Take a long walk before decising to marry

 In the year 1988, a Serbian artist named Marina Abramovic and her German partner named Ulay, much in love and looking forward to marriage, egged on by the unfaltering command of mutual infatuation, fully enamored with each other and eager to share the paradisiacal joy of matrimony, decided to walk from the opposite ends of the Great Wall of China. They planned to marry at the point they met on the historic wall, considering it an aesthetical and classical culmination of a journey to mingle into each other at many levels. It was a nice trekking from both ends. They walked pleasantly and finally met at some point. But they met with the realization—airlifted into the momentum of newer truths—that they didn’t want to marry and returned to their places separately.

Seeing the life through a fresh kaleidoscope, after going through multitudes of dew-fresh experiences, you turn a stranger to your old self. You are no longer held at ransom by the beliefs and emotions that defined your former sense of being. Maybe walking on open paths, with their daring allurement, with their untrampled and wild prospects, makes you see the truth better. The long-eyelashed coquetry of flimsy, skidding emotions gives way to a healthy pragmatism. Inhibited and repressed truths about the self and the others sneak out as you lose your grip on them. The bindweed and wild clover on unpaved ways, which you dismissed earlier as inconsequential clumps of weed, guide you to a mysterious unearthly splendor which any well-planned, properly paved and designed rosebed, properly gated and guarded with the grills and railings of our fears and insecurities, would fail to accomplish. The floating façade made of large-scale assumptions crumbles down. And the absurdly overstretched, congested self opens to glorious scenarios.

So all the couples who are in a dilemma about marriage must walk for a few hundred kilometers from opposite directions and meet on the way. Walking on earth gets us grounded and makes us realize the futility of staying on cloud nine forever. As you walk and see the naked realities of life, without pretentions and hypocrisies, with each kilometer walked you get better like wine with age. Your vociferous ideologies melt down and the smart, savvy, lionized self reshapes to acquire more realistic outlines.

The story of a snakebite

 Shekhar would call me ustad. Later he proved it that he meant it and as a sincere chela got a snakebite by, probably, standing proxy for me by sheer chance or mischance. Our group of friends was young and conjured up the meaning of life through persistent, relentless, regular walks into the dark countryside every day without fail. Four or five of we friends would loiter around, sharing our disillusionment and anguish with a creeping openness, talking about our youthful follies in the dark on the field pathways crisscrossing the cropped fields around the village.

Once on a dark night, on the way back, me in the lead like a genuine ustad, followed by four friends including Shekhar and my younger brother Amit. It had rained heavily. It was a narrow submerged passage of hardened cement sacks and stones, standing as a sort of fording point in a low-lying area around the pond. The rains had partially submerged the rudimentary step bridge. It was a world of brattish, tentative jigsaw puzzles, beyond the claustrophobic set of care and caution, torches or mobiles. A free world decided by the crucibles of dark and deep vicissitudes of fate, beyond the security and systematized steps as we have presently. Now even a rope would seem a snake in the dark and during those days even a snake would be taken as a mere rope.

As the leader of the party walking in a file, I would have stepped upon a snake fitted in a hollow among the partially submerged stepping-stones. But then chance denied it an opportunity to dig its fangs into my foot. As I took the step that would have trampled the snake, my forward foot in the air, the other foot slipped over the edge of a stone. In order to avoid a fall I took a long stride, almost jumped in fact. It meant I leapt over the snake hiding in the submerged crevice among the sacks and stones. Sometimes destiny extenuates you, quite surprisingly, despite all your hypocrisy, brazenness and indolence, and puts the share of the consequences of your very own step in the platter of someone else.

Shekhar, following immediately after me, walking behind step-in-step like a true comrade, completed the job pretty firmly. The snake bit him hard and repeatedly on his calf muscles. He gave a long and loud shriek and went hopping over the water like a misfired rocket. The pond-keeper arrived with a torch. Shekhar’s calf bore many bleeding bite marks because the reptile was trodden over very comprehensively. In this manner, my friend stood proxy for me for the dreaded experience of a snakebite.

