The Pathology of Rebellion

Now a days, a new disease has hit the markets – rebellion. Walk into a classroom and you will see all testosterone filled bodies sporting a half-trimmed beard whose proper name is yet to be invented;  it is not even days from a rock star movie that sales of colored, designer dhotis in a metro city starts putting potatoes and tomatoes to shame. And when every other sense organ of the body is enjoying the bliss of Rebellion, why would the tongue stay behind – like waist lines of a talent-less actress, common phrases start shrinking to a point where their mere mention becomes an exercise of facial muscles. Yet for some reason secret to a rustic like me, it is widely claimed in the Rebel world that that new language sounds pleasing (Read – ‘cool’)! The time is not far when the proud Rebels of my country would put all other English speaking countries to shame by their innovative invention of new words and squeezed phrases. As you can see, the time has clearly come for a shift in history and leaving all other Indian demarcations (religion, gender, language, caste, locality, choice of bike and car…) behind, we, the youngest nation of the world are headed towards joining people together – soon, one would only be a Rebel or not. Nothing else will count! What a marvelous thing for national integrity!

                Now before the Rebel group starts working on the sacred ritual of my assassination, please let me assert that for reasons lingering in dark corners of my heart, I am a part of you – unaccepted, unwanted, unyielding, and everything else that makes up our disease. Though as far as dressing and appearance are concerned, my crimes are only limited to repeated defying of my school’s dress code; not sure if the general absence of a dressing-sense counts as crime in both worlds, but who gives a damn!

Other symptoms of my disease: a ravaging, iconoclastic madness, a  carelessness, fearless, and a perpetual wondering if a place exists where things make more sense. So, you see, I am one of you. However, I am different! Why wonder? – even bacteria mutate. Whereas your bacterium tells you to be free of everything and everybody else, mine tells me to be bound to myself. My symptoms range from being foolish to the extent of doing something for somebody else even if that act threatens my very existence (Mr. Darwin, please forgive my bacteria here!). Needless to say that in such transactions, there are no returns! The acute inability to follow someone popular is common in my kind (the tendency of reading a book that someone recommends doesn’t count here). Often, and in stark contradiction to my mainstream Rebel brothers, my kind follows the rules – but only if there is a greater good involved, and only if someone might get hurt in doing otherwise. Perhaps I am the primitive kind, who, in a burning desire to appear different, doesn’t end up following a mirage before finally becoming a second kind of what I disdained in the first place. A kind for whom lines between self and others and not drawn on stone. My kind are people hung in a place where gratitude and time still have a resemblance, and where in our hearts, still remains a corner for all those who might need us at times.

Yet the mind, the stubborn rebellious mind, would walk with a resolve of not hoping for anything in return. If you like my kind, your mutation is not difficult.

The Sensitive Indian

Without a shadow of doubt, mine is a rich country. Not talking of the black-money here─although the figures are endowed enough to give new definitions to the fabled word ‘Honesty’, and rightly lead the youth of my already-glorious country in the best direction possible! So all the brothers and beautiful girls of my country, I am talking about things like culture, heritage, a little extra flock of people here and there, little bits of over stated corruption! There is a multitude of languages and dialects, cuisines ranging from absolute native-delight to stomach wrenching foreign imitations. Daily sops based on the sacred relation of mother-daughter-in-laws are also found in abundance here. No wonder that family values sit on the top of our lists and heads when counting the exclusive and abundant list of virtues on offer within the borders of this vast nation. In addition, no other nation would have such talented and worthy politicians─where else would a local politician understand how painful it would be for his subjects if the name of their city (or, a whole state) was not changed from what has continued from decades, if not centuries; or if a new state was not formed out of a larger state─which by the way, is now the acid-test and a hobby of a true, nationalist Indian politician.
     Apart from all these exclusively abundant virtues, there is one that is largely ignored whenever the world talks of our India. And that is the number of fathers and mothers each one of us has. Let me put it this way─I have a biological father and mother; in addition, I am expected to have another father whose ideal candidate (oh yes, there is a choice) could be the idol in my local temple. The spot of my extra mother─I have been told─has been taken by Mother India. No choices here! However, that is for me. There are many others who themselves live within the boundaries of Mother India, yet have somehow chosen amongst one or the other mothers living around Mother India. No offense to anybody, second mother is purely a personal choice! Feel free!

     Now, one thing to notice is that where there is a multitude of parents, the children are rightfully bound to sensitive. That is our birthright! So what wrong we do when the whole nation opposes a biography where the author dares to mention that our favorite batsman is not his favorite? Criminal! In India, everybody MUST like only one batsman! And we do absolutely no wrong when we burn books of another foreigner who claims that one of our revered politicians (another good candidate for the extra-father position)─whose death is now older than his life─had a penchant for a married woman, some eengliss mem. Kill that writer! Why, just why, would our revered politician ogle another woman? And say, say for one moment, if he ever did, was there any scarcity of women in India? I say cut his hands─he points his fingers on our revered politician, and he doubts the quality (and perhaps, availability) of Indian women!

     Let’s move away from books. Why? Because, a majority of my country is allergic to books! Illiterate is not the right word as many believe! That is all a hidden agenda of foreign powers, I tell you! Let’s talk of sports. Why should players from Mothers neighboring our dear Mother India be allowed to play in prestigious sports tournaments of my country? Try it, and we shall dig up the sports grounds and stop movie releases nationwide of any actor who says otherwise. Try and utter a word against our gods─we would set whole cities on fire. We can tolerate anything against your gods but nothing against our own. Such is the unity we share within the broken communities of our glorified Mother.

