~ക്രോധം~

"മുക്തിക്ക് വിഘ്നം വരുത്തുവാനെത്രയും
ശക്തിയുളൊളൊന്നതില്‍്ക്രോധമറികേടോ
മാതാപിതൃ ഭ്രാതൃമിത്ര സഖികളെ
ക്രോധം നിമിത്തം ഹനിക്കുന്നിത് പുമാന്‍

ക്രോധമൂലം മനസ്താപമുണ്ടായ് വരും
ക്രോധമൂലം നൃണാമ് സംസാര ബന്ധനം
ക്രോധമല്ലോ നിജകര്‍മക്ഷയകരം
ക്രോധം പരിത്യജിക്കേണം ബുധജനം"
--അദ്ധ്യാത്മ രാമായണം : അയോദ്ധ്യാ കാണ്ഡം--

Sunny Days

The peaceful soul beckoned at the first rays of the day, my room on the second floor of the building was lit by blonde rays of the rising sun, my frenzied fan was trying to give a little action to the air within, the mosquito repellent smiled like a plum mango from the corner plug, buzzing rhythm from the fan motor welcomed the heat waves leisurely to my special space, I reached my hands out to switch it off, that three winged bird complained before coming to grinding halt.

I just gazed at the flower at its centre, the soul suspended the thoughts, the slight cover of my hair on the fore head felt the sweat, those two drops were caught there; I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

My conscious woke up, the soul did not, I did not ask either, bed was hot, my drawing was hot, my kitchen was hot, the vessels were hot, the shower was hot inside the bath, the water was hot, it stabbed my feeble skin, soul sobbed, a realm of secret paradise in my wits where memories of experiences confessed came out with a strange feeling. I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

My cautiously pressed dresses were hot, my bag was hot, and my shoes too were hot, I locked the room and started to office, the sun was glowing brilliantly outside, it outshined the soul. I stepped into the train which came with waves of hot air, in that chaste flash of loneliness I realized; I see the world not as just existence, but as painted in the figure, colour, sound and character.

I coughed, a mere expression of emotion, breathe of my fellow passengers burnt me, heat happily danced around me, I yielded unconditionally. My glass covered office was hot, my dear desk was hot, my adjustable seat was hot, my dancing keys were hot, LCD screen in front sent fire and tricked me, I saw sparks of fire in all the eyes around, they burnt me, soul narrowly escaped, I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

Down the road traffic was thriving, bumper to bumper, every one sought to make their presence felt, not a single inch of space on the road, the lone ‘Gulmohar’ by the end of the lane silently bloomed full, the soul rested there in intense activity where sheer serenity and constant power met at the same point, it was odd though; wind from the south approved dust, approved despair, approved heat, soul was left helpless, I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

It’s dusk now; I could see the distant gas burner spitting fire from the chat shop where I use to have the evening chat. The ‘Pani Puri’ itself was hot, soul protested, receded; the current of sentiment that it stirred in my mind was vague, it was an impression which needed a specific world to please me, I attended to the murmur of a new temper which pledged me the right to a new region of mystery, still I felt the absence, felt the vacuum.

Back in my room, I lay flat on my bed, from where I left it in the morning my three winged bird made a full circle and fired up for further cycles, I was searching for joy, the joy without any outline, which can interpret itself into any figure, the same joy of a singer which is translated into a song, the joy whose surname is love, stimulated the singer within me and divided myself into two to have within me the other self as the hearer, and the exterior audience was just an extension of my inner soul.

Once again I stared at the flower at its hub, the sweat that struck at the forehead in the morning pulled the essence from my oily hair, dragged my pain down to my wide open eyes, my vision blurred, the wings of my bird blurred, I buried my lasting absence there, buried my unending vacuum there, buried my perpetual pains there, and tears started freely flowing out.

Yes, it’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

It's not cricket

As a kid, when there was no television at my home, I remember how I use to watch the cricket matches from the neighbouring house. It was early 90s and all boys in our neighbourhood with great enthusiasm and passion watched every time when India played an international match. No fancy commentators, no glamorous analysts who move the viewer more with their receding dress line than with their knowledge of cricket, before and after the game, no statistical scrutiny; it was all about 11 men, three wickets on both the ends of a 22 yard pitch and the battle between a willow and a metal ball; we just counted runs, wickets, wins, loses, the surmounting ecstasy and tears.

Be it England, Australia or West Indies, as and when McDermott, Ambrose, Gooch or Azharuddin stepped into the ground the battle drums banged within our modest hearts, ‘The Oval’, ‘Lord’s’ and ‘Eden Gardens’ were all re-fabricated in my neighbour’s little drawing room, the game was happily close to each one of us, good old days, quite before we read the fairy tales of match fixing and betting and it was the game that was watched and followed with fervor.

Cricket as a business is not a novel idea, Kerry Packer the Australian media conglomerate did it way back by introducing the faster version of the game and assorted with his business interests and the budding world acknowledged it. As an ordinary Indian, cricket was there in my blood and during the college days, even after the match fixing episodes and confessions of cricketing Gods about their involvements, I bunked classes to watch Team India playing somewhere at a distant corner of the planet. Even there I could easily equate nationalism with cricket.

Today, when I go home from work, when I surf through the channels, I could see the big guns of the game charging under different banners, I just take a deep breath and switch my TV off, am I indifferent? No, I’m the same, still I love playing this game with friends in my courtyard. However, now in India, for the first time in the record of the gentlemen’s game, the teams are privately owned, and this business phenomenon is going to edge out this game as a public service and popular institution. As it happened in my case, I lost my interest in this melodrama called IPL, where cricketers are estimated like cost bulls, and are acquired up by the tremendous rich; a giddy merge of affluence and celebrity and a keenly watching flamboyant media who fêted the auction drama as the feat of new India of open market!

I just could not digest; apologies.

Culprit: BCCI, the open body sharing the privileges to the game in public reliance, has privatized this national asset. Justification: They are imitating the English Premier League, the most commercialized avenue of the most admired game ever introduced in the planet, the mesmerizing ball game. There teams are ballooned with international stars, and every team has its own fan following dating back to the early years of the twentieth century. It is an archetypal form of the pastime played at its most spirited and challenging character without diluting any custom of the game so as to suit the demands of the media or the public, and most notably without any added ‘hungama’.

Are we heading only to imitate the pits of European football? Extensive link with fraudulence on and off the ground, charges of enticement and fixing, trade offs amid team officials and agents, and most importantly the pathetic misbehaviours of twenty something over paid stars, who are always kept in the lime light by the far winged media papa racy right at the beginning of their careers from the teen; is it not a better thought, right before going into the obsession of the cricket edition for the league in India, to see the flip face of the English league?

