Be a superwoman and world beater in your own ways

Don’t do everything just for money, rewards, recognition, name and fame. As we feel, most of our doings are just blind pursuits for something more important expected at the end of the doing. Doing thus becomes secondary, the outcome. The reward takes the centre stage, and everything before that turns a stale, perspiring, frustrating struggle. The process of doing becomes traumatic. By subjugating the process of doing to the unknown outcome in the future, we pawn the happiness and intrinsic satisfaction, which simply doing could have been, against the shifting, blinding mirage on the hot sands in future. Try to make doing primary. It’s like casting the chains away and lightens your burden. Not only it will light up your soul, the outcomes, whether you care about them or not, will just follow with a bang. If you do something just for some specific outcomes, it’s not doing, rather it’s some barter against the drops of your sweat. It’s labour, a menial work, mere slogging. You are not the master. Just try to do a few things without caring for the material and social rewards. You will know that you own the act of doing. It becomes pure and unadulterated. You own it and you are the master of it. Once you master something, given the potential human soul has, the byproducts will drop like sweat autumn windfalls, ripe, without any effort. That is the cascading effect pure doing does. There are hundreds of posts on this blog. I write not for viewership stats or adsense money. My reward is the numerous trophies I gather while simply writing. I write because I love doing it. There is no bigger reward than being able to do something you really love and like doing. A very small publisher trusts me and publishes my books. He likes my writing and invests some money to publish my books. I help him to the little extent that I don’t take any royalties. My books sell in just hundreds of copies, rarely touching the four figure mark. And even for that I don’t expect any royalty. Still I write for months to complete a book. Simple thing is I just love doing it. As I work on my books, without any restraints on publisher- and commerce-ordained limitations, I feel like flying in an open sky. It’s like being a painter having a completely empty canvas and possessing all the options to experiment with colours and shapes. This is what you get, the rewards, your breath of freedom, your space and your happiness. Every moment is like holding a big trophy. And believe me, if you immerse in doing something just for the sake of doing it to the core, you warp space-time continuum to the tune and frequency of your doing, and rewards follow, whether you accept these or not is another matter. Most importantly, the doings that bring instant soul-sweetening sense rarely give you money and material rewards. Helping a stranger, who has lost her wallet on a crowded platform, with a hundred rupee bill that can help her save hell lot of trouble; stopping to take an old hand and help him to cross the road; taking a stranded stray puppy out of the drain; a smile from an unknown face just because you did only this much to keep the elevator door open, helping her to catch onto the precious moment, etc., etc. The feeling you get instantly is sufficient to overpower any vanity of earning millions and getting gold medals. Most importantly, such small, small doings help you hone the humanity in you. Just like you pump iron in gym to harden your muscles, such little, little acts of just doing without expecting any rewards will hone the muscles of your conscience. Goodness can be practiced. It can be made a habit. Begin with such small things where your egoistic, self-driven work flow won’t revolt to begin with. Very soon you will turn out to be the best of a human being. And who is a good human being? Well, basically she is happy.

Cancer and Tumors in Earth

You run after a thing, struggle and toil for it to the chronic pain of your bones, and much deservedly you land up at the destination. You have achieved your thing. It’s the time to cherish its worth, its value for you. It’s time to celebrate and pause and allow the feeling to sink in. What value the victory carries if you cannot even spare the time and pause to allow the feeling seep into the perspiring pores of your skin, taking cool calmness reach to the limits of your soul. But it almost never happens. The pause, the rest is ever elusive. You achieve your target and the thing turns out to be valueless. The things, goals and destinations that you get and achieve and reach become almost valueless the moment you nail it. It’s always a struggle for the future. And it’s never living in the present. The dream value, which was earlier carried by the things and destinations where you stand now, shifts again to some another milestone in future. So again we drop our present and run after the future. The futile chase: the mirage keeps on shifting on the hot sands of our bloodied battle. And we run, madly, trampling the things and the moments which are the only possessions we have in reality and could have enjoyed, and rush for future, for things in mind, in the form of ever-escaping criteria of values, goals and destinations. No wonder, we never live our present by enjoying the victories and rewards our sweat has fetched us. We abandon the real rewards. We trample the true trophies of the present. You get the thing and it loses its value. No surprise that we feel so deprived, poor, cheated, underachieved and unhappy at the end of the journey when we fall. We hate any talk of pause in life. Little do we realize a restless run results in a fatigued, huffing fall at a time when legs cannot carry anymore and eyes fail and heart gives in. A run or a walk is well managed with intervals of pause and rest at the milestones we cross. It reinvigorates you for the next leg of the journey. Pause is blissful. It gives you the beautiful gift of accepting your present. A man, an animal, a vehicle, a civilization all need pause at intervals to maintain the journey, to save a fatigue and burnout. Unfortunately that is what we are not doing. Individually and collectively, we are headed down the precipice. The mad onslaught of modern civilization, with its plunder of natural resources and unchecked technological growth, needs a pause, for survival, for continuation of the journey. We are far advanced down the technological lane. Let’s pause now. First allow the horizontal spread of the utilities and benefits to the poorest of the poor. Let’s put a pause on population growth rates, exploitation of natural resources, scientific spurts and industrial productions. The modern civilization has gone too far with its unchecked growth. Unchecked growth is self-destructive. It’s nothing but cancer. The planet is carrying a cancer now. It needs to be checked. Let there be a pause, please. 

