Solitude in an unkempt yard

 It was a potted hibiscus plant. Its white flowers appeared to appeal for more freedom. ‘I can give you a drizzle of smile, just give me more space!’ the plant beseeched. It’s advisable to be considerate and sensitive towards smiles. A smile is a gift. One should simply take it without thinking to much. Overthinking ruins smiles. So the plant was fixed on a larger stage in the flower bed. It simply launched itself into fulfilling its promise of more smiles. A very robust hibiscus it became. Multitudes of big white flowers laugh now in abundance among its glossy, richly green leaves. Once in a while, it decides to spring a surprise and a baby pink flower smiles among dozens of it pristine white flowers. Is it to spring a surprise as the human keeper of the flower bed?  

Yesterday evening I stooped down to pick up the shovel and my left eye got into the space of a soft bud. It’s a direct hit. But a bud isn’t too bad on one’s eyes even at its worst. I feel the impact and moderate pain. As I squinted and looked at the playful bud with one eye, I found it was the pink bud. The wince and grimace is gone. I smile as a bit of water trickled down. ‘Don’t worry, I’m here to give you smile, not tears,’ the bud promised. And today it keeps its promise. It’s a dazzling baby pink flower among its flashing white siblings. The eye that had a tear now gets a beautiful vision, a kind of nourishing tonic. It shows we can very well choose to play down the involuntary hurts to our hearts and bruises to our egos. Most of the unintentional fallouts on us carry the prospects of good intentions in future provided we don’t nip it in the bud, carried by our instinctive, compulsive reaction. Patience and understanding turn life wholesome.

Today, the clouds and the sun have an equal say in the skies. Huge loafs of grayish white clouds drift like bulky airy ships. They are scattered on the blue canvas. Monsoon is certainly losing its grip at last. There are many who would say a happy goodbye to the seasonal rains this year. The clouds have been pretty benevolent. The clouds roll and rumble over the sun. There are shifting shadows.

A shikra, a small hawk, swoops down and plucks away an adventurous lizard from the neem trunk. Maybe the lizard was bored with cornered life among the walls and looked for more of life and living outside the fence. Well, it’s part of the little hawk now and can certainly look at the bigger world through the predator’s eyes. Isn’t it a marvelous recycling, the prey turns into the predator as it gets digested to form the flesh and blood in the new body?

Last evening even the kitten was equally smart in turning a lizard into a cat. It is turning very lazy and finds hunting very boring, especially given the fact that the bowl is there to pacify its gluttony. So why hunt? I didn’t change the status of the empty bowl with a purpose. It kept on sullenly looking from me to the bowl throughout the afternoon. No wonder, the need to hunt arose. There was this beautiful lizard that passed its days in the roof drain. It led a beautiful life I think. It would crawl out to even sunbathe sometimes. The kitten has turned so lazy that it won’t bother to even make an attempt at it as the bowl is near the pipe’s mouth. It would just do justice to the bowl contents and the lizard got more time to get tanned. But last evening, the kitten was steely and resolved to do something about the issue of hunger. The bowl had turned heartless and wasn’t responding to the kitten’s magic trick of staring at it continuously and the pure desi cow milk materialized. It then realized the snack that had been crawling right under its nose. Maybe even the lizard had turned careless after seeing the snoozing and sleeping little cat. We have our bad day, all of us, don’t we? It had been a bad day for the fasting kitten and now it was the turn for the lizard’s evening to be really bad. The hungry kitten pounced wholeheartedly and ate the lizard in one lot. I could just see the tail twitching as it too went inside to turn silent finally. To tell you frankly, I felt myself as a partner in crime for having abetted this hunt. Is any of our acts free from being a kind of sin for someone else?

The monkeys are still more energetic today. A kitchen seems to be raided in the neighborhood. The utensils cry at the top of their voice. A very offensive oath is hurled. The culprits run out and jump onto a gulmohar in front of our house, severally damaging the still remaining branches. They just love breaking it down. The tree seems like there was no monsoon at all. I have seen so many rascals loafing around with twigs in their mouths as if they use it as a toothbrush.

One extra judicious one has picked up a white shirt from the house bearing the rattled kitchen. It’s the very same white shirt that the poor farmer uses on all occasions ranging from cremations to marriage functions. I think the shirt is relieved of its duties now. The buttons that proudly rolled through the farmer’s fingers to find their place through the slits to get locked safely are now passing through the simian teeth. The buttons are chewed to satisfaction. Seething with impotent rage, the farmer hurls a full brick into the tree which doesn’t go too far and lands among the group of dogs who are throwing abuses from the side of humans. The dogs give a nice presentation of a stampede as they go howling, possibly abusing the humans now.

Put the strongest of a man face to face against the weakest of a monkey. The latter will at least ensure to mock an attack before showing its red bum as long as the man is standing straight or even has a stick. That much pride they salvage. The best trick against the monkeys is to suddenly crouch low as if you are picking up a nuclear warhead, even though there is nothing to pick up. It just scares them out of their wits. They forget to feign their customary mock attack and instantly give you the pleasure of showing the pink of their bum. With this technique, even the weakest of a human can scare away the strongest of a monkey. I find it more effective than holding a stick and challenge them in a fair and square way. Maybe they take their feigned attacks as victory, so I have to deprive them of it also.

The big neighborhood news is that another street dog has been slapped by the big simian harem-keeper. But this dog itself is a bully who beats smaller puppies. So I don’t hold anything against the pink-balled villain at least in this regard. But rest of his crimes stand with full force against him.   