My brother is a strong man. He being the strongest of the group took the responsibility of carrying Shekhar on his back, running over the pond’s earthen embankment to reach the road. We ran ahead to stop some vehicle to take him to the venom-curing doctor. Shekhar thought he was dying and supposing dizziness, which was in fact his acceptance of the fact that one turns dizzy by degrees after getting bitten by a snake, to be the call of his end of innings on earth whispered his death-bed wisdom in the ears of my brother. ‘See Sufi is a soft and kind guy. Take care of him after I’m no more!’ Well, I’m sure he didn’t know that he had stood proxy for me for the bite otherwise he would have spared this kind departing-time injunction.

In any case, we took him to the countryside snake venom doctor, famous for treating snakebites with his secret herbal concoctions. He prepared a bucketful of horribly smelly and terribly bad tasting brew and force-fed Shekhar the entire lot. It included some cuss words and raptor-sharp nape-grazing palm attacks on the patient’s stooping figure as he protested against the atrocious concoction. There were mammoth rolling waves of revulsion inside his innards and he vomited like a tube-well. It was the countryside method of detoxification. Shekhar survived the episode. Either the concoction was effective or the snake wasn’t too poisonous. But the incident left a spurious shadow of fear of reptiles on his psyche and he felt its direct effects on his physical health for almost six months. He would be justified in claiming that his snakebite treatment lasted for six months. In the meantime, he gulped down all the horrendous venom-antidote preparations, whose ingredients were family secrets, made by the vaidyas in the entire state. Thankfully he recovered to a position to claim full health. But he says he feels sleepy if he eats stale, cold kheer in the morning.

However, now he won’t stand proxy for me for a snakebite anymore. It’s a well-wrought lesson. Almost twenty years after the mishap he suffers from reptile phobia, and rightly so. Recently, on a balmy winter noon we were strolling by the canal. The canal had been desilted so a smooth silvery bed of shining sand was layered over the embankment. Usually dozens of harmless water snakes can be seen basking under the sun on winter noons. The soft, silvery canal sand was etched with slithery, crawling marks as the reminders of the reptilian sunbathing. As we neared the crawling lines, his phobia flashed live snakes in his brain as he saw the snakes drawn on the sand. He swears to this day that he saw real snakes. I am but equally sure to have seen only lines and no live snakes as it was broad daylight. He yelled in panic, jumped as if the crawling marks under his feet were live, writhing snakes and this time, playing safe and no longer willing to stand proxy for me for a snakebite, jumped up and got onto my back, drawing his legs as much above as he could manage. 

Selfie with a cobra

 A few years back we had lots of selfies with a cobra. I know most of you would term it as a bigoted banishment of the common sense. A cobra obviously isn’t an obliging, fake-smiling celebrity to gratify the demands of perky fans. Its anger has a lot of reach and range. In addition it has lots of attitude and arrogance which has a high chance of not adjusting to the demands of a selfie. But then it was a tired cobra, like an old aristocrat sitting among the ruins of his palace in an era of crumbling feudalism. Moreover, it was full of gratitude as we had done it a big favor. I would say that it was a mature reptile because it found itself bound to oblige us with a selfie in lieu of the favor done to it.

The cobra had fallen into a deep well. After two-three days of tiring drudgery to stay afloat, the seething spirit to hiss and bite ebbed down to the lowest point and there it lay like an almost dead rope. My cousin tied a neem bough to a rope and dropped the anchorage for the tired, sulking cobra. Forgetting all the malignant elements of the dangerous equations between the reptiles and humans, it got onto the bough and coiled itself safely among the branches. It was then hauled out and was cheered and applauded by the fans outside. It acknowledged the presence of the rescue party with its tired but taut hood. As a reciprocation for the act of kindness, it didn’t let out blasting, hissing sounds. It was so tired that it won’t get off the branch, taking it to be the ultimate savior. So we picked up the bough and had lots of selfies with the condescending cobra. It just stared at us with a mysteriously concerned curiosity. After an extended booming and euphoric selfie session, we put down the branch among some bushes, and suddenly it came out of its hypnotization and quickly came to life and dashed away at full speed. Maybe it was a wise cobra who knew the value of the favor done to it and rewarded us with some fan moments. 

