Bamiyan Buddha

There is a kind of bizarre cockiness in faithfuls which you don't see in other groups. It seems that the followers of Al Islam believe it their divine right to be intransigent and intolerant of others faiths while the world at large must be extra sensitive to their middle-age ethos. Its scriptures are replete with words like Kafir, Qurbani and Qatl ( Infidel, Sacrifice and Kill). A case in point is the destruction of Bamiyan Buddha in Afghanistan. The act was not impulsive. It was a deliberate act, announced well in advance giving sufficient time to outrage, dare and mock the world. There was absolutely no provocation. The stone icons belonged to Buddhism, which is not in any apparent clash with Islam. The destruction was carried out over a period of time to derive maximum glee from watching consternation of a stunned world. The reluctant and feeble protest of Islamic nations suggests attitude of "Oh! Come on, its nothing, just a few kids having fun."
I wouldn’t suggest that this has given the world the right to knock down some important symbol of Islam, but shouldn’t they expect such a possibility from a fringe radical group from other religions. What if some radicals do knock down the "Black Cubic Block", the most important symbol of Islam in Mecca? Will there be similar feeble protest? Sounds inhuman! Well, some Buddhists really cried at their loss.

Saudis are demolishing Muhammed's house!

From pure point of view of aesthetics I see nature’s deft strokes the best work of art. When I first saw images of Angkor Vat temple complex, of a giant head peering down at you through the thick canopy of tropical trees and partial view of delicate ornate structure of the temple hidden behind the trees, I was completely mesmerized. Now I am pretty disillusioned about the temple. The sanitized version of restored temple doesn’t exude the same aura. Imagine a partially ruined Taj Mahal with Peepul trees jutting out of its crevices, its base deformed by the roots of growing trees and largely hidden behind thick growth, wouldn’t that be awesome. Letting your imagination take a flight and complete the missing lines to visualize the awesome original work as you do with the Konark temple, isn’t imagination better than the real thing.

In any case nothing is permanent. Even Allah will not survive time.

Kala Kids

Kuldip Singh

Sun lijiye fursat hai, phir kya ho khuda jaane? 

kab se haiN mere dil maiN, betaab kuch afsaane! 

 Like everybody else I too always had a recurring suspicion of a grand natural conspiracy to keep me phase lagged in my life i.e. I always felt one step behind the opportunity. Like I was still 'little Babu' when I should have been 'young Babu' and young Babu when I should have been 'A.Kala'. Kuldip Singh interface in my life is just a blur but an important one. Kuldip was a Sikh, not a reluctant Sikh but an indifferent Sikh, rational and very mature who scrutinized life with detached amusement and cold reason. Kuldip smoked, complete anathema to Sikhs especially in a small town. We arrived a trifle late for the flower children's age. That age had already peaked and now in wane. The flare of bell-bottoms was beginning to cramp, Beatles were already passe but Santana's 'Black Magic Woman' still cast spell on us and lilting hum of 'Sound of Silence' still mesmerized us. We smoked marijuana and hashish occasionally, I with a tinge of guilt and he with complete disregard to social ethos to seek enjoyment and to quell curiosity. Those were days of tight money, smoking discarded cigarette stubs when pockets were empty. Kuldip devised an ingenious method of collecting promising cigarette butts, the ones which had lot of meat left. He attached a pin to the end of a cane and when we went out of hostel for evening walk, he would look for those meaty butts, punch the pin on them and quickly pocket them. He had become quite adept at doing this in one inconspicuous move. This routine was followed only during month end when we ran out of money, but as soon as the replenishment arrived at the beginning of the month we were back to our brand 'Wills'. Our hostel was avante-garde and even those few Sikh students who resided there and took notice of Kuldip's smoking were merely resentful but tolerated him. However, when a Sikh from the staff saw Kuldip smoking, all hell broke. 

Maine sharab le kar hawa maiN uchaal di! 

Phir zindagi ki yuN na kisi ne misaal di. 

