The mirage

 We are pursuing a sense of oneness with something unknown, a vague sense of fulfillment. Almost an emptiness. And we make our own pictures of that which we suppose will fetch that sense of oneness. We have intangible glimpses of that something which drives us to try to fit in and taste rest, ease, oneness through aims, goals, desires, relationships, art, science, everything we do. That something which will eventually get us relieved of perpetual weariness and tension which make us feel that something is missing in life.

Either we have tasted this oneness before—there is a logical chance for it because otherwise why would we hanker so soulfully for something that hasn’t been experienced earlier—or it never was, nor will ever be our fate to feel this oneness.

The second thing is more probable. And we are merely little particles in this stream of cosmic thrust; the aggressive, parasitic expansion; the powerful explosion in which the stronger elements chuck out the weaker ones—a black hole sucking a huge star into its empty innards; an eagle pouncing upon a soft rabbit to tear it apart—to make more and more complex structures and beings. From the perspective of timeless and spaceless infinity, it doesn’t seem probable that there is one particular, permanent state of oneness.

The Phoenix

 

One ought to have transportable roots so that when the calamity strikes necessitating an exile, you can uproot yourself and move with your injured self to a new place. It’s better than suffering and meeting a slow, painful death at the old place that has no option for you to lead even the most basic of a life.

Of course, you can’t carry the earth around your roots with you. But its scent and feel in your heart and soul will be still enough to help you as you dig fresh earth at a strange place to fix your broken roots.

You can graft yourself and try to adjust to the new soil, new sun, new rain, new animals, new insects, new plants and grass, new people. It’s always good to give it a try; as long as there is some option—even if it’s as little as carrying a part of your broken self and broken roots.

If you succeed in this self-grafting, this new you, built on the ruins of the old you, will save you from many a guilt of life. A self-reward it will be; bestowed in honor of having keep going—just for having crossed the desert to reach home; a far away oasis, strange and almost alien but still livable, where you can spread your roots to a decent degree.

The savior of a poetic heart

 

The sea of greenery is receding very fast. The trees are vanishing. We are now living in a barren and brown world. Today another tree was chopped down. A blackberry tree that stood at one corner of a cropped field, lovingly shading the engine room. Here the farmer and his friends enjoyed cool shade and delicious blackberries in the summer. Nearby, some plates of a field solar pump occupied a little portion of the field, giving a clean source of energy. Then the farmer calculated, like we humans usually do. ‘These solar plates waste the corner of the field where I can’t sow my crops. Let me put them on the roof of the room. That will clear the field corner for sowing.’ So he decided to chop down the tree because it shadowed the roof where he planned to relocate the solar plates. And in this way, dear readers, the tree was chopped down. It was just preparing to give them another season of ripe, delicious blackberries. There it lay with its raw, green fruits. Its leaves losing life under the scorching sun. Wilting and melting. We humans very easily forget about all the things that a tree has given us for years--shade, fruits, clean air. We would chop down a tree to clear a few square feet of farmland to sow some more pesticide-soaked crops.

Mother earth has been critically overexploited. Every square inch is under stress because we humans have broken all sustainable barriers. Consequently, even the plants, birds, animals, reptiles, insects, bugs, fungi, bacteria and virus are fighting in a cramped corner. The birds are fighting for some odd nesting site that is available in the urban jungles. Under our barn roof, there is a mud nest clinging to a steel rafter. Earlier the bird nests were just temporary camps set up by the winged nomads roaming freely in the skies. But things have changed. The skies have wires and planes. The houses are plastered. The trees are vanishing. So even nests are becoming costlier, on account of their rarity, and hence almost permanent properties. The swallows couple always returns for their next hatchings here. Sometimes the swallows fight among themselves to grab the property. It’s a very noisy fight. Then recently the house sparrows thought of taking it by force. Soon the fight between the sparrow and swallow couples tuned into a community affair between the two species. A few sparrows and some swallows fought for a couple of days. Finally, a sparrow couple has grabbed the property—after another battle among themselves. It’s a small mud nest. It doesn’t have enough space for a grass nest which the sparrows are trying to fix on the top of it. They keep fetching dry grass and the stalks keep falling down. I am sure they will realize the futility of it all—that it was a useless capture. It’s so symbolic of what we do in our competition and fight with our fellow humans.  

These are sad reflections for a poetic man walking on some odd uncluttered trail among the farmlands. But what does a poet need to uplift his spirits? Not much. Just coming across a new flower uplifts the spirits. I come across a beautiful painted leaf flower! A natural coating of bright red on the green leaf! A summer beauty! And we think we have innovated the art and craft of painting our houses. I think we are mere small imitators of the grand design that mother nature is. This flower helps me in regaining my smile after the tree-cutting episode.

And then the ever-smiling sadabahar says, ‘Don't worry! Cheer up! There is hope for humanity till there is even a single flower on the earth!’

And these little trumpets of four o'clock flowers give a little pep talk: 'See brother, we don't lose our smiles even in this 40 degree Celsius heat. We have adapted our smiles to thrive in this fire. Similarly, you too need to adapt your flowery heart to the fire that's going around in human affairs!'  