The silverbill seems to have carried good luck with the arrival of kittens in the yard. I have observed monsoon time globular nesting of scaled munias and silverbills in the yard trees over the years. There hasn’t been a single successful hatching so far. Mostly the culprits have been the squirrels who just love sneaking into the globular safe house and have nice snacks. The cute bird can’t even abuse, they just trill almost inaudibly. As the Mama cat arrived with her little ones, she ensured that all other claimants to the property are disposed off first, so there she squatted patiently among the flowers and expertly turned the striped hunters into preys one by one. The squirrels then turned into the little kittens as they gobbled up the soft meat pies. The squirrels paid for their villainy of the past many seasons. But then even the cats have to pay for the same. Dogs will ensure that, don’t worry. So the globular messy nesting has hatching this time. I can hear their happy jingling notes sometimes. The kittens also know that there is great meal over there but it’s placed too high among the top branches. Staring there just gives them some kind of neck and eyes tratak yoga, nothing more. But it’s a good time pass for them nonetheless.

We have talked a lot about these kittens. Let’s go into the beginning of the story for the benefit of our readers. Feral Mama cats are very resourceful in raising their brood. They would keep shifting their kittens across barns and yards till they find a safe one. Then they would take leave of absence for few hours and hunt outside. Meanwhile the kittens just hide like a mouse. The entire days and nights of the cat Mama are spent in hunting as the boys and girls are a first rate example of unquenchable gluttony. As the kittens grow, the Mama cat’s visits turn to twice a day, then once, then once in a couple of days and she would forget them once she realizes that they can mind their own business now. What saintly detachment after fulfilling the responsibilities?         

She arrived with her twins and seemed to say, ‘Your unkempt yard and shabby barn is ours.’ During the initial days they were scared and pretty subdued. The continuous rat supply by the Mama and the passage of days added to their confidence and now they believed that it is their place just like I take it as my own for being born here. The only difference is that we have designed a registration paper for the property. They but hold it in their heart and with even bigger confidence I tell you. They seem to be very strong in their conviction about the ownership of the place. The kittens then mewed with predatory intent. They meant it and raised their fur to look strong enough to defend their right. I had no option and handed over the title deed to these rascally kittens, twin brothers. They were all cuddly love for each other, except when their mother appeared after two three days with a fat rat. Both of them pounced upon the mother's pudding. The stronger one dragged the other along with the fat rat. The poor claimant let go of the fat rat and watched from a distance as the bigger rascal had his tummy full. The watcher then sneaked in to claim the leftovers. The bigger rascal is a very strong southpaw. He expertly keeps kicking at the face of its brother while gobbling down the bigger chapatti pieces. He boxes rather, gives an effective over the top smash. Once it takes burps of contentment and proudly puts its moustaches in order, the other one again comes out to do justice to the leftover pieces. No wonder, the bigger rascal is exponentially getting bigger in body also. That's life at the level of plants, animals, birds and insects. They fight to survive. We also do the same. But we have the extra option of consciously cooperating to create something. That means we are just a bit smarter animals.

The weaker one nurtured its aesthetics, a cuteness to win human affection. It prefers the doormat unlike the other one who prefers the yard and the barn. The bowl-lover finds the bowl a kind of centre of the world. Consequently its center is too narrow, which means lesser of life and living. It’s always looking either at me or the bowl. He has a very nice bowl-keeper I suppose. The other one who loves outdoors in the yard and looks confidently into the camera as I take a pick. It has a larger centre and hence a bigger more exciting life. The kitten with fragile, vulnerable aesthetics looks scared and suspiciously into the camera. Both of them are males and already seem to have carved out their territories. The outdoor type even goes out and tries rats sometimes when he is fed up with lizards, skinks, leeches and frogs in the yard. He shares milk also with his brother but doesn’t drink much. He just moves away midway, stretching its back with contentment. It’s basically a non-veg kind of guy. I’m sure he will come of age earlier and successfully follow a cat girl. Only then he will forget the yard after being whiplashed by the hormonal storm of youth. I am worried about the other one. It may turn out to be too cute to chase a girl with success. I mean the cat girl may play with it sometimes but I doubt whether she will find it worth being the Papa of her kids. This doormat-sleeper has to toughen up a bit. I will devise ways. Scaling down the bowl-magic will help I think. 

The beginning of a new day

 An absolutely dazzling morning gives me a wholesome smile. The sunrays are golden. How kind he is! The sky is pristine blue. How happy it looks! The wispy, scattered fluffs of clouds a dazzling white. How playful they are! There is cool gentle breeze that carries swarms of dragonflies like insect drones. How confident and coquettish is the breeze!

There is a groofy, rumbling and scratchily drawn series of notes sent out by a bird. The Himalayan barbet, it strikes me. The barbet is the one that has played symphony with my solitude in valleys when I move around the lone trails among the hills. Now here in the plains, the rains have broken all previous records for the month of September. I suppose all the dispirited, famished countryside from the Himalayan foothills to the dusty plains in the Delhi NCR has turned pretty luxuriant to keep the spirits of some lone Himalayan barbet to keep flying, carried by the wanderlust spirits and here it reaches the village to remind of those beautiful days in the valleys, where its call droned over the lazy slopes in misty vales. Well, I run out in the yard to find that dreams are dreams only, at least in this instance. The reality is a separate entity. But it’s only our dreams that provide a kind of lease to our reality. So keep your dreams alive. The reality here is a spotted dove that has slightly modified its notes to sound like a barbet. Hope he isn’t trying to woo a barbet girl in case there is one around.

Too much of rains definitely carry lots of inconvenience. It isn’t good for the crop. Not good for old houses either. They get more cracks. More plaster and paint gets peeled off to turn walls and yards mossy. The leeches crawl in abundance. Tiny frog scatter like tiny dumplings from your path as you move around. You have to be careful not to trample too many and add to your quota of sins here on earth. But then tiny frogs are visible at least. We hardly can take enough caution not to trample upon ants. They are too small. In that case, I realize we are standing on our own mounds of sins. That’s why it’s so important to lead a meaningful life because it comes at the cost of so many little sins. Coming to the issue of too much of rains, the bricks in the yard cave in. Too much of rain isn’t good for the snakes either. Their holes get filled up and they crawl out to claim residency in houses, especially the unkempt yards of lazy bachelors.