It was a winter morning, a lazy Sunday. Our rooms were on ground floor of the hostel, four rooms apart. In typical bohemian ways, I was squatting on the floor and soaking in January sunshine at half past nine in the morning, a frothy toothbrush in my hand. Some jerk in All India Radio, having no sense of timing, was playing Begum Akhtar’s celebrated thumari “Ai mohobbat tere anzaam pe rona aaya…..”. It was jarring to hear Begum wrestling with ”ronaaaa aayaa … rooona aayaa…”. Intermittent spots of bright light and dark shadows of row of pillars made the corridor look like a long zebra strip. Already there were clusters of students busy in bull-sessions (gossiping orgies). Kuldip was not up yet. Then I noticed a group of Sardarjis at the end of corridor, some of them attired in technicolor, one of them had a long kirpan dangling from his waist and a few had flowing white beards. Grim faced, these people seemed to be floating silently towards me. 

Nateeja kuch bhi ho, lekin ham apna kaam karte haiN 

sabe.re se hi duur-aNdesh, fiqr-e-shaam karte haiN 

 The troupe moved past the cluster of students as if they didn't exist. They were silent and completely focused on their objective. When they neared me, I felt a surge of terror passing through my spine but it was really unnecessary as they completely ignored me, went past me and stopped at Kuldip's door. Suddenly they all became animate and began pounding at his door. An annoyed Kuldip soon opened the door but the Sikhs brushed past him into the room and then dragged him in and locked the door with a bang. There was hushed silence and bouts of whispering emanating from Kuldip's room. Meanwhile some other students too joined me and indulged in wild speculation. This continued for some twenty minutes and then laud shouts of, "Jo bole so nihal, sat sri akaal" rendered the air. The Sikh gang began to troupe out of his room, their faces still grim with mixed emotions of satisfaction and doubt. Ignoring us, they melted away as quickly as they had come. Jo doob jaata hai suraj to raat hoti hai, Khata m'aaf ho, shabnam isii pai rooti hai We expected a chastened and thoroughly deflated Kuldip to emerge from his room, but were surprised at a rather miffed and sheepish Kuldip to come out of his room. "What happened?" we asked. He said, " Kuch nahi yaar" and then in anger " These jerks! Booze is fine, smoking no, no!" He then asked me if I had five bucks. I said reluctantly "Yeah!" We then went together to the nearest barbershop where he got his hairs clipped for the first time. Once the long hairs clipped and beard grossly trimmed he felt free and it showed in his demeanor. I was always better than him not only in studies, but also in knowledge of politics as well as arts, yet I was I in awe of him. He had that incisive insight into the complexities of life and crystal clear view to navigate through those complexities. He took a deep breath as if breathing for the first time and took out a cigarette and began smoking. After a while he took a deep drag, allowed nicotine to dissolve in his blood and to my irritation enveloped my head in secondhand smoke. He said philosophically, 

 "Darta huN asmaaN ka jaaduu na toot jaaye, 

Lab par koii sawal sa aaya hua to hai!" 

Completely bewildered, I in a schizophrenic metamorphosis turned into little Babu from A.Kala, a blank faced moron, yet shaking head in approval. "What does that mean? " I asked. He gave me a long and deep penetrating look, said cryptically, "Philosophy hai!" 

I didn't have the courage to question his wisdom so took his words at their face value. Ever since these words have percolated deep into my subconscious and have been resonating in my zehn, gnawing at layers to unravel the mystery of, 

 "Darta huN asmaaN ka jaaduu na toot jaaye, 

Lab par koii sawal sa aaya hua to hai!" 

 "Philosophy hai" Indeed! Wouldn't you say so! ****

The Fossilized Minds.

