Strangers on the Train

It was like a dream: holding the hands of Sophia, and driving into the Heritage Village at Kohima, when the mist had not yet cleared from above the grounds and the dew had not left the petal-beds of morning blooms. Her hands were cold and soft like the tubers of the wild orchids growing on both sides of the road, which led to a museum which housed, of all thing, World War II artefacts. She plucked a flower of a most strange and exotic shape, and caressed its moist petals. She rolled her eyes with their misted askance look, prodding at my awareness, and said:

“You know, drying makes some of them look more beautiful. And it’s quite a task to dry them while keeping their shape intact. Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

I hummed in agreement. A forsaken jeep, a 1942 model, caught my look– left hand drive, soft top, manufactured by GM perhaps. It was being used by the labourers to gather stone from the quarries. They were pushing it from one end to another manually. Work was in progress for the Hornbill festival, the annual celebration of the Naga people, as we entered the museum, at the outskirts of the village.

“No, no, no,” she said, expressing rapid disapproval at we entered it, “let’s go into the huts. Museums are creepy. Too many ghosts.”

I complied, much too charmed to argue in favor of the influence of history in appreciation of the present. The huts were not too far off. They were built as if cascading on the slopes of the mountain, jutting out of them firmly. Each of the native tribes were given their huts to manifest and market their artefacts and some of them were already at work, enjoying every moment of it. From the distance and through the fog, we could not see what they were up to, but their sounds were mirthful, even to the point of suggesting glee. The mist was clearing as the sun was coming up.

She ran up into the huts, giving me a chase to enact. I followed, pretending to search her, but secretly observing the huts and their architecture, instead of looking for her. I entered a hut where they had placed a long boat-like wooden structure with mottled sides and long rods in the cavity cut in between.

“It’s a drum, stupid.” She picked up the long rods and started beating on the mottled sides, making different noises. The wooden boat began to grumble rhythmically. After her demonstration, she handed the rods over to me; I was supposed to imitate her actions. I wish I could enjoy it as much as she did, but willy-nilly I began beating the drum-boat-thing. She watched me, as I was slowly and gradually picking up the beats. There was so much privacy at such a public place. Sophia guessed what was in my mind, and she said:

“Everyone is quite busy enjoying themselves.”

I grabbed her in my arms and planted a kiss on her lips. The curls of her silken Naga hair, like snakes intertwined into each other, unfolded out of their pattern. Her skin smelt of beef and butter. There was something funny about the air. It seemed to be crowded.

“Look here,” she said, getting out of the embrace, and moving out of the hut. She pointed to a statue of a Naga tribal woman, wearing only ornaments and weapons.

“People lived like this in Heaven, before the fall of mankind,” she remarked.

“Yes, I know, I know. They were punished to wear clothes, but God being the most merciful, made the garments an adornment for mankind. Stupid mankind, always prone, always falling…”

“What is it? Why are you always this grumpy?”

“I am not always like this. Can’t you smell the air? It’s so confusing: there’s this redolent perfume mixed with the terrible stench of death. I’m not able to think clearly at all. It’s like I’m swooning, a bit like one of those tribal dances of your people. I don’t know what’s driving me crazy; it feels like I am about to faint.”

“So weak that he can’t handle a kiss. Come,” she said and took my hands and led me out of the hut. I could see the sky again, and already I could feel some blood reaching my brain.

The gloating sounds of glee that had made me curious seemed nearer. The smell of death and the fervor of curiosity increased. Sophie had left my hand, and disappeared into the noise. A party seemed to be in progress. All hands carried goblets filled with a resinous red liquid.

“The Blood of Christ!” Her voice made me jump, and she came upon me from behind, with two glasses in her hand.

“Is that really blood?”

“Nah, it’s wine. Although, it’s blended with the fresh blood of a young strong bison. I can’t resist it. Let’s try the intestines. Wanna have some?”

Her lips were stained red; pieces of flesh stuck between her teeth. I could feel my heart pumping blood. For a moment I was nauseated, until I saw the headless bison, or rather the shivering torso of what was once a bison. Then, I went numb.

“Grab your nerves. It’s morning, not night.”

“I want to go to the museum. Let’s go, if you’ve had enough.”

“Look at all those beautiful Naga girls you’ve been dreaming about. What happened? Everyone is watching you. What will they feel if you leave now, in such a hurry? You are with me, why worry?”

She usually shot her questions at places which I could not see; the arrows of her logic aimed at galaxies far beyond the scope of my comprehension. It all added to her charm. Being manipulated by her made me unworthy of being fooled ever again.