The old country house may have more cracks giving me a little frown of discomfort. But that is very easily overpowered by a smile caused by the vastly improved shape of the chapattis. They look more presentable, and more importantly are nicely digestible. Graying men in their forties need to be bothered more about stomach and less about tongue. Taste is a secondary take off.   

A couple of dozen black kites glide down in circles over the village skies. The black kite is a carnivorous scavenger. They basically fly over the Ghazipur area in New Delhi. There they are a common sight, scavenging muddy trash from the mountainous garbage dump site and the banks of the stinking rivers of sewage. They kind of symbolize the urban slums and sleaze. They are wrongly named, I suppose. The black kite is dark brown in color. But it does a yeomen help to the municipal cleaners as the scavenging raptor, with its white-speckled feathers, deep-set eyes and a sharply curved beak, does a nice clean job of the leftovers of urban table of carousel and craze. They are opportunistic hunters who just love to scavenge. Most of their time is spent in gliding and soaring among the thermals looking for food.

So here they float with their buoyant flight, gliding effortlessly, diving, uplifting and changing directions with perfect ease, just a few seconds of flapping of wings and minutes long glide. You have to be very stable to spot the hunt below on the ground. Once the radar catches the prey, the raptors swoop down with legs lowered, snatching the garbage, fish, household refuse or carrion. In the British military slang they are known as the shite-hawk. They are known to be very opportunist hunters. The lazy fliers with big motives are attracted to fires and smoke because they know that lots of prey would be running to escape the fire. According to the native Australian beliefs, the kites are witty enough to spread fires. They pick up burning twigs and drop them among the bushes to start a fire so that there is a stampede of little rodents running away from the burning house. That’s a pretty criminal act even as per the laws of raw nature. It smells of human conspiracy. In the crowded Indian cities, they soar in thermals in large numbers and sometimes even swoop down and snatch pizzas from human hands. They have become taste conscious in human company, I think.

Black kites hovering in the village skies is not a usual sight. I haven’t seen many. Well, it proves the scale of changing times. Even the villages have lots of garbage dumped at many sites these days. So may be these are the colonizer kites who have left the congested Delhi skies and are migrating to seek fresher, sorry filthier, pastures. In any case, birds always look better, even if they are hawkish, scavenging raptors. The sky looks healthy with their winged ruffles in its ribs. And more birds, of any sort, give a feeling that not everything is lost yet.

One of the kittens has turned very lazy, the one who loves sleeping on the doormat in the verandah. The extrovert spends time in the barn. They are turning into handsome lads. The extrovert one takes the pain to hunt beyond the walls and enjoys the freedom. The lazy one is going to realize its mistake once the time for wooing ladies comes. Girl cats won’t give him too much of attention. When he isn’t sleeping, he is staring at me, his eyes pleading to fill the bowl once more. It’s very irritating. If the stomach is full by default, thanks to the bowl, why would one take the trouble of learning to hunt? A boy cat that doesn’t hunt rats in its adolescence hardly stands a chance to hunt the love of a cat girl after coming of age. It’s committing a fatal mistake, I tell you.   

The dining table in the verandah is piled high with the things that I need now and then. That’s pretty convenient. I usually take out my plate in the unkempt yard and eat among the flowers, and in the company of the snakes hidden somewhere nearby. With things piled high on it, the dining table won’t complain of idleness. I keep a corner free to set my laptop there and write. The switchboard just above my head has an abandoned fan regulator whose speed knob has come off, leaving a circular opening into the rectangular plastic case. It’s the favorite house of fun for the lizards and stinging yellow wasps. The lizards have fun but then they get burn also. I have found skeletons of them inside. Was it electrocution or they love this site to go dying during their last days, I am not sure. As of now the lizards have abandoned their tenancy on the property. It’s now leased to the yellow stinging wasps. No problem with that. Just that my head is direct in the line of their aerial route as they land home. A crash-landing would mean a painful fire on my face. We humans carry a lot of caution in our genes. Most of this is unnecessary fear that we pride ourselves with being cautious. I am no different. I plug the opening with a piece of clothing. The house is shut. They then peep across the narrow air slits, craning out their necks, probably staring at me, taking a vow to take revenge. I am not yet ready to allow a house of dead wasps right over my head. Their insect souls may interfere my chain of thoughts while writing, so I look for alternatives. I sprinkle a very mild dose of mosquito repellent, just enough to give them cough perhaps, wear my helmet, drape my chador around like an Afghan woman and take out the cloth. They troop out hurriedly, buzz around angrily like anyone who has been forcibly evicted from his house. They are justified in their anger. They don’t carry its remnants like we humans. They will soon forget and make a nice nest somewhere else. It’s always easy to start anew with unbruised feelings.

Most of us are working harder than ever, even earning more than ever, with far less joy and happiness in life. Well, working for survival is necessary. We have to accept that. We aren’t unhappy because we are forced to do many things against our will. We are unhappy because we haven’t explored our Ikigai, the spring source of doing small things that makes us happy. Do big things for a living but never miss small things for your own inner smile. All of us have that little corner of aesthetics in us. Plant roses in that. It will give you unconditional smile. It can be anything that makes you feel at ease, that releases the tension, that calms your nerves. Explore your Ikigai.  Even now it’s lying just near you, not visible because it’s too small. We have been conditioned to prioritize the big things in life. Nothing wrong with that. But don’t miss the little flowers around your feet as you move on your path. Bend down and pick out you little wild flower. Nurture a hobby that has nothing to do your professional life. Think big time with your mind and love little things in your heart. Like I earn ‘joy’ primarily from my writing. Had I been writing for money, I would have stopped long time ago. It’s my Ikigai, what is yours?

