The tale of the heaven !! (Part II)

The day begins early for me to leave Kargil. I shall visit Sapi valley today. The weather continues to be gloomy even in late May. Grey clouds are floating aimlessly. As I climb above 14,500 ft they have chosen to confine themselves closer to the earth below; passionately they embrace me for a little warmth that I can offer to them. The lone pass, Sapi La, lies motionless. The snowing has been intense; flakes taking both granular and feathery shapes only differing in how quickly they melt. A strong wind is usual at the top of any mountain pass, but it has become too gusty and pretty chilly. Standing outside is not a good option. I take refuge inside my car with window pane opened. It takes quite a long time but I keep on waiting as the mysterious environment prevents me to leave. Gradually, the whiteout evades to let outside a little brighter. I ascend to the top of the pass. I can see the valley beneath my feet. A small hamlet, another behind it—a bit above along the slope. Kazimbhai says to have a friend in the second village, but doesn’t remember the exact home of the fellow. But he wishes to meet him. It brings immense joy for me. Kazimbhai yells in full volume calling name of his friend. But none responses. He smiling says his home may be on the other side of the river or maybe, none is there at home now. We walk down along the narrow trail half-heartedly clinging the slope. Getting a little nearer, he shouts again in louder voice. None still responses; nothing echoes back. The sky above has turned azure to brighten the prospect of the day. The series of mountain have started to make their presence felt by revealing their white crowns adorned in fresh snow, as if saying, “Take my photo, please.” I keep on clicking, but suddenly a veil of mist again envelops the sky. Kazimbhai has descended upon a cliff jutting out of the mountain. A snaky rivulet is flowing on that side of the mountain like a silver ribbon. I smile at her, but she hasn’t; she has no time to spend, her anxious face tells that a long journey awaits her. She runs faster down the valley, never knows where to go and whom to meet. I decide to move down to Kargil and explore my favourite town.

The dawn is dazzlingly bright today. I decide to drive to Sonmarg. Chandrass is a tiny hamlet that lies on the way. Gurjar Shepherds are walking to Kargil from Jammu with long queues of flocks of goats and sheep. Gurjar is an ethnic community in Kashmiri. Their children are mounted atop horses; mothers holding the bridles. Hundreds of animals following; dogs are maintaining the line. The journey is seemingly endless, restless. From an era to another, the migration is recurring without much change in schedule, nature and motivation. Only time accompanying through history to enrich the purpose of their life. Life is simple and tuned to less than basic needs. There is no haste in the pursuit; flowing like a stream, neither to attain for nor to abstain from. Just an endless flow. The migration commences in early May and takes the reverse route in late September before winter tightens its grip. The journey eats up another two months. It is uncertain to define whether life signifies the journey or the journey glorifies the life. But there is no exception to the destined events of life. Suddenly, two of them come up running towards our car. They need some painkillers; someone has headache, some other has body ache. I offer whatever medicines I have had; prescribe when and how to take those. Their ingenuous smiles convey more than what my soul have so far experienced in minutes of life. “Sukhriya, Bahinji; Namaste bhaishab.” The queue moves on towards a distant world—unknown to the civil face of society and mankind. 

It shall again be a phase of riding through countless fascinatingly beautiful valleys. There is certain beauty, which is so immaculate and so divine, cannot be explained in words. Kashmir is the queen of such beauty. Soon comes Mataine, another tiny hamlet. This part of valley appears almost like the plains. A little ahead a small restaurant awaits us with its neatness and peace. Draupadi kund is just a walking distance. We have now been closer to Zoji la—the high-altitude pass, which separates Kashmir from Ladakh. The features of Zanskar range and Karakoram with little flavour of the main Himalayas all mingle in passionately. A long convoy of army trucks is ahead of us; the unwritten rule of the place is none should overtake. The laziness in movement is although enjoyable as I can savour the beauty of the places around. Long down runs another road through the valley like a river. That goes to Baltal. The faces of the valley and mountains are all draped in snowy apparel. Numerous streams are seen to have descended from those hanging glaciers between almost every shoulder ridge. I love seeing that small giggling brooklet, just born out of a sea-green glacial split. What if she is just a kid, her sparkling laughter has amused the hills and vales in abundance and her dancing down has stupefied all in awe. The river below has flung open her arms to welcome; as if whispering, “Come to my lap, my child.”