“It can’t go on like this, Sophie. We need to agree on something.”

“We can agree to agree on nothing. That way, we are both always predictable.”

“You are not listening to me.”

“You are not listening to me.”

She licked the bison’s freshly scalped head. The structure of a bison’s face, raw in its technical details, received the acidic touch of her tongue. I felt a violent urge tugging at my stomach. Was it hunger, I perused. I felt I was going to throw up. I had to make my way for the museum alone.

I came out of the village . I waited for Sophie in the museum. She did not come. It was like a dream.

————————————————-

We were sitting on the top of a train, remembering a film we saw together.

“I have a friend; she’s a Christian. She drinks blood. The blood of Christ, I mean, every Sunday.”

We both laughed.

—————————————————————-

I woke up on the bus with my head lying on the shoulders of a neighboring stranger, an old man– fair, bearded and solemn. He was engrossed reading a book.

“I am sorry,” I said, waking up with a start.

He turned over to my side, and gave me a smile. From behind his glasses, two stars twinkled.

“Did you know that you laugh in your sleep?, ” he asked me.

“Do I? It must’ve been a pleasant dream.”

I did not know I laughed in my sleep. Here I was, ashamed of having disturbed his comfort during my sleep, and here he was, trying to comfort me from my shame. If there is any such thing as breaking ice, it was already done from his side. I had to return the grace.

“What are you reading?”

“The Bible. Have you read it?”

“Yes, some of it. The old testament is a little weird for my taste, the new one suits me fine. Are you a pastor, Sir?”

“No. But, I was a priest once.”

“What’s the exact difference?”

“Just different posts in an organization. Nothing you should care about.”

“Organization, hunh? You are no longer with them, now?”

“No, I resigned.” He smiled, as he looked away from the book, and out of the window.

“Sir…?”

“Immanuel, my name is Immanuel.”

“That’s a beautiful name, it means God is with us. Wasn’t it a name of Christ?”

“It is a title of Jesus, as is Christ. You seem to be quite interested in the mysteries.”

“Oh yes. They’re so fascinating. And the language of the scripture is so amazing. I love language. To tell you the truth, I feel religion owes a great deal to art. But you wouldn’t agree.”

“I certainly would. And I also think it is time religion came to people rather than waiting for people to come to religion.” He said, again staring out of the window.

We sat in silence for a while, until the pressure of curiosity got the better of me.

“Are you visiting India?,” I asked.

“No, I am here to stay. I am an Indian. My parents were French, but I was born and raised in Pondicherry.”

“I’ve been to Pondicherry. It’s a lovely place, and the Auroville ashram is so beautiful and serene.”

“Oh, and did you visit the lovely strip club they have there?”

At first I thought, I hadn’t heard him right. But it was too obvious to have misheard.

“Yes, I did. I found it over-rated.”

“Really? Most would disagree. What were you expecting?”

“Nothing. Just something exotic. But, I mean, have you also been to that place?”

“Ah, yes,” he said triumphantly.

“Tell me something Mr. Immanuel, do you like women?”

“Of course, I do. I dream about young girls these days as much I used to dream about death when I was your age.”

“And it does not divert you from your…work?”

“What is my work? I am a jobless man who belongs to no organization.”

“I mean, you do look the kind with revolutionary ideas. I am sure they did not tolerate you at the church. Let me ask you, do you really believe in God?”

“What sort of a wrong question is that!”

“I mean, you do or you don’t, isn’t it?”

“Is this an inquisition?”

“No, I am just curious. I am sorry, I don’t mean to judge you, but I’ve never come across someone like you before. You seem to be quite nice, but you are strange.”

“Ah, that. You see, when Christ came upon the scene, no one had ever seen anyone like him. It’s alright. You see, I believe I have a friendship with Christ. Does that answer your question?”

“Most Christians would think in terms of the body of Christ, the flesh and blood, and the sacrifice.”

“Christ isn’t interested in my flesh and blood; look what he did with his own. I revel in my body. I think all he wants is my piety. I have nothing else to offer.”

“That’s… true.”

“You bet it is.”

“Did you leave the organization out of your choice, or were you asked to leave?”

“I left. Out of my free will.”

“Tell me, Sir, now that you are not really into organized religion, isn’t there money and politics involved in this whole business?”

“Where there is money, there will be politics, and where there is politics, there will be no friendship.”

We were approaching our station. The train was coming to a halt.

“I really want to talk more. Can we meet some other time? How long would you be staying?”

