PARIJAT-15

He is running as if it is the last deciding lap of his life. As if his life hinges in a fulcrum. One side the bottom less pit of darkness where one is lost for ever in the obscurity and while on the other side it is glory, the glittering glory of success; it is roses and roses all the way. The speeding train is fast moving out of his reach. It is now or never. His head bent to the front to gather that momentum, eyes focused, he lunges forward stretching his hand to reach. The distance is closing on, agonizingly and yet decidedly and decisively closes. Suddenly he finds himself airborne in his lunging. A strong but unknown hand is lifting him up like a heap of cotton packed in a sack. He is floating and next moment he is inside the train, sitting in the floor his legs starched in relax and relief. He sees that divine hand going away from him. Vanishing first. Then comes light, cool and bright emitting from that hand as it moves away from him, light beaming back covering him in the sweetness of milk and aroma of sandal. It is serene and divine.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John got up from his sleep squeezing his eyes in both hands; he could still sense the aroma of sandal. He stretched his hands backs as he sat in the cot folding the legs. His stretched hands to the back touched something. Turning back he saw his mother sitting on the edge, very near to where he had kept his head. John knows his mother loves to watch him in silence. Still he raised his voice in artificial anger, ‘what are you doing here’. In the next moment he burst into laughter in amusement hearing the coarseness of his own voice. Night cold has rendered an unusual coarseness to his voice. His mother looked concerned and put her hand on his body to check the temperature. No temperature. ‘Relax’, she assured herself.

John came outside. It is weekend morning, virgin morning, yet to be deflowered by the din and bustle and cacophony of the day. The dream of the early morning still in fresh in his mind, John wanted to walk down to the church in the adjacent village. It is not far. Just cross those agricultural lands, cross the ring bund, you will be there. The river side villages are peculiar by their concept. You do not get row houses of typical village. Houses are stretched apart and located at higher elevation and surrounded by fruits garden of mango, jack fruit and coconut at normal elevation. The location of houses at a higher elevation is to protect it from flood water. Each house becomes a mini island at the time flood. Sit there isolated till the flood water recedes after couple of days.

Go beyond in sequence starting with river, houses surrounded by fruit gardens, agricultural lands, then comes the ring bund, high barrier cum road way in form of a ring, constructed to save the densely populated villages of row houses and fertile lands from the fury of flood. Life is more, stable and vibrant in the villages inside the ring of the ring bund.

John is walking briskly on bare foot holding his sandels in hand. It is beneficiary to walk on the undulated agricultural field in the bare feet as it gives some sort of massage to the feet and activates certain nerves in the body. It is an old belief and practice of villages which modern day science calls as foot reflexology. Village has got its own rules, own beliefs and own medicines embedded in routine of life in form of religious activities. Analyze those closely, you find a rationale and science behind those activites, dictums and beliefs.

John is feeling that titillating sensation on his feet as he walks bare foot. Farmers have started plowing lands. It is first plowing after harvesting to loosen up the earth. He sees the age old plowing with help of oxen. The vast stretch of land on his way is of course being tilled by mechanized tractor. The tall figure of the farmer on tractor looks familiar. They exchanged glance and suddenly the tractor came to a halt and the long figure of the farmer became airborne for a moment as he landed on his feet. A Smile, a wide smile, a beaming smile, a smile of known is moving towards John. John almost shouted Mustafa-------. The vast stretch of land echoed with John.

It is a moment to care and nourish. The old buddy meets. Past resurfaces as it becomes present, present comes to a grinding halt, the future becomes irrelevant. It is flying back and flowing back. Every thing appears so fresh and so recent- growing up together, fighting together, playing together, laughing together, enjoying together and all of a sudden, everything vanishes, vanishes fast. Time takes a turn. Life takes a turn. We are lost, again to meet in a moment of undefined, unknown and unexpected.

Mustafa became a failure in his college days. For an unexpected reason he lost all his zeal for study. It was a new ambition, a new love, a new aspiration. His love for art and music flourished. He started dreaming of a star, tall and handsome singing star amongst clapping hands and whistling lips. Aspiration is not the only the gradient to success in the world of art. Hard work alone can not take you far. You need to have talent. You need to be gifted at birth. If you do not have that within you, accept that. Art of creativity is at birth, you can polish it, but you can not create it. We are born unequal. We can not complain about that. All of us can not be the best for the best is singular. We can of course be better. Do not feel remorse if you do not have that ingredients. Do not get dejected, if you lose in the race to be the best. Be better and try to be better.