The weather changes on the other side of the pass. The clouds are heavier, denser and reserved in appearance. They play with decaying light of the day, though composed in manner. Between moments irrigating mind, time takes me to Sonmarg. The sunshine has already been wiped of the western wings of valley; it shines the upper range in gold. Sonmarg is a small town mostly crowded by tourists. I check in my room; the lonely window has opened her mind to me and shares the beauty of the mountain in afternoon glow. A small batch of young clouds is engaged in playing with greener slopes. Aged sunlight is affectionately brushing its colour upon the slender lines of trees. A solitary horse is still grazing in the highland above the valley. A tall man is hurrying down from the jungle with loads of woods on his shoulder. The light is disappearing fast; the usual afternoon cold breeze has started blowing. Night is not far away.

Today I shall walk through Thajiwas glacier. Sonmarg has just risen. I have a plan to leave for Srinagar or other valleys on the northwest. So, started early at 7.30. One of the local boys is accompanying me; he knows the trail. The sunlight is still soft and faint. The ascent is gradual; the gradient is comfortable. After a steady climb, I am face to face with him, who has made the Himalayas my second home. “Hey, surprised?”, standing with an elegant smile. It makes my heart swell and tears bursts out for the first time in this trip, “Here too, the Lord of my life?” HE smiles and holds my hand. Tears rolling out; HE is my eternal companion; an inseparable entity, an omnipresent friend in my life. HE has taken the bridle of my life to let me explore the beauty of the universe. HE too has nothing more to do than taking care of me, perhaps. “Didi, roh rahe ho? Yeh, Himalaya hain.”, the soft arrow of voice revives me. I come forward and hold his hand. “Where have you come from?” “Calcutta se. Kya naam hain tumhara?” “Faizal; is it your first visit here?” “Hain, beta.” “Didi, is side, left. Yeh dhara jo dikh rahi ho yeah woh glacier ka pani hain.” “Parte ho?” “Eighth class, didi” “Who are there at home?” “Papa hain lekin woh bimar hain. Hamara do bada bhaiya, maa, tin bari bahin bhi hain. Two elder sisters have been married off; the rest will be this year.” “What does your brother do; working or still studying?” He doesn’t respond. We are endlessly walking through the wide valley; green meadow neatly severed by a blue net of glacial stream while mountain on one side is snow-covered. They all are coming closer as if to invade my own world; as if nearing me to ask, “Hey, take my photo.” I keep on clicking. None should be left. “Look, forget me not!” I see a small branch with fresh leaves swaying gently above my head; staring at me. I remember not how time flies. Suddenly I realize Faizal is not around. Looking behind, I find him a little away; looking vacantly towards the path beaten. I walk towards him and ask, “Faizal, what’s happened? Tum kyun roh rahe ho?” He is a just a boy; hasn’t lost the innocence of a kid yet. He hides his face by two small palms and sit down. Once comforted he continues to tell the tale of his small life. His brother was studying in the village school. One day he went to the field after returning from school. Didn’t come back. Faizal has heard his father murmuring, “They said he had become a terrorist” None believed it; at home or in the village. His father had searched for him in the neighbouring villages, places of those distant relatives, at the door of the powers that be, all other places he could imagine and know, where his young son could have gone. He has neither been found nor his body has been located anywhere. His father has gradually sunk into depression; an acute one. Sometimes, police come to home; enquire into, ask newer and newer questions. His father doesn’t allow Faizal to go to school alone. He accompanies him both ways. After eleven years, they still believe that the loving boy shall be back home one day.

“Didi, chalo, late ho jayega.” Faizal has held my hand. All sense of delight has vanished unknowingly. My legs seem heavy and unsteady. Faizal pauses. He takes out a photograph and shows it to me. “Mera bada bhaiya!”, he whispers. Two bright innocuous eyes, smiling face. I can’t see it more. My soul breaks in intense pain and tears flow down.

I can see Thajiwas glacier in close proximity. Seemingly similar to other Himalayan glaciers; split and full of crevasses. Now the valley seems a little crowdy; locals have set up tents, hither and thither, to server hot beverages and snacks. I sit there facing the glacier; Faizal seated by my side. Suddenly the glacier and Faizal merge into oneness within my mind; never knowing who remains who. His soul and that of the glacier have both broken; breaking everyday unnoticed. The human mind and the Himalayas are both decaying and the world is utterly indifferent.

