Fusillade of the furtive flautist

As the furtive flautist goes raising dust on the path of time with his rag-tag show, many a petite songstress loses their songs and melodies. The forests turn quiet and a silence reigns with its unabashedly parochial throbbing. Mother nature looks a travel-worn sailor not able to recall or even imagine pure mythological horizons of the past, a wonderfully wild past with its generic sacredness. Then one species rose supreme with its sadistic leer. With clockwork precision it lugged it out and lugged it in by scattering the deviants of its overworking brain. The forests vanished and devolved into potted plants. Spring sunshine and lovely desert nights encradling sand and stars became one and the same.

There is an incessant face-off between mankind and nature. We are the new gods with our particular perceptions and selective denunciations. The new god sordidly swarming over everything in its path. And its deeds almost a devilish enclosure for mother nature. The disciple that started with a rudderless reverence to the original god and then passing through dark doorways declared himself to be the new godly sovereign. We are too big a source of change on this little planet. The force of our hand is visible through rampant global warming, furious tornados, forest fires, poisoned air and polluted seas. The forces of evolution have gone into a tizzy. The wheel of evolution is spinning too fast. Many species are in a desperate spell of adaption and evolution to extend their survival for some more time. But that seems futile in the face of massively changed environment.

In a matter of around 150 years, the beak size of Australian parrots has grown by 4-10 percent. All this is to cope up with the increased heat. In a matter of just half a century, the wings of round-leaf bats have increased by one percent. In a short span we have now larger billed finches adapting to survive in hotter climate. Larger beaks help them to dissipate excess heat. Brightly colorful butterfly fish are usually aggressive in the seas. They stoutly defend their territory with a squirming valor. Now they are becoming less aggressive. This is due to the menace of coral bleaching going at a big scale. They are less on calories and that turns them docile. You need a lot of energy to fuel your aggression and territorial ambitions.

In warmer Alaskan regions now more berries ripen and the bears eat more of berries than salmons. As a result they turn lethargic and plump. It needs less effort in feasting upon berries than chasing salmons. Who is interested in unavailing ransackings and flunging forth for slippery agile preys when you have unmoving berries harking your attention? There was a time when in the subarctic region one’s next door neighbor was many miles up or down the line. Now there are harassing hundreds every square mile and our footprints write title deeds of ownerships in every nook corner of the icy wilderness.

The conditions have turned windier and stormier, so a lizard named Anoleshas now has bigger toepads and more muscular front legs to cling onto survival chances among the terribly shaken vegetation. To beat hurricanes you need stronger toepads.

Ever lost in our maneuvering mists, we have unleashed evolve-or-perish situation for scores of species. Of course, most of the species won’t be able to keep pace with such highly accelerated evolution rates and would become extinct in the coming decades.

In response to the changing sea water temperatures, squids are now coming of age faster and changing their food pattern.

Galgapos finches are adding to their beak size. Small beaks mean less chances of survival in a boiling world.

Turtle hatching in warmer seas results in more females. With warming seas we will have almost many hundreds of females for a male. So rising temperatures are now determining sex in the species.

It seems a gloomy tale. However, let’s make the most of what is still left—aesthetically.

The regalia of old age

So he, the regal old man, embracing his age with fragile but tight grip, lives happily as the tail-end of a great life lived. He has weathered the tempests of youth: the force of beginning, starting and acceleration! And now the path of letting it go; losing the pace slowly, gracefully, receptively. The deceleration.  Slowing down with effortless muse. To stop finally. It gives him as much excitement as the force of starting. And then the final rest. Now, during the slowing down phase, his time has become slow, the world is a small puddle around his feet. He lives like in a dream. A slow-paced one, minutes stretched like hours, days like weeks, weeks like months, months like years. In slowing down gracefully, effortlessly, he lives equal to a dozen lives lived in the beginning mode.

He enjoyed the choices which fate sieved for him. Just grabbed his share. Now he picks up and plays among those things and coarse, discarded chaff which remain unwanted above as the fine particles, much in demand, trickle below. But it’s great fun, he tells with mischievous gusto: 

“In youth, we just think that life means rolling in the sieve’s fine brew. But life can be equally enjoyable among the discarded heap, little malformed grains, sand-grains, specks and chaff. Now I roll like a child in the rubble of the past, which was once waylaid by the youth’s blast. It is now the precious wealth of my old age. Mellows down the rage in this haze. There aren’t any takers for it now. So I enjoy it alone, without that competitive drone.” 

The old reveler, away from the fire, cosily lying at the margin, where the faintest traces of warmth touch his old bones before moving into the cold darkness. 

The majestic slow down, as important and enjoyable as the headlong thrust of the beginning, the youth. The source, the beginning, and the slowdown, and the end. A cycle. Enjoy it!

