and he will keep you as a spiritual worker among his followers, then who will take care of your children. ‘Then mamaji your name struck me. My inner voice said that this man knows quite a few things intellectually that may explain many things. But experientially he is still a novice, in fact a fool. So mamaji explain things intellectually, your being a fool experientially doesn’t matter,’ she laughed.

So I poured out my entire verbal diarrhea in response to her never-ending queries. ‘Ho mamaji you can set up a nice business in the bazaar of spirituality. Who is bothered about experiential aspect of true knowledge? Nobody. You can start selling yourself. I will help you. There are so many judges and high officials who are lost souls and need words, words and more words on spirituality,’ she teased me and gave a business plan. ‘I will surely fail in any business, be it material business or spiritual one,’ I laughed away the plan. Then after a few more conversations and having been bombarded by more intellectual words, she started wondering about my fate. Now, yours truly has waded pretty testing waters in life. She felt sorry for me, the typical way nieces do for their senior relatives and then when she went into her trance she put up my question to Babaji. ‘Why has it been so tough for mamaji? Why has he such a floundering date with fate?’ she asked. And Babaji assured her, ‘Don’t bother about him. It’s his own choice. This speeding of karma. He wants to take a leap. A leap of five births’ karma in a single lifespan. Now that will raise sparks and raise the temperature for him.’ She told me this sullenly. I said don’t feel sorry beta, it’s our own journey based on our own choices. After that as an intellectually crammed (to the extent of verbal and written diarrhea) and experientially novice, I try my best to explain a few things to those who arrive at my doorstep. Beyond that I’m not interested in anything. So I decide to talk to this wonderful human being who has now come seeking my advice. 

I told him, ‘See you should not expect the people on the path of spirituality, the devotees, the religious institutions and gurus to be the perfect replica of divinity on earth. These are mere indicators; they just systematize a certain set of rules so that the devotees can progress on the path. It’s merely a start, a beginning, to further build upon it. All this systematization of scriptures, rituals, gurus, deities is just a vehicle. The main reason for your pain is that you considered a mere vehicle as the destination. Just like you take a train or a bus or a two-wheeler or an airplane to reach a particular destination, does it mean that particular means of communication is your destination. Don’t we just forget about the vehicle and enjoy the destination once we arrive? The means are never the end. But this is common human folly to start taking the means as an end in themselves. The same is with gurus, with ashrams, with followers, with holy works and pious bhajans. All these are just material or not so material means to an end, the goal of supreme realization. You should not look for perfection in institutions, in gurus, in your fellow devotees. It is never about them. It is always about you. Because wherever you have an institutional build up, there are certain elementary or basic things of life that we need to run a particular institution or ashram. Worldly materiality cannot be avoided. It is always looking over the fence to creep in. So after a time the very same feelings that you feel as a householder also manifest in ashrams and institutions and a devotee feels almost cheated, thinking what is this, I was expecting something totally different but here also things are more or less the same as they were in my house. Please do not fall in this trap of judging the gurus, the fellow devotees, or a particular stream of belief or sect or ashram. Don’t feel victimized or cheated that it was not worth it, that nothing came out of it, that you wasted your life. It has been worth it believe me. It has served its purpose. It was first in the hierarchy that accepted you with its divine grace. You must have been feeling suffocated and restless within your duties as a householder, as a part of society just like any other person around. And that is why you, in accordance with your soul’s eagerness to spread its wings and be a part of something larger that defines you as something above and beyond your identity, came out and met these wonderful people. You were adopted by a sort of larger family where the rules and responsibility that were streamlined as a householder are now modified to give you a feeling of freedom. It’s just an opening, a bit more space. A coming out from a narrow alley to a wider street. There you were the head of the house; here it is the guru who runs the affairs. Instead of the family members, now you have fellow devotees. Instead of the common mechanism of running a house, here it is about running a larger set-up for an institution or an ashram. The fundamentals are the same, just that you become a part of a larger entity, a larger household, a larger community where you feel better and relaxed just for the more open nature of it. It’s a breaking of former confines. It is just like this. Suppose there is someone who is incarcerated in a small cell in a jail. And if that person is brought out and allowed to come into the prison yard, which itself is still a part of the prison, but the moment he comes out of his narrow cell he sucks in the free rays of the sun and he can smell the traces of freedom, he can enjoy life even though he is still in the jail. And if you keep him in that prison yard for a few months, the same feeling of being trapped, being incarcerated, being jailed will come creeping even though now the space is far-far bigger than what it was there in the tiny cell earlier. So similarly earlier you got fed up with the little cell of your household, then you were given a bigger platform as part of ashrams, as part of groups of devotees, as part of devotional music groups and you felt better. Now please don’t think that this stage in your life has not been worth anything. It has served its purpose. Just like the prisoner coming out of his narrow little cell feels better in the prison compound, similarly you were coming out of your house and its troublesome confines and enjoying life as a part of religious communities. It gave you a sense of freedom. But now your soul wants something more, it wants to become a part of a larger entity, a bigger group, a further spread out setup where it can further spread its wings to fly in liberated skies. Now as far as I can feel and understand, you want a dose of further unqualified freedom, unconditioned from disciplehood, serving in ashrams, massaging guru’s legs and the like. I will tell you a few simple techniques which will help you feel liberated from your situations that you feel have confined you in a narrow bracket as of now.’

