The tale of the heaven !! (Part I)

Once again, my soul whispers, “Explore the world”; thus, have to descend on the path again. After brief arrangements, it was time to wait for. And, the day came sooner than expected. I start my journey again to Kashmir—the Paradise in the Earth. I have never travelled to the core of Kashmir valley; only seen images and dreamt through the tales. What a wonderful place it is—the land of beauty! Losing into reverie, I remember not when I have fallen asleep. I wake up with an unusual announcement in the flight, “Please do not open the window until asked for.” I can understand it to be a special security advisory. The flight is about to land at Srinagar. I start dreaming again. Kashmir, security, beauty, so more, all jumbling up inside my small brain. While I engage myself in getting out of those entangled thoughts, my flight has already landed.

Coming out of the airport, I find the smiling face of Kazimbhai. “Madam, Namaste!”, he moves on with my luggage once he has finished his brief welcome address. We drive through the city—the road sketching through nicely arrayed colourful houses—and every house has a garden, smaller or larger, adorned with vibrant roses in prime of their bloom. Rose, a simple name, that has fascinated me since my childhood. But it couldn’t have meant closer to its name unless I were in Kashmir. I have been in delight of seeing them in abundance in so colourful, youthful and fragrant varieties. The name gets its true meaning as the beauty honouring its beauty unfolded.

After a quick round of breakfast at a roadside tavern, we move on. The army vehicles are passing by more often. Again, the word “security” start reigning in my mind. We continue to ride with security interrupting my brain and our movement as frequently as our saner senses can tolerate. I have travelled so many times to Ladakh—covering almost every corner of it from every possible road—and even traversed through the long border road along Pangong lake via Chusul and Shayok valley beyond Nubra towards Siachen with special permits, but could never make it through Srinagar side. We shall be going to Sonmarg today.

A faint rain has started drizzling. White clouds are getting smoky beyond the window pane. The earth is hiding behind an opaque mist. Kazimbhai says, “Look, madam, Dal Lake!” A dense mist blankets the surface of the lake. A little ahead, it is little clearer and I can see the lake being cleansed; removing plants and weeds. After a brief pause, raining has again been harsher. Nothing is visible, as if the world has shrunk inside the car and we are driving from nowhere to nowhere without any purpose of experiencing anything, even the time. And, with time frozen within the darkness of shrunken entity, we have driven past miles after miles to reach Sonmarg a little later than expected.

Sonmarg, a small mountain town, with more cars than houses tucked in between the sleeves of a verdant mountainous valley, has been little brighter. The daylight is faint enough though the invisible sun has enough life before retiring for the day. We enter into a small restaurant; it is late lunchtime. The owner is someone between a youth and a man, with an elegant smile rippling upon his breaded face. He has a hotel too for the night to spend. It is indeed a good option for me as I have the plan to stay at Sonmarg after a long hectic journey from Kolkata since early morning. But he informs that Zojila pass will be blocked if snowing continues further. I have planned to cross Zojila a day after to reach Dras, but the information makes me to decide to to move without a halt at Sonmarg. Kazimbhai says it may be quite late to reach Dras as it is already 3.30. We are instantly out on the road—snow and rain together climbing down from sky. As we drive a little away, some snags develop in the car; it will be risky to take a high-altitude journey without getting it repaired. It takes another hour and half to get things done. In the month of June, day is longer enough in Kashmir valley, and on the way, we enjoy the view of the distant valley of Baltal, the entry point for Amarnath cave trekking.

