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.

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

In my neighbourhood

The tale of a mother !

I am floating on the sea today. For the first time in my life, I have boarded a ship. Yes, believe me, not a boat, not a yacht, not a cruise, but a real ship—just as we see in a picture book—a giant ship indeed. This time, I have decided to travel to Diglipur, the northern most point of Andaman and Nicobar Islands, following the sea route.

Well, let me come back to what I am truly eager to narrate. It’s been a pretty anxious waiting; have already reached the Haddo Port by an hour ahead.  After completion of formalities, I am granted the access to the boarding jetty. The dazzlingly illuminated ship awaits me with intense suspense. The silver rays—slipping down her milky-white satin skin—enhance her beauty to as immaculate as of the White Queen in my childhood book.  I gaze upon for countless moments---dreaming about her beauty and my first voyage, never perceiving which prevails what.

I am following the queue. The Inspector meets me and greets me smilingly at the boarding gate. And, for the first time in my life, I am stepping in a ship of my dream. The passage leads me to a large hall—full of luggage cages resting upon the walls from the floor to the ceiling—with stairs climbing up from one end. I leave my luggage there and take the stairs. In the first floor, another gentleman greets me. His smiling face inspires me to learn about a critical path leading finally to reach my space in the ship. “Please take the stairs up, cross the Hall diagonally, take the left exit, then you get another stairway, climb up, then you reach the deck, take the right narrow sideway, move to the front, turn left before the Captain’s cabin, your cabin should be there on the left first”, he completes as fluently as the ocean wave flow in a gentle summer noon. I thank him and proceed. The specious Dining Hall inspects me with much curiosity. I forget to greet her as I patiently continue to recite on the path explained by the gentlemen. I keep on climbing up through a slender stairway jutting out over the dancing waves of the ocean, some 40-50 meters below. The patience and endurance always pay and, within infinite time of life, I reach my home on the sea.

It is as neat as my own room at home and as cute as the one of my son. One wide window on the side reveals the world beyond the room. The golden rays of halogen lights of the port peep through. Two single beds are lying calmly with white sheets gracefully spread upon. The other passenger is yet to come, and, I’m not sure, if anyone would ever. Leaving my small luggage there, I come out on the deck—wide with cushioned chairs placed on the middle wall facing the front. I sit upon one.

I used to read lots of fables, like many other children of our time. The Prince crosses seven seas and thirteen rivers to rescue the Princess; the King of the land didn’t have ships, perhaps. So, the Prince had to fly, riding upon the birds, Byangoma Byangami. I used to ponder, if I hadn’t had the privilege of having those caring birds with me even, I would be sailing the course in a large ship—a shining sacred white ship with white sails fluttering.

It’s a dream come through. I am in a dilemma if it is a dream or a reality, and between the battle of dreaming and undreaming or the real and the unreal, I hear the cry of the siren of the ship. I stare on the illuminated jetty slowly drifting away and I find myself alone on the deck, on the sea, in a lone night with a lone moon only accompanying me. The port appears now like an elegant star subtly placed upon a darkened sky. It is almost 9.18 pm and ocean breeze is quite chilly in later half of January. I take the way back to my cabin.

My eyes get a surprised look of an idle bag lying upon the table in my cabin. Hesitatingly I think if I have entered into the right cabin. “Madam, can I come in?”, someone says from behind. I take an 180 degree turn to find a gentleman with two security personnel standing just outside the cabin door. One of his security explains, how urgent business his Sir has in compelling him to go for a hasty boarding onto the ship. It’s nothing for me to decide as the cabin is a two-bedded one and another person is supposed to be there, yet the gentleman’s fervent request appears as if his access to the cabin depends only upon my wishes.

He is undoubtedly a perfect gentleman. He apologetically conveys the compulsion of his sudden arrival owing to attending the mandatory Annual Medical Check up at Port Blair. So long I try to explain that there’s nothing to be sorry about, he continues to feel that he has caused much inconveniences for me. He works as a Pilot in Indian Navy. He is returning to Diglipur, his current official place of posting.