I pointed to his footwear and said, ‘Why deprive yourself of graceful contact with mother earth? Try to walk as much as possible on naked feet.’ I could feel that he is not in a position to renounce his material world. He is pretty much attached to the beautiful world mainly through his little grandson. Nothing wrong with that. So I suggested him a long pilgrimage of let us say two months to visit Haridwar and Rishikesh. ‘Keep a cloth bag, put your footwear in it, have a bottle of water, have a stick as your guardian, as your companion, keep a yellow ascetic robe in it. If you feel hesitation in wearing the ascetic robe in the village itself, thinking what will people say then you can wear the robe at a distance from the village where nobody recognizes you. Now why am I telling you to wear the ascetic robe even though you are not an ascetic? The reason is that it is a mark and symbol of asceticism and it will save you from many a dark eye on the way. It is not an odd sight in India to find ascetics in their traditional robes moving across isolated places. So many people would just give you respect and they won’t bother you. For example, when the night is falling and you need a place to spend the time and some villager or someone from a little hamlet comes across and sees an ascetic coming, he or she will offer you a place to spend the night and even offer you food. And then you can just stay on mother Ganga’s banks for a couple of months. You used to take bucket bath earlier, now you have to spread your identity to be bathed by the unlimited, blissful waters of mother Ganga that are not bound by any material restrictions or physical limitations. Earlier you used to define the sky above you in the form of a roof on your head but now you will be defining your identity in terms of the infinite vault of the sky above. Anyway it will be as good as the prisoner, who got fed up in the prison compound, now coming out of the prison gate and becoming a part of the open society at large. Similarly from the definition of your identity born of your footwear’s touch on the ground leaving a footprint by your shoes, a mediated reality, a fake ego reality, here now as you walk with naked feet you will be giving the infinite lovable touch to mother earth and get defined in a new manner by the real soles of your feet, not just by any intermediary footwear intervening between you and mother earth. Use your footwear when it becomes too difficult for you to walk on account of rough terrain. Now you would be taking bath in the open rivers and ponds and water bodies instead of just being bathed by the limited waters of your bathroom or your bucket. Stop now getting defined by the roof of your house and its suffocating limitations. Now you’ll be defined by the open skies. It will give you the space that you need. It will provide you an opportunity to spread yourself on a bigger platform. And believe me once you return to your house after two or three months, you will retain those glimpses of freedom and unbound deliberation with you because on the path of spirituality the barometer won’t come down at least in this lifetime. If you have touched, tasted and smelt the divine, you will retain that divine grace with you. You are lucky to be located in a village where there is still open space around, where there are canals with freer waters (relatively speaking), where there are big trees. So I would advise you to spend two-three hours daily walking on naked feet on canal embankments where there is solitude. You can take bath in the canals and imagine you are bathing in Ganga. Everything is emotion, bhaav. With pure emotions this village canal will transform into Ma Ganga. You can just visualize or imagine that these are the waters of divine Ganga. Ma Ganga will be washing you of your pains and suffering right here in this canal. If you’re not satisfied with the company of humans, go and embrace trees, talk to them, sit under them, enjoy their company. And brother this according to me seems to be the appropriate way as per your journey so far. You just need a bigger space to allow your soul to further spread on its path.’