It is around nine, when we have finally reached Dras—the high security military base in Kashmir. I have never expected a very welcoming scene in Dras as it always happens in highlands of the Himalayas; the shops, hotels, houses are all closed and sleeping in darkness. Only option left to us is to knock the Government’s door. The Tourist hut is open, but none is found anywhere. After toiling efforts, we can see a trembling light approaching us through the darkness of the long corridor. The shadow comes closer, opens the window and pops his head out and asks, “Who?” “Tourist, want rooms.” Everything gets arranged soon. A boy with chubby cheeks gets in with a water jug. He keeps it on the table and smiles. Silently asks, “Food?” I am delighted to have such an unexpected boon. “Yes, whatever!” The boy says, “Roti and tea?” “Okay, for me two roti and tea, ask the driver about his choices.” “Kiun baki log nahi khayenge?” “Hum akele hai” A 20 seconds pause has been long enough. Then, he smiles again, “Koi dar nahi. Hum hai na. Jorse awaz denese hum aa jayenge.” Dras is famous for its cold weather. After having roti and tea, I slide into two layers of quilt and blankets.

The dawn breaks at usual time. Opening the window, I can now feel the intensity of the gusty cool wind. There has been nothing significant change in weather. It is still raining incessantly. I see Kazimbhai cleansing the car. I come out on the frozen road. Kazimbhai and I got into a teashop, just opened. I need to explain my plan to him as we have not discussed it in details before; I have not booked anywhere. I propose if we move to Kargil today, but not following the usual Highway; we shall take the road on the left from Ghangrail, which runs through the Aryan villages till Batalik. There are not much of staying options in that route; may only get some village accommodation.

We take the Highway to roam around Dras town and villages around. We drive to Mushku valley. It is that untrodden valley, where Kargil war started in 1999. The valley has been silently laid beneath a tall mountain, Tiger Hill. The mountain got the fame through newspaper and television. Through the valley, another road stretches to Gurez valley in northern most LAC of Kashmir, but has been closed due to security reasons. The valley is fascinatingly beautiful. Verdant field has been activated by the presence of women reaping vegetables. I get off and walk towards them. There have been no expressions on their faces. But I must to speak to them. How are they? I seem to be arriving from an alien land. What an amazement in their eyes; or is it a vacant look that I have misperceived to be amazement? Two ladies are coming down the hills. I keep waiting. Once they have come nearer, I smile. They smile in return. It prompts me to ask, “Where have you been coming from?” They replied patiently, “Up, there.”, showing the top of the mountain. Wild mushrooms grow there. They have collected a few. My natural question, “How are you all?”, stupefies the environment and their faces seem to have hidden behind a curtain. After a long pause, closing the eyebrows, one of the ladies responds, “We are not well at all.” We are so accustomed to listen to mindless utterance of “We are fine” in the cities, something different answer makes me shudder. She continues, “Nothing will be good for us ever. We are destined to live like this. Our children will also live like this.” No, her voice is not trembling. She was talking like a machine, unperturbed by cold wind and mind. “Why; what troubles are there now?” She vacantly looks up to the sky and says, “It’s raining, madam.” Yes, the sky has become densely dark and clouds hovering close to my nose. She asks, “Where have you come from?” “Kolkata” A long batch of children is treading on the narrow mountain path; their uniform tells that they are going to school. It starts raining heavily. We cannot move farther, so has to take the reverse route.

Once back in the car, my thoughts have still been lying in the wide meadow of Mushku valley. Kazimbhai breaks the silence, “None can feel their pains. They stay so close to the border. Fear is their closest neighbour. They are the sole witnesses of Kargil war. But who listens to them? Their testimony carries no worth anywhere. They live like this and die like this. When shells of the intruders started landing during 1999 war, some people died in the field, a few more were injured. Army started evacuating villages. Run, run; but where will they go. Someone has ailing mother in home, children away to school, men working up in the hills; how could they alone flee? Shells hammering; yet was it easy to abandon a home for so many years of toils and memories? None cared for who has lost what, whose son died, whose mother couldn’t leave; children couldn’t understand what was happening and what would happen. Amidst all such events of ignored loses, the village was emptied. Madam, are you listening?” I cannot bear it anymore, “Then?” “What more, the war began; there had been news and debates in the country and world. Who had time to see what happened to them? They were all ravaged.”