The million plus bids of Dhonis and Symonds and Pontings are not because of their cricketing standards, but for their mass drawing clout. Cricketers are sheltering booty based on their apparent augmentation of the worth of their franchise, which is not the same as the augmentation of their respective cricket teams. The design of IPL has boosted the international reflection of the wealthiest cricket board, BCCI and they carefully premeditated whopping deals close to 2 Billion, from broadcasting and sponsorship, ruthless range of revenue assured regardless of the eminence of the product on offer.

Clear variations between the working IPL franchises and well acclaimed open market model in the supporting media can simply be seen; franchises themselves do not drive in an open market, since each one is assured a domination in its own city, but at the same time they enjoy the right to utilize an array of public resources at modest charge, state associations aid the IPL by providing the infrastructure including the grounds (as they just cannot fight the BCCI) and the players, but at the same time the customary rights of members and associations will not pertain to IPL games, this is a blunt disrespect. Proprietors will take the teams as throwaway possessions.

The English league got life when the first division clubs pulled out from the Football league, and this can take place in the case of IPL franchises as well. Some day they too can announce autonomy and start dictating a separate language for their players. It must always be remembered that business values are not always equated to the cricketing values.

For the so called ‘cricket fan’, (not sure how many of us really watch cricket now a days), Ranji trophy and domestic cricket will advance into yawning oblivion, and IPL is not really available as a popular game, it just targets a metro cluster with superfluous earnings, in their 20s and 30s (still just a minority). The established commercial addresses that hold the teams will undoubtedly strive to amalgamate their players and their already recognized brand values (which these players acquired through years of patient cricketing virtues) within their superior stratagem and use it where ever possible to improve the vending of their other products and to boost their corporate image in common, is this expected out of India’s most popular sport?

The franchises owe nothing to the game, the ultimate mission would be profit, it’s just the part of their business and the carefully chalked out plan of IPL is a new business model from their master drawing boards; when BCCI or any state cricket association craft profit, in theory at least it should be brought back to the game, but in IPL profits generated will continue with the team proprietor, so money will actually be taken out of the game. And about the talents in the game, is there genuine room in this faster version of the game to distinguish the genius of a Tendulkar or Dravid from any aggressive hitting, momentary, over paid, second rate player in the IPL T20 game? For most players, compensation for one IPL match will be countless times what they could take home from a complete five day test match; 3-4 hours spent under the beaming flood lights of a metro stadium, nerves kept in front of the roaring crowds and the ability to hit the ball to the distant corners of the ground, with little weight to skill and style, this indeed is an astonishing setting for easy wealth for a fortunate few, which in the long run will compel the real mettle of test cricket to the sad romantic sidelines of reminiscence.

In fact the IPL, akin to other privatizations is the blunder of the strategy and it is not all inevitable, as perpetually clarified by the endorsing media, and it reflects in our societal framework the authority of the ultra thin public branch that benefits from it. The startling figures paid for the star players are summoned as the testimony to the command of fresh Indian market, and it fits to the self image of India’s privileged and their middle class emulators. The big rewards here emphasize the aspirational individualism which the corporate media promotes and the only aspiration is to make extra riches.

Indian cricket is a cultural enterprise bent over numerous decades by cricketers and cricket lovers. It is just because of their sweat that currently the BCCI and the franchisees have it as an artifact and a market to abuse it. It is not about cheer leaders or product endorsement and it is not a venue for film fraternity to show off.

I shall be patient, Meera...!!

Dear Pride,
Now you can accept the plight
and try to stoop, to kiss the earth.
The ground is wet, the weather is fine
And you will be at ease;
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Strength,
Now you can lighten your hands,
where pain tremor you the most-
while clutching the slightest weight
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Ears,
Now you can passionately go off
With the fuelling chanting-
of cut throat facts and dusty prejudices.
All in the same sweet venom – words.
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Sight,
Now you can silently burn-
the colours of the amended truth
The dancing wind that blinds you-
is a mirage, it cannot sustain
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Mind,
Now you can consume the thought-
and ooze them out with pleasure-
as hot as you can.
Then digest the inward time in you-
to gallop through your own peace
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Meera,
Now you are too much a burden
For me to carry all the way
But I can lose today
For a gain later, and I’ll be patient for ever!!

An ode to the rain

"It was too early and-
the plays have locked down.
And there was nothing else to do
than to roam around in circles-
in hunt of the preceding
patterns of your fancy light!

The chase blessed me a bizarre down pour.
The shadows you presented at hand
were soothing enough to keep my smiles on,
the regrets as well.

All it was a hymn,
not incredibly nice though
But there came a rainy day feeling
yet again, a nagging old hymn
odd enough to pause me
Yet it went on and on,
and I could not stop watching!

Well I thought I was over you dear,
but I guess, may be I’m not.
Coz every time when I let you go,
It looks like solitude is all that I lost.
You were marvellously smart,
to blind me with your spreading wings!

You turned up when I least expected,
and went on and on,
I wish I could really blame you
when you tipped crazily on my hands
as there were no two drops the equal ... !!"

Nishidati Fuji

There are individuals who have attained their life eternal, and they wandered about the world. They wore no special symbols, only their deeds were centred in the elevated being and were totally under their grip. They were lenient, considerate and courteous, to others. Those seers lived and suffered and rejoiced and died as other mortals, but had no doubts in their minds, no fear too. Hence let us assume, the road ahead the humanity might be long, tough and dangerous, but there would always be a promising breath of spring in the air.

As a matter of fact, their conscious were intensified and so their lives in the world were more vital. Nishidati Fuji, the founder and preceptor of the Japanese Buddhist order Nipponzan Myohoji was a glow among them, a power of the truth, which he struggled and attained, and helped for the development of others.

I was fortunate enough, along with couple of my friends, to visit one sanctorum of his experiments, a peace pagoda in Darjeeling. This little known Buddhist establishment is just outside the ever mystifying town of Darjeeling, the hillock jewel in the crown of British India. Darjeeling is a tourist’s paradise but this is a less frequented spot, we learnt from the local response to our query.

Nishidati Fuji was born in 1886 in Japan and became a monk at the age of 19.He travelled widely in Korea, China and Japan, and warned the problems of breeding militancy of Japan. He came to India and became an associate of Gandhiji. Throughout the Second World War he prayed and regularly fasted for its early finish. When it was over and when his country was recovering from the effects of atomic bombs he turned into peace Buddhism. In 1946 he started building Peace Pagodas as a symbol and accord of mankind, as Pagodas itself is an embodiment of Lord Buddha’s being, and it radiated the messages of truth and non-violence.