  

We have started descending along the mountain track. I look back. HE is gazing at me; the Himalayas. I fold my hands and seek permission to leave. “Come again”, as HE always says. “We are not well; take pain to come again and pray to the Lord for us.”

As we reach the plains down, I see Kazimbhai waiting for me. I see one aged person is sitting upon his knees. Faizal says, “Abbajan.” I greet him with folded hands; he, perhaps, whispers something. He gestures Faizal to come nearer and says something silently to him. Faizal again takes out his brother’s photograph, hands it over to me and says, “Abbu has asked me to give it to you. If you find my brother anywhere, convey his father remembers him and awaits his return. But you cannot identify him without his photograph, no?” Oh Lord! Are you listening?

I get into my car. The azure sky, white puffy clouds, cold sweet northern breeze and sunshine; all ingredients of pleasure in the mountains are generously present. I love listening to music while in car. Kazimbhai has turned it on. No, nothing soothes my soul; nothing pleases me today. There is so much to see around; the yellow field of mustard, green and red fresh leaves of Chinar, the silent banks of Jheelum—everyone is calling me. But I cannot find pleasure in responding as I do and love to do. I wish them back only waiving my hands. Kazimbhai parks the car in front of a small hotel and says, “Madam, have your lunch here. Should we return to Srinagar or drive through Naranang valley towards Gulmarg.” Idea suits me; I need silence—absolute silence.

Clouds gather again. Soon starts raining. We have driven a long way. The beauty of the valley has somehow eluded my soul today. Kazimbhai breaks the silence. “Look there, behind the hill is Gulmarg.” The darkness of evening clouds has veiled it. We climb on along the circular path. It has been raining quite heavily now. Within a few minutes, we reach Gulmarg. Up above, the sky is little clearer. Clouds smilingly wander above and float away. The field in front of us is verdant in its prime time. One tiny flower suddenly tells me, “Take my photo. Okay, stay awhile, let me wipe the raindrops.” I take her photo and ask, “What’s you name, sweet baby?” Her laughter continues endlessly. Says she, “What’s in name?” I say, “Why? Everyone has a name.” She giggles and says, “Never know. None has ever called me by a name. We don’t carry any name. We be and become in this world without name, without fame, but delight only.” Uttering this long dialogue, she again continues to smile.

I walk on my stealthy steps. The sun has also been on his way home behind the hill. A flock of sheep is still busy in grazing. A few tea shops are lying idly by the path. The bitter cold has inspired me to enter into one. “Bina dudh ki chai, adrakwali.” “Jaroor milega, Memsaheb. Sit down please. Kahanse aye ho?” “Kolkata.” “Baki log kahan hain?” “Akeli hun…” The man smiles. “Himmatwali ho! Kashmir ayi ho, akeli?” “Kiyun, nahi aa sakti?” “Kiyun nahi, Memsaheb, lekin koyi atey nahi, is saal to tourist bhi bilkul nahi hain.” Before he completes, a group of tourists indeed arrive suddenly. They need sixteen cups of tea. They will return to some other place tonight. I tell the shop owner to let them have it first; I have no hurry as I shall be staying overnight there. It was 6.30. The fasting of Ramazan has just ended. One, two and more are coming in. I am sitting along with my cup of tea. The shop owner asks, “Memsaheb, khana nahi khayenge?” “Khayenge bhaiya. Lagado khana. Chapati, Dal aur Sabjee.” Kashmiri people love rice. “Are you not afraid, madam?” “Kiyun darenge.” “Dekhiye, Mediawalon poora Kashmir ko atankwadi takma lagake chod diya. Look, the whole world has turned its face from Kashmir out of that fear.” He continues to bare out his suppressed tale of life for long. Once he pauses, I find inside is full of people. One of the young men sitting nearby asks me about where shall I be going tomorrow. I have not yet finalized any plan; so, say that I shall just explore Gulmarg on foot. He says, “I shall take you to Nagin valley. After twenty-two years, the valley has been kept opened for civilians.” I immediately finalize my plan; I shall go with him. Kazimbhai whispers, “Madam, aanjaan ke sath mat jao. Kuch aachha bura ho jaye toh….” I don’t know why, but can’t allow my mind to lose faith in that young man. The faith and the desire to explore an unknown valley have already consented my heart. I okay him. The plan gets finalized instantaneously. He will come by 6 in next morning. He leaves. The shop owner is a middle-aged man. He again starts, “Nothing to be afraid here, madam. Yeh Bharat hamara desh hain, yeh aap ka bhi desh hain. We all were born here. Bachpan se Bharat ko aapna desh jaana aur maana, phir bhi humlog ke sath Pakistan ka naam kiyun barbar jud jata hain. Yes, I agree, there are some places jahan santi ka batabaran nahi hain, but entire Kashmir is not like this. Aur itna atank toh Bharat ka kon kon me hain, hain na? Humlog barbad ho gaye, memsahib. Darte darte humlogka dar bhi khatam ho gaya, morte morte humlog maut ko ristedar ban aliya.” The despair hidden in the rhythm of his dialogue is unable to hide itself. I am sitting silently. I have no answer to offer. Since the beginning of the fear, the despair, the apprehension, the tension, the exclusion of identity, it has been a long time passed by; the rivers of Lidder, Jheelum and Chenub have carried fresh waters of glacial pools of the Himalayas for eras, the soils have redesigned the courses of streams, new lands have formed and some have vanished, and it has all so happened for so long that none still remembers how was it when it all had begun. There is no evidence of the original paths on this beautiful planet; Kashmir issue stands like this too. Beneath the soil gathered under political streams, the native course of the stream has lost itself long back. It just flows and flows on; never knowing where to go, when to take turn and how to flow again.