My thoughts have travelled to a different world. Is country just a piece of land? Right only? We are now on the road that climbs straight up the mountain from Dras to reach Sankoo in Suru valley via a high-altitude pass. It crosses the village and the lone bridge over an arrogant stream and we are now steadily driving up. On the other side of the scape, I can see the Tiger Hill, Tololing, Mushku valley. The silver stream of Dras is flowing little far. The earth, my dearest blue planet, is so beautiful as I can now see her revolving alike the little elegant ballet dancer with colourful dress. Over the top of Tololing mountain, the curtain of clouds is being gradually lifted to let the late rays of sun shine it gloriously. We are move up, circling around a lone mountain; on one side of path lies a scattered hamlet, classified down with houses on the slope and enclosing it are the steps of cultivable land. The sowing has started. The children are walking back home. A lady is moving up; holding a rope fastened to two calves in one hand and her daughter in school uniform in the other. I waive hands. The kid also waives her hands. She proudly tells that she reads in class 2. She looks at her mother when I offer a few toffees; her mom nods and the smile upon the face of a little girl has wiped all smoky veils from the face of the valley and it is shining in a dazzling golden light. The Tololing mountain starts smiling; the saplings of those newly sown meadow begin to dancing. The azure sky starts showering colours in abundance upon the valley down. Fondling with fistful of such amazing colours I move on; the meadows have grown fresh grasses—perfectly suiting for grazing now—and pink, yellow, blue, purple tiny flowers have covered the slopes of the mountain. My eyes and my camera have no time to relax. Suddenly on a turn, the road vanishes. The giant tale of a glacier has peacefully laid upon the invisible road. The dazzling sunlight has made its surface sufficiently intense to cause blindness. The warmth of the day has generated numerous streams of melting snow—turquoise to blue as they turn into water—moving downwards. Kazim says, “The streams, you see, irrigate the land in natural way; Yeah kudrat ki den hain.” There is no possibility to move farther. We take the reverse route, touching the nearby hamlet, known by a sweet name, ‘Monmon’, to return to Dras again for overnight stay.

The morning in Dras breaks in and its turns into a day soon while rain doesn’t agree to stop. The inaccessibility of yesterday’s route has already impacted the plan I had in mind and needs to be recast. I think it’s better to move to Kargil first. On way lies the Kargil War Memorial. The car has not been well in health since we left Sonmarg. It needs an expert consultation. I am now free to roam around my very familiar Kargil town on foot.

Kargil is neither a big nor a small town.  Raised from the bank of river Suru, Kargil stands arranged in layers—from lower bank to the upper slope of the mountain. It looks deserted today. Shops and markets are closed. People are seen walking silently. I come out to the main market road. The Army and Police patrols are on. A long queue of vehicles is stationed along the road. Whatever a few numbers of cars moving are carrying something like a Govt notice pasted on the windshield. I am negotiating to understand why it is so unusual in my known space of Kargil. I move ahead and ask the policeman on duty if the market is closed today. He only whispers that it will be opened an hour later.

I sit on a vacant staircase in front of a shop—trying to understand things. One vehicle passes through. As it leaves, I notice something on the clean face of the metal road. Blood! Yes, it is blood, I am sure. Something like feathers or cotton soaked in fresh blood is confronting the blackness of the road. My nerve is straightened up. Along the blood-line I start walking; keeping myself alert as it is expected in an always charged environment there. The road takes a right turn some hundred metres ahead. On the left side at the bend, one medical camp has been set up. Two big drums are placed in front of the camp—closer to it, I find both are full of blood-soaked cotton balls. A man passes by holding the hand of his son, perhaps—whispering “Sovanallah”. The Masjid is just a little ahead. There is a large gathering in front of it. The vehicles are coming up to this point. A few people are carrying a young bright boy; completely drenched in blood. Once he is put into a stranded jeep, it speeds fast. And, motionless I stand there to witness repetition of same events in numerous successions. Amidst the coming and going of cars and people, I decide to return. Coming back to hotel, I ask the owner about the events I have witnessed. He speaks on the death of Hazrat Ali, the son-in-law of Nabi Hazarat Mohammad. So long a past! Still, people remember the pain, anguish, the brutal events of life; and they share the pain, silently in self-flogging. The deeper of pain of thousand years that they so soulfully remember and pay tribute. The pain has journeyed through centuries, through veins of body, emotion and faith. The agony of losing the near one, the dearest one, the deep wound of losing the core of love; it erases the wounds and blood of self-flogging. It is not harming self, but sharing the pain that their dearest one endured. My own Tagore, can you tell once again, “Where and when shall the stream of pain will cease to flow? What lies at its end?”