In 1969, as a part of Gandhi’s birth centenary celebrations Fuji Guruji built India’s first peace pagoda at Rajgir, Bihar. He built more than 70 peace pagodas all over the world. He started anti nuclear and disarmament movements in Japan, Europe and United States and former Soviet Union. This he did through organising peace marches, fasting, and prayer conferences in which his followers participated in millions inspired by him.

He travelled a lot, but chose Japan, his home land, and gazed at the beauty of universal brotherhood from his existence, kept his love and peace for countless ages, which had not been enough for him, that would melt any stone in the tenderness of it, if touched by the breeze from his magic mantle, to attain Nirvana at the age of 100 in 1985.

Trivial

Window to the west

"Open the window to the west,
And disappear into the air inside you,
into the sky of passion inside you,
Meera,
Were you looking for me?
I'm here in the next seat!
Your shoulder is against mine."
~Kabir Das~

Perceptions

Are we afraid of God? Let me ask myself, Am I afraid of God? I feel I’m. I know he is omnipotent, omnipresent as well. My upbringing, the readings, the conviction, the morals, all these days taught me that he is every where, taught that even I’m the God! Then why should I feel scared of him?

By the way am I calling God him? Is he male? Or may be my manly eyelids aspire he were a male. God can be female too; in the most popular deities of Hindu dharma, there are prominent Goddesses too. When I refer God, am I mentioning any one of them, Saraswathi, Laskhmi, Durga, or are they assigned to particular occasions? It can be, some where my sub conscious was educated, each Goddess for particular cause, for strength, for wealth, for learning, for victory. Oh then we cannot spot to a singularity that this is God, oh God itself is plural, quite perplexing!!!!

Or is he (now it can be she too) just an emotion which renovates the world of appearance into more cherished world of sentiments? Or is he a set of traits which stimulate my emotional qualities? But at times is he not linked to our own selfishness, rather than absolute emotions? Being Godly is being unselfish and it can be unfinished too.

God was an evolutionary idea for me. As a child the small Lord Krishna photo kept at the corner of the mediocre ‘pooja room’ in my home, where mother light the evening lamp, for my folded hands, tightly shut eyes, for the 8 year old kid, that 10x10 inch frame was God, the matchless fear to whom he confessed, requested, beamed, innocently. He was commanding and listened to my pleas, needs, at times despair, (after all at that age what was there to be worried), however, it was a compelling fear, a mark of obedience to fold my hands in front of the frame fusing to the middle class values. When an enhanced room and a place was given at my home, God was upgraded, the frame was replaced by a bigger idol of Krishna, the yellow robes, the anklets, the flute, the ‘mayilpeeli’, oh he was handsome, I remember, just as my mythology taught, yes my God was good-looking, he was gorgeous, and I was proud.

Any way, God was a revered figure in the house hold. He (or she) demanded respect when ever I passed past the nearby temples, unknowingly I chased the elderly gestures, touched the heart in front of the deity, folded the hands and pretended to ask some thing, oh I should please my Lord, my modest mind was mutely mentored, this is the way to pray, which even today I follow; yes I’m dutiful, I stick to my values. The very presence of God is realized (or acknowledged) in all the occasions, without fail.

Later God was described as a truth, a timeless authority, splendour and superiority, an intellect of precision, transcending all quantitative standards – a perception of secret satisfaction. There are many temples of all sizes in my home town, during childhood I never frequented them, but for the rare festive occasions, and pilgrimages were less I must say. During college days, God became more fashionable, we all had relatively bigger tasks, larger issues, better desires, and superior ambitions, obviously God became a necessity, each religion had their own God, and their own days for worship. If my Muslim friends visited the mosques on Friday afternoons, Christian guys had Sundays, the pious day, well enough to stay occupied than sleeping the day out. We were confused, being Hindus (oh, in the meantime there came a pretending noble thought, far beyond the reach of ‘ism’s Hindu is a dharma, a way of living and not a mere religion, so anything can be excused!) we did not set apart a special day for any cause, at least we never practiced, slowly started visiting temples nearby; I realized what is expected out of me. Thus slowly God stood for excellence, with discord of belief about excellence. Later he was the righteous knowledge of the path to unselfishness, the eternal truth.

By the way did I take God with religion? It is a fact; we take everything allied to God with religion. But for me God stood for unselfish truth for the satisfaction, truly personal.

Why do we elucidate so much about God? Is he not beauty? Then what is beauty? Do you remember the last time when you witnessed beauty? And why is it called so? With a school boy’s curiosity did I not watch the beauty contest held first time (even last?) in India with passion? When the skimpy Venezuelan lady, the name which is too insignificant for me to hold in my little memory for that long (yes beauty fades, then why should I?) walked with tiny diamond crown (they called it the world beauty title), and a gentle pay pack, did I not sit in disbelief? Was it not the teenage girl in my neighbourhood with wide open eyes much beautiful than the half naked (!!) South American. Oh shouldn’t complain, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, or I must be blind.

Much was heard about Goa, the sprawling beaches of the former Portuguese territory - they have been the most adored Indian holiday locale, then why were they not appealing for my eyes when I visited there and why even today the little known quiet beach near my ancestor home more beautiful to me? Why do I passionately equate beauty to those sands where we built towering dreams, watched the setting sun, quarreled with cousins for the broken play ball made of coconut palms, why am I relating memories to beauty rather than abstract considerations? May I call beauty as character? Then what is character? Is it the essence of life inside a being? It must not be a logic, but must be a magic which works at the world of appearance, producing harmony, an inter relationship. Will it not give a power to raise in the individual an intimate feeling of reality?

Excuse me; when I reveal beauty as some thing related to individuals and locations am I not narrowing myself? Poets sang the beauty of the flower, the river, the little bird, the charming lady, the seasons, the nature, the sunlight, the darkness, the stillness, the silence, and what not. Is it not the magic of character in all these which define the beauty? Don’t you think that there is a rhythm which is in the heart of all creations, which moves in all the atoms and in different measures fashions the voice and the deaf, the rose and the thorn, the dawn and the dusk, the sweet and the sour? And don’t you harbour the lovely thought that it is not a relationship of facts that weaves the pattern of beauty but is the sense of oneness of our thoughts and the character of the object which radiates it? At least, I do.

Again what is the pattern of beauty? When I watch a cricket match, say India playing Australia, a perfect test match at a crucial juncture, Aussies chasing a possible target and are 3 or 4 down for twenty some thing, and if Steve Waugh walks in with that trade mark chirpy smile, is it not the character that is dictated in the field by the Aussie legend which enthralls the normal Indian fan inside me to enjoy the cricketing beauty that is unfolded in the century that is followed in the doggy determination of the baggie green captain which denied a probable Indian sweet victory?

