The sun is reminding me of the villain of the latest movie I have seen, who in comparison to the standard of oppression of the sun, now looks very innocent and in the clear. All the wind from the atmosphere, looks like, has been ripped away from the earth by some astronomical enemy. Yesterday I read in a geography book that fall of water at enormous speed vertically is known as a waterfall; I wonder, as I wipe the moisture down my brow, what name should I give when sweat possesses similar properties. Maybe salty-waterfall!

      In a state of motion beneath me is my green Hero Sprint Duke, an old bicycle I bought a year ago; on my back is clung a neon blue bag; on my mouth a nonporous mask; and around me blankets of heat – as if all the heat on earth has been forged into a capsule and plastered around me.

      Presently I am heading for home from a bookshop from where I have purchased for myself some stationary and some textbooks which fill the bag on my back. The incongruous bookshop timings are responsible, I chew in my covered mouth and shake my head in disappointment. The road is bumpy, which furthers my irritation. At this moment, a fat white car passes by me, the heat wave from its air conditioner soaking me in more temperature than before. I wonder what other scorching thing can await me now: a volcano? A forest fire?

      Some minutes travel by. My body starts feeling laxer. Negative thinking is spent, but still consumes enough room, barring the positive thoughts. For a flick of second, I have the notion that in no time, people will find me passed out in the middle of a road. I can’t help thinking strange things. People coming out of cars, picking me up, sprinkling water on my face. Then offering me something to drink (like a foreigner in a desert, the water in my water bottle has been consumed). But then it seems this thinking is too far-fetched and unlikely. People are not going to come out of car ACs; they will only show sympathy through the glasses!

      I shake my head vigorously, and the biker overtaking me gives me a look of distrust. It dawns upon me that that heat has started working my brain. I am just exaggerating things excellently.

      So I decide to make the reform. No, this heat is not that much oppressive! I tell myself with conviction. I can’t allow you to welcome negative thoughts anymore. Tightening my grip on the frictional handles, I rev up the peddles and imagine the amount of satisfaction I am going to have back at home, however short-lived. I remind myself of all the things I have learnt at camps and workshops about optimism. This half-cures me immediately.

      In a split second, I see the difference.

      This little reform has worked like a charm. I am beginning to find good things in heat, in the sweat on my forehead, and in the bumpy roads. I no more envy those who are inside the cars.

      But as quickly as I transitioned from negative to positive, I start returning to the starting point, making full circle.

      I get tired, returning to that state of unparalleled complaints.

      But the soul of the world knows better. If I have recognized that negative thinking has to be shunned, and take a small, fugacious initiative to conquer it, nature steps in to give me reward for my step, to help me further.

      At a small distance is a square, marked by a set of traffic lights. In my state of fading positivity when I pull the brakes, stopping at the sight of red signal, I am surprised to see a sudden shade covering me. It is cool, it is therapeutic, it is spectacular. My first thought is that clouds have closed the sky, but when I look up, I find that I have incidentally stopped at the shadiest place beneath the canopy of a tree planted two feet away from where I stand.

      The journey back home is quite a silent, clean and pure one.

          People are a great deal like words, words great deal like people.

          Words take birth, live diverse, unexampled lives, and die. Words also sometimes reawaken from their own ashes, like a phoenix. And so do people. Words and people both are fond of weaving new sagas. Both want to be rich, be popular, and be therefore successful. Similar words and similar people flock together to form language and civilizations, respectively. Words and people - there are too many of both of them.

          Words, like people, have a status, a reputation, a level of respect. Some words, otherwise illogical, find themselves being mentioned under the list of the most used, and some beautiful words, from time to time, are content in remaining latent.

          Words string with each other, like the beads of a rosary, and form a story. People collegiate with each other, like characters in a plot, and form a story. Stories made by people and stories made by words, both show resounding similarities. Some stories grow up to be famous, become fairy, folk or classic tales, and some stories get dead and buried.