I wonder how patiently, solemnly, heartily and silently such a mass ritual has been performed; sans much ado, sans noise, sans lustre. Only hearts sing the dirge.

(to be continued)

The door !

Gradually climbing the slope of the mountain. The green is vanishing with gaining altitude. It’s around 3 in the afternoon. Time erasing the day. A long walk still awaits; must reach there before darkness descends. Exhaustion—an unbounded space of tiredness—has been spreading upon my body; perhaps, mind too. Yet, not to pause, not to stop walking; I need to tread on. The inescapable certainty of life takes me forward. There is an unwritten norm of trekking in the mountain; bend yourself to lean forward—to keep the balance of body and soul—keeping the face straight. I adhere to it. Quite a far I have climbed, yet a long way to go; shall not take a break as time races quite fast. Suddenly, it blocks. There is no more path ahead. A giant door is facing me. It’s bolted hard. I need to pass through it if to advance. None is there to be seen. Alone I keep waiting—endlessly. The mountain breeze carries a solemn voice—indiscernible if it has reached from the other side of the door or from above—that briefly says, “Wait!”

I wake up from a deep slumber. My throat has choked. Quenching the thirst, I sit idly upon the bed. The mind is still facing ‘the giant closed door’.

So many moments, days, months and years have sped by since then. The door has remained shut. For so many times, I have gone to the Himalayas, walked on those faint lanes along those meandering streams, traversed along those verdant slopes of mountains, where flocks of sheep and goats graze; I have never seen the door again.

Time can break your heart, time can break your knees; it has, perhaps, veiled the door under the events of life. So many forest fires, so many battles of just and unjust, so many onslaughts of tempests and so many decays of soul, it has revealed in between. Then, the Nature’s fury raging over the world; sometime over the dense rain forest of Amazon, or the sweeping flow of locusts from Hindukush; the civil war in Venezuela or the suffocating presence of the mighty State in small hamlets of Uyghurs. The life of man is always shrouded by suspense of events and events suspending the natural flow of human thoughts and action. Everything may not be in personal experience. The daily images of black and white words upon the newspaper still scribble upon the mind. In a nutshell, we have entered the “era of death” in a subtle manner; without responding to or realizing the imprint it has been scripting upon our destiny. Unchained the death roams around us, in whatever form he takes in disguise. The Man and the Nature, together, have come down to the floor for a wide play. God is watching. He created both, with all his precious creative sense, with utmost care; yet both have lost faith in each other, both see the other as enemy. Together they are engaged in a game of destruction—who defeats whom in what manner—in an insatiable competitiveness to secure triumph.

Look, how death is chasing man. Men are fleeing. But where can they flee? Somewhere they cross barbed wire, somewhere by sailing the sea in a canoe—the life is full of illusions, full of mysteries. Death is chasing; run! run faster; death is chasing ceaselessly; it has no hurry as it knows the certainty so well.

