Arrogance Vs Efficiency

 

The fall of Sheikh Hasina government in Bangladesh is very worrisome for the Indian strategic interests; just like the fall of Rajapakshe clan in Sri Lanka must have bothered the Chinese communist government.

For a country like India whose democracy is always on the livewire, it’s suitable to have democracies in its bordering states. Bangladesh under Sheikh Hasina—however milder version of democracy it might have been—is always a better bet for India in comparison to any other option.

She was firmly in the seat for the last fifteen years. Despite all the diluting elements of a proper democracy—like ‘crackdown on the opposition, including the jailing of leaders, stifling of dissent, and muzzling of media’ (was she too inspired by her fellow friend in the neighborhood?)—she has been the best shot for the Indian interests. Her ouster acquires more worrisome shades given the fact of unfriendly regimes in Maldives, Nepal, Pakistan and the military junta in Myanmar.

When you are a proponent of strongman (or strongwoman) politics, there is a very fine line between what is tolerable and intolerable. Dissension builds up over a period of time and if you aren’t prudent enough to keep safety valves for the seepage of extra effervescence—thus avoiding an explosion—you might become a villain suddenly. The fuel has accumulated over the years; now it needs just one trigger to ignite mass sentiments. There were people swimming in the private pools of mighty Rajapakshes and now you have people taking away framed picture and paintings from Hasina’s official residence.

She could have easily enjoyed her fifth term. What was the use of bringing job quota for the descendants of freedom fighters? One can give positive incentives in so many other ways instead of directly antagonizing the younger section of the population. It was foolish on her part; as farcical as would be the Indian government’s job quota for the descendants of the founding members of the Hindu rightist organizations in the country. Instead of allowing the fire to spread while hundreds died in the protests she could have shown a clever side—staying adamant at all costs is being very foolish, even if it makes one feel strong—by revoking the measures; like Modi did once during the farmer protests by taking back the unpopular farming laws. This is the only time I have seen him allowing some space to the voice of dissent; otherwise it has been a steel frame. It’s fortunate that he did it because it saved India from a bigger fire. But the way female wrestlers were treated—and the oppressor facilitated—still rankles the soul of most of the people in the peasantry class. And the less we say about Manipur, the better it is. I know it’s far more complex situation over there than anyone of a common person like you or me can understand. But despite all the nitty gritties the country’s premier can at least take some symbolic measures to put balm on bleeding Manipuri wounds.     

It’s fortunate that collective Indian psyche is far more mature and would respond—not react—through ballot paper during elections under similar circumstances like it did during the recently held general elections. There are big parallels between how PM Modi and Sheikh Hasina run their government. But our response has been to stop him from hijacking our entire democratic system. Despite the blatant misuse of agencies and the election commission—and I take the result with a pinch of salt and there are enough reasons to believe that election wasn’t fair as it’s supposed to be in the world’s largest democracy—the BJP lost its majority and hence the power to rule with an unsparing rod. A coalition government is the best shot for the social harmony of the country at the moment.  

What is it that undoes the position of a powerful authoritarian leader in a democracy? I think, it’s the plain old overconfidence. An illusion that what has been passing for long will continue to do so. As the most powerful person in the country you think that alpha male type tactics are the only signs of strength and power. You think any adjustment of other’s opinion is a sign of weakness. Like PM Modi initially did during the farmer’s protests. About 700 farmers lost their lives during the cruel summer and winter months during the yearlong agitation. But he didn’t even think of meeting them. The champion and elite female sporting icons kept crying on the road for justice but he didn’t even once expressed his willingness to listen to them. Manipur is burning for more than a year but he hasn’t visited it even once during the times when his subjects need a healing touch. Just mere presence and soft words will do. All of us are lucky that Indian voters are far more mature and respond through ballot box only. And that’s the strength of Indian democracy.         

The power of gratitude

 

Passing through a poor locality in Delhi is always revealing. To feel gratitude for whatever God has given us, we ought to visit slums and pavements crowded with the homeless people. Then we realize how lucky we have been in receiving all that God has given us. To feel gratitude for whatever body type God has graced us with, thus blessing us with a vehicle to complete this phase of journey, sometimes visit the hospitals and see the sick and diseased. It helps us in feeling thankful for whatever Almighty has gifted us in the name of physicality.

A little kid, barely seven or eight, comes pulling the rickshaw carrier. Empty plastic cans at the back and the little lad going almost half way down on each side to complete the paddling circle. There are more child bread earners washing dirty plates by a kulche chhole stall. It is early in the morning and instead of getting breakfast before going to school they are earning their bread. The littlest of kids taking a bath at a public tap after a late night stint at an eating point. The childhood has withered in them. They are old before they realize. These are dhaba boys. Getting their skins hardened with heartless, unsympathetic, antisocial strains; fed by the scorns and abuses of their merciless masters. Watching them makes us feel so privileged in having parents who saved us from all this experience, who gave us schooling, shelter and made us free enough to pursue our journey.

Watching the miseries around should open us to kindness. But it should open the floodgates of gratitude also for whatever we have received just by being born in relatively better circumstances. If you have a personal jet, watch people who have just cars. If you have a car, feel the struggle of those having just bikes. If you have a bike, feel the test someone is going through in just having a bicycle. If you have a bicycle, see the homeless walker who hasn’t anything at all. If you ever feel sorry for your poor footwear, feel the pain of someone who hasn’t got even legs to wear even the cheapest footwear. And millions will die today over the globe. So feel privileged to have this sip of life under the fresh sunshine.