In a crowded city tram, the betel chewing, dark, dirty, bald fellow carrying metal scrap in the bag which is as old as him, when he offers the seat to an elderly woman, in that air of thick disgust, when he acknowledges that thankful smile back, is it not that gentle gesture that pours in the onlooker the sense of beauty in those shining betel clad teeth and the smoky face?

And character is bonded with laws of beauty every where, in the acquisition of all awareness, in the faultless dignity of the human stature, in the wild excitement of the rains, in the earth’s green layer of pasture, in the blue tranquility of the sky, in the ruthless self-restraint of winter, in breathing the exercise of all powers and in fighting evils, in a hard won success, and at times in the un avoidable failure, it is everywhere which radiates beauty. When I stand in front of that sanctorum, with my hands folded, packed wisdom winds from behind murmurs in my ears, beauty is everywhere, showing that bonds of law can only be explained by character embedded in love.

And then what is love? Is it a movement of unending vibration, a movement at its outset infinitely swifter than anything that we can visualize, and at the same time at absolute peace, rich and full? There every thought and feeling can be an act. Love is where a sentence need not be whole but the idea is understood, where the language need not be applied still one is understood, hence it is total understanding. But there is an inescapable element of pious stupid innocence, which equates the subject and object of love. I always wondered watching the childless old couple in my neighbourhood in their late seventies understanding each other at the slightest wink of each other’s eye, the resonating rhythm in their communication and the care they impart. They often quarreled on the silliest chores, but the time tested love vibrated the rays of innocence and the humblest trust in the fading eyes of that poor farmer couple who sweat out their days to meet the ends. It gave glow to those eyes and their beauty was held there.

We all are mortals, normal human beings, with the purest essence of emotional existence. Evolution process of the world must have tried to bring the elements of truth in every being. It is this evolution that teaches individuals their views, rights, beliefs and ways. Life will always evolve towards a critical mass of truth, towards the revealing of a greater meaning, towards the justifications of the selfish 'I' inside all of us, and all are perceptions, how we see things and most importantly how we want to see ourselves.

Santiniketan

"The child learns so easily because he has a natural gift, but adults, because they are tyrants, ignore natural gifts and say that children must learn through the same process that they learned by. We insist upon forced mental feeding and our lessons become a form of torture. This is one of man’s most cruel and wasteful mistakes" ----Tagore

Birbhum is a quiet district in the mid Bengal, and Bolpur a tiny slumber town in Birbhum, about 150 km away from the Bengal capital, Calcutta. The place was very peaceful, as peaceful as a bloomed rose, probably this attracted Debendranath Tagore, father of Rabindranath to name the place, Santiniketan, and later it was there his more famous son started the school of his ideals, ‘Patha Bhavana’.

The Gandevta Express from Calcutta reached Bolpur by 9:00 AM, it was drizzling, in February it’s an untimely rain, as it was not a festival time, not many tourists were seen, and the small station itself conceded a miniature mould of the sleepy town. With multiple carry bags and camera, we attracted rickshaw drivers’ attention and soon we were encircled by a large gang. Somehow we found our way to the station clock room, we wanted to keep our baggage somewhere safe.

People were friendly everywhere, we never felt alienated, when the officer in charge of the clock room insisted to have locks for the bags, Jayadeep went outside to get one, it started raining, the land of Gurudev welcomed us with nature’s musical note.

To have the true sense of a Bengali town, we started walking, Santiniketan campus is 20 min walk from Bolpur railway station, the streets were narrow, cycle rickshaws are the most popular mode of transport, dirty road side eateries, pan shops, few better off tea stalls, groceries, and the ever ferrying cycle rickshaws, very few odd motorists, it was a miniature cross section of Calcutta.

When it started pouring heavily we got into 2 cycle rickshaws and headed towards the University, it took hardly 5 minutes for the young rickshaw driver to cycle us to our destination, though not having much idea about the topography of the campus he took us to the gate of one of the Santiniketan canteens. The canteen was a modest one, few young students were found having snacks there, talking loud, it was difficult for me to cop up with the mustard oil used in the dishes. We met there a faculty of French studies of the University; he gave us basic idea as where to go and what to see. We thanked him and walked towards Uttaraayan, the Museum complex once used by the poet.

This place near Bolpur was selected by Maharishi Debendranath Tagore to practice mediations. Rabindranath started an experimental school known as ‘Brahmacharya Ashram’ here with an aim to train students in close association with nature in the style of ‘Gurukul Tapovana’ of ancient India. Later an international university named Visva-Bharati came up as a centre of Indian culture. A great lover of nature, Tagore planted trees in and around the Ashram and gave it a green appeal. He initiated several festivals to celebrate seasons, and these were free from any religious narrowness. Our vision was vividly rich with a mix of orange, yellow and green colours all over the campus, the uniform for junior students were orange and yellow, department buildings were grey, typical of any old educational institution, theory classes were held in the open air, and we learnt that if it rains, it would be an off day. Bubbling little kids were found sitting around large trees listening to their teachers, a tremendous scene for people coming from metros. Photography was taboo near the classes, a peaceful serenity filled the air, and we roamed around the campus in disbelief and headed towards ‘Uttaraayan’.

Santiniketan is famed for the Baul singers, the nomadic minstrels of Bengal who sing songs of love and devotion on the ektara, a musical instrument similar to violin but with a single string. The campus is dotted with palm, eucalyptus and Sal trees. Uttaraayan is a complex of five houses where Rabindranath used to live, and the lion share of ‘Gitanjali’, the collection of poems which fetched Nobel Literature prize for him was penned here. Uttaraayan has a museum and an art gallery inside. It took more than 2 hours for us to see them. The Rabindra Museum, inaugurated by Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru in 1961 has manuscripts, letters, paintings and gifts presented by various dignitaries of foreign countries, Tagore’s hand written letter refusing to accept Knighthood, his Nobel Prize medallion and citation, and personal items of the poet. Even today the students graduating from this University are given leaves of the ‘Sataparni’ trees at the annual convocation ceremony. Prime Minister of India is the chancellor of this university.

In the afternoon we met few Kerala students there, doing their Masters in Fine Arts; it was a pleasant surprise, to meet people of the same tongue at this interior Bengal village. They gave us more directions about the must see locales and gave us their cycles to travel. Santiniketan is a pollution free campus and students and faculty irrespective of their position use them. While roaming around in the campus we passed past the settlement of the Santhal tribes, just outside the campus. Santhals are a tribe still not polluted by the modern societal life. On the way we just stopped outside a Santhal hut and talked for a few minutes with an old man who was found sitting outside, we were amazed to see the information he has about Santiniketan and Amartya Sen. Incidentally Amartya Sen’s home is inside the Santiniketan campus and quite nearer to the Santhal settlement.