“Not much, I would be traveling to Bangalore tomorrow to meet my daughter. But it was nice talking to you.”

“It was. Does your daughter work in Bangalore or is she a student?”

“Both. She’s a curator at a museum. Sophia, my beautiful wonder.”

He left me sitting puzzled. He got off, and I was left alone to gather my baggage and I continued to pursue my way, still confused about my state of being.

“It was nice meeting you, Sir,” I shouted from behind, but he was busy marching ahead with whatever he was possessed with. I couldn’t even make him out from amongst the crowd. He looked so common.

There are times when you dream that you are dreaming, and there are times when you wake up into your dreams. There is no sleeping after that.

Belonging to Life

Honey,

I cannot seem to sleep. Even when I am dreaming, my senses crave for you; and as if out of habit, I consciously keep giving form to what is the ineffable invisible light of your being, like trying to grab the air in my palms. I am surprised to discover that I have limbs, that I can move, that I exist. I seem to think that I can breathe without you.

I can reason again. For a moment there you had become so palpable. Having the memory of your taste is like having heard an unstruck sound. With every passing moment since I am back, a longing for being united creeps inside me and the taste in my mouth tends to become bitter. Ah, memory is fulfilled now that it remembers you. The momentary touch of your changeless ageless substance has undone the customary deadness of ritual.

Imagine my wonder at having a body and to feel that yours is different from mine. You have hands now, and mine are different from yours. As if in a fugue, I left my body to travel to the end of cosmos where a vision of annihilation shocked me; I was scared and could not cross over to your side. But you are here.

I remember how I played with fire, setting many old photographs ablaze. The fire always assumed the shape of the picture being consumed. It was terrible at times and at times it was comforting. But, I could not burn you; you were beautiful. All that was not you perished. I seem to be getting back to my senses, or rather I should say, my senses seem to be getting back at me. I feel modern already.

Do you remember how these ancient slaves of the finest order– the senses– paid homage to you with all honesty and sincerity when we were together? Now, they do not seem to obey your will, perhaps contemptuously, since you seem so familiar. Anarchy will make them unruly. My eyes are not used to seeing you like this, quite like myself. They ought to be trained to unsee what is not polite to be envisioned.

But forgive me. Do not consider yourself tainted because of the defects of my eyes. Of course, you know everything. Eyes are mere globes of fat, you will remark with nonchalance. Do you remember how I painted your eyes? I had the greatest fun knowing that you were watching me when I was doing it. For a moment there, I felt I had made those eyes, like those eyes belonged to me alone.

Oh, how jealous I am to know that you are watched by others! I thought I could have you for myself and for myself alone. Heaven knows no wrath like that of a spurned lover. Yes, I remember now how we got separated. How could I dare to think of others when I was with you? Unclean heart, weep and repent, till the tears have cleansed your wounds!

Let me confess, I do not pretend to understand you in all your sublimity. You are famously mysterious. I was just happy that you were so graceful and charming; I would’ve felt I didn’t deserve you, if you’d forced a form upon me. We had quite an intimate moment there all by ourselves when we showed our hearts to each other. Mine was so narrow it could accommodate nothing but you. Yours was so large, it even accommodated me. My reasons were limited, but your cause was limitless. My embrace was intentional, but your embrace was causeless.

I did not believe you were so forgiving. Anyone else would be considered naive to have made such unconditional mercy mandatory upon themselves. Why, they feel they should be rewarded more for their discerning righteousness. But belief was not my aim. I began to believe so that I may understand; I did not attempt to understand so that I may believe. While I am worthy only to be a slave of such beauty, you insist on friendship. I will die if you continue to shower such mercy. I am greedy and obstinate, ignorant and wild. I was in love with love, until you loved me.

I would’ve died if I did not come back to my senses, and I am still unable to understand whether I was engrossed in an ecstasy or suffering from a cataclysmic vision. Considering that I am back in the province of reason, I must conclude from the body of evidence that my body seems to be working fine by itself. The heart is working on its own without needing to be seen by you, thoughts are clinging to my intellect without wanting to be engrossed in your form, and the senses are giving orders which I readily seem to find obligatory. I have come back to life.

This is where I belong, in you and with you– where I have known you, but without any pretence of having fully understood you. There is only the faint impression of a wisdom or a flash of an impassioned impulse, of what awaits beyond the nuptial night when the moon has shied into nothingness and the sky is unclothed from shadows of its false clouds and the borrowed light of stars.

In the guest at my home, the wind in the space, the fruits of the trees, the fire in the altar; or the courage to speak truth, and the strength to bear separation: I promise to remember your face until the fever of life has been stilled. To promise anymore would be perjury.