The ease of being with common sense

 There is some manual task to be done. Rashe Ram is my first option for anything requiring physical labor. I try my chance to connect him over his phone number. As expected, the number is temporary out of service. He knows he doesn’t need a phone much. Due to his honesty in work, he is much in demand, so the labor seekers would book his services by launching a physical search and catching hold of him in person. And his secret girlfriends also know where to find him whenever he is needed for his lover’s duties, which is nothing more than a hurried plain mating even without having a word. In any case he is a man of few words.

The work involves some repairs in the street and we are gathered on the spot feeling not so good about not being able to avail the services of the best worker. Then someone informs that Rashe was recently picked up by the police for keeping 15 little pouches of ganja. We have just stopped talking about him and there comes Rashe Ram lumbering with his usual carefree air, unconcerned about the big issues in life. He is much hailed for his timely arrival.  

He shyly denies my question about the police episode. But when he sees that I’m serious about this quest he tells the truth. ‘I had bought 15 little pouches of ganja from Delhi for personal use. The village police informer passed the information to police. They picked me up. Kept me there for couple of hours. They collected all the pouches and took three thousand rupees to set me free.’ These are plain facts of his arrest. Their significance in his life is limited to their literal meaning. His is a mind unburdened of the polished maladies of overthinking, analysis and psychological traumas born of such an inconsequential happening.

‘You don’t keep phone these days? I tried but the number is out of service,’ I ask him. He has his tiny non-smartphone with him. It’s a new number he tells me. The old number? I threw away the chip in a nullah when the police were after me. We the clever people think it proper to take his new number in order to avail his labor services without delay in future. I ask my brother to note down his number because I don’t have my phone with me. He also is enjoying a phone-free time which seems a blessing, almost a vacation these days. Don’t we feel so relaxed when we step out of the house without the one tone psychological weight of the phone? My cousin brother is also having the same vacation. I ask the workers do they have a pen, which was a foolish query because their pockets would have beedies, matchbox, tobacco or ganja—the tools to beat the feeling of being disadvantaged in life by birth, the fate throwing them into poverty right from the beginning. We seem to be at loss of words about the daunting task regarding how to note down his number. With my amazing creative skills, I even think of writing it on the sand and then run home to take my phone before some cattle either pees or defecates on my earthen notebook.

‘Why don’t you just dial your number from my phone?’ Rashe softly drools with his slurred, soft, noble giant’s speech.

My software professional brother, still carrying the classy fragrance of a recent official trip to a developed country; my cousin brother carrying the high notes of confidence and youth becoming of an enthusiastic entrepreneur; and me the man with a library of books in the head—we have been caught on the wrong foot. Common sense seems to be too exclusive for our educated, smart selves. Caught on such a wrong foot of unawareness!

All three of us have an embarrassed laugh. It’s very humbling. A basic dose of common sense is all that we need to lead a happy life, to have a light mind unburdened of overthinking and hard-pressed by weighty issues. Many villagers are straightaway dismissive about Rashe Ram because he isn’t cunning and clever like the rest and this they interpret as being a dumb person. But in his unburdened mind he carries enough common sense to allow him a contended simple life.

The next day he is busy at the assigned task. It involves clearing a big heap of bricks, boughs, plastic and trash all jumbled together to form a nice century for reptiles and rodents. He is working relaxedly but I’m worried for him because many snakes have been seen around that place. I have already cautioned him multiple times about it but he seems to carry on without minding my words too much. Then my over-concern burdens his brain and he has to explain. ‘See, I have this stick with me. Didn’t you see that each time I put my hands to pick up something, I first prod the items with the stick so that the snake will crawl away,’ he slowly drawls. It again is so-so humbling. In my eagerness to spot some snake I had completely overlooked this simple man’s simple solution in dealing with the problem. Such a simple solution for a risky task! In his place my educated mind would have given me solutions like wearing knee-length jungle boots and gloves reaching armpits to deal with the problem. I stand corrected like a little boy standing in front of a stern headmaster.

The so-called common, simple, poor people have huge common sense in their unburdened minds to help them wade through the scores of daily challenges they have to face. I realize however high and mighty be our knowledge, we miss on little nuggets of common sense. But these are the little weapons in the hands of the common man to easily meet the routine challenges of life. 

A whisper for peace

 At the current rate of global warming, we will have ice-free summers in the Arctic in the next decade. The snows are drifting away from our planet. First it disappeared from the exotic peak of Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa. The glaciers are gasping under the heat. In the same series, the summer snows will vanish from the Arctic and so will the majestic polar bear. But for those who run this world it's almost a nonissue. Who cares for vanishing snows? Especially when there are wars to pacify individual and institutional egos, when there are more territories to grab, more mines to be dug into earth’s gut to take out the still remaining things of utility.

The modern Czar has burnt down an entire country in pursuit of impearlist dreams. Beautiful homes, lovely orchards and gardens have been charred by falling bombs and missiles. Homes have turned into rubble. Death and destruction is dancing freely in Ukraine. The ants, dogs, wild animals, homes, cities, gardens, agriculture farms all are charred to ghastly rubble of broken dreams and decaying humanity, while the Czar is going full throttle, creating present time hell to capture past glory.