The beginning of Summers

 It’s the burning first week of April. The short-lived spring is more of flowery symbolism, a very delicate metamorphosis, far more in allegory than substance. In future it will be remembered through the poetic approbation of sundry sensitive souls. Gusts of wind loop around with a thirsty probity. Once out of the winters, the roses have given their best. They had ravishing, oracular dew-laden smiles to fulfill their commitment to the short-lived spring. Now they get some respite at night. But during the day the 40°C sun soaks away life and smile from the roses that still try to keep their smiles. It’s a slow-burning pyre now and they lose their color rapidly, the petals get crinkled.

A few pots of petunias have unleashed a rainbow of red, pink and violet. They are lucky to be placed by a wall where they have to see through the scorching sun till noon only. After that there is shade and the sun-beaten, bowed down, drooping flowers slowly regain their smiles as the afternoon approaches. They recover completely at night to smile at their best, all fresh, and welcome me with innocent fresh smiles in the morning before the sunrise. The little sadabahar flower in the crack in the wall has welcomed spring with high spirits. It has grown taller to be around one foot and has a cluster of little purple flowers. The thin crack in the plaster is its lifeline. Acknowledging and honoring its formidable willpower to survive, I sprinkle a handful of water around the crack. It’s just enough to moisten its lips but it seems enough to help it keep smiling. For sure it looks happy in its little world.

I look solemnly as the short-lived spring gets sucked dry by the thirsty sunrays. One must have sympathetic eyes to witness the fading signals of the retreating spring. Three butterflies go gamboling in the air, flirting with the eddies as if out on a pleasure party, going to dine on a few discharmed, sun-ravaged flowers that still keep their posts for their patron season. These are creamy white butterflies. I hope it isn’t a naughty play—a colorful threesome demonstration. What is a butterfly, I ask myself musing over them. It’s just the air taking colorful wings and fly around in a form so that we can see it.

A ladybird has fulfilled its quota of representing the air. It’s an illustrious form of earth now—orange with black dots. It’s a beautiful pattern in the soil as I sit by it to pay homage to a life that completed its journey. Well, the dead need to be honored. I pick it up on a leaf and leave it to turn to common soil in a safe corner among the still remaining flowers.

These are the times for the triumph of ‘extremes’. As extreme heat builds up, the sunburnt roses give a sad sight. The hot wind swipes its airy hand and scores of dry leaves tumble down. A green ladybug also tumbles over. As someone who is trying to keep his eyes grounded for smaller things in life, there I find it kicking its legs in the air. All it gives him is a backstroke movement on the ground. It may look good in a swimming pool but on the ground this expert maneuver gives scratches on one’s back. With the help of a dead leaf—everything happens for a cause; maybe the leaf fell near the ladybug to avail the services of my fingers to save the little colorful insect—I help it turn over and there it goes showing its beautiful back and scampers into the security of some plants.

The ladybug has to be thankful for not being spotted by the forlorn magpie robin who goes flying restlessly in the locality. There is plenty of urge for love despite the heat. But there are more claimants (takers) of love than givers. No wonder there is a shortage of love which has come to acquire the shape of a commodity these days. The ladybug was lucky in having an extended backstroke swimming exercise on the ground because the garden magpie robin has been busy in fighting for love at that time. He is fighting with a rival. They pinned each other on the ground, locking each other in a wrestler’s hold so forcefully that they didn’t move at all for at least two minutes. They are lucky that a cat isn’t around otherwise the love game would be the end game. The lady in contention looks curiously from a distance. They are a couple, I think. Our magpie robin is unnecessarily trying to snatch away the rival’s girlfriend. It seems to be fed up with its lonely nights on the parijat tree and decides to fight for a better half at any cost.

The purple sunbird couple is usually seen flitting among the trees and plants in the garden with their prodigiously arduous chipping notes. They are extremely chatty birds and are impassively in pursuit of each other from branch to branch. Either there is too much love or too much domestic bickering between them. There is a limitless barrage of swish-swish-swish-swish notes, a kind of rolling ruckus that startles even the noisy tailorbird. I’m not sure whether the couple is adherent of the religion of love or advocate of husband-wife animosity. But these spurts of either anger or love cooings peter out after brief intervals. It’s very challenging to maintain either love or hate at an intensified, pointed peak. People get tired of their hyper-excitement and come downslope, mostly on opposite ones. I would say it’s better to come down the same slope with experience and an understanding that staying in the clouds is too much asking. Be realistic. Don’t drift away, just come down to the level plain. You won’t be alone at least. Coming to the birds, if it’s a quarrel then they are drifting apart after tasting the peak of togetherness. If these are love songs, let’s see how long they maintain the tempo.