          Words and stories have their creator. People also do. The author always knows what lies on the last chapter, but the words on the pages of the first chapter do not. The maker, in people’s case, knows the end, while the people are unaware of it.

          A writer knows, and so does a musician, a singer, a painter, that although words and strokes are necessary, and gorgeous, yet silence, wordlessness, tranquility, have a charm of their own. An excellent prose may be able to describe a butterfly landing on a soft dewy flower under the slanting light of the sun, kissing it and shooting away, yet at one level, every word will fail. And silence will fill itself into the void perfectly.

          Perhaps that is the reason why the publisher leaves some pages blank before the beginning and after the end of the book, and so the thoughtful creator.

 

          As I sit and wonder how to explain to someone the importance of ‘now’, I find myself recalling a hilarious experience from the time when I was about fifteen years old.

          It was a sunny Saturday. The previous night, that was Friday, we had been talking of the three places we were visiting on Saturday. The first among these was a religious function at some acquaintance’s place. It was in early morning – around 5 or 6 – and we knew it would be nice being there. The second was the parent-teacher meeting at my sister and my school, which would be till sometime before the noon. Thirdly, we four were planning to visit a relative we had not seen from long.

          Next day – that is, on the sunny Saturday – we woke up soon enough, in time to be able to easily reach the religious function. But … at the end point, plans changed. God knows from where the impression came to our minds that if we went to attend this function, we might get late for the meeting at school. So we cancelled the plan.

          Some hours passed. Having tended to some chores, we were about to get ready for the school. Seconds before pulling out our dresses from the wardrobe, someone of us said, ‘It will take a lot of time at school. If we get late returning home, we’ll not be able to pay a visit to that uncle.’ ‘Yes,’ agreed some other of us. ‘Anyway, we have not missed any meeting at school so far. If we miss this one, there’ll be no harm.’

          With popular consent, we called off this second plan too. And started making preparations to go to that long-ago-seen uncle’s house. Around the noon, we phoned him, telling him that we were paying a surprise visit to him, and asking if he was at home. You must have guessed what he answered.

          He said that day, he was out with his family on a trip, and so going to their home would be just to see a locked door.

          And this way, the third plan ended up being cancelled too.

          A smile still conquers my face as I recall this experience vividly.

          We often keep cancelling one thing for the other, other for another and at the end, are able to do either little or nothing. We cancel going to some place because we have an assignment to do, and postpone doing the assignment because we think we are hungry and need lunch early, and in no time, everything is messed up. We spend a lot of time delaying what is to be done now, and waiting for what is to be done after some time. In short, we look forward to the future at the expense of the present.

          The only thing that is needed to avoid falling into this trap is initiative. Tell yourself to just sit down and begin that work you are required to do and do it for only some time. Once a gullible you gets into the flow, the work will itself find a way of getting completed. There is never going to be a moment which will be the like of now.

          The locality in which we live is profuse with trees but the tree living nearest to us happens to be an adult mango tree. Had I been shown only its trunk, hiding the remaining parts, I would never have believed that this trunk proportionate to a healthy man’s chest could sprout such a big canopy with such harvest of mangoes.

          This one legged living being stands quite straight, donned in a green turban made of thousands of leaves. The spread of roots over the earth is enough to show how wide they must be running under it. When two days ago it rained for several hours, it soaked up immense amounts of water and changed its color from wood to chocolate.

          The mango tree and I do not know much about each other. My family shifted here barely a year ago, and though the two of us grew close, we have never talked to each other about our pasts. Hence I can’t say when this giant on earth was planted, who planted it, and what other memories it hides in its bark. Nor have I ever told it when, where and how I was born and what a fantastic childhood I was fortunate to have.

          Despite this, it seems, the tree and I understand each other totally well. When I am a bit off, the tree shows something miraculous, creates some rare scene, and it gives me inspiration for a poem. A successful writeup is usually enough to lift your spirits, isn't it? What do I do in return? I mention the mango in the poem, not because otherwise it would be copyright infringement, but because the writeup seems rather empty without it. The mango has not so far protested, and I have faith it won’t ever in the future.

          Sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the evening I am on the rooftop where its branches reach, and I can see armies of ants patrolling its leaves and branches. Upon a careful gaze, I find that all of its leaves are not healthy. Nearly every leaf in my eyeshot is scarred by ants and other leaf-eaters. There are openings in these leaves which are not stomata. But the Mango doesn’t gripe. It has serenely welcomed and accepted all the creatures that approach it for livelihood. Which is why today it supports thousands of ants, innumerable rainy-season insects, pandemoniums of parrots, and a plethora of crows and sparrows and pigeons.

          It seems to me that despite not having gone to school, the mango tree is a lot wiser than us. It has such a kind and benevolent nature, never brags about it, and what is more, always tries to enjoy life. Seems it knows the meaning of life more than our preachers do. It is not afraid of getting wet in rain as we humans are, and not any bit frightened of storm. It takes delight in everything, and this physics its pain.

          Merely looking at the tree is enough to get you serious about the understanding of life and meaning. One look at it can give you an unparalleled spiritual experience. Being a creation of Creator, the mango tree behaves to some extent like the Creator Himself.

          And, at any rate, I can’t wonder more on the fact that this three-floor high mango tree started growing someday from a seed hardly the size of my palm!

* reference to William Shakespeare's quote from The Tragedy of Macbeth, "The labour we delight in physics pain." continue reading

          Rain after a scorching summer season is a shared fantasy of the earthlings.

          As a child, I remember standing on our rooftop among my siblings, looking at the shiny rim of a patch of dark clouds. We saw not one spell of rain, but a whole lot of a rainy season, packed in that thunderhead. For a young'un, a set of approaching nimbus clouds means much more than just a series of showers. He bathes in it, makes paper-boats and shoots them off and he can also take that incomparable joy of getting wet deliberately by jumping, rotating and dancing.

          Being the eldest, I had some command over my fellow siblings. In the perkiness of childhood, we together danced in a ring and sang, ‘Rabba rabba meeh barsa! Saade kothe daane paa!’

          Well, as I sit to recall that experience, I do not, despite efforts, recollect the successive events. To my memory, and to that ten-year old me, whether it rained really or not was not of much consequence. The process was a pure, complete joy in its own.

          Today when monsoon approaches my city and my rooftop, I do not find myself singing that song. Nor do I dance with someone, requesting those clouds to come faster. I simply stand with my weight against the parapet, my elbow on its surface, my palm supporting my chin, in retrospect and thinking of that time, thinking what is amiss.

          This teaches me a deep lesson in philosophy. The same thing can mean ten thousand things to one thousand persons. A farmer awaits rain for the benefit of his crop. A man of street awaits it for it will bring some respite from the whiles of loo. Some other man may be looking for clouds for they will bring water to his taps. The poet and the painter may look for inspiration, and the storyteller may look for a story. Well, a child … there the clouds are awaited just because they are another thing to love about the world. Maybe there is something about the shape of a particular cloud … maybe it looks like the most prized teddy bear…

          I often find myself complaining about everyday things. The weather, the news and the like… When I was younger, I used to care, but not so much that it started vexing me. This makes me wonder: the pair of glasses on the bridge of my nose makes me see clearly but not necessarily rightly. Hence I also wonder: do I need to do some refinement with my vantage point? Do I need to redefine my priorities? Isn’t there some demerit in approaching things in a single-minded fashion?

          And this is what I conclude: I need to look at the clouds as the nature made them. If I were the rightest, most just God, I must have made the earth as it is now, because when I think in a silent solitude, I start finding a mystifying perfection in everything.

          It showered here today, immediately after which there was clear sunshine. This resulted in that semicircle of the seven-colored spectrum – a rainbow.