Roaming the planet to look for something which is safe in your pocket

Hi, this is somebody who has taken the quieter by-lane to be happy. The hustle and bustle of the big, booming main street is intimidating with the added risk that I may well forget myself after being lost in the crowd. As you walk in the crowd, the monotony and anonymity takes over. You lose the charm of life in doing the same things others are doing. You don’t feel the kick in solving the same problems using the same old, oft-repeated methods. The solutions also are boringly the same, the results also the same. And happiness ever looks at the farthest end of the planet or even beyond. The long and winding chains of the preconditions to be met, before you trudge nearer to the ever-elusive happiness, are spooling on and on: the dangerous mathematics of infinitely long factors and functions of happiness. I will be happy if I top, then you top, ok let me grab the best job, you get it, ok let me be the best CEO, you become one, then more. Then your children have to be the same or even more to take you to the still elusive dream of happiness. More money, more power, more prestige. Then there are others in the fray who can turn you unhappy even after you have overturned the records set out for yourself. There is no stopping. And hence no happiness. The problem is if your happiness is not within you from the beginning and lies at some goal-post in future at a distance, there are millions, trillions, zillions and even more open-ended factors that affect, mathematically scuttle your chances of a win. Forget it. It’s futile chase. The more we run after conditional happiness, the more we push it away from ourselves. The fundamental mistake is that we expect happiness to be the fruit on the tree of our efforts, i.e., the result, the fructification. No, it simply isn’t. It is the root of the tree of our endeavors, where we begin from, which lasts from the beginning to the end. If it’s not in the beginning, forget it, it won’t appear later. It has to be there before you begin. And the state of being happy can be habituated. Practice it as a daily routine, like you pump iron to tone your six and eight packs. Nurture the habit of just feeling happy, causeless and reasonless. Just smile when you are alone. Please try it and you will know what I mean. It lets loose a cascading effect driven by the hormones triggered by the movement of the muscles around the corner of your lips. Try it. Close your eyes and just smile. Unconditionally. You will feel how comforting it can be just to be happy. The fruits will follow later as you slog it out in the battlefield. It’s a simple verb, being so, a simple act, a solacing function. We but treat it as an intimidating noun in the future, interpolate it as success and achievements, the fruits at the end of the tunnel, the light at the end of the tunnel. It but is the lamp which is within you when you are in the dark. The path to happiness can never pass through the stages of unhappiness and struggle. It’s the present in continuation. Remove all future components from the equation of your happiness. So passing through the quieter by-lane, not stomped and nudged by the teeming crowds, I intend to reach a solitary path, laid out just for me, to reach my destiny, to be happy primarily, and enjoy the fruits of being happy.  All in all, I just practice the art of being happy unconditionally. 