     We won’t change: come what may. If you have to live within our Mother India, make sure you live like you’re told to; like everybody else does. Do not try to express yourself or the government would have your phones tapped, have your emails and internet usage monitored; have your blogs filetered meticulously to decide what section of Indian Penal Code can be applied against you. So what if our jails overflow with slime and criminals, we would find a spot for you there. And do not─just do not─play with our sensitive dispositions. We are very emotional. Though out of the truly marvelous history that this country has witnessed, there have been countless men and women who have led by example, the moment they are gone, we have no one to guide our emotions rightly. Therefore, it is our right to be misguided by politicians or any one else with a manipulative mind and a sweet tongue. We do not mind being misled by them and we do it with unparalleled national pride. So beware because we just do not mind being prostitutes to the politicians of this country.

Disclaimer: Author doesn't intend to hurt any sentiments.

Girl With a Pencil in Her Hairs

If we were to believe Shastri-ji from Janmanas Co-operative Society, there would only be one man in the whole wide world─Shastri-ji himself. Everybody else is a 'character'. Take Mr. Subbarao from the third floor who happens to be the society chairman─who is an expert at finding ways of increasing society maintenance charges and has equal skills in digesting those funds without a burp or fart. To Shastri-ji, he is a swine. The 'always-overdressed-Mrs. Chandni' is 'Chhamak-Challo'. Grocery store owner Durgadas, who has always been a firm believer in the time-tested religion of adultery, is a dog─and not just any dog, but one that deserves a public execution. Gatekeeper Chandu Pandey from Chhapra who has an uncanny knack of vanishing off the face of earth at the first signs of trouble is a .... Well, I won't say it! And if such common men and women couldn't escape the measuring eyes of our Shastri-ji, then what chance do our politicians and traffic policemen stand? For their breed, Shastri-ji has names that he would only speak when he is with men of his age, or when he is alone.

Or when he is angry to extremes─which he often is.

But why blame him for that─such depth of observation has never blessed but men of extremely short tempers like our dear Shastri-ji. And anger has always been his faithful friend. It was there to throw away the bat, when in those forgotten days of childhood, he would be clean-bowled by a useless bowler. It was there when his wife committed the heinous crime of adding an extra pinch of salt in his daal. And it was there when Shastri-ji would rightly drive his scooter in the middle of a narrow road and some foolish young man of 'today' would honk his horn behind him. However, the only problem was that his old friend, Anger, needed a lot of space to live─in Shastri-ji's head. So anger took all the space there and… well, there went all his hairs, save the remains of that lush, black glory on the sides of his head that can neither be kept nor removed. Why shouldn't he be angrier? He should be! That's his right! After all what kind of God would allow a corrupt policeman to have a head full of hairs while an honest, peace-loving man like him went without that absolutely necessary asset of life? But there lay his other problem─God and he could never get along very well together. Then why should he expect any better off his wife of twenty-seven years (Mrs. Haldi-devi, or, Hitler), or even worse, his maid─a young fifteen year old girl whose least loved thing in the world was the work that paid for her mismatching, extra colorful bangles and oversized bindis.

By the way, the maid was named 'Heroine'.

So that fine day when Heroine was absent again and while Mrs. Hitler was busy complaining about the careless, pathetic maid─a sentiment that Shastri-ji shared─Shastri-ji did what every troubled 'man' would do under such grave circumstances – to take a walk. Through bazaars he walked; through roads full of smoke, cars and horns he crossed, and before he could realize, he was in the middle of narrow lanes surrounded by dirty, smelling shacks full of flies and people. 'Animals,' he muttered and sped up. Just when he was about to cross that hell of human excrement, he noticed something. Or someone.

There she was─Heroine.

Over a mid-sized boulder that seemed awkwardly misplaced, she sat. A touch of freshly wiped tears marking her stretched cheeks, and the disheveled madness of her dry, untied hairs spread all around her back. Someone screamed from the nearest shack─perhaps a drunk father! Heroine screamed back, burst into tears and ran across only to sit over another boulder that seemed to appear out of nowhere. From that distance, Shastri-ji saw her lips move in anger before her hands produced something─a piece of crumpled paper and two pencils. One of which she stuck in her hairs and with the other she lost herself in the wrinkled world of that little piece of paper that she seemed to treasure. Shastri-ji waited, watched. Minutes passed, perhaps hours. Around Heroine, screams died down and the ghetto moved at it’s own pace. All that changed in her was that smile─that honest tint of joy that only blesses a new born. With her pencil carefully traversing the crumpled paper and creating on it a world only she knew of, perhaps the troubles of her little, worthless life pulled out. A few other girls gathered round her, all of the same age. They tried to peek, they giggled, Heroine laughed, perhaps Shastri-ji saw a tint of shyness. Another moment and she was the same Heroine, lost in a world of her own with nothing to bother her. Shastri-ji looked at his watch.

Only a few minutes─and a careless girl morphed in front of his old eyes into a melancholy woman, into an angry recluse, into a frail human being, and back again to what he had always known her to be.

Shastri-ji walked away, wondering, thinking if the world could really be broken down in such narrow segments as he believed from time immemorial. Perhaps not, perhaps what he saw was only a garment clothed around the true spirit of life; of which a spirit had no ends. The hidden truth, perhaps it was always to be; only to be seen when he walked down the narrow, dirty lanes of secret lives. Perhaps the truth was that girl with a pencil stuck in her dry hairs, not that careless maid who didn’t do justice to her job. Yes, that was it! Shastri-ji knew, and then he never judged. And he started to smile. So much that for a few days, gatekeeper Chandu Pandey from Chhapra thought that our dear old Shastri-ji has been diagnosed of some cancer that often befalls our favorite heroes from Hindi blockbusters and after which they start to spread all the love and happiness around, make young women cry and want to marry their posters. Well, Chandu Pandey never got to know the reason, but Shastri-ji still smiles. His wife is not Hitler any more. Subbarao has ceased to be a swine.

Secretly, Mrs. Chandni is still a Chhamak-Challo.

Heroine is still a heroine for him. She would always be the girl who taught him not to judge. She would always be the girl with a pencil stuck in her dry hairs.