          I watched it from my rooftop. Well, I had gone to see if I could get drenched in some rainy wind, but the shower was a little too short for that. However, I was fortunate enough to catch this phenomena which appears when the sunlight gets dispersed by the water droplets still present in the sky.

          It gave me a train of thoughts, which leads me to write this piece at this time.

           When you are in an unhindered relation with nature, it always, always does one of the two things: either it bestows you with new memories, or resurrects the old ones. With me today, it was the latter.

          This directed me to make a comparison. What I am trying to achieve in life looks like a rainbow. What are the similarities? First of all, both the rainbow of the sky and the rainbow of a perfect life, look colorful. Secondly, both of them are not very straight. Thirdly, and perhaps to an extent, they are the end results of some defined process.

          The rainbow in the sky requires necessary conditions. For the first thing, there has to be rain.

          In my case, the rain is my hard work. My inputs – knowledge, learning, experience – work like the water vapor collected through evaporation. My daily work forges them into thick, dark clouds – which is, say, the weapon set I have ere the battle begins. Then how I rain – how and how much I use these weapons – is my application of my collection, my exhibition. Oftentimes, dark clouds cannot manage to rain, or sometimes do not find the right spot to rain. However, rain is important.

          But rainbows are not seen on daily-basis in the rainy season. Which introduces us to the necessity of the second very important condition: sunshine.

          In my view, the sunshine is the divine order. Is my vision the same as a perfect vision of the Creator? Does the Soul of the Universe want me to do or get this? Is the Supreme Energy on my side? Does the sun agree to shine?

          Both the factors weigh the same. You may work hard and may not receive it, and some other person may not work for it at all and it might come to him effortlessly.

          Well, you can take this train to yet more stations. A rainbow might appear, but a person standing at the wrong place might not be able to see it. It might be that something blocks the view from someone’s line of sight, and he may be deprived of its sight. Which means that not everyone may be able to value your success exactly the same. Some will relish it, delighted by it, some will click pictures, some will stare with goggle-eyes, whereas some might try to turn their backs on it.

          Such metaphors of nature come with tons of meanings. Maybe it is in us humans’ genes to try and find connotations and denotations in all what we see, that we try to take inspiration from everything: rivers, trees, jungles, waterfalls and rainbows.

          Well, when I was satisfied watching this spectacle, and just when I was about to get back to my room, another fact about a rainbow struck my mind, leaving me staggered: Every rainbow, however spectacular, is short-lived and ephemeral; no rainbow can last forever!

          The little deer is out on an adventure today. He did not mention to anyone that he was going to take a detour to reach the part of grassland where those of his species are afraid to go. He doesn’t exactly know the reason of their fear; all the idea he has of this dreary, solitary place, is sourced from what his mother tells him (which he thinks he doesn't believe), and a set of rumors his ears have caught from his friends and siblings.

          The rumors, and his mother, say that on this side of the grassland live big tawny striped beasts with jaws sharper than anything and claws that can rip through any matter. To him, this is nothing more than fiction. In his herd, sometimes it has happened that some adult deer have gone missing, and at other times, he has found himself running deliriously with the fortification of elders for no reason, as if some monster has been behind them.

          However, in the grassland he stands, he sees no such thing. There is a clear sky with some feathery clouds, and the wind is caressing the tall blades of dull grass that unrolls all the way up to infinity. There are some boulders, some short, thin trees … but definitely no beast.

          Out of nowhere appears someone – and the little deer’s heart skips a beat. He falls on the ground, and then rolls under the weight of the creature that has darted at him. Regaining consciousness, he finds it is an uncle deer from his herd.

          He is chastised back in his home for his mischief. The little deer is brought to tears. Before it is the time to sleep, his mother takes him aside, and repeats the tale. The place where you went is patrolled by big beasts. Don’t you see every other day someone out of us goes missing? We are food to those monsters. We run upon seeing those beasts because we know they are threat to our lives. And where you went is but their home! Thank your luck that they didn’t spot you. For us, an ideal day is when such beasts disappear and the grassland is all ours, in which we can roam and eat freely.