I have readied myself with a soulful desire to explore Nagin valley. People, who come to visit Kashmir, mostly touch Sonmarg, Gulmarg and Srinagar. Never heard the name even of this valley ever before. While I dream on, the young man appears with a horse. It is not far—just ten kms. There are a few numbers of Army posts. At the first one, one of the Army men asks, “Where shall you be going?” “Nagin valley.” “Okay, you can walk down or take a horse ride.” After observing formalities, we set of journeying into a valley, forbidden for civilian entry through twenty-two years. The trail is amazing. We are walking, the horse follows. The path traverses between numerous mounds, a series of brooks, and through agelessly old trees. It loses itself after almost an hour into a dense forest. Afraid, no, I don’t get afraid at all. Rather, I feel quite light in mind; the stress of yesterday has eased a bit. Crossing the jungle, we come out to a not so wide valley; quietly gaining altitude. A small village is not so afar. A few scattered huts; a pretty different kind of structure, the rood is flat as we mostly find in the plain and can’t remember if I have ever seen such ever in the Himalayas. The LAC is near on the western front as the Army check post conveyed. The village people seem to have a simple life; though I can see them rarely. The young man loves talking; he had lots of dreams, perhaps, still has. He had done graduation; got teacher’s training, awaiting recruitment to start again within a few years. Meanwhile, he takes tourists for horse-ride. 

The sky above is dazzling blue. The meadow is strewn with beautiful tiny yellow, blue, purple, red wild flowers. This is a different Kashmir. I have never seen such a different face of the mountains—stacked in layers like waves on the sea. The virgin nature! Spending an hour or so, we take the path back. On every bend, I look back; they are gesturing me to stay back, spend more time with them. Yes, I am an eternal seeker of far away places; again, at the same time, I am confined to the cages of my fate, my deeds and my bondage. The utter truth of life. Getting blessed with their touches upon my soul, I journey back.

I am returning from the heaven. Yes, it means in all senses; from the heaven I have never been to. This trip has been an unforgettable experience, blended with delight and sorrow, illusions and reality, love and betrayal, faith and disbelief, living and surviving, and knowing truth and unknowing lies—all so finely integrated with life; perhaps, the balance sways more towards sadness. My soul recites on those unforgettable lines of poet, Shamsur Rahaman, ‘The memories, like cobweb, the memories of you, dear; there flows the dirge, wet in tears, like a pensive breeze drying up the soul’…

My soul wishes, prays; for Kashmir.

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.

Close encounter of the third kind!

“Wash your hands, clean your feet, don’t touch your face, eye, mouth…. maintain social distance…stay far, keep safe…blah, blah, blah”; through day and night, only recurring prescriptions roam around with precise surveillance. The distress landed with no visible source, but fleeing from is far more challenging for rules coming up, shaping up, eating up and controlling the mind and soul. The freedom tricks are being advertised…how to sanitize hands, face, shoes, clothes…. mind, sorry sorry, nothing about mind so far. And, twenty-one days of lockdown has been promulgated to keep us safe and who knows who others. Shut your wings, clip it tight, stay inside, don’t sneeze, don’t let yourself at anyone’s breathing length, don’t come in touch with anyone, except pain and pleasure.