Sufi's Song

The dawn came with rains. Lots and lots of it! Mountains far away hid behind a cloudy veil of grey and white. A gifted treasure of rain drops sang on earth─perhaps that’s how silence was meant to be. The civilized world vanished as if it was never there. A song, a kiss and a Sufi! The energy of being one, the emotion of an honest servitude, the burning will of sacrifice, the lust for their god! Aah, the Sufi in a man, the follower in him, the master in him! Trees stood still, birds hid under shelters! That was just man and nature, the purity of silence, the presence of the unseen, the undisturbed harmony of being there in the middle, yet being so far. The absent, unrelenting silence; the still, unchanging distance! The Sufi knows: this is what Inspiration looks like; smells like the fragrance of wet soil; this is what it sounds like─the splashing rain on firm ground; the moving, ecstatic songs of a mystic.

The [Re]Discovery of India

In his book, The Discovery of India, Pt. Jawaharlal Nehru kindly gives us the etymology of the term ‘Hindustan’. The name refers of a land across which the mighty Sindhu flows: Sindhu… Indus… Industan… Hindustan… Now, contrary to popular belief, the name does not entitle a large sect of people to an enormous piece of land with splendors and grandeurs of its own, yet the past few decades have been lived in complete contradiction of it where men and their petty, personal  insecurities have shaped the days and destinies of a great nation.

                However, just when everything had become a habit, I found myself one day standing in the middle of many─pizza-boys, college beauty queens, middle-aged housewives with vermillion lined foreheads, peasants and shopkeepers in white kurta-payjamas and dhotis, fathers, mothers, their student children  and over-earning IT professionals, all marching together in one voice and spirit in support of a man. Now, whereas I have personal─and perhaps misplaced─reasons for not following someone in flesh and blood, I have absolutely no qualms in following the idea that The Man is proposing and making millions across the length and breadth of this country march as one. I wondered, where have I come? This is not the country that mine or my father’s generation has known. Ours has been a divided land where ambitions are disguised as virtues. Yes, I know today, I have come to some other place where ‘unity’ is a real thing; where One Man has shown us a country that we all read in books.

                It reminds me of another incident I read in a book, this time involving Pt. Nehru: In the dawn of independence, Pt. Nehru found a Hindu and Muslim fighting each other─both, more than willing to kill each other─only a little away from the huge migrant camp that our recently divided state was finding difficult to handle. Pt. Nehru ran between them, stopped them and screamed on top of his lungs, ‘Is this what we got Independence for?’ Pt. Nehru, take my word: If your spirit hovers around today, your disappointments would be washed away for today we all see the free India that many of your days died for.

I might not be a hero, I am certainly not Mr. Hazare, but today, without a shadow of doubt, I, like countless others, am Hindustan.

If this is home, then home never felt so good.

Thinking in the Dark

With lights behind my back, while I watch across the little sea of darkness in front of me, lights near and far dissolve in flowing curtains of rain. Marks of man loose their edges in enveloping darkness, melting into it, flowing away. Somewhere in middle of the dark sea, I sea a little halo of golden light. Sitting by that light, smiling, waving at me, is 'Me'. While I smile back at Me, my mind wanders back to that river, the shallows of which gurgled with life. Below my feet, waters swell, leap and grind playfully against the stones determined to stop them. Everything sings - the air behind, the river below me, and somewhere far, sitting, smiling and looking at me, another 'Me'. Perhaps this is what secluded darkness does to man - brings out a part of himself, a shadow of a pure spirit that is otherwise lost into meaningless manifestations of materialism.

      Aaah, what of the shadows, rains, silence? What of the little lights behind me?

Loner's Tip No 18 - To A Friend, Who Is No More

I lost a friend today. While my spirit swung between memories, accusations and pain, a thought came to me that all this was a lie, that HE HAS to be alive! How could he be dead when he was seen not more than 12 hours ago, dancing and laughing and merry as he ever was. A thought came to me that it was all a bad dream. So much as I wanted to believe it, its not so. Sitting many thousand miles from home, while my foolish mind harbored thoughts to just not miss his marriage whenever it came, fate has me prepared to attend his last rites. The last thing he had asked me for was a bottle of whiskey! While I think of that, a thought comes to my mind that I couldn't even say bye.

Loner's Guide comes to an end with a message that life is full of surprises; some of those are unpleasant and they will not give us a moment to say goodbye. Man must make sure he doesn't weigh men against everything else material.

Good luck, good bye and god speed!!!

Loner's Tip No. 17 - By The Time This Letter Finds You...

The old man put his glasses on. The first line in the letter read: You bastard, I found you! The old man smiled. He couldn't mistake the hand-writing for anything else in the world. Those pronounced curves that merged into each other only to appear beautiful to a partial English teacher. Only to her! The old man smirked. The surprise letter had been the only funny thing that happened to him in days. He read on: This is what I hope for you - by the time this letter finds you, I hope your handwriting has improved a little and your grandson's teacher won't know it was you who did his homework.And that he won't be punished like I did when you did mine. The old man laughed. His handwriting was still the same. Still better than him.

Somewhere his dog whined. Only a few moment's ago, he had beaten his dog with his walking stick when the dog didn't sit when he commanded it to. The foolish dog wagged its tail and looked at his master with its tongue dangling out while the old man nearly had a heart attack trying to make the dog sit. He stole a hateful glance at the dog who sat in a corner whining and licking his hind leg where the stick hit.

          That by the time this letter finds you, your head once full of hairs must be shining like a moon. Be prepared to be laughed at when I see you. Just like you made fun of me in college. You bastard. And you remember Neha, the girl whom I went to propose and came back with a rose that she asked to give to you. "He is your best friend. Please give it to him. Tell him I love his hairs," she had said. I hope she is bald too. The old man looked at the mirror. He still had his hairs. It was in his genes, he always said. "I still have them, rascal," the old man murmured and smiled. He continued to read.