I wake up from a deep sleep as the shrill sound of siren tears apart the peace of the dawn. The light is yet faint; a cool ocean breeze surrounds me in the deck with utmost care. Holing the railing I look down. The Ship is moored to a huge jetty. I whisper to myself, “Oh I see, it’s Mayabundar!”

A few more hours to spend in the Coral Queen—a cute name of the ship. Being back to the cabin, I find the gentleman has also woken up. He greets me, so do I. He takes me to an unforgettable tour to each of the amazing places within the ship—the slender mast standing tall like the Ochterlony Monument of my lovely city, the giant anchors in the mooring cabin, the frontal deck in the uppermost layer for exclusive use of the crews, the front lights, the fog lights, the life jackets and boats hanging tenderly from the outer walls, the wheels of ropes—treasuring all so fascinatingly new experiences in my life as my dreams of childhood travel along. He explains how such are used and when, in such a well-articulated manner, that my ears can’t freeze for a moment.  Then we move to the space where the soul of the ship resides—the Pilot’s cabin. The semi-circular frontal side is glass-covered, wide enough to accommodate a dozen of people, seating side by side. The navigation wheel is just like as I saw in my childhood book. Through all modernity in saturating the era, it has maintained its ancestral stature and look. The large mechanical compass gently sleeps in the middle of the table—romantically hugged by two electronic compasses. The archaic machine still helps in the event of any system failure of the sophisticated ones or when power supply gets snapped. In the midst of seeing and learning, the Pilot Sir points to a faint line of land dancing upon the emerald waves of Andaman Sea. Does Diglipur await me so passionately? I keep on looking for another endless time, sailing through the moments, interwoven in dreams and reality. The Ross and Smith islands are still connected by the sandbar, the Saddle peak is still capped by a white feather of clouds, the hump of the rocky island is still wet by kisses of morning dew.

“Didi, please come this side”, someone calls me in pure Bengali. Yes, Dipankar has already reached the Ariel Bay port to receive me. Within half an hour, I find myself settled in cosiness of the Turtle House—my home for a four days’ vacation. I have come to meet those distant guests, who would be swimming past a few thousand miles to arrive the desolate shore of Diglipur only to glorify the paths of creations, perhaps. Why do they travel so long? Just to feel mirth in attaining the motherhood; so far in a place, with so much of struggle offered and with so much of determination demanded? I wonder if it’s an allurement of life or a harsh spell of destiny that drives a turtle mother to swim for months to reach here, lay eggs and then swim back for her remote home again.

There are a few species of turtles—green turtle, hawksbill, leatherback, loggerhead and olive ridley—that travel to Andaman for breeding the new generation; they ride over the high tide waves to reach the shore, spend just an hour to lay eggs, and riding over the same receding waves, they swim back to the sea for travelling another thousand miles of journey. The mothers never know if their babies will crawl back to the sea, and how many of them will survive the traps of life; the giant creatures in the sea, learning what to eat and what not, miles of travel through undersea water—somewhere hot, somewhere cold—and finding the home neither they have been to nor seen in life; how pawned is a life by such an inexplicable law of nature that neither liberates them from a longing for the unknown home nor severs the bond of life from the cycle of creations.  None knows who has scripted the commandments for them and why so, in such a crude betrayal of destiny. I bear a dream to meet them—those ill-fated mothers; and I have come only to meet them this time.

There is a strict emergency imposed on the beach. The tourists are not allowed to enter into a few specified beaches at night without explicit permission issued by the Forest officials. In that special moment, the mothers, if scared, shall neither venture into the shore to lay eggs nor be able to keep them alive too for long. I say it is a special moment as the process of laying of eggs depends on numerous laws of nature. It seldom takes place in daytime. There must be a high tide in the night to help the mothers to stride on a sandy beach just wet enough to hold the eggs, and there must be a suitable place for each mother to lay as many as 100 to 150 eggs in complete peace of mind. After laying eggs, they cover it with sand; then slowly grovel down to the sea without looking back even for a single moment. What a strange rule that dictates their fate to define itself? The purest bond has to be severed when the moist skin of the eggs is yet to harden up. The unborn child, shall have to traverse through an unknown meadow of events of life and to sacrifice the life to unfold itself in knowing it, fulfilling it, enriching it and defining it as it would swim though thousand miles of a journey and of dreams to meet their unseen mothers.