I spoke many other things. I spoke with spiritual excitement to the extent that my mouth went dry. What I have presented here is just from recall, there were many other outpours of verbal diarrhea. But what wrong it does if your intellectual jargon helps someone feel better. He had tears of joy now. I could feel him opening up to the scenarios described by me. ‘I already feel so much better, just by imagining it,’ he said. ‘Any experientially challenged fool—like me—will talk and give the longest sermon on earth but the main thing is following it. It looks simpler than it really is,’ I thought. But I didn’t say anything. I could see the change in him. He arrived with a lot of suffering but left as a happy man, calmed and soothed by the temporary respite. But then all spiritual practices are about temporary respites, a series of little salvations, little-little battles won for peace and ultimately there are few fortunate ones who win the entire war, the ultimate triumph, perfect self-realization, call it nirvana or whatever. 

The history of Dahiya Jats

 Dear readers, presenting here the history of my clan. All histories carry some lessons. I hope it also does the same.

If not for all, here is a brief history at least for my clan brothers, the Dahiyas. It’s better to know one’s roots. Well, the present-time Dahiya is a time-twisted derivative of Dahae. It was a central Asian nomadic tribe. Well, we have grown up listening to our elders telling us that long-long ago our ancestors migrated from central Asian steppes. Later on, academic research proved the substance behind those oral chronicles. The facts that are presented here are taken from many well-researched books and sources presented by many Western and Indian scholars and historians.

The Dahae people, to begin with, lived in the north-eastern part of the Persian Achaemenid Empire. The region covered the arid steppes of the Karakum Desert near Margiana. These pastoral settlements were situated alongside the Saka groups, the Sogdians and Chorasmians. The word Dahae, as present in the Old Persian form Dahā, derives its roots from a word in Saka language meaning ‘man’. This usage is based on the usual custom among various peoples of calling themselves ‘man’ in their own languages. However, one famous Western historian maintained that it meant ‘stranglers’. Well, there is a possibility of it meaning the both because in traditional patriarchy like the one found among Jat clans including Dahaes or Dahiyas, ‘men’ and ‘stranglers’ would come out almost the same.

The Dahae people (the present time Dahiya, a derivative of Dahae or the people of Dahistan) lived in the region to the immediate east of the Caspian Sea around Oxus valley. They spoke an Eastern Iranian language. The area was known as Dihistan and Dahistan during the Sassanid period. There is still a place called Dahistan in western Turkmenistan—the land of Dahaes, almost like Hindustan is derived from a literary expression meaning roughly ‘the land of the followers of Hinduism’. Then there is Dahestan in northern Iran also. It was the area of a branch of Dahae people who moved into northern Iran.

There is an ambiguity whether we were almost religionless nomads or the followers of a cult that allied with Zoroastrianism. Settled on the north-eastern border of the Persian Achaemenid Empire, the Dahae people spoke a dialect originating from an eastern Iranian language. According to the Babylonian historian Berossus, the founder of the Persian Achaemenid Empire, Cyrus, died fighting against the Dahae. But when it came to fighting someone who was considered a foreigner by all the feuding tribes in the area, that’s Alexander the Great, the Dahāe people fought within the left wing of the Achaemenid army along with the Bactrians and the Saka at Gaugamela in 331 BCE.  