Till then, I remain guilty of having my heart stolen by you. I remain bound to the weak imitation of your impeccable beauty, or my gullible imagination. I remain,

Your slave, your friend, your lover

Patience

There will be delay. There will be incompetence. To add to it all, there will be a lot of emotional heat generated on account of ignorance. You will be held responsible for the mistakes of others. The mistakes of others are your mistakes. Others will not accept their mistakes; you will have to do it on their behalf. You will not be allowed to give excuses. You will question if life is worth living, after all. You will tell yourself repeatedly: the problem lies with yourself.

You will be confronted with your own overwhelming ignorance. It will make your limbs inactive. There shall be no certainties offered to you; you will have to discover them yourself. Your habits will not support you; they can only make it worse. This is called change. It will humble you. You will learn how to spell empathy and compassion in deeds. The only thing which might be of help is the momentum of your character, and not your personality.

You will not be allowed to stop being good-natured. Your identity is your own burden. You will not overlay the sufferings of others with your own. If the others could manage to be better, they would; if they cannot, it’s your mistake. Others are not hell. No one will hold your fingers to help you learn how to walk, but you must always be ready to do it for others. This is not a moral imperative; it’s enlightened self-interest.

You will not get any rewards for your active engagement; rewards motivate inferior beings. To be able to have the opportunity is a reward in itself. Without risk, there is no return. You will not be afraid of being criticised. Those who indulge their tongues in criticism are mostly lazy. To act against an attitude is a greater criticism.

You will understand that the most precious possession you have is your heart, and that is where the wellspring of positive energy comes from. You will be negative only towards negativity. Instead of scorning the bad, you will praise the good. Hatred is a waste of time, and what is more, an abuse to your heart. Jealousy is not always bad; it can be a way to absorb positive energy. If the sun were not jealous, it wouldn’t give light. If the plants were not jealous, they wouldn’t grow. Jealousy is often accompanied with love. If it is not, then it is envy, and that should be rejected. Acceptance is the pole around which the sun of wisdom and the moon of love revolve. None can take charge without accepting the truth.

The truth is not all five fingers of the hand are equal. You cannot teach the unwilling and you cannot learn if you don’t want it. To take charge means to accept the worse for yourself in order to give the best for others. This is what separates men from beasts: men are meant for giving, beasts are meant for taking.

To give orders, you must first bear them. You must accept that your patience might come to nothing. Not for nothing is a leader so ideal. Nothing but patience can teach you to take decisions for others which they cannot take for themselves. Nothing but love can  convince others to sacrifice. As for you, you are nothing more than a sheep led by a shepherd. Don’t look up; upwards, there is only the sky. Instead, look within; what lies inside is vaster than the sky.

You will return to your house late in the night, refill yourself with necessry resources and after that, bring out that nice book and read from it: Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.

Unabashedly, you will place your palms over those words, remember the father and mother of your nation, and find that the fire in your eyes has turned to ecstatic tears.

You are never alone when you are being patient; in fact, you are in the company of the best men ever.

Researching the lost time

सारे यार मेरे गुज़रे कल हो गए
तुम ही हर शब्द, हर पल हो गए

अपने होने का बड़ा गुमान था उन्हें
खुद को जाना तो पागल हो गये

जो भी मुँह में आया वो कह दिया
तुम हर बात के कायल हो गये

ज़रा सी ही देर पहले वो आये थे
ज़रा सी ही देर में ओझल हो गये

याद नहीं ‘सुन्दर’ क्या नाम था उनका 
इतने ही से होने में घायल हो गए

The Waiting Room

I am the echo
of a long forgotten song
reverberating in a chamber.
My voice is made up of counterpoints: 
one blasphemy and one prayer.

————————————————————

The company clerk wipes the sweat over his face; and as his hands move over his mouth, he momentarily admires the new french-cut which he is sporting. The dull humid song of an October afternoon in Guwahati continues to play as the old fan in the chamber rotates eccentrically. The fan is dangling from the ceiling, which is quite high and makes the other people look smaller than they are, the clerk thinks, while smugly noticing that he is taller than all of them. Time is not at its best behaviour, and the office of the BDO (Block Development Officer) is forlorn, because it is lunch hour. Hunger hits the clerk, but he reminds himself that he is fasting. After a while, hunger does not hit the clerk anymore, and he is free to observe. One by one, and sometimes in pairs, they all leave. After a while, he sees that there is only one more person in the BDO’s office waiting for the BDO to come, a young woman. He is not alone, the clerk exclaims in his mind. He continues to observe her.