Rotdu

 

This chap has carved out a unique identity in the locality. While the rest of the street dogs in the locality are lost in the same old canine ways, standing out almost as an inconsequential common noun, this spotted red and brown champ stands out not for his color (as they usually get christened on the basis of color in India). This one has a fabulous perseverance. He has stuck to his point among all the chaos. It has won him a well-branded identity. 

His unique persistence in the vocalization of his needs, wants and fears puts him in a separate league. Among the riotous canine chorus buzzing with interesting vocals including purring, yodeling, snarling, screaming, barking, whining, growling, howling, sighing and groaning, this fellow maintains the same tempo. He sticks to his copyright tone in all situations from the best to the worst. He piteously whines, whimpers and howls, accelerating his sad, heartbroken song in the given order.

Barking is synonymous with being a dog. They just love barking! God knows whether it’s out of anger, joy, fear, need or frustration. While the rest of them are in a merry chorus, as we humans get jittery during Corona times accompanied by dozens of mild earthquake tremors in the Delhi NCR, indicating all is not well under the earth, this brown-white dirge singer has his own ludicrously howling composition. It appears as if he is offering his doomsday song well in advance. While, the rest of them go into long spells of yodeling and barking in varying joyful notes, as if they can smell the soon to break in fault-line underneath, this champion vocalist but stays on his same old frequency. While the rest of them are shouting ecstatically, we can pick out this one’s piteous howls as if he wants to spoil their game. 

Offer him a chapatti, its anxiety and god knows what pains spurt out through a sad whine that beats even the customary dog’s tail-wagging on being offered food. So the moment you offer it a chapatti, it will start eating but give you a guilty feeling as if you have given it something very bad in taste. It whimpers, whines and then lets loose a screeching note of howl in gratitude. May be he is not comfortable with anything at all in the canine as well as our human world around and goes cursing. Eh, the perennial naysayer!

Growling also is the sovereign right of a dog. They assert their arrogant dogliness through it. What dog is that which doesn’t growl? This one doesn’t. He can’t even if he tries. Because the moment he puts pressure on his vocal chords, the muscles appear to have stuck up at one place to give the same very old whine, whimper and howl. Suppose some skinny outsider dog enters the locality and all the natives are barking out their machismo spirit at full speed, and there being almost no danger as the skinny outsider cowers in the street drain, this champion participates in the defensive force with his full-hearted wretched howls, as if he is on the side of the pinned down outsider. In this he unsettles many of his companions, who give a break to their lungs and actually stare at him to find out if they have bitten their own buddy by mistake. His lowest of a rumble automatically catches onto a sad song of pain and cries. 

When a weirdly dressed gypsy hawker enters the locality, the dog squad gives more pressure to their coiled tails and set after barking in a line after the hawker nomad. He doesn’t mind their barking. He walks confidently, thinking of himself a majestic elephant who isn’t bothered about barking pathetic dogs. They on their part think this strange one will have a share in their chapattis and ladies so needs to be thrown out at the earliest. The nomadic hawkers hardly bother about barking dogs. But even he is forced to abandon his detachment from such mundane settlers’ ways and look behind carefully, his ears picking the piteous howling cries among the proudly ringing din. May be some aloof and unattached gypsy will also start crying after hearing these sympathetic notes. Wonder of wonder, the poor fellow actually believes that it’s barking as can be seen from its taut coil in the tail and proud bearing during the citadel defense. It can’t help if it comes out as a whimpering, irritating howl. May be some unique vocal filter fixed by nature to do some experiment! 

The rest of them have wide range of vocals to vent out a range of emotions from the best to the worst. But this one’s joy, sadness, curiosity and of course frustration are all expressed in the same crying tone. His groans give a clue to his discontentment with life. Suppose a dog fellow approaches him with the intention to play, this one reciprocates with his own innocent intention to play. But how will he stop his sad howling. Those playful sighs again come out as piteous scary whines and whimpers and the fellow leaves him, accusing him of being a habitual crier. 

Amidst all his teary whimpers, he is a loser in love game also as can be expected. During the mating season, the dandies break many a moon to woo their sweethearts. This one also, driven by his biological instincts, tries the same. But the lady runs away during the foreplay itself as his pining moans start with piteous howls as if she has just pierced his heart with her paw. You have to believe me on this. I have actually seen it happening. Otherwise, why would I be interested in maligning his character on social media?  I call him Rotdu, habitual crier, by the way!

An unassuming, humble flower

 

The least cared flowers blossom the most! Sadabahar, nicknamed by so many like a homeless street urchin: Catharanthus roseus, bright eyes, Cape periwinkle, graveyard plant, Madagascar periwinkle, old maid, pink periwinkle, rose periwinkle. Cut them, leave them waterless, don't look and appreciate them, forget them, treat them cheaper than grass, they will bear all insults and ignominy just to smile all through the year. Seasonless beauties! Mollycoddle your nursery rose like the Apple of your eye, they don't feel jealous. Feed the cherished and highly pampered exotic flowers with the nectar of your love and affection, these orphans still don't mind. Let your pruner go carelessly over their eager to play petals, cutting and bruising them, they still don't lose their smile. They are happy with what mother Earth has given them. They don't need more. And still how much we hanker after the spoilt dandies who bring many tears in our eyes to give a solitary smile in return!