Snippets of a playful sky

 

The second half of August brings out playfulness in the sky to an unprecedented scale. In the rain-washed pristine blue, there are clouds floating to set up a very active stage. Colors, shapes, sizes, designs self-evolving and self-dissolving by the chance winds. Divinity seems very active in spraying various patterns on the blue canvas. These are freewheeling daubs and spatterings. Godliness enjoying a free float in the form of loamy clouds.

During the days they are white and gray drawings. But mornings and evenings fill up the canvas with multiple colors. A pattern emerges, then the slate gets wiped clean and a new pattern floats in. The shifting stage, just being. It shows the monsoon is slowly losing its grip over the skies. Huge wheels of clouds go floating, freely, as if no longer under the obligation to precipitate and kiss earth. The clouds seem to be in love with their gliding across the blue canvas.

But that is above in the skies. The ground has its own practical necessities, like my beautifully ageing bike. The old two-wheeler is under service. My biking days are almost gone with the youth. In any case I don’t loiter around too much these days in my forties. The machine is still impressive with its good condition despite its age. I am basking in my machine’s praise emanating from the head mechanic’s mouth. The words of praise turn you calm and serene as you sit in a chair. You don’t even get irritated even while he stops working on your machine midway to attend to some less calm person who has arrived after you. Nice words and little smiles put you under an obligation to pay back by staying calm so that he doesn’t lose a customer.

Well, the momentum of patience surely creates an aura around you. It attracts a tall young man. He is reasonably well built and looks strong. He wears a dark gray shirt and black capri pants. He seems in a different dimension. He’s asking money for food. ‘I can bear up with hunger, no problem. But there is an old man who needs to eat,’ he points to some place somewhere. Who or where is the old man, I don’t have a clue. ‘I am ready to work. See, I have washed my clothes as well,’ he tries to present himself as a clean, honest guy who isn’t a lazy crap. He has proven himself to be enough hardworking by keeping his shirt clean. Maybe he thinks that dirty beggars are offensive to people these days.

I ask him why doesn’t he work, that there is no dearth of work for those who really want it, that there is no need to ask money for food when you are young and healthy. ‘I work, see I have washed my clothes. But the old man cannot go hungry,’ he again starts with his story. I know he is high on substance. I give him my contribution to his addiction. I give him twenty rupees. He moves on even without looking at me. All the blessings were reserved for the moments before I pulled out my purse. It is a wasted life. Whom would you blame? He, his circumstances, society or institutions? A man is a product of so many elements. It is very difficult to put blame on just one of them. If someone is in a sour soup, I take an integrative picture. You become a bit more forgiving. These considerations usually make me lenient to beggars.

The gardener turned king

 

Two millennia before Christ, the people of the Mesopotamian city of Babylon had an interesting manner of celebrating the new year. Commendably they had their fixed twelve-month calendar that allowed them a sense of managing time. So they would have their new year, allowing them celebrations for a new start. A common person would be crowned ‘king for a day’ in the morning. The one-day king would be exposed to all the luxurious delicacies of royalty. But before the day end the one-day king would be sacrificed to appease the Gods. Maybe they believed that the Gods would feel pampered over having a king sacrificed at their feet. Then one year, Enlil-bani, the king’s gardener, got his term to be appointed as one-day king on the first day of the new year. Possibly the Gods got fed up with one-day kings’ sacrifices and decided to have the real taste of royalty. Before the sacrifice, the real king fell ill suddenly and died. As luck would have it, the one-day king turned into almost a quarter century long king. The gardener turned king ruled for two and half decades with wisdom and practical acumen. At least he must have focused on flowers and gardens because there are some poems eulogizing him for his good work.

A kind, gentle charity-seeker

 

He is a small man, himself carrying very dismissive air about his own persona. No wonder he walks so lightly and looks at ease with himself. He visits the village asking for donations for a blind school they operate. Most of them are fake, so even a few genuine social workers get repulsed from the doors. He has a pad of receipts bearing the address and contact numbers of the said school. The nice thing about him is that he does not show you any sign of disappointment, disgruntlement or irritation. As you say ‘no’ he would give you a smile and move on. It seems like a concession to you because normally charity seekers haggle with you and won’t leave your doors before making their disappointment all too evident to you and making you feel guilty or angry. I have said a firm ‘no’ to him a few times and every time he did not say a single word and left with a smile. He has been giving me a free smile. I somehow feel indebted to him. As social animals you want to reciprocate on an impulse. His nice behavior, his concession by not haggling or showing any visible traces of any irritation, gets me in compliance finally. I give him some money. He has earned it by leaving me with the feeling of indebtedness by giving me subtle concessions, pulling me into compliance mode finally.