The rooftop is my favourite space. The dawn breaks over my orchard, birds flock around and fly from one branch to another, one tree to the other. Their sweet tune inspires the sun to rise. This is the most precious time in a day…the peace, the feeling of being in it pervades. What a blissful moment! And, I like the company of a stretched arm of the giant mango tree, my childhood friend, stooping over the roof. I rest upon it. I feel our breath and air mingling in the freshness of a gentle morn. Neither the infection nor the dread of it has yet to infect me in a way so feared.

Arey! What’s that? Staring straight at me. Camera still in my hand. As I set the lens on it, ho-ho, as if realizing the portrait being shot, it creeps closer almost to my lap. I can see now distinctly. Like a tiny ball adorned with thorns all around. Looks so familiar, yet cannot recall where I have seen it. Smiling face as if bullying me, “What happened? Click my photo.” Once setting it on focus, I instantaneously recognize. Arey, it’s corona! I am in awe; about to burst into tears. No, no, don’t cry, Lopa! Weeping results in catching cold…then sneezing…and then…. then…. I simple forget to cry in sheer panic choking my throat….my eyes. Hastily, I look for the sanitizer. Spray abundantly upon my frozen palms. Start rubbing it in complete showing off as if I have nothing to fear; the trepidations erasing the confidence inside although. Seeing my vigorous rubbing of palms, it jumps to a little far and whispers, “Scaring me? I am none but your well-wisher, am I not?”

“Is it so”, I almost mutedly utter, “See, what hell the fear has done to the world? Don’t you feel ashamed of your being and deeds? So many people have died and never know how many more await death!”

It again comes closer and asks me point blank, “You fear death too much, isn’t it true?”

“Yes, I fear it surely, tell me, who doesn’t. Don’t you?”

It chuckles briefly and says, “No, I don’t. We are immortal. None is so mighty in the world that can destroy us. Our death as you perceive is only when we sleep—in our latency. Listen, dear! Can I have some water, please?”

As soon as it concludes the request, it rolls down toward my water bottle.

“What are you doing? Don’t touch it, please.”

It looks so dry and pale. It again whispers, “Okay, can you allow me to sit here? Feeling too tired, dear.”

“Alright, stay a yard apart!”

It seems quite pleased. It sits upon the lone Petunia flower, the last of the season. Perhaps, a droplet of morning dew still dangles on its petal. It remains seated silently for a while. I continue to sanitize my hands and face for several times. Uh! Corona is just seated in front of me; calmly gazing at me.

“What have been saying?”, taking cue of the earlier one, it resurrects the conversations in a wilful question.

“Was just asking what makes you scare the world so shamelessly. The world has so many problems.”

“Hey, you yourself have spilled the beans. Look, when you kill your brothers and sisters in conflict of faith, caste, nation and even in name of patriotism, do you bear any remorse in your soul for that? Now, you are taking our name too; setting your trumpets loudest, you are screaming…. corona is the killer…it is responsible for deaths all around. When you do mischief, why do you hide it so craftily?”

What it says? How come it knows all such naked truths of mankind? Seeing me stunned, it continues to speak, now a little louder, “Should I bare the truth?”

I stop impatiently and say, “Listen, listen! Don’t like mud-slanging in such an elegant dawn. Don’t spoil the sacred moments when I can take the names of the gods.”

“Okay, okay, it fairly good. Trust me, listen the tales of the gods then. Look, you, the mortals! The Lord created all of you. He created all mortals too. But, still repents what a disaster was to create mankind. Fortunately, you are mortal, else what would have happened to the Lord! Another thing pricks me, why do you fear death so much? For a mortal being, one has to die, today or tomorrow, isn’t it? See, all other living beings accept the life as it is; they live merrily and leave merrily when turn comes. More so, what grace you do to the world by living a little longer? Can’t you perceive truly, how pervasively you have ravaged the beautiful expanse of creations—the nursery of love and delight. In your relentless excruciating misdeeds, the Lord even fails to keep the stability in the creative whole.”

“What’s in it?”

“Can’t you understand? It’s a pure and simple thing. Your soul has journeyed through millions of lives through uncountable ages to attain purity in reaching you. It has sharpened the consciousness and aligned to virtues through lives, where it has dwelt in. It will again travel back following the outcome of the deeds. The death has to occur to keep the coming and going, ascending and descending of souls from one layer to another. If the death is inevitable, a crude certainty, why should you delay its natural flow? The entire cycle of creations has been stalled for deaths not coming from your world on time. Is it a fair game?”