In the evening we went with the Kerala students to see their works, Ramdas, Sajeesh, Anoop, Aruna, each student in MFA final year will have their own room for their works, they call it studio, and they can go there as and when they feel like and give way to their creativity. Students stay inside the campus itself, we watched their paintings and sculptures, listened to the interesting descriptions each one has to give for their works. ‘Kala Bhavan’, the department for arts in Santiniketan is one among the best in the world. It was all disbelief for me, while standing among those students, Santiniketan, the one which I have read about, heard about, talked about, thought about, that dream unfolding true just in front of me, in that lush campus, among the students, in an air filled with their ideas, their thoughts, their dreams. Our train to New Jalpaguri was at 10; we thanked them for their hospitality and left the campus by 9.

Back inside my train couch I recollected one virtue I noticed in Santiniketan, there was no false improvement on anything, everything natural, without any pattern, be it the structure of the campus, the mode of thought, or the way students live, the growth there was following no pattern, it simply happens simultaneously, which is holy, may be that is why the Santhal tribes still exist inside the campus. Indira Gandhi was groomed there, so also Satyajit Rai, Amartya Sen was christened by Tagore himself in that campus, I felt the greatness of the soil I stood the whole day, and the thought itself was enthralling for a peaceful siesta.

Way leads on to way

"And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference"

~ Robert Frost - 'Road Not Taken' ~

Change

We may find
when all the rest has failed;
hid in ourselves,
the key of perfect change!
--Aurobindo--

kuRai onRum illai.......

What differentiates music from a piece of poem? Both have their own aesthetic beauty. Is it the composition, the temper and ease with which it is rendered, the tone, the tune, what makes the authentic difference? There are sure songs which we cannot penetrate, like a clogged flap, but some songs are simply released, we can enter them and rather seal behind the surface. There we run into something that vibrates, shines, sparkles. To find the essence in the music we are obliged to stride back from the shell, withdraw deep inside, and leave in, farther in, silent and still. There we locate some thing humid, tranquil, and affluent in substance and it leaves a species of gentleness, an evidence of some thing perpetual on a nonviolent facade of stream, where frontier of time no longer exists.

How often do we blend spirituality with a composition? It is habitually transformed to a superior rank of coherence with melodic co-existence. Krishna (or Lord Krishna) is a potent image in the Indian mythology. People of all ages can effortlessly bond themselves to the mould of Lord Krishna in one manner or other. Of the triumvirate, Vishnu stands for the perpetuator and his most popular incarnation legend is that of Krishna. For the public outlook of the ordinary man, this myth and icon is simply approachable and digest able. Be it the stealing of butter from the neighbourhood, or the ‘rasaleela’ among ‘Gopikas’, or the prowess against the uncle, as the legend says, the ruthless ‘Kamsa’, Krishna was always a vibrating veneration and lovely affection in the Indian faith.

The Tamil song ‘Kurai onRum illai’ (I have no regrets) sung by MS Subba lakshmi in her delightful lace of music and prayer was penned by C Rajagopalachari which depicts the purest notion of a commoner with all acidic regrets, with a split of human grief, but by a flair of dissolving them into private responses of an all in all novel worth, about the divine and his quest in the normal world. ‘Kurai OnRum Illai’ itself defines the intensity of craving in the subject’s (devotee’s) mind to the sovereign, the super power. There is no grievance, what ever she has, how ever she is, she is content, nothing further required, ‘I have no complaints’, the womanly voice repeats, mellifluously.

Kannan is the amiable boyhood insight of Lord Krishna, and while the female in the voice seeks to it, it reciprocates the maternal love in the term, which revitalizes the entire womanhood. When the pitch of the voice diminishes it arrives down to Govinda, a full-blown representation of Krishna, as it is professed amid the mass. Hence as a mother and as a child the woman within the singer, the woman inside the appeal is fulfilled with what she is and how she is.

It can be the voice from the behind, can be of the sightless, who is deprived of the elation of colours of the planet, even then the internal observe detains the merry dignity of the polite colours of her darling lord, the sense of care and possession of the Lord embraces the mood, and when she reiterates ‘kaNNukku Theriyaamal ninRaalum enakku, kuRai onRum illai’, with outshining modesty, clutches the uneasiness of truth as restricted by her own intellectual limits, and admits what she is given is worth it and does not argue any further.

When do we solicit? If we are in need; what if the requirements are recognized and met even before they are sought? Then what is the call for an asking? Venkatesan (or Balaji) is the South Indian unparalleled esteem of Lord Krishna, and Tirupati, the seat of him; he who stands elevated among the seven hills is the possessor of the entire affluence on earth. What is the valid need, if he is standing there to account my wishes, to answer my prayers, to wipe my tears, of asking any thing? It is a ceaseless contempt, and the female is fulfilled.

And she knows very well, when the Lord positions at the back, he stands behind the gloom of the worldly desires, and only those who comprise the beam of knowledge can attain him and she is not believing herself amongst them, admits that she is in the darkness and never treats herself one among the ‘maRai Othum NYaaniyar (those who read Vedas), she just aspires to be in the ordinary, among the humble and does not clamor the thought of any complaint. She is eternally happy.

She is acknowledging the primacy of God, the stature which she never dares to accomplish. ‘kalinaaLuk iRangi kallilE iRangi, silaiyaaga kOilil niRkinRaay kEsavA’ - You are standing on the rock, in this Kaliyuga, your build is enduring’, she declares. The woman uses the word ‘Varada’, though she seek no special blessings, and she very well knows that no power can stop him, and she is assured that when the mother of an ocean of blessings is standing In her life, why should she be complaining? The song ends with an eternal call to Govinda and proclaims that what you seek is within you.

As one of the commonest human being, chances are that we may watch a sunset and almost merge with it and inhale vivid happiness, as a normal music lover, we may listen to M.S.Subbulakshmi, singing ‘Kurai onRum illai’ and drop our self in the delight of every word, pitch and note of the song and almost sense elated to another edge of life and breathe the same contentment and of course, melt in tears of joy.

Shadows are dark

Meera,
'You are white, I'm brown;
but, look
both our shadows are black'.
(Alas, I forgot; blood is thicker than water)
-- Courtesy: Chullikkaad --

I shall shut my ears, Meera

Meera,
When I read,
I read your eyes
with the eyes of the polite spirit.
And when I asked,
I asked you to feel
the feelings of the famine
from the past.

And then I passed,
I passed your stillness
to feel that peace
with retained ease.
And there I opened,
I opened at your (own) shade
the glorious moments of
poise and faith.

