Those were the times by the pond

Ours was a very big village pond; almost a lake. In the middle part it was pretty deep as well. We spent a considerable part of our growing up years both by its side as well as inside it. During the summers, we would compete with the buffaloes in swimming in the green, mossy waters. We sunbathed on the back of relaxing buffalos; dived then from the platform; played Catch Me If You Can, a sort of hydraulic version of hide and seek, as it involved a lot of dives to slip away from the catcher. We also tried speedboat and water-skating. Unruly buffaloes were chosen for this version of enjoyment. One hand held the buffalo’s tail and the other yielded a short but sturdy stick, preferably mulberry wood. The stick-yielding hand would go in quick-fire mode. The buffalo would go searing away like a speedboat dragging the driver in her wake. It was done on dual purpose: one, to enjoy the fast water ride; two, to teach the disobedient buffalo a lesson because it usually broke all rules of civility and would run away into the nearby fields.

During the winter, we gossiped sitting on our haunches by the shore when the buffaloes had their fun bath. It was never easy to get them out of the water. They would close their eyes, slowly chewing the cud. Then we would start trying our arms for long-distance throws. Stones, pebbles, clods or any throwable object would start a meteoric shower. They even displayed their disagreement. As the stones fell near them with a plop, they moved their necks in a naysaying manner. We developed good throwing arms due to this practice. It helped us a lot in our other engagement, village cricket. The balls on dusty potholed uneven pitches missed the bat usually. But we threw it around a lot. So, much of the time was spent in searching it among the bunchgrass and acacia shrubs.

Well, one particular throw of mine was too good as it hit the sleeping buffalo on its horns. It took offense and went scudding across the pond and ran away towards a neighboring village. It took a few hours to cajole her back. Another throw was also good for the opposite team as it missed the bricks, serving as wickets, but bad for the old farmer who was passing near the boundary. It hit him on the back on first bounce. He used to be an angry man. He picked up the ball and ran after us, aiming to hit any of the backs. We ran away. He left with the heavy cork ball. We knew he would seek revenge. We shifted to a still more uneven part of the land at the other end of the village. Those were forgiving times. We were back to our former ground after two weeks.

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.