Sadly, the mankind is ill-fated to live in disorder and strife. It seems to be in our genes. We abhor peace and harmony. To be human seems to be unruly, chaotic, aggressive and angry. We keep creating more and more chaos with modern inventions and discoveries. Power blocks and superpower aspirants are sharpening their swords to once again unleash blood and mayhem. Just like it’s been going for thousands of years. We seem to be under the curse of this self-destructive mind that keeps spinning out fears and phobias, prompting us to guard ourselves and attack others.

Despite all scientific advancement, we have the same archaic old malady of ego, violence, selfishness, hate and anger. Earlier we killed with stones and sticks. Now the same hate can annihilate entire earth by just pushing a button. What has changed? Nothing. It’s the very same fear, agony, insecurities and discontent. Modern civilization seems a pile of dry fodder to burn at mere sparks. All ready to defend themselves and grab more clout and influence. The plague of unrelenting ambition infecting each and everything; diseasing all from individuals to groups to nations to blocks. And a dying planet helplessly watches all this, sadly marveling at the species that got so ambitious to start chucking out its own house. A behemoth snake twisting and coiling to attack its own tail and devouring its own back from its front.

The air we inhale is poisoned, the food we eat is full of chemicals, the people we stay among have stressed, burnt-out minds, all ready to go blasting at the slightest provocation. The seas are polluted. The sea creatures die slowly. The polar ice melts. The polar bear takes last breaths. We too will meet the same fate if the way we run this world isn’t overhauled completely.

More missiles, more bombs, more jets, more hate, more anger, more greed. More noise while bird songs go achingly silent. What will be the outcome? Destruction. Strictly calculated from the scientific equation of input and output. Out of so much systematic hate only destruction can be the logical outcome.

Pristine forests vanished, beautiful birds became extinct, majestic animals went off the scene, and so did pure air, water and peace. On this dying planet, the natural physiology of the mankind will be unsustainable within a few decades. A weird semi-human, semi-machine species equipped with artificial intelligence will replace we the real flesh and blood ones. We have to take it as the game of evolution only. Take it any way but that’s how it will happen.

So as one of the last lucky generations to see blue skies, forests, streams and the free seas make the most of it. Cribbing won’t help. What’s done is done. Mother planet has suffered irreversible damage. So smile thou the last of real homo sapiens and make the most of what is left. Go into the forests and hug giant trees standing for centuries but won’t be there for long. Swim in the streams that aren’t stinking nullah yet. Inhale pure air in some solitary valley, keeping its secrets still intact somehow. Listen to the whispers of air that still has free oxygen.

And never forget to smile at people because they still are humans and would appear godly in comparison to the mechanized monsters of the next centuries. The new species will write our history then. It will be the sorry tale of a species that went extinct because of its inherent weakness to be stronger and stronger. But till then enjoy whatever little is left brothers and sisters. And let the angry leaders fight. They will fight come whatever it may.

The sage of bottom mud in a sea

 The sea cucumber fellow is a weird creature so much so that even the most laughable sea-dwelling guy would find him funny and worth cracking endless jokes. His face, if one can call it a face at all, is always stuck into the mud at the sea bottom. The guy with its clumsy courage got so busy in grazing the bottom mud that forgot to respirate through mouth or nostrils. So these vanished over the millennia and, as nature would have it, his other opening, rectum, began to function as a breathing hole as well apart from being the usual excreta dumping point, both functionalities operating with reasonable integrity. Call him a weirdo, a contrarian, a spirited non-conformist or anything sounding funny, he is perfectly unperturbed by all the dirty disclaimers flung around. He isn’t bothered. He would ignore gales of giggles and shivering squalls of laughter from those who stare at his bottom and stop to crack jokes.

As it funnily turns out, the same dumping-cum-breathing hole becomes a grand opening, an opportunity, for another creature.

Sea cucumber is like a gentle, snaily rock, all happy with its snout stuck in the mud. Hardly anyone is bothered about it. But the pearl fish cannot miss the opportunity. It’s a little fish. A docile slim thing, it’s always at risk from many predators. And like all those little ones facing risk from bigger predators, it’s looking for suitable hiding places. And the sea cucumber’s double functioning rectum comes to have third utility: the pearl fish’s hiding hole. The little fish houses itself for safety; a very interesting interlacing of fun and expertise.

Sometimes, a couple in love, shy and afraid of the big world out there, takes shelter in the opening provided by the non-objecting sea cucumber that is happy to enjoy its mystic innocence in the mud at the bottom. There they make love in perfect safety beyond the fiery incandescence of the game of survival. The sea cucumber is thus a slowly moving den for the pear fish lovelorn couple, a kind of love hotel, to hide and enjoy naughty moments. Wonders of nature: the rectum with a roomy rectitude to harbor soft, vibrant, seductive moments and space for another species.

The bottom of the sea is full of mysteries brimming with their dilapidated grandeur and we know just a little fraction of what all that goes unnoticed in the silent majesty under the turbulent surface full of crusading carousel, the survival game.