And soon I sought,
I sought by testing
the infinite test of experience.
Hence I yielded,
I yielded to the seduction
of brains and practice
from the dictated paths.

But there I stood,
I stood upright
As firm as a rock,
amid the havoc.
And Meera,
If you (still) want me to shut,
I shall shut my ears
to the melody of my heart.

But, remember
(though I shut)
I coded in my psyche
The melody that I heard
and the lesson that I learnt.

Decibels of Love

What is a conversation? A word, idea, command, order, or even flow of love, lively emotion? Our emotions transform the world of outer shell into more cherished world of sentiments. It brings to us ideas, vitalized by outlook to suit the life stuff of our nature. How can beauty be related to conversation? The purpose of a talk is the production of loveliness where as splendor in a talk has been a mere instrument and not it’s inclusive and vital worth.

It was a normal Friday evening, on my way back to home from office, the whole city flying to the nests in the dreams of a wonderful weekend, I was in no hurry, leisurely walked down the second platform of the Begumpet railway station, have to catch my MMTS train to Chanda Nagar, it was 8:15 PM, a terribly chilly December nightfall in Hyderabad. The platform was noisy; bursting of passengers waiting for the Mumbai bound Hussainsagar Express. The scattered baggages, kids running around, porters squeezing through, it was gladly colourful.

A small group of older citizens came walking behind the lane, next to the over bridge, all woolen clad, cracking some jokes, laughing at their peak pitch, one was a Sardar, others must be Telugu, but they all spoke Hindi, must have shared the same office in their prime or must be living together in a local neighbourhood, I have seen them quite a few times in the same plat form, as natural they left a buoyant feel in the tone. I walked till the end of the platform to spot a bare bench, where I use to lie down if alone, almost outside the station, the book vendor came rolling his cart, and I did not raise my head.

By 8:45 the Hussain Sagar Express arrived, thriving mob and the crawling suitcases filled the air, porters busily took orders, and few police men were walking. The train use to stop there for few minutes. People were busy settling down; friends and relatives of the travelers surrounded the bogies in large number. The long siren was given, standard announcements, the monster metal vehicle parted with the station, far-off waving of passengers to their beloved ones faded round the corner at the next turn in the track, gradually rest of the mass started melting down, deep air and an uneasy stillness filled the emptiness in the platform, my train was at 9:05, few more minutes to go.

Two seats away from mine I noticed a couple, probably in their early thirties; the man, he was assembling towering action with the hands, which I could not stop watching. He was wearing a designer shirt and a denim pants, a bulky bag on his shoulder, and the lady, sitting with her legs crossed on top of the seat was in a mediocre salwar, had dark un usually petite eyes, a tiny nose ring glittered the whole face, which supplemented the glow from her eyes, she was following his feat with ease and thrust. All the way the man’s face and hands said every thing, he was dumb, how ever, his eyes were animated, his energy was steadily sustained in its activity and she was shaking her head in answer, was composed, peaceful and serene.

They were conversing, ideas were generously flowing, the lady too was responding with her hands, both of them were dumb or at least he was, I could not make it out, but could sense the smart chat that was flowering there. With all the known lexicons in my store, with all the tuned decibels in my repertoire, in all my faculties of passion and creativity I could never be so very expressive in ideas, that smooth in chatting, that free in conversing, that pure in loving, while giving voice to my thoughts, I must confess. Their conversation was a delight to watch. I could observe them for hardly few minutes, perhaps less than five, my train arrived and I could not afford to miss it and I left those angels of inner voice in the frozen oblivion of Platform no 2.

Life

"Replica of life
created by life and form will go,
Leaving behind
an illusion of light and shade"
--Tagore--

'Aaditya Hridayam'

Fear

In time we hate that which we often fear.
&
In a false quarrel there is no true valour.
Courtesy : William Shakespear

Smiling Shore

The stream was always steady, it never care to bear any mark of the past. Hundreds of boats sailed on top, in the calm mood, in the dancing temper, and in floodwater; none could script any scar, any hazy fancy mark. Close to the shore, the boat was consciously empty, only to keep some room for benevolence, was tied to a thin, delicate mast. The subtle mast bonded the vessel to its heart, the smiling shore.

Hurrying men passed by, no single traveler rowed the vessel to ferry the muddy water to the greener bank of their dreams; the liner reserved itself open to brace the entire blue sky above, peacefully with the little mast, the quiet cohort. Every time a flood arrived, the boat stirred closer to the mast, closer to the shore, narrowed the span of the time-weathered cord, which bonded them to infinity. Boat made full circles in the stream and each circle drove the mast close, clear and dear.

It was raining; as the mast witnessed silently helpless, the intense waves came from the blues and the vessel conceived the whole hammering drops onto its virgin bosom. The under current was stubborn, which shook the mast, trembled the string, troubled the vessel, hit it hard; the roaring clouds and the ominous lightening dictated their despair. The shower was soporific, a heavy wave threw the boat towards the shore, it hit the mast hard, and hard enough to painfully break it, but the mast hold the vessel to withstand the fuming current. The flooding water crossed the haughty borders set by the shore. The boat made repeated circles, half sunk, surfed through the rippling waves, just to find the mast holding it to the heart.

The smashed shoreline was still smiling at the mast!!

Close your eyes, Meera

Meera (the forgotten),
What, You cannot remember those spices?
But my eyes were never dull,
As you filled their voids
With those spices of happy excitement-
and your gratitude.
All that made me wise.

Meera (the lost),
Did you know, you were never charming?
Just as the wind outside
Though I never crossed my see-through passage
-for your silent honoured guest.

Meera (the messenger),
Are there any flowers
In the tiny garden of your kingdom?
Do they have honey
and wild bees wooing around?
Did they ever nod,
when their comrade breeze ask
the stupidest question, ever known?

Meera (the beloved),
Were you alone, all the way?
Come; be seated, next to me.
And hold me, as tight as you can.
I shall tell you my empty tale of gloom.
But once the fancy sigh is over, allow me to forget,
For ever.

Meera (the hunted),
What, you shot my little bird
And made it dumb?
Do you know how to mock
and voice her songs
In the same melancholy tune?

Meera (the angel),
Close your eyes, you cannot help.
Did you over step to the unknown shore?
I offer my pride to your feet,
Close, close your eyes,
lest you will not be forgiven.

Meera (the stupid),
Let my tears cleanse this mirror,
where I use to spot myself all the day.
Before you rob it from me for ever.

But....Meera (the truth),
here (is that) I'm right and
you are not wrong!!!

Going with the heart

I have not taken the first step in knowledge;
I have not learned to let go with the hands,
As still I have not learned to be with the heart,
And have no wish to be with the heart or need,
But, that I can see, the mind-is not the heart.

