The milky white pigeon

 

The sun is setting and its tired rays fall on the carcass of a cloud sprinkling it with pale saffron hues. It looks like the skeletal remains of some cloudy elephant. Ribs are prominent on display.

A babbler couple has just set up a nest on the smaller parijat tree in the corner. A young tree really comes of age once a bird sets up a nest among its branches. It gives the look of a confident adolescent young man. It gives me shade also as I read newspaper under it till late mornings.

A tailorbird couple seems to have successfully hatched one chick among the leaves of the young tree. They are chik-chikking nonstop for the last three days. These tiny birds are illustriously valiant in throwing around their beak in raising a birdie din. It can easily give a headache to anyone not too good on the tolerance scale. That is primarily done to dupe and distract any predator. Since I look like the biggest predator to them, I have to absorb all the insulting torrent throughout the day. It makes me more tolerant.

A beautiful milky white pigeon landed in the garden. The owner clips their wings to give them a small struggling flight; just like we get clipped by customs, conventions and other hampering snares that curtail our free flights born of free will. The bird had beautiful pink in its tail. There are cats so I followed it. It walked very softly and allowed me to catch it. There is a tremendous feel-good element in setting a bird free. You get a faint trace of how mightily sagacious God must be feeling when he helps in our flights to fulfill our destines. I took it to the roof, held it in both hands and gave it a flight. It fluttered and rose high to fly for some distance and reached its perch platform at the end of a long pole on the owner’s roof.

My little grain of truth

 By the infinite, ever-transforming and interminable elements of the cosmic math, a mystic sees truth beyond all versions of the so called mind-created truths. It's never your, mine, his, or her truth. Or for that matter anything in the cosmos, including humans, animals, birds, reptiles, insects, or anything else we may not perceive, is as far from truth as a common misunderstanding between two human beings. The only truth is that 'truth' lies equidistant from each and every ounce scattered till eternal distances in the universe, multiverse or whatever it qualifies to be. Out of this infinite option to pick up and churn out individual truth, the so called perceivable reality, the human mind also creates virtual reality. Mind you, it's as simple as you see games in virtual reality. There is hardly any qualitative difference. So we have our realities, some of which have been gathered to form collective realities in order to run this society in the form of common belief, social norms and conventions. We can't help this. This mind has to churn out our own individual reality, the so called our very own dear truth. That can't be helped. Our own truth almost seems to define the meaning of our life. Well then here starts the real problem. One's very own truth may sound a character assassination to someone from his/her point of view decided by their own truth. Why do we hurl out our truths? Possibly it's a means of survival mechanism. We probably try to unburden ourselves by letting it out. But man, our truth, the jewel it may appear to us, may be a dagger to someone. Avoid unsheathing it! Even if it turns a knife inside your own self. And starts cutting your own self. But if out, it can hurt someone even more. Why should someone else be its target? It's the keeper's responsibility to manage it. Accepted that if kept inside, it will be painful, but it will cut many falsehoods inside your own self, side by side giving a few painful cuts to the softer tissues. It but saves you from committing a verbal manslaughter. Good people prefer injury to their own self, instead of harming others. And mind u this can be practiced. My new year resolution in advance! To keep my version of reality to myself, even if it hurts. It's my responsibility to keep it, to manage it, to nurture it. Our jewel may be dagger to someone else. Be careful about your simple statement that you may take as simple facts, for these might be character assassinating poison arrows to someone else. It's not about the other person. The onus is on one's own self. So guys, her I go and keep my truths to my own self. That's the path of solitude. Possibly it leads to a place where even the last doubts vanish! God bless you all!

The poor runaways

 It happened on a chilly winter morning in Delhi 11 years back. In the traffic chaos, a little ounce of tragedy was crying for a fleeting attentive moment from our big eyes. Delhi..a congested road with a multitudinous crowd hurtling to the never reachable destination. The beaten path almost a hissing snake eating into the last hidden holes of the rest of the non human species. The stompers in opposite directions separated by just 2ft road divider to avoid their collision head on. But we still bang into each other by the way. And there in all this chaos, lying like an unobserved needle in a hayrack, so inconsequential in its species and tragedy, a female dog with her tummy full of soon to be delivered puppies was desperately digging a hole into the little unpaved patch of soul in the middle of the divider to lie down for the moment of creation. Vehicles snarled by leaving angry plumes of smoke and torrents of abusive snarls. The unconcerned world just sped away. Most of us are running away from our own niggling bitter truths. We are addicted to our strife because this addiction helps us forget the subtle chiding by the all-seeing conscience. Ah, we the errant kids! We miss the direct effects of so many misdeeds born of our mindless development. We just prefer to dash ahead taking apathy to be strength of character!

Soulless, hybrid beauty

 

A hybrid rose can have nice colour and exquisite design. But it lacks the basic essence of a flower, fragrance. The beauty is skin deep, a mere cosmetic effort at the surface. It's haughty and arrogant, a kind of constriction within itself, an insecurity, a fear, an aloofness, a separation. The soul is missing. They seem too self-absorbed. Like so many apparently classy, well polished gentry. They stand with touch-me-not attitude. And the bees and butterflies stay away. They find it totally unapproachable. The marigolds, on the other hand, are little humble, down to earth flowers. They aren't showy. They are common looking. But they have a soul, a depth, a delicate fragrance. Most importantly, they have nectar to offer to the butterflies and bees. With their openness and genteel receptivity, they are buzzing with little winged insects. They have broader connection to life and living. I can feel their soul through their soft fragrance as I sit by them. They exist in a dimension where they touch many chords in my heart. The smell-less roses are as distant and soulless as a beautiful pic of them or even well designed plastic flowers.

The illustrated contraries of chance winds

 

This woman in the neighborhood has indomitable spirit and is firmly full of vigor for A-division street fights. She looks like a world class wrestler with shrill abusive words. No wonder people usually try to save their skin and bones. This morning she has put a big heap of discards at the little square and set it on fire. A huge plume of dark smoke engulfs my establishment as the wind is blowing into the house. If you commit the mistake of saying something against her on the issue of a smoky fire in front of your house, she would be more than happy to upgrade her endeavor and shift the fire right within your courtyard.

She seems to possess unrestrained optimism about the chances of her victory in street brawls. Keeping silence minimizes the damage these days. I do the same and brace myself for smoke-choked house for some time. But then the wind suddenly changed and her own house was completely lost among the dark plumes of smoke. It remained so for half an hour. The wind changed again once the smoky affair was gone. Now when it blew again into the house, it bought beautiful fragrance of jasmine flowers from the wall of another neighbor. Well, sometimes coming from the unknown interiors of the womb of happenings, circumstantial winds favor you if you keep silent. And winds are winds. They dutifully carry all the illustrated contraries. No use of pointless jibing at its ways. They have a duty to carry smoke as well as flower fragrance. Bear up with smoke sometimes and you will surely have your share of beautiful fragrance another time.