Her face is wax– stolid, disinterested and yellowish. Her heart must have molten. She must’ve combed her hair neatly in the morning, but they are not obeying her earliest commands at this moment; some tufts choose to fall over her eyes and her forehead. Her head is bowed and she is taking no notice of the clerk as he watches her. The clerk continues to observe.

There is something familiar about her face; the clerk cannot put his fingers on it. It reminds him of his sister, only it is much paler; or perhaps a friend in some previous incarnation. Perhaps, too much fasting, or maybe she is poor. Her clothes are colorful, and her lips are red from chewing betelnuts; but her sandals are absolutely tattered. She lifts her head once, looks around, notices the clerk who shifts his gaze as fast as a gazelle chased by a panther. There is something righteous about her eyes and her way of seeing; she does not consider herself an object of pity. The clerk revises his gaze, and returns them upon her casually. Her head is bowed again. Her neck is beautiful– taut, slender and spotless.

The clock strikes 2.00 and the BDO should be available any moment. The peon is punctual, already on time at his desk.

While the clerk hands over the company visiting card to the peon, the lady initiates a conversation with the peon in Assamese. She is visibly pleading and the peon angrily thwarts her from speaking further. Then, he changes the demeanour of his face and again greets the clerk. The clerk hands him over his company card, which the peon takes into the BDO’s chamber. He returns expectantly, and says: Dada will see you now.

The clerk casts one more glance at the woman. She is sitting in her corner. This time, she is crying with her head in her hands. Her muffled voice will not pierce the curtains into which the clerk now walks.

————————————————–

Dada is sitting on his chair, looking benevolent and merciful. Civilized cultures demand that some hours be given off duty after the lunch for dozing off to sleep; it is scientifically proven that siesta, or bhaat-ghoom as they call it in Assam, makes men healtier and sweet-tempered. As soon as the clerk enters the BDO’s chambers, he begins to feel happier and cheerful, and lazy. Perhaps the BDO finds this atmosphere congenial for working. Perhaps, the BDO is as healthy and sweet-tempered, the clerk conjectures.

“Come, come, have a seat. I have a big order for you. I spoke with your boss. We have a long relation that goes back in history. OK, you want red tea?”

So far, so good.

“No, thanks. I prefer it with milk. And sugar.” The clerk is trying to put on his best behaviour without trying to give the impression of being an uninitiated fool. Perhaps, the BDO is doing the same.

“Mixing sugar in tea will spoil all the taste. But anyways, you are new here. Aye, Fokrul, come here.”

He gives clear instructions on the preparation of the two varieties of tea, as elaborate as a connoisseur, and as patient as a mother, and Fokrul seems to understand everything. The clerk sits comprehending nothing linguistically; but observes that Fokrul knows beforehand what he must prepare, although he still likes to listen to his boss when the boss is giving his orders. The boss likes giving orders; Fokrul likes taking them. There is a tacit undertsanding between the master and the slave, and there is something shamelessly graceful about it.

The clerk is quite sure about the deal. He is confident about his cleverness; what worries him is the number that he will be able to clock. 10 or 15. Can he make it 18? That should please the boss. But he must begin somewhere…

“Dada, there was that lady outside… She was weeping. What happened?”

“Oh. She’s still there?”

Pause. Dada takes a deep breath, and sighs. He is about to deliver something profound. He is looking emotionally constipated.

“Very sad story, sad story… You see she’s a widow. This Pooja only, last month, her husband passed away. Drunken driving accident. No insurance, nothing. She is a fisherwoman from a village thirty kilometers away. Some idiot in her village told her that my office gives ten thousand rupees compensation to widows if they apply on time. She started walking at 3.00 in the night to reach at my office before it opens. Of course, there is no such scheme. We told her she was misinformed. But she wouldn’t relent. She does not even have the money to go back. I did not have the heart to have her thrown out. There’s really nothing we can do for her, you know.”

Pause. The clerk takes a deep breath, and sighs.

“Yes, God only can help.”

The two finish the tea in a hurry, as Dada beckons Fokrul to clear the table.

“OK, Dada, maybe if the department had a decent transport… The new government order allows purchase authority to the BDO. Here…”

Dada looks at the government order, looks at the reverse side, glances at some of the pages in the middle, and then inadvertently throws it back on the table.

“Hmmm. I have spoken to your boss. We have been offered a very attractive deal. We had submitted the tender already. I believe you have come for the cheque.”