I may yet live, as I know others live,
To wish in vain to let go with the mind-
Of cares, at night, to sleep;
But nothing tells me that I need to learn
to let me go with the heart!

Courtesy : Robert Frost (Wild Grapes)

Bubbles of Bliss

A pleasant September morning, on my way to office, as usual in the little compartment of the city local train (they call it MMTS in Hyderabad) from the Chanda Nagar station. I have special affection for these quite little coaches, less people, less talks, less hassles, but the same windows, the same sky, the same breeze, the same serenity at less cost, my choice was apparent. Hyderabadis are notorious for their rage for entering the speeding vehicles, true to the tradition two young guys jumped into the train no sooner did it touch the platform, I had to brush them, who stood on the doorway to head to my calm seat away from the opening. I spread my news paper to have a quick look, there were very few passengers, and I was relaxed.

Soon, I was distracted by a teeming child’s voice which filled the blending emptiness of the coach; the MMTS trains are as neat as the city itself and always present a pleasing experience for the outsider. He must be less than 8 years, trying to have a grip on his dirty pajama, and a coloured box with soap solution; with a purple cap, he was a typical kid you can spot in any Hyderabadi lower middle class Muslim neighbourhood.

He bit a pumpkin straw which he drew himself out from the box and water droplets oozed out. His younger sister in a light red frock, was around, and he was trying to woo her, spoke Urdu, for me it looked as if he was convincing the little pretty how amazing it would be to blow it into spicy bubbles out of the soap solution. Their mother (or grandmother, as she looked quite old) was unmoved, less interested, was dozing; the thick burqua revealed only her closed eyes and she appeared very composed unmindful of the little ones in the coach.

But the boy was busy with his act.Running around, searching for a better seat, each time he took one, talking to his sister, he was so expressive, the expressiveness found less resistance in the surroundings and the sound, he was unaffected by the burden of facts and thoughts. It gave the surroundings an intimate feeling of reality, the music of the speeding engine in the front itself became an independent object, which assumed a tune which is definite, but a meaning which is indefinite, but still it gripped our minds with a sense of absolute truth.

Now they are sitting next to me, I just smiled, he did not care, his sole attention was in fixing the bottle on the side window panel and to make his sister sit on the seat next, she could hardly walk, must be 3 year old, the stinking marks of an old cold and the oil tints from the curly hair formed a line beneath the starry eyes, she squeezed the little fibre bangle on her left hand, and did not protest when he made her sit on top, they are ready now, I became curious.

The train stopped in the next station, more people poured in, now it is noisy inside, one of the passengers tried to push her aside to him, the protest was instant, the new passenger gave in.

Now the boy piped the air into the little bottle, the dusty liquid inside protested, dazzled inside, blew, a few bubbles came out, train passed a sharp right turn towards hi-tech city and the morning sun’s grandeur reflected on the little bubble with seven colours, the rainbow unveiled but brighter colours were seen on the blushing cheeks of the younger one, in her wide open eyes, and it multiplied to thousand colours at the sight of the bubble, isolated from the straw, mounting to the top. He shrugged her face firmly, to reach the straw, she squeezed it holding it with both the hands, finally a better bubble came, moved away, ascended up, up, up, the whole compartment was illuminated by the glow of their joy, two blissful souls cried, cry of freedom, ecstasy, achievement, the cry of contentment in doing the limit, the dancing bubble went up, further scaled heights to the top of the roof, hit the metal and burst, the two jubilant souls set for their next charge.
The whole compartment is silent now!

They felt their idea of life not as mere logical deduction, but as real as the air to the bird, who feels it at the every beat of its wings, not through any reasoning but through the illumination of feeling. The whole coach, mostly government employees, was watching them, the little ones were great things for us, our consciousness was never dull, the bubble was bubble, the colour was colour, the breeze was breeze and we could not be indifferent to them. We were blessed with the sense of wonder which gave those kids their right of entry into the treasure house of mystery which is the heart of existence.

Mocking Mahatma

I was watching the Door Darshan live telecast of UPA Chairperson Sonia Gandhi’s address to the UN General Assembly on the eve of World Non-Violence day, commemorating the birth day of Mahatma Gandhi. The speech was short, rather a few minutes of presentation. Despite being on the other side of the political beliefs and ideologies of the party which she belongs to, my silent prayers were for a smooth, flawless presentation and each time she stumbled upon any word out of nervousness, my heart was with her, I saw her failure as mine as she represented the whole of India who gave birth to the luminary personality of Mahatma whom the whole humanity salutes and the land where his ideas were put into practice and succeeded to a great extend though not realized as absolute. She has done a fine home work, and did a fair job, thankfully!

UN General Assembly adorned to have eminent personalities in the history, the cradle of a few renowned orations ever rendered by Indians; a long tradition of voicing our views from that royal dais, right from the record breaking address of first defense minister Sri. V K Krishna Menon through the mesmerizing Hindi vocalization of the former Prime Minister A B Vajpayee. None of them simply spit at the mass in front or to the larger, eager audience across the globe the secretarial text in front on the podium, they were the voice and vision instead, of millions of Indians and the values which we stand for. How far have we come?

Here, on the birth day of one of the greatest leaders India ever contributed to the whole of humanity, world’s largest organization honoured the day with General Assembly session attended by delegates from all parts of the world. With all my due respect to Mrs. Gandhi, let me say, India definitely should have put a better face who could convey the message of non-violence and Ahimsa to a global audience in a better, stronger way on such an auspicious day.

Gandhi lived till the mid of 20th century. It’s just 60 years since we gained freedom. At least a tiny minority of those freedom fighters who burned their youth for the cause of nation must still be alive. We are quite a young nation but within a century after securing freedom, Gandhi and his legacy have become so fashionable among Indians that it can be used for purported purposes. Those who can no way relate themselves to him inherit the name and exploit securely. When the Kashmiri journalist Feroz Ghandi (remember, not Gandhi) married the first Indian Prime Minister’s gorgeous daughter the public image of the late leader was adopted by a whole family. We saw in her the rigour, charisma and burning will power of India’s strongest and most arrogant Prime Minister; the surname Gandhi got acceptance and became anonymous with the Nehru family. It descended through the next generations to reach her sons to revolve around a myth which interpreted itself into election victories and family dominations in the Indian political scenario. When Indira’s over hyped, good looking son, Rajiv inherited power it reached another level and the juggernaut still rolls and the flag is now with Sonia.

The never ending Indian political drama in which members of the Nehru family were brutally assassinated added to the public sentiments and still Gandhis of today are the great grand children of the old Mahatma for the Indian illiterate though they share nothing in common.