Look here; thousands of feet are striding—along the high road, along the rail line. They want to be back home—the secured abode. Who are they? My India, our India. In the words of the great poet, they are the valets of civilization. They have carried the civilization from its natal state to childhood, from childhood to youth and so on. A long procession of them—mason, labourer, porter, peasant, potter, blacksmith and so more; without them nothing moves. They are no more labourers now. They have been confined in a funny cage that neither binds them in love nor frees them from burden. They are “migrant”; how cruel is the civilization that has so long been nursed and loved so passionately by them, but has so calmly disowned them with an outcast tag. How can one be migrant within own country; which has its prosperity in comforting touch of him? Is India no more their country? Thousands of men, women and children are walking between two homes that their fates have planted upon the land, so unforgiving. The procession of ‘migrants’ moves on through aimless roads in an aimless world to an aimless future. So many times, I have heard the educated world singing on a decorated stage, “They are the men, they are the gods; our songs emerge as the hymns to honour them and nothing more. Leaving footsteps upon their pained soul comes the renaissance, the new age of civilization.” But nowhere these people are considered as human. Everywhere, it is “we and they”; like this side and the other of that giant closed door—the dream door of my mind.

Remember that little girl? Upon her little feet, she walked hundreds of miles only to return to her own little space—her home, to her mother and lost childhood. She couldn’t make it; fourteen kilometres had been too long for her feeble body and tender mind. Perhaps, death could not bear to see her pain; he took her away from this shameless world. She was a socially designated ‘migrant child labourer’. Has the civilized, educated, democratic India lost her memories? She was minor and she was labourer too; and you did not know! Your land has a law to protect her, but, how can you? You did not know even that she had ever existed in your land; her death only revealed she had lived a life, unloved and unnoticed; spent her childhood working a child labourer that the land had never known.

The God is smiling. He is seriously laughing now. He is amused to see the fate of the human—His precious creations. His amusement scripts the destiny of man. Men are all migrants to this world. None knows where they come from and where shall they go; they come to an unknown world, spend time, work, earn and learn, and leave the world in similar wretched condition like those migrant labourers. The home in this world is no more a home. Knowing this new place has no meaning now; it loses the sense of belongingness. Leaving all the trivial means of life, he has to return to his home—the abode of peace—how far no one knows. But he has to go, walking miles through aimless street in an aimless world to an aimless future. Once the need is fulfilled, there shall be no longing; nothing to bind you, nothing to care you, severing all bonds of relationship destiny flings you out into the scaring mouth of the passionless time.

I wait on, facing the giant closed door. I shall, perhaps, get the keys soon. Or the door shall open on its own. I keep on waiting patiently.

Before we too into the dust descend....

....Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie....

The suicidal Nature !!

A peculiar thought has been pecking my head since a few days. Naked veneration of criminal acts in the social sphere has been a commonplace experience nowadays. It doesn’t leave a scar anymore; or, maybe, it still does, but a scar upon scar, another above it, and with too many new scars over old signs of wound have only left an indecipherable scribbling upon the mind.

For the endless assault of the Man, the son of the God, the son of the immortal, the loving creation of the God in His own model, the mother Earth has, perhaps, decided to commit suicide. In possible manner she has ensured a death with utter precision.

Oh, what a new sailing of thoughts! Does the earth have life? Isn’t only a huge ball of soil? The living being, trees and plants, the entire animal kingdom, they are only alive, isn’t it?

Hearing this, a roll of laughter rises and sweeps. Wind loses sense in her giggling spree. People say, it’s Nor’wester. Hearing it, the spell of laughter intensifies—96 kmph. The euphoria causes tears to descend from the eyes of the Sun and turns into clouds in its own warmth. Those dark clouds engage with the joyful wind for a wild game to begin. People start saying, “It’s thunderstorm!”

The language is not perceivable to man; it’s nature’s own. How can man understand it? At the end of the storm and the rain, people—the learned lot—again return to their own sphere of daily errands. What a great expanse of work they have? To live, to earn to live, to run to earn, to take care of the loved ones and one’s loves; so many things in the list indeed. In pursuit of more to more, need to surplus, ease to enough and primary to luxury, the necessity runs in a blind path. Then, the tale is all so familiar—of a vagabond endlessly roaming to find himself back home. But, if every life turns out to be taking the wrong path, then what will be the destiny of life itself in the web of illusory paths? No, to think of all this nonsense, if I fall back? Everyone will march ahead, Oh, what will be my fate? We all are citizen of this planet, so all are civilized; since before we had finished our spoon-feeding, we have read so many books, still reading; so are all educated too. Then, how much we earn make how powerful we are.