Dada shifts the drawer; and then for a moment savours it between his eyes while bringing them closer, and looks piercingly at the clerk. The clerk smiles. He knows the job is done. Dada begins to sign the cheques with a royal effect.

“Dada, we were thinking your department is the biggest here; it will need atleast 20.”

“Aichsaala! 17 is all I can manage. I also have to answer. You will understand. Here is the cheque for 10, and here another for 7. Get them deposited today itself.”

Dada takes out his packet of cigarettes and begins to light one. He offers one to the clerk; the clerk takes out his own packet. Both smoke, talking in between about the rising fuel prices and issues of governance and insurgency.

Dada has the last word: Governance is like driving a diesel vehicle; unless there is traction, you don’t enjoy it.

The clerk knows he is merely playing a role. He does not have to do anything. He is a clerk after all. He does not do anything; he merely watches things as they happen, and makes reports. As he stubs out his cigarette, some of the smoke goes into his eyes. He walks past the curtains, back into the waiting room.

————————————————————

She is not in the waiting room outside the BDO’s office. He expected to find her still sitting and crying in the waiting room. But she is not there.

He bows his head down, and leaves the office. As he walks out, he thinks he should call his boss and inform him about the success of the deal. He begins to dial the number on his mobile phone, and keeps on walking to the exit. There, near the gate, she stands, gazing at the road, looking at nothing, with her back facing the clerk.

The phone begins to ring.

“Hello?”

“Boss, sorry, I will call you back later. It’s done.”

He cuts the phone and walks to her. He takes out his wallet, and gives her a 500 rupee note, without exchanging any words. He is still unable to look into her eyes. She refuses, perhaps out of shame. Now, he looks at her– into her eyes– with a pleading look asking her to take it. She bows down to touch his feet. Before she completes the action, the clerk is on his feet, running away from her as fast as he can, as if in fear and exasperation. She does not know that it is the ground beneath her feet and the dust beneath her tattered sandals that the clerk finds worth worshipping.

All the tears which had been held back ever since he had walked inside the curtain are escaping his control. Humbled by the tremendous epiphany of his littleness, he is sweating from the burst of running; he does not know that it has started raining. The clouds are sprinkling water on the face of the earth, even as the merciful breeze whispers in his ears: You have done nothing.

————————————————————

Like the darkness of a fathomless sea darkened
by wave above wave
and above it all, clouds.
Layers over layers of dark.
If one stretches forth his hand, he can scarcely see it.
For he, for whom God has not set up a light, has no light.
- The Holy Quran

Gandhi and Pluralism

This post was edited

Gandhi baba ki jai ho!

He’s one, the true.
He’s only.
His name is Who.
Who is he?
He lives the word;
it is Be.

Pluralism is a doctrine which holds that reality consists of several basic elements of being. I will, without further pretence, declare that I am for pluralism, and that I wish to convert any and as many to this way of being that is at the same time true and beautiful. I have disclosed my point of view, the fountainhead of my subjectivity.

I can restate that pluralism is a way to understand the polymorphism of reality, which means that at the same time reality is one and many. Pluralism is not merely a syncretic endeavour to breed tolerance; it is a genuine effort of the heart to embrace all the epiphanies of the one true experience, like the coat of many colors worn by Joseph. That coat of Joseph, the 11th son of Jacob and one of the 12 patriarchs of Israel, made his brothers jealous and they sold him into slavery in Egypt. Much like that coat, pluralism makes the worshippers of monothiesm jealous, because worshippers of monothiesm may not necessarily be worshippers of monoreality. Yes, those who call themselves as monothiests can be worshippers of an ideology rather than a reality, with a dogma enshrined in their hearts instead of a personal form of the highest reality. For such unsuspecting folks, it can be said that their minds are less richer because they spurn the advances made by the diversity offered by the world (God only knows the wrath of a spurned lover!). They would like to see only roses in a garden, and no other flower. Some of them are called fundamentalists. Their perspectives are veiled by the heavy burden of what they want to see, or show. Rather my experience suggests that they would benefit by allowing the highest reality to manifest itself in its multifarious dimensions.

Can the concept of a highest reality be reconciled with monorealism? Pluralism accepts a polymorphism of reality, which allows for the highest reality. This is the one reality, in the true sense of the word. The very phrase Allahu Akbar, which means God is the greatest, explains it all. God is present as the greatest reality in the matrix of realities. For some realities, it can be said that what is true for one may not be true for another: such is not the highest reality. The highest reality is the one which is the same for all. Pluralism is the most beautiful way to look at the true reality, like it deserves to be looked at for best effect.