All these happen just in an hour or so as the high tide doesn’t last for a longer time. My voyage to this lesser known part of North Andaman is only to enrich myself with an experience of such unimaginable events of life. It’s been anxious waiting through the day, and through a stoic evening. Time flies stealthily as do my wishes incessantly breaking upon my soul. Only whispers flow from ears to ears; yes, they are coming.

I heard that these species of turtles return to the place for laying eggs where they were once born. It is the tradition, and through ages, they stick to an unscripted rule of the Nature. The mother turtles come from Australia mainly. The forest officials stamp “Australia” on the back of the new-born turtles before their departure to the sea. The mothers who come now mostly carry the mark “Australia” on their back, only to confirm the fact that they indeed were born here. What a magical rule of Nature! Through endless span of time, the mothers make a strenuous journey of a few thousand miles to lay their eggs; only to leave seeds of their creations to prosper in utter nativity. And, they travel back with wet eyes; silently, yet in graceful, dignified and proud manner of attaining the bliss of the motherhood, in a rarest process of creativity. I wonder and between the flowing thoughts, something chokes my throat. Unknowingly, my eyes are filled with tears. I fail to perceive, is it for the pain they bear or the spirit of an infallible mother that outshines the pride of the mightiest lords of the Heaven.

At around 9.30 in the night, I fetch myself to the beach. I whisper in the ears of the Lord, “I shall have a tryst with a mother who bears a complete faith within to leave behind her unborn babies in the care of Mother Nature after a brief sojourn to this distant land.”

A gentle breeze is blowing from the east. The ringing tune of waves has turned into a gargling sound now. The Forest officials have all dispersed in a wide beach. In dim light of my cell phone, I glance upon the shore, and the clock, in one full swing. The voice trembles. Will they come? Will they? At around 11 in the night, I notice some restiveness in those silhouetted movements of the forest officials on the beach. One of them, requests everyone to retreat from the waterline. Are they coming? Yes, she is! Two strings of rays of cell phones are following her linear progress through the wet face of a sandy beach. Thousand miles she has travelled to leave her wishes to be fulfilled in this precious place of the world! After a while, her nervous steps take refuge to a long pause. Holding our breath, we allow our hearts to beat as faintly as it doesn’t break the silence. Only rays of two cell phones are visibly active on this wide beach. We wait patiently to witness an eternal truth so intensely secreted in the texture of creations. Then, the precious moment comes. She lays two eggs in her first release; yes, two together. The breathlessness is choking the flow of time in suspense of events. In a deserted beach, only a few people are witnessing the purest form of creation, while the ocean, the moon, the wind, and the dark sky shower their blessings upon her; to the indomitable spirit of a mother. Never ever have I felt such a purity of love expressed so soulfully for a mother in this heartless world.

The forest officials are progressively removing the gathered sand from the laying location. I can see her face now. The delight in offering her best creation upon the lap of the Nature and the modesty of pride in defeating all adversities have turned her face into an angelic one. The glimmers of a satisfying motherhood are emanating even in the darkest corner of the world. What are those sparkling dots in corner of those tiny eyes? I wonder and I stoop down. Is she crying? Is she crying in pain—of traversing a path of destiny, of orphaning the babies once born, of anxieties of their wellbeing—or in the divine pleasure of motherhood? I place my palm gently upon her wet sand-strewn back. Her angelic face bears the signature of delight—an elegant smile—while the teardrops are still dangling upon her half-closed eyes. I listen to her whispers, “Yes, I have become a mother!” A brief pause intervenes and she, perhaps, whispers again. Perhaps, she prays for the wellbeing of her babies; I don’t know, if it’s been an expression of unbearable pain too.

She has completed what she has to. She is returning; not to return again, without even looking behind. Slowly, she creeps on; towards those crashing waves, to an ocean full of contentment, to an abode that have nurtured her dreams to prosper. She proceeds on with her fatigued steps narrowing the distance between the land and the water, her dreams and, her existence and that of her children. She travels back along the path that her unborn babies will follow in a near future.

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”