          This is the first time the little deer has heard about tigers.

*   *   *   *   *

          For our little cub, his father is his role model. His father is the one who arranges food daily which is mostly deer and zebras. He has seen his father prey sometimes – he is a virtuoso! He adroitly crawls in the cover of grass and when near enough, leaps onto a deer and clutches it by its neck. The deer fidgets for some time but then gives in to the hunter. His father then roards in triumph and they have food for another day.

          His parents have never allowed him to accompany his father in this game and he is allowed to see it only from a set distance, sitting concealed behind the boulders. His mother says he still has to go through training. He has often heard some youngsters bragging to have passed this abrasive training. But listening about it lifts the little cub’s excitement even more. He can’t wait to grow up.

          By the light of the moon, his mother tells him stories of their ancestors. She speaks of times when there used to be  thousands of deer and zebras roaming the grassland, and even a little cub could easily go among them, bite on some little deer’s leg and drag him to the den.

          But they are days bygone, she says. Over time, the animals we could make our prey dwindled and now there are bunches that can be counted on the fingers of our paws.

          This always, always fascinates the young cub. When he cuddles with his mother and closes his eyes to sleep, he records dreams of grounds full of deer and zebras, where he can go hunting without any training, without permission.

          Alas, for the little tiger cub, an ideal day is just a fancy dream.

          You picture the sun rising from the back of a garnet railway bridge, people starting to wake up, stretching their bodies, dogs not barking at all, not frightening the cats, and people leaving for temples or kneeling in their homes. All the children of the house waking up on time, a soft music dancing mirthfully on the air. A cool and fresh stream of wind gives goosebumps to the earthlings with a pleasant smell against a backdrop of twittering sparrows rising in their nests. Everything happy-happy.

          In this imaginary ideal day, as the sun’s angle takes height, people start leaving for work, exultant as anything. As they spread newspapers in front of them, they see nothing except happiness … happy policies, happy budgets, all happy tidings, not stained with reporting of thefts and murders and deceits…

          People work with full productivity till the noon, and as the soft bells for lunch time ring, men and women stretch their arms. Lunchboxes are unlidded, small, soft morsels are taken and people eat mindfully with light conversation. Asking each other about their children’s school performances, satisfactory replies are received.

          In some other corner, teens in a pleasant and pollution-free weather are enjoying whatever they want. Someone who wants to be a photographer is clicking the photos of sparrow and pigeons; someone who wants to be a writer is busy scribbling on a notebook. The artist-aspirant is painting and the to-be-athlete is practicing on balmy blades of grass.

          In orphanages, a good amount of orphans has been adopted by childless parents, and in old-age homes, there have been no new admissions; instead, sorry sons have come to take their parents back. Bureaucrats and politicians work without bribe, and the ministers design policies with common welfare in mind, veil of ignorance on eyes.

          No one misses his flight. No proposal is rejected. No lecturer fumbles. No student fails. Scientists are content at their discoveries and inventions, and so are the philosophers.

          Flowers have never looked as beautiful in the gardens ever before and no animal has ever had such easy and hearty food. And never on the earth has dawned such impeccable sundown.

          The sun begins to set as birds and humans are steering for their homes. The creatures of God recite their evening prayers and over the dinner tables, families indulge in pleasant, blithe chats. As youth and age sit on their desks to write their diaries, the pens draw nothing other than pleasant words of gratitude. Placing their heads on the pillows, people are smiling at the perfection of the story of the Author of the Universe. No questions goad the man, and no temptations of the future vex him.

          The sun goes to sleep giving the charge of the sky to the moon and the stars, who like the most dutiful guards posted on their respective places, peeking at the earth with satisfied smiles.

          Eyes are closed for the little sister of death with gratitude for this one and hope for another ideal day.