          That by now, you falter with the smallest peg of whiskey! Remember how you laughed at me the next morning after we had drinks and I lost control and always blabbered about girl friends and talked about things pretending to be the most intelligent. Come on now. One drink and we will see who is in control now. Yes, he could not drink that much now. The doctor had asked him not to. But the old man was not the ones who would listen to others.

          And remember those packs of cigarettes that your mother found in your bag and you said they were mine. I hope you get cursed in hell for that. The old man put the letter down, took off his glasses and laid back on his chair. His eyes moved around the empty room furnished with all the things that needed a lot of money to buy. Rooms that he couldn't see were empty too. His wife, his friend for all those years had left him. She said he smoked too much, that he didn't listen to her. Why should he? He was a grown up man not needing anyone to tell him what to do. And what not to do. His fingers fumbled with the envelope that had brought the letter. There was something else in it. Something little. He upturned the envelope. A cigarette, half smoked fell down. There was something familiar about it. He couldn't remember what. He put back his glasses and read on.

          That by the time this letter finds you, your knees rattle when you walk. Let alone driving that damned bike of yours you could drive so fast. Well the old man had just crossed seventy years of age. If knees wouldn't rattle then whose would?

          That by the time this letter finds you, you remember the last letter I sent you. Forty-two years ago. The old man remembered. They had had a fight. Over what, the old man couldn't remember. But something told him that whatever it was, it should have been judged small enough. But it wasn't. That wretched day, that cause seemed bigger than everything. He stopped talking to his friend. His friend tried to reach him. The old man didn't heed. He felt happy enough when his friend stopped trying. They didn't even say good-bye. Then came that letter, forty-two years ago. It had said, "One day we will look back at all this and we will laugh at each other. I know that day will come. We will be old then. Very old. But mark this my friend. I won't leave this world without smoking that last cigarette with you." The old man continued to read.

          That by the time this letter finds you, you would have stopped judging people for what they are not. That you would have started loving them for what they are. No matter how different from you. No matter how inferior to you in your eyes. I hope that you have learned that man must not live by what the world regards as high, by what could set a man apart. For every man is different, unique. All that matters is what we see. The old man was too late for that. Somewhere his dog whined. The old man got and fed his dog with milk. He would drink milk too for he was too old to cook anything on his own. His son left him too and with him left his daughter-in-law and his grandson. Why? Because the son wanted to be an artist. And in the old man's opinion, artists were no different than road side musicians playing flutes with an open bag in front for people to spare some change. Not a worthy man's job that his son wanted to do. But... but... he was still his son... His own son who had brought happiness to his otherwise lonely life. It all started with his friend. A little tussle and that day the old man had decided that he was better off without a friend, without the people he had spent his entire childhood with. His wife left and then his son. Everybody who cared for him. And all that remained now was the old man and his dog. One day the dog would leave too. What would he do then? Was it all worth it? His eyes watered. Then something magical happened - his dog, who only a little while back was beaten by his master, as if sensing his master's grief, left his bowl of milk, walked up to the old man and started to lick his open palm. The old man looked in the dog's eyes and saw reflection of himself. He looked tired, old and alone. The old man cried. Like a child. Never before he had been alone to cry like this, never before he would have anyone see him like this - weakened. The dog wouldn't mind. The dog whined too, put its paws in his lap and started to lick his face. The old man held his dog like he was that friend, that old friend from a time long gone. And he knew, he had bring everyone back - his wife, his son and son's family, his grandson, and last but not the least, his old friend. And then he would tell his grandson the stories of the two friends, of their childhood. He read on, hastily.

          That by the time this letter finds you, fire would have gone off my old body and my bones would be tumbling somewhere over the holy river. As one of my last wish, I had my son bring me a cigarette that I smoked half and sent the rest to you with this letter. I kept my promise of having that last cigarette with you. You know I was always a crazy man. Smoke it and die :) The old man smiled. The old friend never changed. He read on.

          We had a long time together my friend. I only hope it could've been longer. For long we ran after things we thought would matter most and we earned them. But none could fill the holes people left in my life. I'm sure your life won't be any different. My life ends here and it ends without regrets. Its just that if there is another life and if you get it too - which is difficult because I will bribe god to book a seat for you in hell :) - then I hope that we won't make the mistakes we made in this life. That we value what should have been valued. That we forgive what should have been forgiven. That we allow what should have been allowed. That rather than sending it in an envelope and hoping the postman doesn't smoke it on the way, we get to smoke the last cigarette together.

Yours faithfully,

An Old Friend...

Images and text are copyright of the author.