The fun begins here. In the schooling days, we used to memorise tables—two and two makes four—the first message of the universal truth. It is an eternal truth; none can change it. In life of those educated folks, there is a long spell of time left even after enough to survive. And, in such luxury, he continues to complicate a simple thing and teaches his mind to accept such wrong interpretation. Which is simple in its core gets a complex embodiment in his thoughts and in this process, his mind forgets to interpret anything simple and gets trapped in an illusory complex world. It seeks pleasure in making everything complex and in chasing endlessly what is incomprehensible and engages itself in more sinful acts.

In today’s world, such class of people has grown into an unimaginable mass. Added to it is their crude ambition—the single mission to earn money by whatever means possible. Apart from all these, there has been another sign of disease prevailing since a long time past; to abandon the memories of the past and the existence of the past itself. Funnier is that they don’t feel ashamed to brag about it.

In the process of learning and earning, the human has become modern; and from modern to ultramodern. While pursuing a new ill-conceived philosophy of life, he allows the treasures of the past, which would have guided his conscience in life before, to be left ignored. The faculty, which awarded them with the pride of supremacy over all living beings, is no more fundamentally existing. The time has come to admit this utter truth.

Let us look back to our roots. The Supreme God uttered, “O man, you are my best creation. Let this earth be your stage for divine pleasure. I have created this earth with all the finest things of the Heaven, adorned it with the nicest creations of mine; and these are all for you. You be the master and guardian of this fascinating place. The silence of forest, chirping of birds, meandering of streams, shining meadows, lofty mountains, endless oceans and joyful breeze are all for you; you explore it to the fullest and once your pleasure is fulfilled on your sojourn to this place, you come back to me bestowing the following generations to inherit it and let the cycle go on endlessly with your wishes.”

With all rights and might, they reached the earth; with the blessings of the Lord, they established their authority to protect it, care it and be in delight with it. Through explorations they progressed with knowledge and with knowledge they advanced with needs and with needs they learnt to exploit; they were no more contended with fallen branches of tree, they needed more wood, so started cutting tree, felling it and clearing the forested space for growing crops and building houses. Perhaps, this was the first step of civilization they would call it. Then they acquired the knowledge of lighting fire, learnt to make blunt stone weapons, pottery, use of copper, bronze and iron; with advancing through ages, the weapons became sharper, so were their needs and greed.

To communicate with each other, they started using different sounds to interpret different expressions; then they mastered it to express their emotions through oral means. They had already begun to use leaves and hides for clothing and gradually learnt to weave cloth with cotton, silk and jute. Where did they acquire the sense of shame from and to cover themselves? Shame became a natural sense with the progress of civilization, perhaps. In order to protect the clan and to facilitate hunting, they started forming larger clan; they learned to form larger community by clubbing clans together to match the demand for more men and women in newly learnt agriculture and also to protect the acquired knowledge and resources. The community had a collective sharing with access for every individual member to it. The progress had also awarded luxury of time to the knowledgeable communities; they no longer needed to spend longer time for hunting, fishing, cultivating and collecting of wood and fruits with advanced tools in hand. They started spending surplus time for thinking—some good and some bad. Good thoughts escalated the advancement of knowledge, analysis of physical observations and development of livelihood while bad thoughts brought new knowledge of coercion. And, bad thoughts were more acceptable to many communities as it awarded them with opportunities to raid the less privileged communities, loot the resources and food, abduct men and women for slavery. The bandit communities had advantages of two kinds; they had resources for subsistence without losing their own precious time and with more surplus time they went on spending it on thinking more—some good and some bad again. The good thoughts again liberated the confines of bad thoughts and bad thoughts emboldened the coercive sense in its action. The less privileged ones settled the score by submitting to the privileged ones and the later became the rulers. But the bad thoughts did not stop to progress even with such settled submission. The rulers continued to oppress the others no more to meet their subsistence needs, but for securing the pervasive greed and pleasure. From such time, perhaps, the disrespect for the God had been gaining ground.

