Why BJP brand of politics is a safer bet for Indian democracy at present?!

Family politics is one of the biggest issues that  plague Indian democracy. Congress led by Gandi-Nehru clan and the smaller regional offshoots have checked the flow of democracy from reaching the grassroots level. That’s the reason Swaraj is still a distant, almost impossible, reality even after 66 years of independence. Even within the folds of democracy, only autocratic tricks can succeed in maintaining power concentrated in a particular family. In this regard Gandhi-Nehruvian type of manipulations have done the greatest harm to the spread of democracy and independence across the widespread strata in India. Consequently, things did not change much for the common man of India post-independence.

BJP brand of politics is at least in sharp democratic contrast to Congress in this regard. Atalji headed NDA as Prime Minister.  He could focus just on his democratic duties instead of wasting resources and institutional powers in consolidating family fiefdom to keep it floating across generations. New BJP Prime Minister designate will be in a far better position to function as the topmost administrator of the country in comparison to let us say somebody from the Gandhi Nehru clan. The latter will again have to go into undemocratic manipulations, directly and indirectly, to maintain their grip as the first political family in the country.

At least in present conditions BJP is a far better option than Congress for the spread of democracy in India. It may not be perfect but will at least take Indian democracy to the next stage when Swaraj will be a possibility under the care of some new rising son!!!! 

Peacock, the Beggar

The fields around my village are splashing with as much green paddy as possible. Monsoonal sun across the corners of flying lumps of clouds gives the best glimpses of nature's bounty. But the travelling shadows also try to cover up silent, invisible man-made tragedies. Driven by intensive agriculture, born of costly inputs and decreasing landholdings, farmers just mindlessly dump poison in all forms of pesticides, weedicides and insecticides. So this lush green is a merciless stroke of brush on the canvas of nature, swiping away the natural world of many insects, worms, reptiles and rodents that make nature holistic and encompassing in its game of give and take across food chains. So guys, its just green paddy and poisoned soil below.

Peacocks thrive on insects in the fields. So food-less where would they go. A peacock's plumage swinging to gentle breeze in open surroundings of the countryside is a treat, and we were lucky to witness it so many times during our childhood. Now the last or second last generation of these destitutes, who rarely get an insect in fields, has descended down in the village. An irony: the poison giver is somehow better than the poison itself, at least in the short turn. In the foliage of neem and acacian trees, they just pew out their miseries. To the infants and younger lot it gives a chance to get acquainted with the national bird's sound, and of course help them in learning the initials of human language.

My mom has an almost regular bird visitor, who perches upon the neem in our courtyard and pews out its begging song as if pleading, Mai Roti do!!' While she dispenses her routine chores across the yard, it continues to draw her attention. Roti delayed, it is forced to descend down and enter the inner reaches of house just to make his presence felt through his luxuriant plumage. Once roti is put in small pieces before it, it has to chuck up the offerings as fast as possible because crows line up in their accusing harsh tones, blaming him for being a transgressor who has infringed upon their rights. Crows are very clever. Some of them get behind his plumage and take a pick at his feathers to distract him. One defensive look behind and a few pieces stolen by the other crows waiting in the wings. I call it the 'beggar peacock', my mother does not like the title though.

If that is the fate of the national bird, its hard to imagine the condition of others. Looking at this marvel of nature, whom mom sometimes accuses of being 'namakharam'-- when it comes without its plumage, all the feathers having been shed somewhere, and mom cursing it for being so mindless to waste them somewhere and not shed them in the courtyard -- I just feel sad on account of the fact that may be it is the last or at the most second last in its lineage!!!  

China'a Himalayan Drills

My two neighbours have been at loggerheads for long. One is strong, financially and socially in a decent position. The other is comparatively lesser on all these accounts. The stronger one will not miss an opportunity to badger the opponent and would not lose a chance to prove his strength and the other's helplessness. One day I heard the one, always at the receiving end, saying, 'I am going to an all out with him. Even if he beats me its better to be fully defeated instead of getting insulted all the times!' Driven by the concept that he brooded over his insults, he went all out with the neighbour at the next provocation! It was unexpected given his unresponsiveness of long. The stronger opponent was taken back and before other villagers intervened he had god bloody mouth and many bruises. Moral of the story is: sometimes it serves to hit hardest when you are pushed against a wall; when you have been completely cornered!

Repeated Chinese transgressions into Indian territory and India's helplessness in this regard may a serve a corollary to the episode narrated above. China, on account of the War and repeated intrusions, has taken it for granted that India will remain inert to all provocations. Can India act ultimately like my weaker opponent? If China can cross over into our territory, cannot we go for the same exercise sometimes? Suppose China reacts at the level of using force at our China-type intrusion, we will earn a right to ward them off at the same level if they play the mischief again. It will only define the LOC more definitely---after all you are supposed to put your stamp of authority on you claimed land through the use of forces to their utmost capacity. It will just balance out the position.           