Saka coins from the Seleucid era are sometimes specifically attributed to the Dahae tribe. They are the Dahae, who along with the Kangs and other Jat clans, fought Alexander the Great on the north of Oxus river under their leader, Spitama. An entire division of Greek army was decimated at Samarkand in the valley of Zerof Shan. When Alexander reached the spot of defeat to take revenge for the ‘first Macedonian disaster’, he was faced with the humiliating task of burying his slain soldiers. He had to retreat and set up his military camp at Zariaspa. However, the brave Jats under Spitama launched an attack at his main camp also. Alexander failed to defeat them, so this mighty conqueror started torturing the women, children and other non-combatant population. Meantime, the Achaemenid Empire fell at the hands of Alexander. Now he could focus on torturing the civilian population of the Dahae settlements.

Jat mathematics of ‘16 multiplied by 2 is equal to 8’ is still popular. You can imagine its crude version almost 2,350 years back. They had a very easy solution. Alexander was torturing women, children and the old but the Dahae leader Spitama won’t accept submission even after the strong Achaemenid Empire had fallen to the great conqueror. Those simple Jats had a far simpler solution. The Dahaes themselves beheaded their unbuckling leader Spitama, and produced his head before Alexander. Only then he stopped the brutal oppression of the common population. Many of them then joined Alexander in his quest to conquer India as mercenary soldiers. In this way a large number of Dahae Jats joined the Greek army. When his Macedonian troops refused to fight in Punjab, Alexander threatened that he would move ahead with his Jat soldiers only. He was sure that these people would not abandon his fighting plans because they were brave enough not to be daunted by the dangers lying ahead. According to Greek writers, the Dahae under Alexander were the first to attack the army of Porus in 326 BCE. Ironically, it wasn’t the first or the last occasion when the Jats shed their blood from both sides.

Jats are known to break each other’s head for the real illogical fun of it. They are highly prone to fight among themselves. I can still see this propensity opening out in street fights at a regular basis in Jat villages. So there were Dahae Jat soldiers in Alexander’s army now. But they had their own clan brothers who dreamed of breaking their heads. These fellas aligned with Porus. In this manner, following their querulous ways, the Jat clans, looking for better land and pastures, started migrating to present time India.

I can still see the bloodthirsty craze for owning more land in my clan. Every Jat settlement has had many bloody feuds for land that resulted in killings and lynching. But we are changing. Agriculture has been our only type of culture but now with education we see more cultural colors beyond the farming fields. As of now, there is a tight clump of fifty odd adjoining villages of erstwhile Dahae, the dwellers of steppe plains and Oxus valley, who still hold their distinct identity in Sonipat district of Haryana. The Sultanate came, the Mughals came, the Britishers came but we kept sticking to the lands we had occupied before them. So near to the center of power in Delhi! That shows our propensity to stick to our lands. The Delhi rulers also realized that these fellows will bite back if disturbed. So the ruling seat in Delhi kept changing but our clan kept sticking to its chunk of land at all costs. They killed, got killed in return, kept on killing each other as well, but stayed there.

That’s how nationalities form: the bloody fluidity of changing border lines and the people moving this way and that way. The Britishers were the wisest of the lot who occupied Delhi. They knew the art of human resource utilization. They were aware that these people are very quick with arms and very slow with minds, as Rudyard Kipling famously said about Jats. So to pamper the vanity of our ego they declared us a martial community and put batons, swords and rifles in our hands.

Even within my memory, I have seen and heard about many family feuds for lands where people have been killed. There have been honor killings, far more than you would believe as per the official data. The women and female children have faced a lot of discrimination. But now Jats are cultivating their mind like they did in the fields. We have hundreds of officers in prestigious all India services. There have been scores of commendable fighters for the army. There have been Olympic medal winners and scientists. But still a lot has to change I can feel.  