The remnants of a musty noon

 If we believe we have the capacity to do what we are supposed to do, then there is no reason to believe in the higher powers supposedly guiding our way. But the question is, do we really know what we are supposed to do. All choices and decisions stand on the verge of either falling this way or that. Faith, at some point, is bound to have its final say. Faith is pretty free flying. Tether it to reason and logic, it hides immediately behind the dark clouds. It’s not there to be tamed by the chains of reason. It is good to put reason at the forefront of your skills like the steely jaws of a mighty earthmover. That’s a convenience, a skill to lead life on a day to day basis. Reason is a very good servant. Faith but is the master that guides the overall operation of life. By faith I don’t just mean faith in the Gods over there in the sky vaults. It primarily comprises our faith in ourselves, in our soul’s intimacy with the possibilities of joy, an urge to lead a meaningful life. Extraterrestrial faith is a mere supplement to our inherent faith in ourselves. Isn’t it faith in ourselves that we use all the reasons and logic to not only survive but also strive to be happy and joyful? In fact, we hatch ‘reasons’ to nurture our ‘faith’. Never lose your faith. It’s like losing what and who you are.  

**

Rains and more rains. Mold in the pickle jar. White coral mushroom on the rotting plank. Potatoes with spikey sprouts. Baby frogs everywhere. Lots of nests in the trees and plants. The sky laden with flying insects. Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads. Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers. The air with a musty smell. The railings more rusty. The sky just a cloudy canvas. Hot teas and spicy pakoras. Smiles. Gossips. Love and loss in the season of moss. Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in and take a shelter in the autumnal camp. Well, it has been too damp. Welcome now the sunny lamp.

**

Many situations of life turn meaningful, and hence bearable, the moment we accept our share, our part in shaping the things as they stand.

**

Avoid the things that cost you your smile and laughter. It will never be a loss in the long term, I can assure you. Avoid also the things that fetch you an instant grimace. That's an instant gain. So start now with a smile!

**

For the angels to stay relevant, there have to be demons. Well, that's too big a price for goodness. Let there be no demons, even if that means all angels losing their status and turn ordinary entities. Just a pleasant commonness! Why go for the extraordinary? Especially when the cost is too high, like having to do with demons just to have angels around.

**

If you can't avoid pride altogether, have principled pride. It's a bit better than the unreined one. The latter is a sort of unsheathed sword. There is an equal risk of injury to both the beholder and the people around. Principled pride is at least a sheathed sword. It carries lesser risk. And what is this principled pride? It's the pride inside a fencing of certain principles that we won't compromise come what may.

**

The first provisional Indian government in exile was formed by Mahendra Pratap Singh in Afghanistan in 1915. He stayed in exile for 35 years, having taken a vow never to step on the British-occupied Indian soil. He returned a happy man post 1947. Surprisingly he was an educated Jat. Seems there is more to Jats beyond the JAT (just animal type) syndrome!

The remains of a sunny morning

 An absolutely bright sunny September morning, all fresh and breezy! The main advantage of having more than enough rains is that the sky is extra blue, being washed of our sins, i.e., pollutants. There is a silvery spray of scattered fluffy clouds floating merrily across the blue playground. The lush green leaves shine with a happy gloss under the sun. The insects and butterflies seem gone berserk with joy as they claim the best of the short time they have on earth. The birds are pretty vocal too about their agreement about the good weather elements for the day.

Potatoes in the kitchen of a bachelor staying alone have a particular advantage. They get enough time and space to enhance their status and sprout soot and sapling in order to hurriedly change their status from the meek eatables to live plants. A potato is all inclusive in growth. It sprouts from all angles, seems like it has the procreative urge all across its body. Isn’t it an expression of the instinct of expansion in the universe? There is enough moisture in the rain-lashed air, so the potatoes have decided to be plants and avoid the status of getting piteously frying in the boiling pan.

Potter’s wasp also carries certain advantages of occupying a bachelor middle-aged writer’s house. It has more options to choose its clay house location. The scooty hasn’t been used for more than a fortnight. So the nice rubber on the handle grip grabs the wasp’s fancy. The grip has a clayey addition now. A house is in making at a furtive pace. The wasp is really busy, doesn’t get tired. It won’t lose focus and energy till the final brick is laid. I feel inspired by its diligence for the cause. Well, I decide not to be a spoilsport at the moment. But if I need the vehicle very urgently, the wasp will have to ungrip its grip on the scooty grip. If I find myself in too lenient a mood, I may decide to put the old bike rusting in the barn into order and let the wasp fulfill its tenancy. There is always choice and scope for kindness.

The peeping crow is still at its favorite pole. But then it’s a bright sunny day. It will have to pay with a lot of sweat for its fun. I hope it doesn’t starve itself to death in lieu of its inter-species addiction.

Saw an 8-10 inches long krait snakelet sneaking into the wildly unkempt yard. It sneaked in through the space under the lower grills. Despite my stomping of feet, it managed to occupy the property. I think we get more scared in dreams than in real life. I woke up with palpitations. It was a dream guys. But given the condition of my yard, the reality of a snake sneaking in is far bigger than the dream. Well, if it has really managed to come in, I don’t worry too much. The kittens are there. It’s an equal match in size and age, a kind of fair play. If they win, they learn successful hunting. If the snake wins, it learns the basics of stout defense. All this is same to Mother Nature. By the way, a krait couple seems to have managed a very successful hatching season. Two little ones have been found in a neighbor’s house. Including the one in my dream makes it three. The bigger one that we killed in the yard was probably the Ma or Pa snake. That’s better to avoid further proliferation of the species. Well, unless the remaining one doesn’t turn out too romantic and woos a partner soon.  

A farmer accosts me over the gate as I am suspiciously looking around the place where the dream-snake sneaked in.

‘I need to take your advice and opinion on a very important issue,’ he says.