“What all nonsense you are telling?”

“Nothing nonsense, dear. The Lord himself has said it. We heard it through our own ears.”

“Is it so? Stop fancying! Whom did the Lord tell all these?”

“He told his commandants. He created us immortal in ecstatic pleasure of creation. We are His wishes, dreams and deeds. We all reside in His abode; do His household work. Only in springtime, when the Earth creeps out of the wintry veil and drapes herself in colourful attire, we cannot resist us from being enamoured of her immaculate beauty. We get a month’s leave to be here, every year.”

Its childish dialogue makes me laugh, although softly, and I say, “Fine, dear, but your long absence must have caused Him quite inconveniences and loneliness too, no? Who works for Him when you all are away?”

So many! Draught is there, flood is there too; cyclone, hurricane, tornado all are there, many more are there to take care of Him. Everyone is available and does its duty. Once in a year each get leave to spend a few days here in earth. Understand?”

I truly understand now what it says. Oh! Forget to clean my hands for long! Who knows what happens from nowhere? After comforting the panic with smell of sanitizer, I start again the conversation.

“Okay, what’s the plan in this vacation? To kill us silently?”

“No, no; have just come to spend some pleasurable moments here on this ever-pretty earth. What ill reputation you have ascribed to us for choosing it to be holidaying? Is it fair enough to do so with guests?”, voice has almost choked while it concludes a long dialogue. Perhaps, a few droplets of water ooze out of the tips of those slender thorns. After a brief pause, it starts again, “A few years back, one of my elder brothers narrated me that people here had no faith in the Lord”

I retort, “Why so? Everyday we perform Pujas, go for fasting, pray and chant; do it all mean nothing?”

It takes on quickly, “Have you not gone to any temple? People have put a stone there and say it is their god. That god has lots of money, gold, silver and what not! Everyone offers him money and expects his blessings will usher in wealth in no time. The gods in those temples love those who are opulent and listen to only their opinions and appeals. Neither rich people nor their gods think about poor people. Tell me, what do those stones, sorry gods, do with money and wealth?”

A critical question indeed, it also wanders in the cells of my soul. To steer away from such uncomfortable query, I raise a new topic to continue, “Okay, what have you seen here on earth this time?”

“So much! Have plunged into the deepest depth of the sea; everyone gathered, some danced around me, those beautiful fishes, some enormous creatures—some even were about to guzzle. In euphoric spree, they bathed me in blue waters bubbling out of those colourful fountains. Some were scared too for the thorns I bear. Elders asked me where I had come from. One giant fish carried me to the shore. I could see that dense forest, huge trees, vibrantly adorned with so many unknown beautiful flowers. They invited me to be with them, fed me and comforted me to relax. I moved on and saw huge elephants with some new-borns, in leisurely mood, over the vast pasture, tigers, lions, untamed horses; so many other beasts too. None took any notice of me. Once I crossed the jungle. Then crossed the snowy mountains. Then reached a small town having fair number of people. A few initial days were fine. Then I don’t know what happed. They started calling me “Corona” and whispers of my name travelled alleyways of human life. Everyone began to believe and tell that one gets infected with a fatal disease once I touch. Why did you do so to me? It pained me a lot for what had ensued thereafter. I saw people mercilessly beating others, who had to walk back home after losing work and piece of sustenance. When you die of a disease it causes distress, but doesn’t it pain you when you kill another for no reason; don’t your hands tremble in committing a sin, doesn’t you heart break in seeing a crime in naked eye? We all live in harmony, none is more equal than others, together we work and play; we never cause pain to others. Then, I heard, all had been confined to home to prevent from my touching anyone. I couldn’t resist bursting into laughter even encountering such a disgraceful infamy attributed to me. I thought, you could flee from me, but how could you escape the inevitable onslaught of the diseases that you had infected yourself with for so long? In midst of all such deadly infections, why are you scared from a tiny one like me? I also heard, you have numerous gods, some to protect you from measles and pox; why is such a complexity in creating so many gods when the Lord is one? What tempts you to see the Lord riven up in many gods, with no purpose except to take care of those who feed them? The Lord—the Supreme Creator—always thinks how to take care of His creations, but your gods only dream to usurp His chair befooling you all! Like you they also don’t have faith in the Lord, they don’t bear any love for the creative world.”

