A sane man walking

The farmer cheated me. He left the tubewell system plundered to the core. If you challenge them on their own terms—like shouting, fighting, going to police—only then they think you are worth your salt. Since, I am hardly interested in any of the three—because all of them would reach the same end—he thinks the bookish man is scared of him. So that made him still happier. He boasted about it also. The only option for me was to talk him into a resolution of the issue. But it was as good as talking to his buffalo. I found it suitable to use my energy in fixing the set again by investing money to buy the entire set again.

Thinking and pondering over the human trait of grabbing more and more I’m walking by the side of the road. It is a busy road. Earlier it was a cart track, then district road, then state highway and now a national highway with a toll plaza to collect the charges for speeding over it. There are signs of change on both sides. Agriculture is giving the baton to business and enterprise. The models of cars are getting costlier. The road is getting busier with the passage of each day.

He is walking by the side of the road. His long hair unkempt, his overgrown beard saggy, shirt buttonless and pajama somehow tied with a cycle tyre’s tube working as a belt. He has a trash bag. He is not a trash collector in the business sense of the term. He is just carrying on with the momentum of collecting just for the sheer habit of carrying some load. He is just an unrefined lunatic clinging to his possessions and further adding to them.

All around him are refined lunatics doing exactly the same: running around in the competition to gather more and more, to carry bigger bags. But ultimately the lunatic’s trash collection and the factory owner’s collection—just opposite the road—will stay here on earth. The lunatic trash man and the wealthy businessman have to go empty handed. Just that he picks up small throwaway items. The others are running for a bit more nicely packaged items—the things still in use—but the race is the same and finally both come to a naught.

The first week of September

 

It is the first week of September. It has been a dry August. Very hot. They have now air conditioners in the village. There might be some cool moments inside but the exhaust leaves it burning outside at night. Earlier, we had tolerably cool nights at this time of the year.

It is late evening. Fluffs of clouds are tinged orange by the setting son. A shikra is perched on the top of an electricity pole. A wiretail swallow is whoozing around its head. It flies dangerously close to its head with agitated chip-chip sounds. Maybe the hunter is after its chick that they are training to fly.

A perfect half moon is visible in the sky. There is a commotion in the street. A big rat snake has been sighted. It is hiding under a narrow duct in the small open water drain by the street side. People cannot believe that such a big snake is harmless to the humans. Three huge bullfrogs are wallowing in the muddy water near the duct’s end. Maybe they are very confident that their size is beyond the range of a rat snake. They can easily see the snake peering at them from under the duct just five or six feet away but they are not bothered about it. Sometimes big size helps.

Something for the pigeons

 

India completed seventy-six years of independence. The government of India initiated ‘Har Ghar Tiranga’ program to celebrate the occasion. Many roofs had the national flag even in the villages. But the national flag on one particular pole served an additional purpose also apart from celebrating the republican spirit. It liberated white pigeons from a tricky situation. The boy keeps many white pigeons. He has fixed a long pole on his roof with a little perch platform at the top end. The pigeons roost there. They are habituated to land on it after their little struggling flights. The sun is extra bright in the rain-washed skies. It was a little sad to see the pigeons sitting under the harsh and hot sun. Then the tiranga campaign caught the boy’s fancy. He dismantled the perch platform and now the national tricolor is flying proudly among the late monsoon winds. The pigeons have got their freedom from the heat at least.

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.