Cancered farmer and beggared peacock

There is an addition to the diminishing bird life in my village. As tractors take angry mechanized burps, cattle bellow, buffaloes bray, still-remaining house sparrows tweet, rest of the pigeons coo, irritated crows croak and pigs snort, the peacocks add their voice to the rustic humdrum. The peacocks scream, is it a mating call, or distressed plight, I’m not sure. I don’t think our national bird, occupying a lofty position in the rule book, likes humans as such. It’s a punishable offence to kill a peacock. But the killing should be direct, specific, with the proofs of blood and slaying visible at the spot. However, indirect killing, the slow killing over a period of time, in the form of loss of habitat and introduction of poisonous inputs in the farms, goes unpunished--as usually with slow crimes which unfold over a period of time, losing the track of crime and the perpetrators spreading over a whole group of society and institutions.  

So they risk their lives to enter the human habitation. It’s a forced migration. A feathered riot of colours, they are the latest beggars from the species who can no longer sustain for themselves and look to the man for survival. Irony here, it is the same man who has grabbed their share from the nature. But then the robber can very well impersonate as the philanthropist. It massages the conscience for a mushy-mushy feeling. So the peacocks look forward to get survival crumbs here. The nature is dying, so how will its offshoot, this feathered riot of colours survive under the onslaught. They prefer to run on their paws in a forest. But that is perilous in a village street. Dogs chase them, cats lay around predatorily and urchins throw stones. So the peacocks with multi-hued splendour of their trains have to heave their huge feathering from roof-top to roof-top, looking out for grains and chapatti thrown by their enemy to salvage some punya from the basket of sins.

Their trumpeting peehoo goes vain like rest of the species’ role in making nature what it was and brought mankind to this level. The peacock even holds the copyright to the best of colours that we humans boast about in our designs and aesthetic portraits. But the poor thing doesn’t have the in it to encash the royalty born of this copyright. Its metallic blue, bluish-green, iridescent greenish blue, bronze-green, black and copper markings and glossy green shading is no longer a wonder for the modern man. It does not create awe anymore. The long train made up of elongated upper-tail bearing colourful eyespots is just a pattern on a bird.

Whenever there is a chance for courtship, the train is raised into a fan and shaken to impress the females. Love in times of war. There are risks of being caught and preyed upon. At least the male attracts some iota of appreciation due to its colours. Poor peahens, on the other hand, with their greenish lower neck and duller brown plumage hardy get noticed. If there is a crumb to be thrown, people prefer the peacock and shoo away the unattractive female.

The land under cultivation, where they forage for grains, snakes, lizards and small rodents, is under poisonous assault. That land is no longer for them. In fact it is not even for the farmers—in the medium term. With population blast, decreasing land-holdings, increasing costs and decreasing returns, the farmers delve deeper into their pockets to buy more killer pesticides and poisons. They just cannot afford to lose a crop. A season’s loss and their fate go down the drain. So the survival comes at huge costs of injecting insecticides, pesticides and weedicides. The poison not only kills the small world that sustains birds like peacocks, it enters the ground water and goes into the food chain as well. The cases of cancer in the village are on the rise. The numbers are far more than the cities ill-reputed for life-style diseases born of pollution and lack of physical activity. The farmers die of slow poison, three or four every year due to cancer. The peacocks roam around the village with their screams. It’s an ominous shriek. The world is but too busy to survive in the short term, even if it comes at the cost of slow-death some years down the line. 

Need headache free dose of jounalism--Try WION

What do we expect at the end of the day? Of course some rest and repose. And some dose of news and views before hitting the bed. But then pick up the remote, flip to the news channels. Lo! You get attacked. It’s a Web-war. Web-Heroes are slaying Web-Villains. Just stay on a channel and the last traces of your sanity are gone. Anchors shout, panelists fret, fume and pour venom. God, it gives terrible headache. At the end of it you wonder what did you gain, apart from the headache, in terms of information that may help you in forming a healthy opinion. You feel cheated as you come out bruised and the head aching from the cyber war. For peace-loving souls like me there is an option. In a quiet corner, there is a channel, away from populist rhetoric and hegemonic posturing, doing its service of healthy journalism. It’s WION man! The succor of chicken-hearted souls like me, who cannot afford to witness the Web-War from the reputed fire-mongering anchors, who are fresh with even freshest channels. The Republic of my sanity is bombarded. I prefer WION. Sitting with my glass of bed-time milk, I look for the information that will turn me healthier in my opinions of the world around. The unhurried trill of its world-class lady anchors providing nonbelligerent dose of information. It feels like having Chavanpraash with milk. Very healthy journalism I tell you. Try it.