I know he is the mini-celebrity of the village. Even if he has to buy a needle, he has to ask at least 15 people on the issue. No problem in that, one should consult others. The only problem is that he has never abided by anyone’s inputs, without exception. He will do his own stuff later. It rubs a lot of salt on the people’s ego. Probably, he asks others only with only as much intent as to rule out those points at least. The rule of rejection, I suppose. He basically asks people what not to do, but people won’t understand. I am also not much interested in his new problem, so I have to dodge him.

‘Just now a big black snake has sneaked into the flower bed. First, of all please come inside and help in removing this problem. Yours we can discuss later,’ I reply.

Of course, he leaves the scene without his one more ‘what-not-to-do’ thing.

Kalla is raven black with equally white teeth and eyes. His smile is infectious. He is thin and looks like an undernourished long-distance athlete. He smiles and greets as I brush my teeth standing in front of the yard gate. He moves with ease, not much concerned with life. He started as a truck helper to get promoted to a full driver. There is prohibition in Bihar and he found simple provisions for his truck too boring. His truck would then carry cartons of wine into the forbidden state. A few sorties are very successful in such matters. So he had extra money to spend. In great spirits, he joined a group of trampish happy-go-lucky group of youngsters going to Manali for drinking and carousel. During the bus ride, he got the moment of his life for which he can afford a contended smile till his last breath. His co-passenger on the seat was a backpacker from the far away fairy lands. She was as white was he was glossy black. She found Kalla too cute and innocent with his big white eyes and innocent, shy grin. The bumpy ride dozed her off into a sleep. The best travelers are those who make the most of what they get on the path. They don’t crib about the lack of it. She too was resourceful and to extend the comfort of her sleep, she slid down onto his lap and slept peacefully for hours. Kalla felt so much obliged and honored that he absorbed all the shocks of bumpy ride but didn’t move an inch lest she got awake. Ogling at the angel, he just sat through the hours-long journey. As they say, all things come to an end. The journey got completed. He had even missed his tea snack as the bus stopped by a roadside eating point, his friends winking and urging him to eat something. He but flatly denied through roll of eyes—he couldn’t afford to shake even his head in denial, risking waking up the sleeping angel—and looked the other way. At the destination, the tourist smiled at him, hugged in fact, shook his hand and moved away with perfect ease without even looking back once. What a detachment from worldly matters. ‘How can you move away like this, as if you don’t even know me, while every cell in my body is yours now!?’ Kalla was left wondering. Well, that was the moment of his life, all possible because he had extra bucks from ferrying illicit liquor to Bihar. Then the moment of paying back for fun arrived, as it inevitably arrives. He was caught in Bihar and put into jail. Now, Bihar being too far, his farmer father said the crops are in urgent need his presence here. ‘How can I go there and spend weeks to get him bailed out. Someone has told me that the food is nice in the jail there, so it shouldn’t be a big problem,’ he wasn’t too bothered about the situation. So Kalla enjoyed the Bihar trip for a good six months. That was when his father had enough time; his duties in the fields allowed him some spare weeks to go visiting Bihar and bail out his son.

As I spit out the toothbrush foam, a farmer neighbor is spitting out the choicest expletives on his buffalo, o sorry on his wife. Most probably, she has had extra(marital) fun instead of breakfast this morning. The farmer is around 40 and she is in her early thirties.

Years back when he was freshly married, he almost came running to me as I glumly wandered about the village pond looking at the ducks.

‘What fun do you derive out of this boring duck watching? The real fun is in getting married. A wife is real fun!’ he gesticulated.

‘Good that your wife is very happy with you,’ I smiled.

‘She has every reason to be happy. I give her pleasure almost all the time!’ he turned reddish, probably recalling some memories.

‘Well, too much of everything isn’t recommended. Pleasure arrives with pain also,’ I cautioned.

He was disappointed a bit. ‘You are almost a Babaji, what do you even know about a ‘Wife’?’ he laughed. Both of us laughed in fact.

Years passed. He had two kids and his ability, urge or intent, or all of them together, grayed like the pace of his oxen slackened while pulling the cart. But his wife had the same old expectations from her carter. This gap was easily fulfilled by young and upcoming carters, who are on a look out for such gaps in matrimonies in the neighborhood. The husband was of course wounded to begin with, so he thrashed his wife. But even an oxen won’t increase its pace beyond a point after getting whiplashed. Acceptance is the biggest tool to lead a tolerable life. He spared his hands extra effort in whiplashing his wife after beating the bull and started giving extra effort to his tongues through abuses. Well, that was pretty ok with the wife as well. So here he was doing the same after her latest round of extra(marital) fun.

The big rascal alpha male monkey carries the best pink color on its bum in the world. It comes walking over the yard fence followed by three females all carrying little ones on their backs. The rascal has been very busy in adding to his progenies like Chengez Khan did centuries ago. It goes with uncaring majesty. It has seen the toothbrush in my hand is no match for its fangs, which it bares as a warning not to mess up with his harem as it trains over the wall. Arrogantly it shakes a few branches as a further warning. Bare-handed, or even with a toothbrush, it’s too much for a human.

It remembers our last encounter. I had disturbed the train of his harem on the terrace. The ladies screeched away in horror. He was very much offended as the king of panicked queens. I had a very thin six-foot long bamboo stick. A flimsy weapon I tell you. Its ends were split and I doubt whether even the kitten will mind too much if I strike it with full force. Thank God, the monkey can’t see through the chink in the armor. To him, it is a weapon and he gauzes its lethality by the striking distance, not the quality of its strike. It bared its fangs and mocked attacks from a distance of 8 feet, pacifying its vanity that I am not all afraid of you. I had to add to my weaponry by picking a full brick and threaten a strike in full force. Now that too was a mock attempt, just like a monkey feigns fierceness. Who will throw a full brick with full force on one’s terrace? It will surely miss the monkey and will do more harm to the roof without even ruffling a single hair on the rascal. Again, good that they can’t see through these things and take things just literally on the face value. We have some extra things that we take in spirit. Well, we just have bigger brains, nothing else.