Mustafa realized that. He realized that late. Glass is broken, milk is already on floor. It is point of no return. It was impossible for him to come back to study. Dejected he returned to village. They were separated on one lazy afternoon, when the whistle of passenger trains blew to deafening pitch followed by jerking sound of wheels. Journey of together is over. Now they will not laugh together, fight together, study together and share together. Life has shown the paths, different paths. Will they meet?

Mustafa twisted the palm of John as they are moving together. It is his old habit to show up his physical supremacy over John. Mustafa is talking non-stop. He is talking of his farming, his singing in front of religious gathering in mosque and his son who also wants to be a singer. Mustafa laughed loud when he said about his son. ‘Old ambition of his father, you know John’, Mustafa repeated and again burst into laughter.

John looked to Mustafa. His face speaks of duality. Dichotomy at its best. Mouth emits laughter while lips quiver in pains. Cheeks flap in vibration of laughter while eyes flicker in the darkness of failure. A spectre of pent off ambition is rising its head, soon to be overcome by joyful smile of a farmer singing in front religious congregation inside the mosque. Now it is smile. The smiling of trying to be better. It is singularity.

They have crossed the ring bund. Both of them are in front of the church. Mustafa stayed back. He took a different path. But, they know and understand that they are leading towards one, that omnipresent, omniscient and omnipotent, a SINGULARITY. They respect that.

Parijats, I know, you loved that!!!

PARIJAT-14

His steps are lengthening little extra as John moved towards the car. The movements of hands are matching the steps. They are swinging to and fro with enthusiasm like the pendulum of the old wall clock extending that extra bit as the minutes’ hand stands vertically upright. It is a well deserved break for the John from the din and bustle of the construction site. An overnight car drive will take him to his village, a tiny village located on the bank of a river followed by vast stretch of fertile and cultivated lands of loamy soils. It is harvesting season.

Mid January is harvesting period when the harvesting festival of Makar Sankranti is celebrated in all over the India. It is celebrated in different names-Pongal in south, Makar Sankranti in west and east, Lohri in north and Bhogali Bihu in north-east. But the essence is the same. Basically it is a festival to thank and to pay respect to those who are associated with the harvesting. But what is a better way to thank and pay respect other than worship those? Hence cerebral Indian in fact worship those associated with harvesting. John knew that. He was well aware of that. Though he was a Catholic, he breathes the secular culture of India. Show your gratitude and worship those who stand by you. You are not belittling the Almighty by doing that. Rather you are uplifting those to the place of divinity. What is more divine than that?

Night is falling fast. The car has left the urban limit and fast approaching to the countryside. It is silent countryside. It has dozed off in the approach of night. John could hear nothing. Occasionally the driver of car is coughing. It is a sort of dry and non productive cough may be because of excessive smoking, a bad habit of eastern Indian. But they say it is sign grown up. If a boy smokes it is a sign that he has become matured and has started understanding the world. John smiled in the darkness. He knows it is absurd. A cover up.

A few hours from now, as the dawn approaches with mystical and lyrical beauty, John will reach home. The night is moving like an aspiring dream ever eager to touch the destination. He looked forward. He could visualize his village, his house surrounded by mango and jack fruit trees, those barking and but tail wagging friendly dogs, his octogenarian and yet agile father and the soft look of his mother, a look ever eager to see his son married and settled. She no longer asks John. Her looks convey. “We have grown too old my son, settle down and give us the luxury of playing with grand children. Our days are numbered’’.

John understands that look. He understands it very well. Who will understand that better? He pretends ignorance. He knows how to change that soft and melancholic look into a bubbling and sparkling look. He bends forward to touch her feet and in a sudden swift movement lifts her off the ground like a baby. He moves forward lifting his mother and asks, “Do we still have that tangy and sour green leaves in our garden. I want curry of those tangy leaves with small potatoes”. MARRIAGE IS OVER!

The forward movement of his thought dragged him to a galvanized sheet roofed house of the river bank, the most respected and yet the most feared house of his life. An old voice with squint look and flowing white beard is enquiring about his wellbeing. John is happy to hear that. But he fumbles like a school boy. Memory is forcing him back. He hears the voice as if asking him classical English grammar.

Tell me a sentence using “but” as noun and verb. Use the word “say” in similar manner. Give an example of “a” used as disguise preposition.

His teacher of childhood has grown old. He walks with a hunch. He carries the burden, the burden of the classical English. Yes, it has become burden for him. Nobody has appreciation for that classical English, old, obsolete, and outdated stuff. A teacher remains a teacher as we grow. He shows us the path and paves that for us. He walks along with us putting that reassuring and comforting hand on our back. As we move and cover that path to the ultimate destination, we find he is standing there to welcome us. Ever happy to see us successful in life. He is respected, always respected. He is a teacher and we need to stand in front of him with humble and humility of learning student though we might have grown big and successful.