Perhaps, the Lord also thought, “Oh, he is still a child. He will learn once grown up.” O Lord, are you not omniscient; didn’t you even perceive that everything wouldn’t change with maturing through age?  In a misplace affection, He simply failed to embrace the simple truth. Human civilization went on progressing with dreams and wishes of the mankind leaving aside what the Lord had said to them and their paths of life were far deviated from the one they had begun with. They wanted to be powerful, protector and even immortal. They started thinking that they are the gods. And the sense of progress had been so overpowering that it went on creating more gods amongst themselves to suit their dreams and deeds.

Today’s civilization is not a single day creation. It has evolved through diverse forms and structures with time accompanying. Amidst numerous cycles of progress are secreted so many treacheries, so much coercion and so denser evil thoughts. And, the Lord has seen it all in His all inertness. Perhaps, the delight of the illusions of His own creations prevented Him to act. He remained passive while man, His most precious creation, continued to rapidly destroy the world, He created with so much finery. Humans, in the whirlpool of evolution of unbridled greed and need, had also allowed themselves to become muted slaves of the civilization—their own creation. They have gradually turned into machines with no more pleasure in mind, no more compassion in soul, no more exploration in thought and no more expression in sharing. They only run and run; knowing not to where and perceiving not why. They run for more and more and more; realizing not where stands the limit, enough. In the process of acquiring more and more, they have dissected the earth from all sides; peeling off her soft skin, piercing her soul, tearing apart the body and baring it naked with removal of every bit of cover she had. On the operation table, she continued to be dismembered with utter sadism. What more, man, do you want of her that you think she has still hidden from your eyes, which will usher you with more wealth and more power? Do you seek to be the Supreme God? Man is mortal, so are all other living beings. Whatever little and long time one gets in life, one has to abandon it once the day is done. Do you forget it completely?

In the pursuit of our evil thoughts, we have progressed further from machines to robotic monsters. Now, let us look at what wisdom of knowledge—the good thoughts—have laid open before us. Those great thinkers—philosophers, sages, scientists—all agree on this simple matter and they do agree naturally as they are great. The truth that they agree is none is creating anything in this world. Whatever man thinks to have invented or discovered have already been there but unexplored till then. The knowledge is only to explore, to know the knowable and what is knowable is already there. Nothing is knowable if it is not existing; the comprehension of human is only bound by the knowledge and nothing beyond. Whoever knows it, discovers it for the human appreciation. The enlightenment of such knowledge shall be unending unless the dark clouds of pride encompass it. Through the path of delight, man will move on while offering the acquired knowledge till time permits to enable the future generations to complete the path. The path of exploration evolves in a cycle of knowing, knowing more and knowing the most.

The simple walks of life have no more been simple. The sons of man, in whose welfare the Lord created this earth with so much of passion, have only bonded slaves of their own civilization. There is no delight in them, neither is any ecstasy in exploration nor any passion to enlighten own soul. Everything is buyable in this civilization. Emotions have become saleable commodity. The buy happiness, love, compassion, hatred, oppression, suppression, intrusion, exclusion; everything they buy and sell. The market is always open. We, the slaves, sit kneel-bent beneath the feet of the giant civilization and do whatever the civilization dictates us to do. Tearing the soul of the globe, can you hear the shrill yelling of the oppressed, oh the poor machines? Or have you all become deaf? The whole expanse of creations of Nature mother have been wailing; fervently appealing to mother Nature to let them survive, a simple wish to live in peace and delight through the little span of life—all abjectly oppressed by human civilization. Nature tries to console them, sometimes makes human to also realize what the mess their civilization has made; but the giant of the progress has become so mighty that it ignores Nature’s motherly advices, rather mocks at her. The knowledge has become its slave; Science, the sharpest on the shelf, has been chained to abide by his every diktat for being a little arrogant earlier. The wishes of the civilization are soon obliged by Science under duress; the confinement has made it dispassionate executor. Encashing the affection of Nature, human civilization has now a mission to destroy her completely.