Why am I waxing lyrical about pluralism? I am an Indian, a Hindu citizen of a country where pluralism is turning out to be a failure. This is tragic because whatever is most praiseworthy in India is because of her pluralism. And it is on the downside, which brings me to the occassion. Today is 2nd October, Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday. People like the Mahatma belong to the entire world, not just to Indians. Today we celebrate, or mourn, according to our individual tastes, Gandhiji’s birthday.

When I was in Pune, I regularly used to go to the Aga Khan Palace in Kalyani Nagar, which houses the tombs of Kasturba Gandhi and Mahadev Desai (manasputra of Mahatma Gandhi). It is full of Gandhi memorabilia, like his spects and clothes. The walls are lined with heart-warming paintings depicting India’s struggle for freedom. There is an impressive statue of Lord Ram as a tapasvi in one of the chambers, with a kamandal in his hands, and one in which he is holding a bow. The building is impressive: surrounded with trees and open spaces conducive to reflection, beautiful architecture, and modern amenities. Gandhiji was put under house arrest in 1942 at this place, and he quite liked the place; later, it was at this place where both Kasturba and Mahadev Desai passed away. The film by Richard Attenborough was shot at this location as well, amongst many others places of pilgrimage. This place has the effect of a temple upon me. Once, Gandhiji expressed a desire to the then Aga Khan, HH Sultan Mohammad Shah, that if India were to become independent, he would like to have this place for an ashram; today it is a beautiful mausoleum where the serenity one feels at the passing away of someone who can never really pass away rings in the very air that flows through it.

Today, I am in Guwahati. Do I feel separated from my temple in Pune? Well, Kaaba is in the heart and Kufa is in the head. I revelled on Gandhi’s birthday by treating myself to a choice vegetarian meal and spent the rest of my time in experimenting with truth. Gandhi maintained that the body is the temple of the Holy Ghost.

Once, a journalist asked him why he was favouring the Muslims so much despite being a Hindu, to which he replied with a rare anger: I am a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian and a Jew. Without Gandhi, I wonder if I would ever have known pluralism and the ineffable ecstasy with which it has enriched my own life.

That brings me to a speech I recently read by the current Aga Khan, HH Sultan Karim Shah. I quote an excerpt which I find tremendously moving:

This analysis brings me to my fourth theme: the centrality of pluralism as a way of thinking in a world which is simultaneously becoming more diversified and more interactive. Pluralism means not only accepting, but embracing human difference. It sees the world’s variety as a blessing rather than a burden, regarding encounters with the “Other” as opportunities rather than as threats. Pluralism does not mean homogenization – denying what is different to seek superficial accommodation. To the contrary, pluralism respects the role of individual identity in building a richer world.

Pluralism means reconciling what is unique in our individual traditions with a profound sense of what connects us to all of humankind.

The Holy Quran says: “O mankind! Be careful of your duty to your Lord Who created you from a single soul and from it created its mate and from them twain hath spread abroad a multitude of men and women.” What a unique and profound statement about the Oneness of humanity!

And yet, just recollect the number of situations where pluralism has failed, dramatically and detestably, in just the last ten years: in Pakistan, Afghanistan, India, Sri Lanka, in Kenya, Rwanda, Darfur and the Congo, in Iraq and in the Balkans and in Northern Ireland – and the list could go on. No continent has been spared.

A pluralistic attitude is not something with which people are born. An instinctive fear of what is different is perhaps a more common human trait. But such fear is a condition which can be transcended – and that is why teaching about pluralism is such an important objective – at every educational level.

In the final analysis, no nation, no race, no individual has a monopoly of intelligence or virtue. If we are to pursue the ideal of meritocracy in human endeavour, then its most perfect form will grow out of a respect for human pluralism, so that we can harness the very best contributions from whomever and wherever they may come.

Little can be added to what was has been expressed above; it is the harf-e-aakhir (literally, the last word) on pluralism, and what it can do for humanity. This is what Gandhi exemplified in his behaviour, his life and his attitude towards religion, although he may not have been infallible at times. About religion, it can be said: He who knows only one, knows none. Characteristically in the past, Hinduism incorporated elements from all that which is the best, and so erstwhile India flourished. Today we are copying from a nation which has, thankfully, started doing some soul-searching itself. The very reason US flourished was because it embraced the human differance. But then, elements like Christian orthodox groups and Ku Klax Klan started manipulating the fear which arises out of a false sense of loss of self. If Edward Gibbon were alive, he would have liked to pen a book titled ‘The Rise and Fall of the American Empire’. I pray to God to please bless America. But this is a dangerous digression…