Loner's Tip No. 16 - A Monk's Tale

His heart rate was perilously low, his brain waves disoriented. The monk continued to think of 'standing' - as his master had asked. The frozen lake was taking its toll on monk's body. Standing waist deep, he could not feel his lower body. Cold moved inside his veins like tiny iced-needles, piercing him at will and without jurisdiction. He focused - with hands joined in prayer, eyes closed, he waited for Buddha. The master had finally given him the secret - all the monk had to do was to stand meditating in the frozen lake and Buddha would come; Nirvana would come.
      It was no easy task: meditating waist deep in freezing water. Between those focused moments, his mind would wander more than he wanted. It would think of the body that stood dangerously close to death. Sometime, it would flash the sights of the long, arduous journey he had taken to reach the Lake of Kali. Those gazing women of the villages he passed; the kings who welcomed him and his great master; the poor farmer offering them their only morsels of food. But all those were only minor distractions. Most, and often, his mind wandered to Buddha. The serenity in bronze, those elegantly elongated ear lobes, and the orderly curls of hairs tied together. It was the closed eyes he lingered on most. Inside the peaceful eye-lids, they hid secrets of existence and salvation, happiness and the true meaning of it, the illusions and torments of mortal life, and that road that was only for a chosen few to be revealed... The monk forced his mind back: the eyes were dangerous, his master had told him. He only had to think of standing. This was his last chance. If he didn't get Buddha now, he would never will.
                                                             *
"Have you ever seen Buddha?" his master had asked, after he had persuaded the monk to try one last time.
      "Years ago," the monk had replied. "He stood in front of me. His eyes were closed. His open palm faced me. We stood in a dark cave whose roof couldn't be seen. We stood atop pillars. Between them was a dark, unending abyss. I flew with Buddha, pillar to pillar. The cave never ended, until my mind came back to the present."
      "What did you do then?"
      "I sat meditating again. I forced my mind. But he didn’t come. It has been so many years. It feels like Buddha would never come to me again," the monk sighed. "Why did he do it? Why come to me once and leave me with this torment for the rest of my mortal life?"
      The answer, the master had said, lies in the Lake of Kali.
                                                             *
The monk had difficulty breathing now. His lungs felt encased in blocks of stone, which didn't let them expand. The monk didn't let his mind wander.
                                                             *
"What will the lake teach me, master?" the monk had asked, standing in front of the Lake of Kali, watching its vast ends disappear in moving walls of mist.
      "Nothing that you don't already know," the master said with a smile. "Remember, the only thought you can harbor is about standing there. Buddha will come to you."
      The monk had looked at his master's serene face incredulously. "You must trust your master. May The Creation be with you," the master had said and vanished.
                                                             *
As if his mind was frozen, the monk didn't think of anything but standing. A thin layer of ice covered him till his neck. Breathing was laborious. His body trembled, his finger tips frozen to a rock. Then he heard a white swan sing. His time had come. He thanked his master, took his last breath, and fell face down on the frozen lake.
      The cave appeared again. And in there, was Buddha with closed eyes. The monk stood, hands joined, body frozen, but the shiver was gone. Buddha smiled, opened his eyes to him. He looked in those eyes and took a deep breath; felt his lungs break that shackle of stone and expand as if he would've been living.
      When his eyes opened, he found himself sitting with the master. The master smiled. He knew.
      "But I have a questions?" the monk said. All his weariness had vanished. He felt reborn. He continued, "Why today?"
      "Because today you didn't want him," the master said. The monk didn't understand. The master continued, "Every time you meditated, you did it with the desire of Buddha, of Nirvana. You bound yourself to a desire, and asked for freedom. That is something that The Creation cannot grant you. In the lake, I asked you to stand and meditate in the frozen lake and to think only about standing - only about what you were doing. And not about Buddha, not about what you wanted. The result is simply not yours to control. It is only your action that you control."
      The monk interfered, "But we are monks. We are liberated from material desires of a common man. It is the search of Buddha that liberates us from there. Why can't I want him?"
      "Monk or mundane, our bodies crave a desire. The body is not needed if you don't desire anything. Be it Nirvana. Being a monk doesn't make us separate from a worldly man. And like a worldly man, when we attach our actions to the desire of a result, the result eludes us. It stops us from giving our best. It stops us from achieving what we wanted in the first place. And when that happens, our minds are trapped in an unavoidable sadness."
      "So that was my mistake - wanting to see Buddha each time I closed my eyes?"
      "Yes. Buddha is no destination. You don't leave this body the moment you achieve it. The body has to go on until destined. Nirvana, when achieved, becomes the driving force of this body for the rest of it’s time. Nirvana - freedom! It is the freedom from desire of a result. It is the fact that a man - worldly or monk - must focus on his actions, and true happiness would follow. Liberation would follow. Another master had said - a man must be like a good bonfire, one that completely burns the wood and leaves nothing but light, warmth and ashes. In his actions, a man must consume himself without thinking of anything else."
      The monk had one last question: "Does it mean that a monk meditating in the Himalayas is no different than a man sitting in an air-conditioned office?"
      The master answered, "The monk is no different to a worldly man. What applies to a monk, applies to a common man. But a worldly man is different to a monk. He does not know what a monk knows - the secret of Nirvana. The moment he finds the secret, the difference disappears without him having to leave his world like you and me did."
      The monk smiled and closed his eyes. The air smelled of arriving spring. He had his body to turn into a good bonfire.

Images and text are copyright of the author.