The slaves—humans—only await the direction of the monster. For an intensive servitude to its own for a long time, the finer senses have all been filled with utter pessimism. They cannot think anything beyond what is dictated by the monster. The dark energy of negativity has veiled the sweetness of freedom, pleasure of optimism and flight of dreams. The darkness has been spreading fast, coming down from all sides to surround the dying creations at the merciless hand of the monster.

Through ages of such ruthless oppression and torture, Nature has now lost all hopes in any resurrection of optimism in human senses. She cannot endure the torture anymore, while there is no path left for her to escape from the ordeal. She has nothing left but to commit suicide; to secure a peaceful death at least.

The machines, oh the slaves of the monster! Look at her; once for a last time, see how wretched, naked, hapless, she lies—gasping with uneven long breath. Do you still recall the image of your mother in her dying face? A dissected body of your mother is lying bare under the feet of your master and you continue to hit and slash aimlessly all over her unclothed body only to oblige the master. Do you all hear, man? If your slaved soul still bears the last drop of conscience, just revolt, break the chain and protect your mother; perhaps, this would be last chance to let her be alive, to prevent her from committing suicide. Else He will. The matricide is the greatest sin and the sentence is the harshest too.

Remember, the signal of the suicidal nature is now evident in the air, the sky and everywhere. He hears. He has arisen from sleep—from the bondage of affection, the faith in His own creations. His patience has been broken.

The morning unlocked !

We, who have completed five decades of life, have unknowingly built an arcade of playhouse. It has a stairway circling down to our forgotten past. Availing such stairs, often I reach to the days of my childhood; as it happened this morning.  The world is now seethed into a season of panic and none knows how long will it continue to reign our mind and dream. In an elegant morning today, I could see the sparkling red crest of the Gulmohar tree from my attic: as if whispering something to someone while gently leaning against an azure sky, swaying her crimson head in wild ecstasy, for reasons unguessable. In no way, Corona could scare me anymore and I stepped out of home—fearlessly delightful—wearing mask and holding my favourite camera in hand. A little far along the path, the placid pool was waiting for me, surrounded by myriad wild bushes and shrubs. It was an unexpected meet after nearly two and half months. They enquired, “How are you? Haven’t seen for so long a time, have you forgotten the path?” What should I say? It filled my heart and face only with a long smile. Suddenly I noticed some curious movement in the pool. Wow! What’s it? A whitespot fish; yes, another one following; suspending tail-wagging both were staring straight at me with all three eyes. After how many years I could see them; I again raced down through that stairs to my childhood days. I couldn’t remember even a single day when I couldn’t see them on my way to the school. In those good old days, they were found to be in large schools almost in every pond and pool. Around them, water spiders would show amazing skills of skiing with their wide four legs.

Oh, what’s that? A water snail was coming nearer floating upon the rippling face of the pool; as if a water-coloured image turned alive with a magical touch of life gifted. As it came closer, the whitespots moved little behind to make it pass. They were also watching the snail, perhaps. The snail got stuck in a wavy branch of hyacinth. Whitespots were unable to see it anymore for the leaves obstructing the view. They came forward to peep through the leaves. To view it clearly, I too stooped down and could see another snail already got tangled there. I guessed if the earlier snail had sent the message out thorough the gentle breeze and so the later one floated in through dancing waves. Seeing two snails together, gossiping along those two whtespots vanished somewhere. Amidst all so dream events confining me to the poolside, I hadn’t had the tryst with the Gulmohar anymore.

O Light !!

Upon the wings of dancing swans of light !

A tribute to a dead old tree....

On this World Environment Day

An endless yearning for a path so idly lying....there lies my delight!

In my neighbourhood