That’s how histories are made, willingly unwillingly. We assume, we accept, we ignore, we selectively choose, we deliberately overlook. Just to justify our present or our goals that we hold sacrosanct and higher than others. The tribes from the steppes whose soldiers were recruited by Alexander the great now form prestigious fighting units in the Indian military. Times change. The rulers change. Nationalities get redefined. Boundaries change. Names change. People change. Languages change. But what doesn’t change is the same age old virus of hate, fear and greed. It keeps alive in one form or the other. What drove people thousands of years ago to beat their basic fears still drives the civilization in a technology-sharpened manner.

The kite caught in a dead tree

In a world of so many sorrows and so few pleasantries, flying kites is great fun to kids. The kites swipe, loop, hoop, droop, dive and rise, refreshingly riding the crests and troughs of their papery existence. It’s zoom, boom, doom altogether, in fine fettle, in timeless simultaneousness. And when the kites get entangled in the trees, wires, balcony railings and terrace cloth-lines, a fun game of higher degree starts. It’s the game of retrieving the kite and salvaging as much of string as possible. An entangled kite is not the beginning of suffering. Egged on by their carping spirits of innocent adventurism, the kids take it as another game. The same is with life. The entanglements in one phase are just the start of another phase; just a shift. So keep playing your game. Like the kids doing the same with their itsy-bitsy amusements.

The neem tree in front of the house is probably dead. Well, I fondly remember its full green branches swaying to the shravan winds and it opens nostalgic floodgates. Most probably the termites have chucked out the roots. The tree being young, it gives a sad look. Its wood scruffily silhouetted against the background of still alive trees. An old dead tree still gives a dignified look but a young dead tree is a melancholic sight. Its bone-dry, dead branches now ricketily shake to the winds. The trees that are alive sway to the winds. They have juice of life, they have playful suppleness. The dead tree but is a skeleton. It may not be giving oxygen now but there is still a purpose for its existence. Let’s not commit the mistake of considering it an unproductive deadwood altogether. A leafless dry dead tree serves as a nice perch point for lonely birds calling out to get a partner. They can look in all directions. A nice place for love calls. With a willy-nilly quiescence to the instinctive tug of love and desire, they send out their love songs to attract some lonely partner somewhere. Further, its rickety joints are into mischief as well. Its crooked wood seems to plunge and clutch at the tails of the kites flying overhead. The majority of falling and diving kites get caught in it. Then it proudly flutters its takeaway as a triumphant token of life that may still be lying buried in its dry bulk waiting to sprout forth and thus give a surprise to all. I think it has become a master kite-snatcher. Still holding the strings of unrelenting enthusiasm, the children gather under it and play their game of retrieving the snared kite. It gives an impression as if they have gathered under it to collect fruits. A salvaged kite, even torn, is nothing short of a fruit to the little ones. 

Skirmish with a centipede

 There must be cockroaches in the house otherwise why would a big rascally centipede enter the house. Well, rural houses usually have many claimants including snakes, rats, lizards, frogs, spiders and many more. Maybe the centipede got angry for not finding a cockroach. An angry x, y, z is almost suicidal, be it humans, reptiles or animals. And if there is an angry creature nearby, you feel the pinch. I felt it. A sharp pain in the left big toe. I'm watching news, sitting on a chair, right leg crossed over the left, leaving the left toe open for attack by the angry centipede. The body seems to be its own master. We overestimate our conscious, voluntarily done efforts to save and preserve it. It knows far more than we think. My conscious part is absorbed in the political slugfest going on the television. But my toe has independent authority to save itself from a big, bullish centipede. I find myself jumping in air. The toe knows how to save itself from a centipede that has decided to bite the hell out of it. The automatic vigorous shake by the toe and its ally foot and their bigger sister leg is enough to undo the centipede's brazen attempt to taste my blood. There is a needle-sharp pain. Thankfully it couldn't pierce the skin.