Loner's Tip No. 15 - Je t'aime Catherine

He hurried, a cigarette between his lips, hands in pocket, shoulders strained, a big black bag hanging on them. He stopped, momentarily, when he saw her – hairs dishevelled, skin of her Chinese face dry from the cold, skin flaking off her lower lip, an old, white fur coat covering her body, the fur on the cap of which made her look like a distressed, feathery bird. She sat on the park bench, a bottle of beer in her hand and a smile on her face that came when she saw him. She recognized him. He recognized her too – she was the waitress in a cafeteria he frequented.
      He had only started to walk when she called, “Excuse me surrr, can I have a cigarette, please?” He hesitated. Those were alien worlds – a different country, culture and language – and he had to a lot on him – cash in his wallet, three credit cards, a Rolex, an Oakley that he loved so much, a laptop, and a mobile phone costly enough to feed a family of eight for a month – all the reasons to be careful from all things pretending to be benign. She fumbled, from her pocket, pulled out a five dollar note and held in his face. “I'll pay,” she added. Her voice fumbled. He looked around. It was only evening. The park around him, in the middle of crossroads bustling with big cars and hasty humans, and there she drank without a care of time. Pigeons scampered around her purposelessly, an albatross guarded its nest by spreading its wings at the first sign of trouble, and behind her, an oversized, black squirrel chased another oversized chestnut squirrel. The sunlight was at those final brilliant moments that only grace the world below in the evenings, the kind that only lasts long enough to be observed before its replaced by twilight.
      He had only seen her a week ago, sitting in the same place, with another woman, who like her, would've been in her mid thirties. They sat on the same bench, at around the same time, drank out of one bottle, smoked cigarettes and laughed and shouted. They high-fived each other, embraced, abused, whispered, like they had all the time in the world. That is, before a police-car stopped by and took both of them on grounds of public consumption of alcohol and creating disturbance.
      There she was again, alone and completely different from the pretty, smiling girl he remembered her from his visits to the posh cafeteria. But she was no beggar, she offered money for the cigarette she asked for, so he pulled out one and gave to her, and declined the money. She shrugged her shoulders when he said no to the money and took another gulp. Somewhere inside him, a foolish pang of pity rose, the kind that often accompanies men in front of femmes in distress. “You must not drink in open,” he suggested. “Yeah,” she replied. He stood there. The ever-present feeling of a possible danger had lightened. “Your friend is not with you?” he asked, not knowing why he said that.”She dead,” she said casually, not bothering to look at him, her expressions not changing one bit. After a confused moment without words, he said, “I'm sorry.” “Oh don't be. Catherine was fun. She wouldn't be sad that she dead,” she looked at him with a serious face and guffawed. “Gotcha. Gotcha. Naah, kidding. But she was nice. She was...” Her face shrunk, she fought to keep tears inside. She gained control of herself, and quickly said, as if an alibi, “You're an Indian, aren't you. Have a seat. Have... have a seat,” she shifted around on the bench. “Oh no, no. I should be going,” he said defensively and stepped back a few steps. “Oh yeah, get running. Am gonna EAT YOU...,” she growled. He was stunned, a rogue thought told him that it must be her mensuration that swung her moods. He had to leave, he decided. Suddenly, she smiled, pointed her finger at him, and said, “Gotcha.” She guffawed again. “Come on, have a seat. What's the hurry?” He nervously took a seat, carefully maintaining distance from her. His feet wanted to run away, but his heart beat like it would come out. She offered him a gulp out of her bottle, he denied. “Am not gonna ask you money, have it,” she pushed the bottle closer to his mouth. He pulled back, said a nervous 'no', and then added, “I don't drink.” “Dont' drink? What are you, like, forty-five?” “Am only thirty-five,” he was offended. “Thirty-five? Noooo. You're kiddin' me. Only thirty-five and you've those big wrinkles on your forehead. Let me see,” without a warning she moved her palm to his face. He jerked back but her palm found his forehead. Her skin was... soothing, peaceful.. “Let those eyebrows drop. Feel the sun of the winter evening on your face. Listen to the birds around you...” she murmured.
      For a few moments, he didn't know how many, he felt he would fall asleep. He felt his eyebrows coming down and the wrinkles on his forehead – that he never knew were there – disappear. Like a burden had been taken off his head. He felt light. He heard the birds, as if for the first time. And every hurry drained out of him. It was peace he had never felt before, away from all the worries. Then he woke up, with a jerk, he removed her hand almost rudely, and stood up. She pulled her hand back, as if her senses had come back, she laid back on the bench, took another drag and said, “Oh yeah, yeah. Busy men. Big men. So much responsibilities. So much money to be earned. Big house, big cars, big money,” she smirked. He felt insulted. He was not going to take lessons of life from a woman who drunk in broad daylight. He shot back, “At least am better than you.”
      He stood up, put his bag on his shoulder and started to move. She said, without bothering if he listened or not, “Catherine knew she'd die. Cancer. Girl wanted to die out of the damned hospital.” He stopped. He didn't know why. “We sneaked out. And we drank. Partied. Like there was no tomorrow. Quiet bad the cops got us. But she laughed that out too. Said everything must be experienced, even jail,” she turned to look at him. “That day, I spent all the money I had. All that I had saved. Was gonna move to a better place, but all gone to drink and smoke and dance. Today I have nothin'. Nothin'. So, yeah, you're better than me. You've a lot a things I don't. I lost my money, my savins. I'll still live in a stink-hole of a place for a couple more months. But you know what? I have memories. Your money would dry up. My memories won't. And she died happily,” she took another gulp. The cigarette had reached its end, she threw it in disgust. “Go away,” she added. He came back, opened the pack in front her face. She pulled another cigarette without asking. “Sit down if you're not going,” she said. He obeyed. “Tell me, have you ever lost someone?” she asked. He remembered – yes, he did. Friends, who like him, lost in the race of acquiring that never ended. Family, whose only proof of existence remained a voice that he heard on his mobile phone. And those honest, belly-bursting laughs that used to be so much in abundance when he was a kid, that were taken for granted, now all gone. As if they were never there. “Have you ever lost someone?” she repeated. “No,” he lied. “Noooo. Liar. Everybody loses someone. Why should you be different?” she touched his nerve. It showed on his face for that one extra moment that she caught. “See, see,” she said with joy, almost like a child. “You're a good guy. Here take one. Its one me,” she offered him the bottle again. He took it. “Good boy. I knew you were a good guy. And you're hot too,” she winked and smiled. He hesitated, “Oh, am... am engaged.” “Oh of-course you are? Doesn't stop you from being hot, eh?” she winked again. He blushed. “Gotcha. Gotcha,” she guffawed again. “Thought I was hittin' on ya? Come on, lets drink one for Catherine,” she offered. He took a gulp, she took one. She kept one hand on his shoulders, held the one holding the bottle high, and said, almost shouted, “Je t'aime, Catherine.”
      The trees around him stood naked, devoid of all leaves. Soon the Canadian winter would be gone and leaves would spring out. The world would be colourful again. The air would have the fragrance again. The birds would sing. He had decided. He was done chasing money. It was the memories that he had to earn now. He decided, this time, he would hold it, hold everything and everyone that he had ignored for long, as long as he could. “Je t'aime, Catherine,” he whispered.

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Loner's Tip No. 14 - To Infinity And Beyond

The Eagle had been watching 'it'. 'It' had travelled long and far, stumbling, challenging, slow and silent. 'It' finally felt tired and came to a halt. 'It' sat down, silent, both eyes watching in opposite directions.

“It's cold out here,” 'It' said to itself. “Yes, it always is,” 'It' replied to itself.

The Eagle could wait no longer. It had been flying for hours, watching 'It' without blinking an eye. The Eagle landed on a rock in front of 'It'. “Hello,” the Eagle said.