It remained on the front till it saw that the Mamas of his children are safely on a neighbor’s roof and are gleefully looking at the interesting fight from a safe distance. He then showed me his shameless pink bum, looking back once more as if to say ‘I will see you some other day’ and ran away. The next day, I found the terrace messier than before. I have a doubt that he indeed remembered the fight and performed certain extra criminalities on the way back in the evening. They keep the route by the way; come whatever I may do to divert the trail route.

Forgot to tell you, the sturdiest of the street dog was heard howling in pain one afternoon. People ran to find out the big rascal holding the panicked dog by ears and slapping it profusely. Since the dog is a favorite of many drunkard farmers, the monkey king has lot many more enemies now. During their customary brawls in the evenings, when they routinely get sloshed up and need an object to vent out their fury, they have now taken up the fat monkey as the common enemy. The maddest words still do the rounds in the streets but they are less offensive because they are targeted at the monkey.

‘We will keep it chained and make him drink wine only till he turns well-behaved like us,’ one of them gave the expert opinion, which was agreed only to the extent that of course the monkey would be sloshed first but later on would be thrashed for all the sins till it learns to hold human feet and plead for mercy.

It’s impossible to find a well-behaved monkey. They form the foundation of all the misbehaviors that we are engaged in as humans, destroying planet, disturbing the laws of nature. What they do on a small scale in a yard, we do at the bigger scale only. There is no qualitative difference, just there is quantitative difference. That’s why the rhesus monkey loves staying among humans. Out in forests, it gets bored to death.

They pry open the lids of rooftop water tanks and dive in and come out sleek and all brushed up to perfection. They get disgusted with any type of orderliness around. They have to put it into disorder as per the laws of entropy that says the cosmic disorderliness is ever on the increase. So they are the cosmic agents of entropy in fact. The trees have suffered. They just jump from rooftops into the canopies and commit as much damage as possible by flailing their limbs in all directions. Poor trees! A few of them just love rope walking, sorry wire walking. Many a houses go powerless at nights given the extra wire-walking fun by the monkeys. They cannot bear the ignominy of seeing a tree branch bearing the burden of a nest. They have to come to the trees’ aid at any cost and free the rent holding. A few of them have too much of sex in their mind like humans do. They would just walk in all bonhomie on the parapet walls all solemnly, for a break, and suddenly one idiot rides the haunches of the one in the front, irrespective of the gender of the carrier, and mocks licentious movements that can embarrass even the most shameless ones among the farmers.

I just hope that the kittens are spared monkey slaps. That would be too much for them. The other day, it was partially cloudy. They are becoming lazy and over-dependent on milk. Everybody gets spoilt by the free facilities. Who wants to stretch one’s limbs if there isn’t too much urgency for the same? They are no exception. They just wait and wait and wait for the bowl to get its contents. They have stopped going out into the bushes outside the yard to learn hunting. All day they just lie down comfortably and sleep. Well, to me a cat that doesn’t hunt is no cat. So I decide to teach them a lesson in attention and patience, the necessary requisites for hunting.

They keep on observing my every movement, waiting for that particular one that may fill the bowl in the corner. It’s very irritating, I tell you. This is plain greed and puts me off. Grumbling I fill the bowl but I put it in the open as a fine drizzle has just started. Driven by their greed, they run to lop up as much as possible. A cat abhors getting wet. She hates rains even more than the dogs. The misty drizzle turned to a rain and they had to run into the verandah, leaving the bowl still three quarter full. A torture, definitely, to them. So the fear of getting wet is more than the love for milk. New observation. The skies are with me. The rain turns into a storm. It rains cats and mouse to make the cats learn the lesson in patience. So huddled in a corner they stared at the bowl without batting an eyelid. Concentration and patience are good for hunting. I am happy. It keeps on raining for an hour. The bowl is full as a fruit of their patience. They have braved the storm, thunder and lightning and didn’t go hiding like earlier. They run out happily as the clouds take leave off the scene. Well, sometimes even patience doesn’t carry a sweet fruit as we expect. Their patience has carried a lot of water in the bowl. They lop up a few sips and move away making weird faces. I get my revenge for their insolence and laziness.    

Life and times in solitude

 You always need new angels in your life, or rather we turn ordinary people into angels to fill the vacuum in our life, to rub off the slate and make it clean of the image of the former Angel-turned-dark angel-cum-demon. Our mind is a very suitable instrument to create new realities. We are very innovative with our justification for this dusting, cleaning job. Well, human mind is a wonder indeed. No wonder, we have so many parallel realities. A kind of complex web. Like spiders weaving web to catch prey. But spiders are better weavers than us because they don't get caught in their own weaving generally. While we get tangled in our own yarn usually. So fellers, keep your web simple. It's difficult to walk out of it.

**

Life is like a rubber string. It’s dead and limp without any stretching, taut tension in it. So guys if u feel stretched just enjoy the pleasant pull because that simply proves your lifefully throbbing status. We can enjoy this string-walk as long as there is tensioned tautness under our toe-hold. The pull and tension gone, we just crash-land and turn maggot feed. But tension under our toes is one thing, tension on face is quite another. We just have to be careful during the rope-walk. Later on we can even learn to smile while walking carefully on the rope.

**

If you relegate luxury of life to the paradise after death, believe me you will not be lacking in spirits to turn your as well other's lives into hell here on earth. Joy postponed is embracing pain in the present. If you live just for outdated principles, customs and dogmas in the hope of hitting the jackpot of joy in paradise later, you are missing the point of life. Make love, compassion, joy, care and happiness the tenets of your living and you create your paradise here only. Why wait to die for all this. The only religion of life is to live a meaningful and happy life. God's and paradise are better left alone in peace. The paradise must be crammed to the ceilings because there have been billions who chose to suffer on earth to get a ticket to paradise. Why be in such a hurry to join an overcrowded place. Our little earth still has a lot of spaces left for love and laughter to bloom fully. All we need I just to realign and reshape this life.