The game of love unfolds on an unusual and inexplicable chessboard. The pawns, we humans and even animals, birds and reptiles, are shuffled around for hits and misses, for brief pleasures and long pains, by an unknown hand that sits on the playing seat with unremitting zeal, playing for both ends, being victor and loser both with the same sadistic excitement. Love: toughest in philosophy to understand and simplest in feeling. As of now, it seems so simple in lovely companionship of a mynah couple. The top end of an electricity pole is their place of dating and the time is late in the evening when the sun has lost its sting. It has been a week since they have been arriving to meet on this tiny square at the top end of the electricity pole. They relax in close proximity and let out beautiful foundational notes. Brahminy mynah is a very talkative bird and they have a wide assortment of notes to converse in their birdie language. They must be having wonderful tales containing descriptions of the unobvious.

With broadening connotations of our taming spirits, confidently holding the hangman’s noose to tame the darkness on the surface, we are throwing beams to light up the stage for our ever-unfolding mind-work of creation and destruction. The village has street lights now. As I stand on the terrace at night, I can see the unfolding spectacle of our beams pursuing the darkness. And darkness seems to be retreating under the baffling barrage of our lights. But then maybe it’s creeping inside, vacating its posts on the outside, giving us a false sense of victory and is seeping through our skins to take a counteroffensive position in our hearts.

Well, I remember perfectly dark nights, real nights, in the village during our childhood. The streets were completely dark and the simple houses fought the dark with flickering oil lamps. And now we are fighting against the nights to have 24-hour days on earth. We may lose our nights altogether due to light pollution. Lights hold the enduring legacy of our stepping out of dark caves to enter the un-blushing charm of the brightly lit palaces of convenience and comfort. Lights, lights everywhere: street lights, bazaar lights, vehicle headlights, mast lights, blazing skyscrapers, fiery rockets, lights-lights and more lights. Now even oceanic depths are disturbed. The unshaded light flies off into the sky only to be scattered back by the clouds, gases and dust molecules in the atmosphere. The LED lights are bright but glow at the blue end of the spectrum. It gives them more penetration into darkness. In future when urban centers will dot all nook corners on earth, we will have far milder nights or maybe not altogether. Work-life balance rapidly falling in favor of work, the unsparing work culture will welcome endless days. China, cringing with egregious cynicism, in fact is trying to develop an artificial sun to keep blazing 24-hour non-stop over a city. A scenario of ‘no nights’ is highly likely and plausible in future. Just light, light and more light. Then darkness will be sold like bottled water is sold presently. We will have doses of darkness in closed chambers as remedies for the diseases born of too much light. 

A little pilgrimage

 There is an open large sewage drain, the mother drain of all the smaller sewage drains and nullahs, in the town. It flows with its black, stinking sludge. An eliminatory canal taking away the waste and refuge emanating from the overworked urban bowels. People grimace and cover their noses as they pass near it. But this impurity is what defines the purity of holy waters. There are little temples nearby. Here the people enter, open their soul and breathing to the incense smoke in front of the idols. 

I walked for a considerable length by the big open sewage nullah. It's a strong smell. The smell of our stress, pain and struggles. Of overburdened humanity. Of mass transformation of life into mere struggle. I love walking by holy rivers. But this also is an avatar of mother stream. The all-accepting avatar of primordial mother who is happy to accept all the dump Her children put on her. A mother unbothered about the urine and shit dumped on her by the infant child. My head spins due to the strong odor after 15 minutes. But this also is a little pilgrimage for Maa's blackened avatar. She is smiling even with all her filth. But she is after all the very same mother whose divinity flows in crystal clear mountain streams. As I move away it seems like a little pilgrimage I have performed.