Gratitude is very-very important. Without it we cannot groom self-love. And without the foundations of self-love we face a lot of challenge in building the citadel of love for others. All of us know it theoretically but we forget it easily. To make gratitude an essential element of our daily life we ought to look below as well, daily, to make it a habit. Look above daily to remember the impermanence of life by watching the shifting and melting clouds. And daily look below to feel gratitude for the great boons we have received during this interval between birth and death. There are messages written around. Aha, the master book of life! The codes of the ultimate reality are written so clearly for everyone to read. Happy watching above and below—daily!

Gritty old ladies of the past

 

Tai Rishalo was a wise, old woman. Widowed early with many children to rear, she managed to keep her brood’s neck above the waters to survive and sustain in the pool of life where the storms of low social position kept their little boat tossing with adversarial winds. She but kept her sense of humor above any other mood. Carrying her basket of vegetables and fruits, she sprinkled the staid village air with her puns, mimicry and jokes. She built a position of respect for herself across all castes in the village. She had a stupendous memory and would narrate almost endless fables and stories of princes, princesses, prets and parrots. She could sing, dance, joke and mimic with great effect.

Tai Rishalo loved Haridwar, especially visiting the holy banks of Ganga Maa in the auspicious month of shravan. The latter meant the cusp of all earthly delights for her. Her group of elder women would load themselves with wheat flour, pulses, rice and bales of clothing and start for the pilgrimage. They used multiple modes of conveyance to finally reach the holy town. Here they stayed in dharamshalas and cooked their food to keep their visits monetarily feasible. Some of the women in her group were so old that when they started from the village, many people joked that surely a few of them will definitely stay back with Ganga Maa forever. But all of them would beat all doubts and returned safe. Not only that, they would even climb the hills to reach neelkanth mahadev temple; a stupendous feat, given the fact that one of them, Tai Malho, was sitting on the edge of her grave.

I remember a rainy day when they started their pilgrimage. It was a gloomy, wet day. All of them old and Tai Malho the oldest of them, in her late eighties, frail, bony, slightly better than the crooked stick she held in her hand. She moved with her rickety steps in the street mud like a poor skeleton taking a stroll after jumping out of its grave. I thought I had seen the last of her on that rainy day. But there she was back in the village in a slightly better avatar after spending two-three weeks by the holy river. She had even managed to walk uphill to the holy shrine of neelkanth, a steep climb of almost eighteen kilometers. She gave credit to Tai Rishalo for her survival. ‘She makes you laugh so much that the yamdoots possibly get doubtful and take you far younger than your age because you are laughing so much!’ she exulted.

However, there was a false scare born of the trip. Tai Srichand ki bahu, uncle Srichand’s wife, a robust fair-colored woman with buxom breasts who had nurtured many handsome big-shouldered farmers, caused plenty of scare in the family after her return. She was uncle Srichand’s fourth wife. His previous three wives had died, earning him the name-de-plume of ‘wife-eater’. But our fourth Tai survived and almost two decades younger to her farmer husband, she beat him in the race of life to become a widow in her seventies.

During those days, just a few trains plied between Delhi and Haridwar. Our gang of old Tais would launch an assault with their big bundles to occupy any space available in the unreserved general compartment. The passengers would look horribly at unease but when the elderly peasant women started singing and sharing food with them the things would take a cozy U-turn. During one such scuffle to grab her footing in the crowded compartment, Tai Srichand ki bahu got a nasty elbow strike at her copious breast. A lump emerged as a result. She returned crying from the pilgrimage, loudly proclaiming that it was cancer and she would die. She unleashed torrents of urgency on her sons. They took her to a doctor and only the doctor’s words that it was just a temporary fibroid that would melt away by itself she returned to her usual jolly mood.

All those Tais are gone now on their further journeys. When I remember Tai Rishalo and her fondness for Haridwar, I always feel that she must be enjoying her days on the banks of Maa Ganga after shedding her bodily form. Their memories bring a sweet childhood nostalgia.           

Common and uncommon

 An earthworm is the mildest, most harmless version of a snake. Similarly, the common man is the mildest, most harmless version of a politician. In both cases, the former ones crawl to survive and eat muddy crumbs for survival; while the latter ones are fanged, poisoned and slither around to hunt with impunity.

PS: Within the snakes and politicians, there are different types. Some are vipers, cobras, krates and mambas. The lethal ones. The other are rat snakes, sand boas and many other harmless crawlers who carry the fear and stigma of the lethal ones in the genre.

The Shape of My Love

 The Shape of My Love invites readers on an introspective journey through the myriad emotions that define the human experience. Spanning themes of love, loss, and the eternal rhythms of nature, these verses by Sandeep Dahiya (Sufi) resonate with profound depth and lyrical grace.

From the tender exploration of love's many facets to the poignant reflections on heartache and resilience, each poem in this collection offers a glimpse into the complexities of human relationships. Nature serves as both backdrop and metaphor, from the solitude and pain of ‘Lonely Trees’ to the majestic presence of ‘Mountain Eagle,’ mirroring the joys and sorrows inherent in life's journey.

Through verses that contemplate existence itself—its fleeting moments and enduring truths—the poet captures the essence of being human. Themes such as renewal in ‘Spring’ and the melancholy beauty of ‘Dying Leaf’ evoke universal emotions that resonate deeply with readers.

The book is a testament to the power of poetry to illuminate the soul, offering solace, insight, and a profound connection to the shared experiences that bind us all. With exquisite imagery and emotional resonance, Sandeep Dahiya (Sufi) crafts a collection that speaks directly to the heart, inviting readers to pause, reflect, and find beauty in life's most profound moments.