Amarnath Yatra

Life is all about exploring the self--its limitations, its specialties, its weaknesses, its strengths. Putting yourself in inhospitable conditions can be one of the means for this. The holy cave of Amarnath is situated in the frigid heights of higher Himalayas. As you move along the rain-lashed, slippery and stony mountain track, you find yourself caught in a dualistic chasm. Pleasure and pain side by side. Sighs of agony as well as excited palpitations of heart over nature's masterwork. In the misty heights melting glaciers are a visual delight; but the hazy heights lacerated by gloomy, creggy tops gets into your heart like some ice-cold stare of a corpse. 

Gasping like a fish without water, for the oxygen is seriously low, you find the next little step as the most unachievable task in the world. One look however at the melting glacier on the opposite side of the valley uplifts your spirits like Phoenix. You see the signs of warmth triumphing over snow: emerging pastures side by side with snow. Yes, green gives solace! Mountains lost in their massiveness just take your tiny existence into their mystic oblivion. You just surrender! I do not think many of us try to over-impose our self-worth against such massiveness surrounding us. Mostly, we just realise what we are--mere parts of nature, who can just smite our existence away in just one angry stroke of little finger!!!!  

You look anxiously into the sky for traces of rain. The clouds building up around the surrounding hilltops send down still chillier sensation down your spine. But then a look into the deep gorge across the sheer precipice carrying the track, gives you an outwardly sensation of fear and excitement mixed with a strange elation that cannot be explained in words. You see fellow devotees struggling along the ponies. These are the rare moments when you can really feel the agony of a fellow human being because you are put in the same cauldron. 

The last portion of the valley leading to the shrine is still covered with heavy snow. As you walk on it, you slip and regain control like a toddler learning to walk. After all we are always God's kids. Kashmiri Islam is beneficent. At no other place you will find a Hindu Religious occasion being supported by so many Muslims. All the hawkers, stall operators, tent vallahs, porters, foot massagists and alms-seekers are Muslims. At no other place in the world you will come across a Muslim stall operator welcoming a tired Hindu pilgrim: 'O Bhole Mata Parvati ke liye shringaar le lo!' In delicious Kashmiri the locals call you 'Bhole!'. And once inside the majestic cave, you just find yourself lost in the divine trance of the ice lingam, Baba Barfani!!

Waves in Love

They were like two distant waves on the endless watery fabric of the sea. Waves! The turbulent sons and daughters in the lap of the mystically musing father hidden somewhere deep down in the undisturbed silence and bluish calm. Waves take birth with an airy titillation, sprinkle foam of joys and sorrows, hit against each other, meeting orgasmic crests higher than the sky and sorrowful troughs far deeper than the depths of the sea. Then they just die out spreading the self willingly-unwillingly in the same primal substance, the water. But then there are waves that just don’t die out that easily. On the watery chessboard of sea they dream of a sea-less identity, a shelter somewhere, a fellow soul-mate wave, one preceding as well following the other, always pulling as well as getting pushed by each other, a couple. But sea being sea, a disturbed mass, a delusional slayer of such harmless dreams, a sadistic monster drawing its life force and excitement out of heartless mastication of such soft hearts!!!!

Coming back to these two ways. Tossed up by teasing circumstances, they had been suddenly spurt up in different corners of the sea. Cast out in the dragnet of meaningless anonymity around, these two were looking out for meaning to there being at all. Their souls standing at their toes at the rising crests born of their puffed up enthusiasm to see beyond the fellow wave-heads, above them to sight a fellow driving force that could push as well pulled by them beyond the crashing wave-heads and sprouts of tiny wavelets being born around.

They say as a wave you don’t move; just transfer the force of your spirit to the next crest or trough. The tragedy of being a wave: you cover distances, still you are at the same point. Across the cauldron of this watery monotony, they got watered glimpse of each other as they were pulled and pushed about like a helpless human in a crowd on rampage. They jumped a bit more, these watery waves. The twosome who wanted to travel in a world of there own, beyond this noise, listening to self as well as the other's dreamish splash. The desperation for meaning, for shelter, for a travel hand in hand, of being pushed and pulling at the same time, of hitting the other for more substance to the self and the other as well. They could see each other's faces from a distance.

So oblivious to the jostling futility around they just struggled across the mess to meet each other, their hands stretched out in agony and ecstasy at the same time. Wetter and perspiring than any other wave, they then hit into each other. An ecstatic storm! Big bang as well as non-existent at the same time! Their watery molecules seeping deep into each other, unmindful of the transgressions from all around! The fusion! Streaks of each others' identity groped farthest into the other like the most adventurist tourists at heavenly strange places. A force! So powerful—born of such tiny unison on the fathomless, massive bosom of sea! They travelled in combo. Relation-less, just bound by a strange chemistry. Perplexed sea just stood apart at the audacity, nothing else.

The waves travelled transferring crests and troughs of agony and ecstasy to each other. Eyes shut to the futility. They knew sea is stormy, the slayer of such freedom and individuality in its domain. But they had decided to reach a meaning and a point of no return at a place where at least dying mixed might be possible, if not more. So tossed by bigger storms and destructive waves, they entwined like the folds of a rope, twisted protectively around each other. Painful twists; but so solacing with the feeling of at least saving that much portion of the companion wave! Angry sea bellowed devilishly and gave the killing push. On the pining sand of a forlorn shore this twisted-into-each-other mass of two waves was thrown out. It’s mixed, happily dying water seeped into the sand. It but left a mark on the sandy apron of time.