Dawn is approaching fast. The eastern sky looks bright and crimson. It is the day of Makar Sankranti. It marks the movement of the Sun towards north for a period of six months. The Sun enters the zodiac sign of Capricorn.

As John approaches his village he could sense the smell of that harvesting festival. The road side shops have already opened. The shops are full of diamond shape kites of different colors. The septuagenarian Muthu at the construction site says this festival is more elaborate in south India in the name of Pongal. It is thanks giving in form of worship for four days. The first day celebration is called BHOGI when Rain God is worshipped. Homes are cleaned and washed and decorated with vermilion and sandalwood paste. This day symbolizes the concept, “New Order Replaces the Old”. The second day is called Surya pongal and is dedicated to the Sun God. The third is Mattu Pongal when cattle are worshipped for their contribution for harvesting in form of ploughing the land. The last days is called Kannum Pongal. This day is meant for visiting friends and relatives. Family and friendship ties are strengthened.

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The sour and tangy curry of lunch coupled with overnight traveling has resulted in a deep and much relaxing afternoon sleep for John. It has been long since he had such a relaxing day. He walked out of his house. The afternoon sky is covered with kites of different shape of colors. It is nostalgic. It is inviting. John took the string of a kite from a small boy and started flying it. In the bright light of the afternoon, he remembered a frail looking boy of past standing in one leg, reciting in half squeezed eyes with face full of expression and zeal.

BUT ME NO BUTS.

SAY YOURS’ SAY.

“HE IS ASLEEP.” MEANS “HE IS ON SLEEP.” USE OF “A” AS DISGUISE PREPOSITION.

The classical English grammar is on full flow.

For a moment John forgot that he has grown up with tickle of times. He has become bulky. He no longer has the balance and flexibility of the frail looking boy of the past. But still he ventured that one legged stand. His shifted centre of gravity pulled him down. The string of the kite slipped away from his hand as he fell in a twisting fashion. He did not wish to get up. Falling on his back in the lush green grass carpet John sees the kite flying away from him with happiness of a free bird. John did not wish to catch it. He did not wish to stop that. There is a joy in freedom. There is happiness in freedom. It is intrinsic. We love to have that. John murmured and smiled.

FLY WITH FLY OF FREEDOM.

PARIJATS, LET ME SMELL THAT ENCHANTING SMELLS FOREVER.

PARIJAT-13

John was delighted to see Debudada at the construction site. It was one of that scorching afternoons when sands of river glare towards you in brightness. In the soft sands of river Debudada finds it difficult to walk. His portly body and the heart elements make the things still difficult. He grasped for breaths as he walks on sands in slightly limping style. But he exudes enthusiasm of a child. Hands wide spread to balance that bulkiness, his short neck keeps his head slightly bent back and it makes Debudada more lovable with that wide smile. He almost fell on John as his lunges forward to embrace him. John carries a lot of respect for this portly and funny figure, full of energy and characters. A man in his mid sixty, still he travels a lot; a tight fisted person who cares for penny. He does not know what luxury is and makes most of the facilities available in the cheapest third class train compartment while traveling. He does not hire hotel to stay in his place of business. He finishes of everything in the train and comes to place of work and goes back by night train. He loves train. He loves traveling. He says he finds India in that third class compartment of train. A man of utmost honesty and principle has worked for John as a shuttering contractor in many construction sites in the past. Off late he had stopped working for his bad health. He carries the sophistication of an eastern Indian, very polished in his approach.

John was little surprised to find him in the construction site. A veteran of a social and political cum armed peasant movement that commenced sometimes in 1967 at a remote village of eastern India, Debudada has seen both sides of the coin. He smiles and breathes hard and gives a confused look when somebody reminds him his role in the movement, the bullet marks in his arm still carries the story. Yes, till today he is still in confusion. He scratches his head. Hmmn-----, whether that arm struggle has yielded any results! Was it required? Was the violence only means to achieve the desired goals? What is the justification for the blood shed of hundreds of innocents? Madness, shear madness! Debudada admits that when he breathes slowly under his nostrils.

Debudada has occupied the only chair where John was sitting. Massive concreting work is going on. It is mass concreting of foundation; it will continue beyond mid night, may be to the early morning of next day. John could hardly hear Debudada amongst the deafening sound of concrete pumps, the continuously rotating mixture drums and vibration sound of concrete pipe when it touches the edge of steel shuttering plates as concrete is poured over the reinforcement cage. Debudada looks still funny when he talks sitting from chair. His massive belly protrudes up and tremors as he talks in a loud voice. The legs of steel chair are going down in the soft river sand by the weight of Debudada. He is asking John regarding the details of project.