“Hello,” 'It' replied with all the excitement.

“How are you?”

“Good. Good,” 'It' said. The Eagle watched 'It'. 'It' was one seamless being, looking much like a human – two eyes, one nose with two nostrils, one mouth, two ears, two hands and all that makes up a human, a man or a woman. “What are you?” the Eagle asked 'It'.

“I'm the Horizon,” 'It' replied.

The Eagle laughed. It was glad to be finally having a name to call 'It'. “So, how are you, Horizon?”

“We said it, we are good,” Horizon said, a little irritated.

“We?” Eagle asked, perplexed.

“Yes, can't you see? We are two – East and West, fused into one body,” Horizon replied with irritation.

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Eagle said. “But you, I mean, you both, you don't look good!”

“What makes you say that? We are... just tired”

“Yes, I can see that. You see I've been watching you all the way. So what brings you here?” Eagle asked.

“Here?” Horizon laughed. “We don't know where we are. We ...”

Eagle cut Horizon short, “You can't see. I know.” The Horizon watched it with amusement, a question floating in both its eyes. The Eagle continued, “This is the Land of Nowhere. People only reach here after they've lost their sight, their eyes,” the Eagle said casually.

“The Land of Nowhere?” Horizon asked. “Its strange. We didn't know a place like this exist,” Horizon laughed.

“It does. It lies between the Lands of Unfailing Love and the Land of Absolute Hatred,” Eagle explained.

The Horizon laughed, “Strange names. Who would live in places like these?”

“For starters, you, I mean, you both, have been coming from the Land of Unfailing Love,” Eagle said casually, watching its sharp claws, looking for any scraps of last meal's remains.

The Horizon watched perplexed. It didn't sat anything. The Eagle watched them with equal silence.

Eagle continued, “You see, you, both of you, have travelled long and far and relentlessly from the loving lands into the middle of nowhere. And no one who reaches here is good,” Eagle watched, an inquisitive look that was.

"How do you know?" Horizon asked.

"I am an eagle. I can fly high where none can go and from those heights, I can see far and wide. I saw you coming all the way," Eagle replied.

“Yes, we are not good,” Horizon said with a sigh.

“Tell me more, I have nothing else to do.”

Horizon started hesitantly, “You see, we don't like each other any more,” both hands pointed each other. “You see, we were one being, one body, but now, we... we just can't exist together.”

"Were you always like that?" Eagle asked thoughtfully.

"There was once a time, many years back, that we loved each other, cared for each other. You see, we enjoyed each other's company. Then one day, a wind blew, a blinding wind of sand and dust and heat. The sand filled our eyes and made us blind. Since then, we couldn't come to peace with each other," West-Horizon said sadly.

The Eagle listened patiently. “Why is that?”

“You see, the East just wants to bully me, always,” the West-Horizon said.

“Yes, I'm afraid. The West might feed me poison,” East-Horizon said, looking away from West-Horizon.

“Why would West feed you poison? I mean, are you both not one body? Any one feeding you poison would kill itself. Isn't it?” Eagle asked.

“West doesn't know what's poison and what's not. It can't tell,” East-Horizon said haughtily.

“Oh yes? I don't know? You're the only one who knows everything?” West-Horizon said arrogantly.

“Yes, I do. And I won't let you feed me poison,” East-Horizon declared.

“You keep asking me again and again, you keep doubting me again and again and one day I'll do it,” West-Horizon shouted.

East-Horizon was aghast, left without words.

The Eagle let the war go on. West-Horizon continued.

“Whatever I do, just whatever I try to feed us, it thinks that I'm going to poison it.”

“That's because you don't know what all can have poison. You need to be guided. I do nothing wrong,” East-Horizon declared.

“Then what wrong do I do?” West-Horizon responded crisply.

“Stop. Just stop. So East-Horizon, you think that West-Horizon can poison you and that's why you want to guide it? It frustrates you when West-Horizon ignores your warnings?” East-Horizon nodded.

“And West-Horizon, you are frustrated because East-Horizon distrusts you? It continues to check on you if you're feeding it right or not, no matter you'd never do such a thing?” Eagle asked West-Horizon.

“Yes,” West-Horizon declared.

“Are you both not saying the same thing but from different sides?” Eagle asked. It got no reply. “What weather is it?”

“Its warm,” both replied together.

“No its not. Its cold, is it not?”

“No. Its warm. We can feel it,” both replied together.

“Are you forgetting, I'm the one with eyes here. Try again. You are tired. You must have misjudged the weather,” Eagle asked. “Its cold. Like all the happiness has been sucked out.”

“Yes,” both said after a moment.

The Eagle smiled, it looked at the warm and protective sun light around its feathers. “OK. I've to go now. What about you both?” They said nothing. Eagle continued. “Let me tell you something. I fly far high above these lands and I know it well. From here, you can either go to the Land of Absolute Hatred, which is straight from here, at a day's journey. Or, you can go to the Land of Unfailing Love.” Horizon listened carefully. “However, there is a problem. To reach the land of love, you need to get your eye sight back. Without your eyes, you can't reach there.”

“And how can we get our eyes back?”

“Far from here, at three days journey through a burning desert, there is the Gate of Forgiveness. You need to pass it. It'll take you to the Gate of Forgetfulness. Once you pass through these two gates, at another five days of journey through dense, dangerous jungles, you'll reach the land of Unfailing Love,” Eagle finished with a smile.

“But why must we take the long route then? We can easily go to the Land of Absolute Hatred. That'd be quick and easy,” both said together.

“That you must decide. Some things are always difficult that the other. I need to go,” Eagle flew off leaving them.

The Eagle flew higher and higher until the earth dissolved into white mist. Then it found its friend, the Pigeon.

“You left them?” Pigeon said after greetings. “Does it not bother you that they might take the wrong way?”