[There is enormous generation of wealth, stupendous growth in technology, exponential growth in knowledge, great strides made in philosophy, literature and medicine, an IT revolution going on and general mellowing of mind, indeed we are living in exciting times until perhaps somebody pushes the nuclear button. If there is also destitution, wide spread terrorism, mayhem and corruption, treachery and fraud and obscenely disproportionate distribution of wealth, it is no coincidence nor by any design but only natural. It is the human nature and now latent animal instinct within us, which is responsible for this mismatch. If still anybody thinks that there ever was a period in our history better than now, he must be a brave man. There are brave men in this world]
There are small communities of largely geriatric men found in most society who look for inspiration in the past. They are generally soft spoken, articulate and scholars of ancient texts. Their needs are frugal and they set example in following the archaic moral standards. On their own they wouldn't harm a fly but can calmly order annihilation of societies. They are completely oblivious to reason and their world-view is completely focused on perceived ancient grandeur. They are the mullahs who would order amputation of limbs with complete sense detachment, they are shankaracharyas who see no evil in sati and they are the priests who ordered burning of witches on the stake. All windows of their mind are closed but the rear window. They peer through this window in distant past and see through impressionistic haze a glorious utopian society. They are concerned with the present moral degeneration and see salvation in the archaic morality and frozen wisdom in text. They exist on the fringe and remain dormant like viruses, but when they do rise they explode on the scene like uncontrollable viruses and quickly lay waste a large portion of humanity and dissolve as quickly leaving a bewildered society to pick up the pieces. The rise of Hitler in Germany and Ayatollah in Iran are just two examples.
They appeal to our baser instincts and play on our xenophobia, raising fears of insecurity and win our constituency. Masses, never doubting their insincerity fall for the promised windfall. In any case they appear morally straight in contrast to representatives of establishment who are perceived as corrupt in unfair. They are romantics therefore they do not encounter dilemma faced by pragmatists due to inherent contradictions in setting right today's problem with archaic means. The details never bother them, as they are happy with the big picture even though full of flaws. They brush aside all objections by shear numbers. Consider the designer knickers the RSS cadre wears in Shakhas. The obnoxious design has not changed over seventy-five years. It reflects their rigid attitude to change even though knickers itself is western attire and they themselves are arch opponents of western thought.
The writings are already on the wall for anybody to see, yet the fatal attraction of any thing past, presented nicely wrapped up, blinds us to the pitfall of impending doom. If we remain passive spectators to fast rising numbers of converts to their mad logic, we shall perhaps not survive their present resurrection.

Tasbeeh Ka Dana

Muhtsib1, tasbeeh2 ke danoN pe ye gin.ta raha
Kin ne pee, kin ne na pee, kin kin ke aage jaam tha

1 holyman 2 set of counting beads

A very average sh'er of excessively overused theme. Actually I wanted to use another sh'er by Jigar in which 'tasbeeh ka daana' was used but couldn't recollect it correctly. My focus however is 'tasbeeh'. Tasbeeh is a wonderful word of restrictive purity and gravity. The word conjures vision of old men in white robes and flowing white beard or barefoot unwashed saffron-attired sadhus, their faces plastered with ash, slipping past their fingers one bead by one bead. Yet reality is cruel, its very relevance is questionable. It mocks our capacity to think rationally and reduces God into some kind of Sorcerer or 'Tilism' whose pleasure is tied down to a number. Worship becomes a chore focussed on accomplishment of a task. May be it provides a sense of participation or perhaps a sense of satisfaction at completing a task. Some may say it sets their mind at peace!
Why not just sit on a lonely riverbank or under a large shady tree or an abandoned large house and let the mind drift! I even reject the Yogic stance of emptying the mind of any thought; for one it is unnatural and two it is result neutral. Why not let the mind drift and experience the transcendental tranquility.
I would like to go to the temple and the mosque or the church but when there is no one in. The candles are not lit and the fragrance of incense does not waft through the air. Even better, I would like to go to an abandoned mosque or a temple ruin or a dilapidated palace where Peepal shoots jut out of crevices and cracks and roots of large trees have broken through the bases and distorted the edifice. This will busy my mind to draw the missing lines and complete the picture. Isn't fantasy better than the real thing!
I would want to be amazed at the calligraphy of those deft hands yet not be awed by their textual content. I would want to bypass the images of Gods, textual description of Him and not even 'sigh' at the mayhem unleashed by His followers, for man would have found a reason for that even without Him. I would want to get past the curiosity of "Who I am?" or "Why I am?" reach a stage where life merges with death and people will float past me like ghosts seeing through me, not acknowledging me.
I want to hold that 'tasbeeh' in my hand, eject it high in the air. catch it, swing it around one finger even slip the beads past fingers but never counting them. I want tasbeeh to break, beads spill over, bouncing off the floor and roll away. I want to be one of them, a freed "tasbeeh ka dana"!
Wouldn't you?