The concreting work is progressing fast. John has preferred and decided to sit throughout the concreting work. His juniors are competent to supervise that work. They have requested him several times in the past not to sit late night near the concreting work. John has never answered them. He has smiled in his own style. His juniors knew that it was smile of disapproval and disagreement over what they say and request. It was not a question of competency. It was a question of reassurance. John always believes in principle of working with the juniors. Delegation is desirable. It is necessary. Delegation with power and responsibility is always welcome for desired productivity and out put. It brings the best out of juniors. He grows under the lightness of responsibility. He grows with the buoyancy of responsibility. Responsibility never wears you down as long as you desire to grow. Delegate but show your face in hard times. It gives a pleasure and reassurance to the juniors. Be present in hard time and difficult time. Juniors never feel let down. It brings the best out of him. It is team work where your junior is the leader; where he banks upon the tones of your experience. The mere presence has a meaning. It is more than being mere.

The metal halide light has been switched on. The construction site is flooded with light. It smiles like an oasis in the mid of desert. It is dark night of river bank. Sounds of machineries are more apparent. Debudada has dozed off that chair. John is yet to know the reason behind his arrival. It has become almost two years since Debudada has decided to wind up his business. He had worked enough. He wanted to join the seniors in his family in the never ending game of cards while smoking cigar in the court yard of his ancestral house. It was a mansion in the only metropolis of eastern India. He lives with his family of three generation comprising of twenty eight members. It is rare and unbelievable in modern era when the nucleus of family is becoming smaller and smaller, lighter and lighter as days move on. The concept joint family is lost in village too. John had laughed aloud in disbelief when Debudada told him about his joint family of three generation. But he was compelled to bite back his laugh midway through when he saw the seriousness in Debudada’s face. That serious look on Debudada’s face was enough for John to understand that he is not hearing any story. It is a rare reality. But John could never comprehend how a man nurtured and grown under the concept of togetherness can take part in a disjointed movement which shook the very base of humanity with its evil design and killing spree. Debudada had tried to explain John when he visited Debudada’s home. Everything is not disjointed and violent in the beginning. It is the repression of a new thought and new ideology which begets hatred and violence. The established never gives way to the new. It is power, the hunger for power and supremacy which rules the roost. Never ever prepared to come down from the throne of supremacy. It begets hatred in name of race, region, look, culture and religion. It creates the concept of my God is better than your God. My race is superior to your race. My color is more pleasing and beautiful than your color. John has listened to Debudada with attention of student ever eager to learn. But Debudada has never answered him when John has asked that question. Does it justify the unnecessary blood shed and innocent killings? Debudada has always tried to hide his face. He has never looked John directly. Down in the lane of memory perhaps Debudada sees something. Cries of the innocents. Red bloods of the innocents so similar to his own. It is feelings and pains of the innocent so similar to his own. Does a lighter skin bear less pain than a darker skin when it is hurt? Do different religions beget different feeling when you are hungry? Do different ideologies realize different pains when we suffer from incurable? Then with all that similarity why we are separated? John could hear only heavy and disturbed breathes. Debudada had no answer.

John looked to the dozing Debudada in that floodlight of construction sight. A tired and defeated look was prevalent in dozing postures of old man. The old man got up from the mosquito’s bite of river bed, looked to his watch. He whispered to John, “I want you tell you something John. Do you need a shuttering contractor at your site? I have resumed my business”. John was little surprised. He saw Debudada is turning his face away from him the same way when he faces that disturbing question. From the corner of that turning face he sees something rolling and glittering down his check. A shivering fatty hand bearing the mark of that bullet handed over something to John. The hand that had once welded gun, shivering and drowning under the weight of a small packet as if it carries the weight of an era, an age, a burden unbearable enough.

John took the packet. He feels something unusual as he opens the packet. His heart speeding up. An unknown and frightening feeling is slowly and surely engulfing him. He shivers like the hand of Debudada. The cover of the packet has fallen down. His both hands carry two photos separately. A young man in his twenties so charming and so handsome staring him from that photo with agility of a prince. The other photo bears the unbearable scene of that recent bomb blast in the train, a blood strained isolated hand near the railway track. Chintaharan, the old man whispered still turning his face. Chintaharan, the name so familiar to John, he might have heard that from Debudada’s mouth at least hundred times.

John looked up. The life has turned full circle. In the dark sky of midnight he sees stars, glittering stars changing position , reassembling themselves to form a figure, the figure so assuring, so Godly. He is Bapu. He is Mahatma. MAHATMA GANDHI, THE FATHER OF NATION, THE FATHER OF NON VIOLENCE.

Parijats, have you forgotten!