**

A gloomy grey dawn. All silence except the lonely katydid who still kept its hopes alive for a mate through it unhurried breep breep. The sky hung spent. It overexerted itself in breaking September rain record. The earth below soaked full and lay sleepy like an overfed kid. No rockchats for their pre-dawn birdy chatter. Then the faint traces of a new day filtered across clouds. A handsome oriental magpie Robin took over the chorus from the tired katydid and the dandy black and white bird's teasing, naughty chitter broke the ice. Instantly a couple of peacocks gave gruffy hoots. A crow kawed. A dove sent its docile notes. A white wagtail chipped in. A few sparrows gossiped across the branches. The morning chorus singers increased in number and variety. It's the birds who announce a new day most beautifully. Listen to it. They always seem wishing you the best of a morning!

**

I can never recall a more rainy September day as today on the 11th. Continuous rains since 5 in the morning and still going well into the afternoon. There have been just few pauses in between. Everything is soaked to the hilt. Trees stand with bowed heads. And a butterfly, taking a chance during a few minutes of rain break, flits around. Hail life! Such wispy wings not only survived the watery onslaught, it comes out to claim its life and living as well, and imagine when it's still drizzling...now who says there isn't inspiration in life? I find this butterfly full of life and unmindful of the odds against it. Lesson learnt, we can always do better in any situation. It's windy...still drizzling...but the butterfly has to have its long delayed breakfast. So here it goes to take a few hasty sips from soggy flowers.

**

If Taliban is all for medieval forms in all forms of life, no problem with that. They aren't comfortable with modernity and Western values. Again no problem with that. It's their choice. But then they have to follow the same principle in fighting also. Why don't they fight with swords and spears, the medieval weapons of war? Why use the latest weapons? These are modern tools and mostly manufactured by the Western countries. I respect your medieval choice. But then you have to fight the enemy with your own weapons. Take up swords guys. We will applaud your endeavours!

**

I'm a common man with modest means and common people have to be conscious of their deeds that may justify their philanthropic conscience. They have their limitations and need to look for small avenues to satisfy the good spirit. I am no exception. I collect my tiny grains of good deeds. A potted rose feeling extremely thirsty, its buds and top leaves drooping despiritedly. Pour water with care and consideration. Within fifteen minutes you have the results. The branches straighten and leaves turn taut, the buds raise their heads again. They will smile fully tomorrow. Now who says good deeds don't fetch beautiful results?

**

Birds sing beautifully most of the time, except when they fight or are scared, which isn't too often. I can't sing. But I can at least say something about their songs. And I can write a few lines about music. Well, that makes me happy!

**

The day 

holding its last ray,

The dusk 

at its mellifluous cusp,

The breeze stops

to welcome dew drops,

To the nest

birds return for rest,

The leech

also has to reach

a place safe,

To crawl

cling and brawl

on a new day.

**

A richly yellow, thick, grand old guava leaf lets go of its grip on the branch and tumbles down to create a soft tonk on the car roof. The completion of a journey! Well, I believe some stately wise old man also died peacefully in sleep, after completing a joyful, meaningful life, in some corner of the world at exactly the same time.

**

My dear human-centrist theorists, please recognize that this earth and the drama of life on it is a bit larger atomic arrangement. There is hardly any qualitative difference between a simple atomic arrangement and earth as such. They are just numerically different. If you feel too large for your skin, stand on the terrace on a clear dark night and stare into the starry distance. To the cosmic immensity, an ant and an elephant on earth are the same. Well, but the ant and the elephant are entitled to their grandiose plans here on this little mud ball. You, me and all of us are entitled to the same. Play your drama joyfully. Don’t miss the little things that bring a smile. Appreciate the smile of a flower, applaud the airy dives of a butterfly, hail the rains and go stomping in the monsoonal mud, feel the kiss of gentle kiss of the breeze on your skin, salute and acknowledge the ferocity of storms, roll in the green hilly pastures, bathe in mountain streams, enjoy your tea at a roadside tea  stall, bless a child, give a coin to an old helpless beggar, throw grains to the chirpy birds, chase away the bully feral dog and come to the aid of a meeker one, share your food with others at the office canteen, congratulate the office peon for looking smart and energetic, the list is endless my dears. Little thinks that can give us a smile are countless, so why wait in vain for the bigger reasons which are so few. Little causes of smiles are the sinews that will one day make the nest of your happiness, which one day gets us joy, appreciation of life and gratitude for being alive. Keep smiling my dears!

A mundane-morning of a common man

 A Common mormon, a black butterfly for the uninformed, lands on my bushy grey shack of hair. How do I know that it’s there? I see it in the landing pose coming straight from the front. It must have grossly overestimated my saintliness and sat a few ant-paces from the hairline. That is the most beautiful burden ever to carry! I hold myself still to prolong its stay. My neighbor proves he has a nice eyesight. ‘Hey there is butterfly on your head!’ he points out from the terrace. I just smile in response. It must have been a tired butterfly stopping to take a pause only. Soon it realizes, it’s no saint and takes to its colorful dives. I see it and wish it the best of a morning.

There is a monkey on the parapet, very relaxed with its legs hanging down the wall. One hand is taken back and the palm spread on the wall top to support the relaxing posture. What about the other hand? Do you think a monkey has enough patience to keep its both hands relaxing? Never possible, I tell you! He is fondling his endowment. Scandalous. Now I now from where our lust comes from. It comes from the monkeys because we share 96% of our gene pool with them. Monkeys have sex in their mind as well apart from their bodies, like we humans who have more of it in our mind and far less in the body. That’s disturbing a bit.