Have we, as a nation, not graduated ourselves to come out of this foolish dynasty politics?

Sandhya

Courtesy : Ayyappa Panicker

Learn to Labour and Wait

Trust no Future, how ever pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within and God over head!

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Courtesy : H W Longfellow

History makes Sense

I’m not a historian, never did I learn history as a major subject nor did I read it much, I did my graduation in Engineering and works in an environment where history and related topics are of literally zero use in my daily activities. History and historical thoughts, still I believe, need to be seeded, discussed and taught.

History is not some day’s story of someone else’s past but it is our own story as how we evolved, how we developed, how we were brought up; the introspection of our own identity to the qualified, blossomed social animal and to a larger extend the story of our existence too. To know the information 1000 years back may not fetch you the next day’s meal, but it can tell us the reason why we eat, the way we breathe and the reasons behind each and every human action, the end result of tireless work of numerous historians - the fact, even if we accept it or not.

’Why should you bother what you are, who you will be and what you have to be’? - This is a high degree of individualism and pseudo independent thought. Forget about the civilized human populace, every single species in the whole of universe depend each other for existence, denial of which would be a mere darkening of the truth. We need to keep safe the gains and falls of the past to have a better tomorrow.

Isn’t there a difference between scoring and knowing? Remembering a fact without understanding how it is related to life may score us couple of examination marks, true; but as individuals, we know and grow little; gain as well. This is applicable everywhere. A mathematical formula can be read re read and over a period of time can be memorized, and once we spit it right on an answer sheet we may gain few marks or grades, but those are mere figures, or expressions unless we relate them to actual life; as useless as the dumb information we read from the history books.

It is these insights from the whole string of good and bad experiences make men a developed species. And there helps history and the historical thoughts which make us more rounded as human beings. The means, the ways and more importantly the mistakes our predecessors committed in their lives define ours too and it is foolishness to state that we care them not.

The very fact that incidents of distant past will not leave its traceable remnants makes the job of a historian challenging. It is not the historians who cannot see beyond the nose, but it is those who manipulate the facts for their selfish needs. Is it not the same history that taught all of us to denounce Hitler and the perpetrators of all the genocides over the world? Is it not the same history that taught us that the problems all over the world are always the struggle between the haves and have-nots’? Then how can history be harm to humanity?

We cannot diverge from the truth to say, that only a well written history is the epic of real life. It focuses the actions of men in an attractive and jubilating luminance. Rejecting what is unjust and superfluous, it mixes its picture with real, warm, and well drawn images. Yes, it is a story and all historians are story tellers. He, who controls the present, controls the past. He, who controls the past, controls the future. History is not a single college book or a news paper article published in the past. It is the record of the things that we experienced, united with others. Well written history must always be the result of genius and taste, as well as of research and study. But history, while it throws the light and speaks, confines itself to facts, related to actual events. The absence of a well knit nest of history and historical study in the modern day scenarios does not necessarily mean that history and historians have lost their significance.

The dignity of history consists in recalling the incidents with integrity and accuracy, and in presenting human agents and their actions in an interesting, instructive and informative form. The primary element in history, therefore, is truthfulness; and this truthfulness must be developed in a constructive form. Efforts must be to revive the truthfulness in our history, the integrity of the facts that we push on to the coming generations, the transparency and the open ness to accept, acknowledge and correct the old mistakes, and not to put the blame on history for all our ills.

Yes it is true, history was always written by the victors, but remember, there are no chronic victors in humanity. The only ultimate victor is truth and time; both are fantastic historians!

Wonderfools.....!!!

Something which is beyond the reach of man but made possible by a conscious, patient effort; may I call it wonder? A calm beach, a mist clad dawn dusty path, hovering butterfly in an autumn garden, a little child’s sweet smile; for me all are wide eyed wonders.

The way to touch all the springs of wonder in us is to get before our eyes as thought, that which we are feeling and doing. The things that we do we think not. What I am I cannot describe anymore than I can see through my eyes. The moment another describes to me the man I am -- pictures to me in words that which I was feeling and doing, I am struck with surprise. I am sensible of a keen delight. I am and I see my being at the same time. These glance from it to the pictures that we see with lively pleasure and all the wonders are so.

A great work when analyzed is a set of detached parts; a poem is a detached set of sounds and Taj is a set of detached set of marble pieces. But an inner medium of love and aesthetic architectural perfection connects those inner elements, discovers a perfect law all through, which is never violated. But this law itself is the limit. It shows what ever it can never be otherwise.

Taj was built in the 1600s by the Mughals, its unending beauty, architectural elegance and people pulling charm will last for ever; whether approved by a private organisation or not. But in the era of globalised corporations and liberalized economies innovative means for churning huge money was always a challenge for the new age marketing gurus. But, out of the box thinking and the geographic and political means to accomplish them the New Open World Corporation, a Swiss, more notably, a Profit Organisation, did it, bringing all the smiles to an array of telephone operators, television channels and all those who are fancied to have the gimmicks for a publicity stunt.

It was never the part of any rat race. The cross sections of the world populace (remember only those) who watch television, surf the net and own the mobile phones voted for the wonders of the world! What? Yes, that is how we define wonder today. Or that is what we are taught, that wonder is decided just like that! Feelings of mystery at the root of all our delights are lost when we discover uniformity of this law. The moment Taj goes for the race and people are urged to rediscover the wonder in it, this delight is lost.

Agra is one of the worstly managed cities of India. Those who made all these hues and cries in the past few weeks should have shown half this enthusiasm when the industrial houses on the eastern bank of Yamuna over a period of time marooned this white wonder. High content of toxic gases in the air, pathetic city roads, highly corrupt public administration all have done much harm to this symbol of love already.

We all forwarded messages, sent SMS’, came out to streets to campaign for the Taj and this cause, those of who did not try any of these, silently watched the fiercely spelt televised debates and analyses aired to our living rooms as to whether Taj will make into the final seven or not. But why? Were all these required? The nation’s precious bandwidth which could have used for some productive purposes went waste for false propagandas. True this would definitely improve the Googling hits of Taj and India at the same time it met the target figures of those who played for it too. All this mess can be bracketed as pseudo nationalism. Had Bill Gates, Mukesh Ambani or Rupert Murdoch wished to include their homes or business houses in the new wonders, they too could have done that. Buy the votes from the company as you buy the shares in the market, float money to support it in the media and public sphere, people will any how come and support and you are through.

Light a small candle in the consciousness corner of your heart, that light will help, be more silent, drop the noise in our head, then, this continuous possession of thinking for any thing and every thing will be stopped, let us be a little wise.

Nothing Gold Can Stay