“Yes they can. But you see, their choice is not in my hands,” Eagle replied casually.

“Then why waste time? In doing this, you ever believe, that you might have made their days more difficult?”

“Yes. I might have made their life difficult from here. But you see, that's the whole point of me being an eagle. I can see what they can't. And because of that, I'm the only one who can tell them what is and what isn't. Did you see how they believed when I said that the weather was cold when it wasn't? These, these two beings, though part of the same existence, want to move miles apart. They see problems in each other but they don't understand that they have been saying the same things in different ways. They have come to believe that they are better left without the other. And they'd continue to do so. They'd continue to blame the other for anything that went wrong, they'd continue to think that the other can't see its point of view when in reality both these, both parts of the same body are doing the same thing. Its pitiable, when life reaches such a point.” The Pigeon looked confused. “So you see, I've given them a fighting chance which otherwise they'd have never had. I've brought them to a point where they at least told each other what's causing the problem for them, whats threatening to tear them apart. They are done blaming , shouting and sulking. Now, from here, they might choose to hate or they might choose to love. Or worse, they'll continue walking blind to each others views, ignoring what they heard today all together. It'll be unfortunate if they choose to hate or if they choose nothing at all. But I can't help it. Its they who have to decide from here. I'm done.”

The Pigeon laughed. “You're something Eagle. You're something. Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Anything. Anything other than the usual. Something that might lift my mind.”

“I'll tell you a poem,” the Eagle said.

"Why poem?"

"Because its necessary."

“I didn't know you wrote poems,” Pigeon said.

“I do. But this one is not mine. Its from some bloke from the distant lands of white and green. I forget his name. But here it is:

To see the world in a grain of sand,

And heaven in a wild flower.

Hold the infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.”

“You must be a poet, not an eagle,” Pigeon said admirably.

“No one can be a poet without being an Eagle. Not without eyes that see beyond what the mind is prepared to believe,” the Eagle flew off. Pigeon looked at it with a confused face. The eagle flew. It hoped. It reached such a height that a tear it shed was swallowed by air before it could reach Horizon's unsuspecting shoulder. The victorious Eagle smiled. He had left at the right time. At just the right time.

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Loner's Tip No. 13 - Lesson From IPL Auctions

Reality shows are pathetic. If nothing more then they’re a simple disgrace to the little credible intelligence of the common man (AND woman) of this country. Never before, and nowhere else, we would see television trying to fool people into believing that in-serial relationships between women – over dressed, extra made up and who fully dress up while cooking lunch in kitchen as if they were going to a reception – persist on-stage during those televised, dramatized new-year bashes. Or… or… or… are they a true representation of how down have we, the citizens of this extra glorified country, let our intelligence and indulgence sink! Either ways, am no fan of TV that has stopped representing the mass of this country and has become a money spinning medium from those who have all the money to spend on things they don’t need, all the time they can’t spend with family which is thousands of miles away, and friends who don’t exist any more. However, last weekend, as I continued to peep into IPL auctions while doing something, I, for the first time, found a valuable lesson of life from a just-fully worthless waste of already scandalized electromagnetic spectrum.

      It was a sight of Dr. Mallaya sternly holding that betting stick in his hand as if it was a purposeful beacon to a sinking ship, an expression carved in stone on his face, and eyes firmly set on his targets. He stopped at no limits until he got his man. And price – a ridiculously high sum that could make a rickshaw valla jump in front of another rickshaw, hoping to commit suicide. Now, in that moment, I saw a businessman – a good businessman – making a huge spend on something he believed would reap him good returns. He made an investment, a really big investment when we consider things like GDP and BPL population. Call that a commitment and you won’t be wrong. Cricket is a funny game and I don’t know now, nor does he, whether it would pay off or not. But that habitual act of purposeful, unhindered spending told me his secret – if you believe something is good for ‘tomorrow’ make sure you invest good in it.
      Now enough of the economics, and am no businessman, but it made me think – to me, a middle class man, and many like me – one true wealth that we have are people – people who love us, care for us, punish us when we do something wrong, raise us on our shoulders when we do something good, those who feel proud in our victories, those who secretly wipe a tear when we lose after a sincere effort… If life is IPL then none of us, absolutely none, would move through the twenty overs without one or the other of these people walking by us and unless we invest in them, they won’t hang around long enough till we reach that 120th ball.
      Human beings are complicated, very, very complicated. They are good, they are bad and they are foolish. Everybody, absolutely everybody, without fail, is selfish to one extent or the other. But they are fun. They are a need of a man’s soul – that one, tiny fragment of each one of us that remains and honest and uncorrupted by unnecessary greed and useless fear. These people, they selfishly need their share of investments – time, togetherness, selflessness, protection, punishment along with joys, anger and all those emotions tightly weaved between the 206 bones of our feeble, mortal bodies. How many ‘best friends’ we haven’t met from decades after we landed up in a job and ‘just lost touch’? How many children secretly wish they were born in a friend’s family simply because their friend’s father has the time to play with them every weekend and read stories to them every night? How many loved ones we have stopped caring simply because they suddenly dropped in importance against that assignment or that ‘long term professional goal’? Any how many men, just how many of them – who found those long term goals, positions, bank balances, cars and bungalows that they yearned for all those years – feel satisfied and don’t need that ‘new and bigger’ goal to achieve?
      No offence to those who believe that there is nothing wrong in going after such things – because there simply is really nothing wrong. It’s purely a matter of choice of what we prioritize in life. For those who end up prioritizing people above cement, paper and steel that can be bought, time is the only investment that they have to make. Mere minutes could ensure togetherness for years. Lastly, for those, who have a price tag for their minutes, make sure you continue to find another ‘long term goal’ and that one more ‘important assignment’ as soon as you achieve one. A time will come when you’ll need them to survive just as we do oxygen. Or, find for yourself if it is really too hard to strike that little balance between the two worlds wide apart? Either ways, people won’t wait forever.

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