The calculating and planning human has taken a backseat. It's only the life force in the body responding to the emergency. The left foot is angry as can be understood. O God, the way it counterattacks! It swings into action. And the slippered foot is pounding on the enemy, knowing exactly how rapidly to strike with full force. It's done so swiftly. The centipede is a juicy mass in an instant. It happened so quickly. I'm staring at it as if someone else has done it. Where was I while all this happened? It wasn't me who did it. The body did it of its own volition! Imagine the instinct of self-preservation ingrained in each cell of the body. And still we overthink and burden the mind about  preserving it. The way it strikes at a centipede in retaliation over a bite at its toe proves that it's always on guard against predators both visible and invisible. I think we can allow it more freedom in its functions and not burden its natural operations with our unnecessary worries. 

I'm not sure how a saint would have behaved if attacked by a centipede. I hadn't even stepped over it. It just attacked. Some karmic balance I suppose. Of course the saint's body would have jumped in air at the bite. But I'm not sure about his foot going into retaliation of its own in an instant.

 I don’t think I could have caught it alive because it would have crawled under the hideouts available in plenty. As a normal person staying in society, you have to put a boundary beyond which the parameters of sin cease to operate. You have to take measures to maintain the safety of your place. Maybe that dharma is bigger than killing of poisonous reptiles that sneak into your place. 

Little Maira, my two-year-old niece, is enthused at watching her Tau's body jumping like a monkey. She laughs. Thank God centipedes don't have blood. It's a watery juice of life oozing from the carcass. And a child would always take you out from the complex world of thoughts about sin, nobility, kindness, etc, etc. As I'm staring at the consequences of my foot's retaliatory strike, I hear Maira mumbling,  'Tau isne sussu kar diya.' Means 'uncle it's peed'. And that lightened the moment instantly. Holding my leg, she is staring at the dead insect mired in the watery discharge of its life force. We both laugh then. God would always pardon if you are sharing a laughter with a little kid, even if you are laughing at a dead centipede.

Flood and storms in a little yard

 What do you need when there is fire? Water of course. There was a sandstorm and thundershowers. There is most urgent need for water at this part of the year. But water was furiously splashed by the storm. The trees were shaken, seriously ruffled, jolted painfully in fact. Such storms further elaborate the rustic revelations of the countryside. Many trees fell, branches broke and countless leaves blown away. But they have to bear with it. And they do it with astounding, rosy equity of being, following their tree dharma, always keeping up the intrinsic spirit of resilience. The same storm that breaks their branches, takes away their seeds to far off places for the survival of their species. I have groomed a few marigolds in the shade. Their growth is mediocre considering the time of the season. But their mere survival in this heat makes them special. However faded and small the smile is, it still is a subtle allegory to beauty and truth. When the honeybees buzz over them it seems to put melodic reverberations on the songless lips of the summer. The flowers have been roughly shaken, badly manhandled in fact. However, I’m happy with what remains. I help them in getting to their feet again and smile once more to serve as the symbolic sovereignty of beauty over the beast.

The busy ant-hole in the bricks in the yard comes straight in the line of the flood when it rains. But they don’t complain. Actually the defender groups clump together and plug the opening, saving the cavity from getting flooded. They choke the rushing waters to a trickle, then even that trickle must be gone. I think the little baby ants deep in the cavity won’t even come to know about the storms and floods outside. In the face of a crisis they just do the needful instead of holding dismissing discussions. Many of the frontline workers die in the bargain. But they survive as a colony, not individually. All of them are just ants, not ant x, ant y or ant z. Their little world carries a pleasant innocence about it.

Once the flood is over, it’s the same busy world the next sunny morning. They are calmly consistent in their schedule, storms or no storms. There are crumbs around the gate. The tireless laborers have been carrying their cargo for their warehouse.

The temperature drops sharply on account of the drizzles over the last two days. It’s cool. You feel slightly cold under a simple ceiling fan. Isn’t mother nature amazing? She can help us cope with the most of our modern-day problems, provided we give her some respite from our rampant onslaught.