Jigar’s awesome sh’er is this:

Ye kis ka tassavur hai, ye kiska fasana hai,
Jo ashk hai ankhoN maiN, tasbeeh ka dana hai

*****

The Conversation

Once, while walking the desert sands,
I came across this dark man.
Curious, I asked,
“Good to see you around,
Pray, why you trail me,
In this god forsaken land?”
Amazed, he said,
“I thought it the other way round,
You’re trailing my footsteps,
Seeking company in wilderness.”
“Yes I fear the loneliness,
But I do not seek togetherness,
Now I feel hunger,
Now I feel thirst,
You are lucky to have no flesh
For you there is no distress.”
“Strange to say this when hungry.
So what if I do not feel.
Nor the pleasure of flesh,
You enjoy a sumptuous meal!
Yet, I find your words so grave
Pregnant with deep sense.
Life being an accident.
Your words of wisdom
Weigh heavy on me,
My wit cannot defy you
No such qualms for me though,
Life I owe to the blinding glow
Sailing across the blue above
After all I am nothing,
But your shadow.


*****

Death of A Bartender

The judge looked weary and bored in this hot afternoon. He wished he was home and having his two-hour siesta, sighed audibly and looked curiously towards the accused and asked, "Did you kill the bartender?"
The defendant was a suave middle-aged man, lean and tall with gray hairs and weather beaten face that had much used facial muscles. He wasn’t paying any attention to the proceedings in the courtroom therefore was surprised at the sudden attention diverted at him. Realizing that the accused had completely missed the question, judge repeated the question.
"I killed no man’", he said calmly. At this point his lawyer rose quickly and took control of the conversation. While his lawyer was saying," Your honor we plead guilty on temporary insanity…." The defendant again lost interest in the proceedings. He could remember the events of that fateful day very clearly as if it all happened only yesterday.
It was an ordinary barroom, ancient and dimly lit. The wood paneled walls, varnished repeatedly over the years on residual dust enhanced its gloom. It is strange that a place where people come to dissolve day’s tension should be so gloomy and yet faithfuls patronized this joint with clockwork regularity. The bar extended from end of the wall to three-quarters the length of the room but there was not much space between the bar and the racks holding arrays of sparkling bottles filled with myriad whiskies and liqueurs. He sat at the end of the bar near the wall brooding intently over a glass of whisky that he held between both his hands. From his end he could see the bending silhouette of an utterly bored bartender at the other end peering down at few customers talking in subdued voices as if they were in a graveyard. The bartender had tried to strike a conversation with him but he had responded very coldly. He raised his head as if woken from a deep slumber and looked straight in to the wall. There was a faded mirror hung in the wall right in front of him near the end of rack. He could see his blurred image in the cracked mirror. He was puzzled at the existence of mirror there! Then he saw the mirror had been hit as if by a bullet the top left corner. There were cracks radiating from that point and also cracks circling the focus making it resemble a cobweb. His eyed were now focused on the origin of the crack. As if mesmerized he felt he couldn’t take his eyes off that mirror. He felt heightening of depression within him as if the general gloom of the bar had seeped into his being. As he looked at the mirror, utter futility of life seemed weighing on him. The deeper he looked at the mirror the closer it appeared and then he saw the cracked web lifting off the mirror and engulfing his head. Suddenly he felt his eyes have flipped and were now looking at the grainy brown matter that made up his brain, yet it was covered in the same fragments of cobweb strands as if lying dormant and unused. Is this symbolic of a jaded mind! This frightened him but there was nothing he could do about it, making him squirm with unease. His thoughts now focused on the killing monotony of life he led, utterly meaningless and purely functional. He thought he was an ant, a worker ant at that carrying out a dull but necessary routine but why him? The question rattled him. He was tied down to his wife and children and answerable to a monolithic society. He realized that it will not be sufficient to make adequate financial settlement for his family and buy his freedom because he still will be tied to them emotionally. He wasn’t a free agent.
Then he saw a figure stirring to life at the bar. He threw a languid glance at the stranger, was surprised to see the man resemble his own self. The man looked malevolent, his eyes blood shot revealing bulging veins in the cornea. He was moving towards him with both hands pointing towards his throat in a stance to throttle him. Involuntarily he pulled his revolver from his pocket and fired repeatedly at the stranger. There was complete silence in the bar after the gunshots were fired. The man, he thought, assaulting him slumped over the bar and collapsed. He felt very calm and relieved and began to sip whisky from his glass. He looked amusedly at the few frightened men who were in the bar, leaving the bar very quietly. He remained in the bar for an eternity until, an inspector with a revolver pointing at him, followed by two constables asked stiffly, "Did you kill the bartender?"


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