“Oh ho! Why are you advancing towards me? That’s a nice place, sit there!”, I mutter in a scared tone. Quickly, I pour sanitizer upon my shaken palms and start rubbing vigorously.

It continues, “I don’t want to return with so much of disrepute. How can I explain the Lord that His own creations do not carry any faith in Him? How can I bear the pain in telling Him that the mankind is being ruled by an inanimate entity availing all dubious means of greed and retribution? I should die, a death that I only control to happen. I should die, dear!”

“Arey? Please don’t move closer!”, I frantically direct. “Look!”, I say while rubbing sanitizer in intense fright.

Without allowing any chance to recoil, it takes a sudden jump and lands straight upon my right palm. Sweetly, smilingly, although saddened deeply with agony in experiencing both the strong reaction of sanitizer and what it has learnt about mankind during its sojourn to the earth, it declares, “I shall die. I need to die, my friend!”

Upon the flowing smoothness of sanitizer, it drowns and shrinks in pain. In harshness of alcohol, it shrinks, crumbles. Tears fill my eyes; why I don’t know.

It leaves silently while telling a simple truth; to attain a greater cause, offering life is more important than saving it.

Amphan !!

The day that cute green caterpillar stopped eating, the news arrived; the earth was pregnant. From that day, over the vastness of nature the enthusiasm has been abundant. The mother earth had herself written a letter to her midwife –the mother Nature—to take care of her. That missive travelled so many distant paths in the hand of supreme Time.  Nature—the Nursing maid—jubilantly has brought the mother Earth to the birthing-room with due care and caution. It has been quite hot and humid since a few days. Gradually, Nature has chilled the care-room to comfort by spreading layers of clouds above. The divine water showers from the sky. Mother Gaia awaits with impatient fervour for the arrival of a healthy child brightening her lap.

Oh, how peaceably pretty caterpillar is sleeping inside the cocoon it has woven around. Will it not to transform into a beautiful butterfly some day? Maybe, it has chosen complete renunciation of material desires with such deep longing within. Neither any urge for food not showing any evidence of life is perceptible; as if confining the essence of all five divine air it prefers to embrace asceticism. Perhaps, the mission will only be attained with liberation of a mirthful butterfly fluttering out to the sky upon its colourful wings.

There has been just a single note of whispers here and there; the expectancy of mother Earth. Suspense of the birth of a healthy child hovers in the air. Following the schedule of time, the ache has begun to escalate. Everyone is utterly busy in Nature; everyone is ready to serve. The agony of the labour has become intense. The expressions of the pain have sketched the face of the fermented environment; everyone is shivering in crude suspense of the sweeping fury of liberation. As if entire world of creations has shut the doors and anxiously await the assault of the final moment.

Then the special moment appears. Nature breathes heavily in all trepidations within. The vastness of creations has become intensely enthused and fretfully tempestuous. The strong wind inspires trees to dance in mysterious twists and turns. The oceans and seas are impatient in prospect of the good news to reach soon. Again, and again, they ask the shore, “Has he arrived?”

Then, after ripping apart endless string of patience and endurance, piercing through the soul of the universe, evoking the world in muted reverence, stunning the core of creations, drenching all senses in fear and delight in unison, the deafening cry of the new-born is heard. The Supreme Time himself baptized him with a name of his own wishes. Ocean bathed him in her own blue water.

And, his mother? Immense, bountiful, sagacious, ever-young mother Earth is too tired after setting free an enormously vibrant form into being. She kisses her child and takes him in her lap. Nature mother sings lullaby to let both the mother and her child sleep…a little longer…after a strenuous battle.

The dawn breaks. Yet, the Sun hides himself. The mother Earth is yet to rise. The expanse of creations has gradually begun to arise and look around. The entire arena stands ravaged; almost destroyed. People, in their usual noise and voice, are engaged in assessing the quantum of loss and prospect of revival.

Oh my god! that green caterpillar has emerged as a colourful butterfly! Another child of mother Earth—able, complete, vibrant, beautiful, colourful, delightful expression of life—has blessed the world with the dreams of becoming. After a while, it shall carry the eternal message of delight of the Supreme Time fluttering over the vast expanse of destruction. With the name of the new-born of yesternight, the name of today’s new life is uttered in perfect harmony; “Amphan”