The simian sense of independence

 

The monkeys got up earlier than me to celebrate August Fifteen. As I came out into the garden they had left after their simian celebrations. The trees and plants immediately complained pointing to many a broken branch. A few birds—tailorbird, spotted munia and babbler—also lamented, their grassy homes lying on the ground. I had fixed a small looking-glass above the washbasin outside the bathroom wall. One of them—very looks conscious surely—took it away as well. Maybe he is freshly in love and is concerned about his face. It is irritating. But it’s a grand occasion. We are celebrating our seventy-sixth year of independence and their misplaced enthusiasm can be pardoned. I take these activities as Independence Day celebrations. Things are what we interpret them as.

The black and white television

 It was almost a milestone in the village history when Father brought home a small 18 inch, black and white ET&T TV set. There were just three or four TV sets in the entire village. The unfortunate bearers of these TV sets were under real assault on Sundays for the weekly movies because people seamlessly barged in despite all protests. Once the room was full and the door shut, the rest tried to catch the action by hearing dialogues from outside.

A kind TV owner thought of larger good and put his coveted item in the street for a public screening. The entire street got jammed to a long extent with the kind of crowd that you see at Rajiv Chowk Metro Station in Delhi presently. Then someone threw a pebble that landed dangerously close to the precious item. The owner shouted profanities that would surpass all the nasty jeers of all the villains in the film industry. The show went off.

The TV owners turned very guarded and suspicious after this incident. It was then Father decided to get us our little black and white television set. Doordarshan was kind enough to give us Wednesday chitrahar and Sunday movie. An antenna looked like a crown of the house. A house with television antenna was held in high esteem. Thank god, the village was monkeyless during those days. The frequency was slippery. Little elements of wind and clouds had the capacity to spoil all entertainment. Holding the antenna in an ideal position was a big challenge, almost an art in fact.

Then the path-breaking serial Ramayan started. By this time there were about two dozen television sets in the village. So the pressure per TV set had eased a bit. But the electricity would go off, leaving people in a puzzle if life was really livable anymore. I remember it was a much anticipated episode, maybe Lord Rama’s marriage with Mata Sita. The entire village looked up to celebrate the marriage. A day before the episode the electricity transformer gave sparks and got blown out. The village went into mourning. But there was a glimmer of hope.

Father had stealthily smuggled in a rechargeable battery with enough voltage to play the tiny television set. The news spread throughout the village. Our house was attacked. Never ever I will see so many people in a small house. The people got  onto whatever perch they could manage. I saw heads almost touching the ceiling. Potatoes were crushed. Some of our old brass utensils still bear the marks of that assault. The house would have burst out that day.

An old woman who could not squeeze in went lamenting through the street. She knew where Grandfather spent his days smoking hookah in a gathering of elders in a chaupal. ‘You smoke hookah here, but when you will go home you will walk over its rubble,’ she howled and hollered. Grandfather was around eighty-five at that time. He ran on his rickety legs to save his house. Then he gave the all-time best performance of his life in both words and action. He threw bricks, clods, sticks, fists, kicks amply accompanied with suitable tongue-lashing to clear off the door and continued throwing whatever came in his hands. Heavy brass utensils came very handy as weapons. His old-age burst certainly made it a war scene. People must have thought he was haunted by Ravan’s spirit that day. But full marks to Grandfather’s spirit. He created a stampede and forced the crowd to run away from the scene. Our small humble house bore the look as if a few bulls had fought inside it. And there he stood, fuming, but proud to have saved the house. ‘If you people go like this, you will find yourself on the open road one day,’ he admonished. That day Father had to be on the back-foot and Grandfather gave him a big load of advisory, admonishing hearing.