The kittens give a nice lopping exercise to their tongues as they get busy to lick out even the steel metal apart from the milk. They find it shameful if some drops remain in the bowl. Then one of them moves away with majestic contentment. It arches up and then downs its back, stretching its paws, opening its jaws to the full. I think it’s a kind of digestive cat-yoga that helps them in bearing up with the ill-effects of overeating. The other one moves away sluggishly. Probably, in order to give a stiff competition to its sibling, it has overfed itself to the extent of finding cat-yoga impossible for the time being.

On the terrace of a house in the neighborhood, there is a long bamboo pole fixed at a corner to serve as a cloth-line. A cloth-line doesn’t require this kind of length to sustain itself. The farmer must have used the whole of it, deciding against cutting it to lesser size, so that it can be used for some other purpose also, like thatch rafter or even breaking the rival’s head from a distance in the drunken street brawl, which are in plenty by the way. For the time being, a crow is using this extra length to its benefit. It spends most of its time on the top of the bamboo pole. I was wondering about the reasons for its taking this point as its favorite. I think I have found one. Right under the pole, there is an open-air bathroom in the corner. The farmer has four adolescent daughters. They are full of life and giggle mischievously at anyone from the age of 10 to 60, or maybe even beyond because I haven’t seen the older ones getting the benefit so far, provided the object of their giggle belongs to the opposite sex. Well, that’s just being young. What’s wrong in that? I hope even the crow hasn’t been emboldened by their free-spirited grins and sits there, waiting patiently for the roofless bathroom to be occupied. Well, if that’s the case, I find it really objectionable. I have learnt to take their grins at me to be cuddly daughterly ones and from that relationship I feel like shooting the crow down with my sling-shot.

That isn’t possible by the way. The Chinese sling-shot let me down on its first instance of usage like Jinping dumped Modi’s Phafda affection. The sling-shot was hung on the wall like a Knight’s sword, unused since it arrived from China with much promise of performance. It came out of its scabbard for the purpose of turning a rascal monkey’s red bum still redder as it threw around things on the terrace for the sheer rascally fun of it. A full criminal, I tell you. Like Jim Corbet, monkey-hunting this time for a change, I aimed to the last limits of my eyes and hands. The instrument gave its best. The tension was gone both from the weapon and the holder. The pebble was safely in my hand. The rubber snapped. Chinese rubber, why the hell I even expected much of it? The criminal just walked away over the parapet fence, unpunished, and most importantly, with the same shameful redness on its bum. I couldn’t contribute to the color. So I felt really disappointed.

Well, someone just asked, ‘Why don’t you tweet on Twitter?’ ‘I am not a sparrow, so I can’t tweet much. I am a frog rather, so I croak. Let them have a Croaker first then I will croak,’ I told him my real reason for not tweeting much.

Just now the kitten has crash-landed into the yard from the fence. It’s out of its wits and dashes straight into the barn to hide in the safest corner. A pack of babblers is after its life. Now it realizes that birds aren’t that delicate as its mother must have told. They aren’t just soft, juicy meat. They mean plenty of shameless expletives as well, as the pack of babblers prove now. They hang around in the barn for full five minutes, throwing choicest abuses and challenging the cowardly kitten to come out. It but won’t come out. Never mess up with babblers little cat.

The beginning of a new day

 The morning turns best by default when you wake up after 8 hours of dreamless sleep. Even a semi-cloudy musty day appears as bright as it’s on a full sunny morning. The flowers give you a better smile than you remember. Aren’t they the same flowers? But the eyes looking at their smiles are more fresh today. A butterfly, a Common mormon to be precise, is resting on a sadabahar leaf. It’s a beautiful black butterfly with whitish spots running across the hindwing. Its wings are spread, not drawn taut together in instinctive mode to fly away at the slightest danger. A resting butterfly with spread out wings is a great treat to the eyes. You get a chance to observe its colors and patterns more closely. While flying, it’s a teasing flirtatious speck of colors that titillates the heart but deprives the eyes of the beautiful patterns. A small grass yellow Eurema hecabe, drunk with youth, is all impatience and eagerness as it makes the most of its short life through airy dives and nectar sips. Probably, the resting Common mormon is middle-aged like me and knows the importance of rest and repose also after flying high. The Indian silverbill, a cute little pale white bird, has redecorated the globular nest of the Scaled munia and is happy with the proceedings so far. The monkeys have rarely allowed a successful hatching of these cute little birds so far. They are too restless for other’s peace. They just snatch away the nest. But all is well at least today and that’s more important. Tomorrow may have bright sunshine or a storm, that’s time’s problem. A pair of angry tailorbirds darts in and sits on both sides of the refurbished silverbill house. They are angry over something and have a lot of complaints. They are too loud for their tiny size. The silverbill just trills feebly like the jingling anklet on the ankle of a little girl. May be it’s a bully pair of tailorbirds who are still angry because their well-hidden leafy nest was spotted by the monkey and torn away, throwing away the chicks. As I had run to turn its bum redder for the crime, I could see one chick in its hands. If it’s a rascal monkey, like they are without an exception, it will have its breakfast. If it’s a kind monkey—which is the most improbable thing on earth—it may raise the chick and create history like the wolves did in rearing Maugli, the jungle boy. Well, the angry tailorbird are too much for the meekly trilling silverbill. Depression of losing one’s home and kids is understandable. Maybe they find the silverbill docile enough to vent out their anger. This world is but full of bigger bullies. The tailorbird’s pinchy shrills attracted a few babblers. There they arrive on the scene to settle the scores. Can anyone match a babbler’s chirpy anger? Not at all! They can give even the most querulous, cantankerous peasant woman in the neighborhood a well-heeled run for her money. The tailorbirds are outshouted immediately and they leave the field. The silverbill sneaks into its nest. The babblers sing the song of their victory for a few more moments, challenging any more mai-ka-lal to take panga with them before flying to arbitrate in some other quarrel among the lesser bullies on some other tree. And thus picks up another fresh day on its slow march to speed up later to go slumberous again at the dusk.