Let us address that fear of loss of self, because it exists and it can be transcended. Such a fear is founded in ignorance about the true self and hunger for being something else other than the self. The self is a notion which can take a form, or remain in a formless state. Self is where the identity takes root. Because such a reality is best described esoterically, it is also open to manipulations by dubious fallacies which themselves have no connection with the highest reality. They fall under the category of non-self, an example of which is the belief that paradise is reserved only for those who are baptised as christians. Some miguided folk, fools or ignoramii are also inclined to think that the paradise of Christians is different from the heaven of Jews, which is altogether a separate place from Jannat of the Muslims. Abraham, the father of many nations, would weep at such a lack of insight in his children. Such a fear which breeds contemptuous separatism needs to be transcended by eradicating its causes, lest one miss the glimpse of the highest reality, which is very choosy in manifesting itself– much like a mysterious beauty which knows that it can know itself only through a mirror. But then again, it has been said: Ask, and you shall receive. I believe the mirror of wisdom is kept hidden at the most accessible of all places for anyone who wants it; but the question is how many really want to see it? The heavy price you have to pay is by the heart, for that is where it is concealed. A gnostic jumps in joy at this thought; the fundamentalist scorns it. The price paid by the heart is self-sacrifice, and it is the highest act of love. The sacrifice made by Gandhi makes me want to say that India is the body of Gandhi. Of course, I may be wrong in saying that, but it works for me.

Gandhi was most important for India in his role as the father of the nation. The greatest teachings that this Mahatma gave us were embracing pluralism and incorporating ethical literacy. It was not a new teaching, but nevertheless it is a teaching which requires new livers of the word. Having dealth with pluralism, which is not a reformed and revised polythiesm, we must ask: What is ethical literacy?

The elementary morality observed in dealings of any kind is called ethical literacy; it is a euphemism for conscience. For instance, if we use a particular measure for buying, we should use the same measure for selling. Lack of observance of this principle leads to market crashes, if not immediate spiritual depravity. Stockbrokers can testify.

There are places where I have found it difficult to accomodate Gandhi into behaviour. Indeed, this is what should’ve been my experience. One is not generally born with an ethical literacy. At any rate, I was not. One of the places where Gandhi was difficult to accept was in his strict preference for food. One may ask why Gandhi was fanatical about vegetarianism. I am guessing, beyond all political affairs, that it is only because at that time vegetarian food was easily available. At places where vegetation is sparse, Gandhi might’ve insisted on eating whatever was easily available– fish, goat or cow. But by saying so, I am falling into the trap of becoming a Gandhian revisionist. I certainly do not wish to be so, nor do I want to be a Gandhian fundamentalist. I am happier worshipping the esoteric idol that is inscribed on my heart and in my head. However, so is Gandhi also inscribed on the INR 500 bill, which is a classic case of irony which needs no further explanation.

That brings us to the value of money and how it is equal for men travelling all the different national highways and state highways of the pluralistic reality. The lack of sufficient money, often called poverty, is an unavoidable reality which India encounters. It makes many cry, and the tears in their eyes are heavy on the national conscience, if any. A danger that is faced in the application of pluralism is losing vision of the monoreality, which leads to a confused conscience. For instance, I have a touchstone for judging the highest reality: if it is not patient and loving, merciful and compassionate, it is not the highest reality. At the highest reality, there is no hatred, no punishment, no rejection; in the highest reality, there is no fear of opposites, for they have been dealt with at lower realities. If the vision of the highest reality is lacking, one is bound to become despondent and inactive. One must shun such a state; the words incribed above from the speech of the Aga Khan are useful to this end. Until and unless ignorance and hunger– the rahu and ketu of poverty– are given salvation, they will continue to make us heads without bodies and bodies without heads. Tears of ecstasy will not replace the tears of sorrow. Until then, there is a lot of work which needs to be done. If the Government cannot do it, citizens will have to do it nonetheless, and peacefully. In India, we know that the powers that be in the Government are not infallible. They have been known to use those two evils to their own political advantage. Not only that, they even exploit the lack of identity to defeat the case for pluralism. Gandhi anticipated this ages ago when he declared his individual satyagraha against the ignorance and hunger which are born anew with each new generation. There is a lot of work which needs to be done by all generations. Ignorance is not simply ignorance of the word, but also ignorance of the self. Hunger is not only hunger of the body, but also of being. Both these causes must be addressed at the level of matter as well as spirit. The dichotomy of matter and spirit is not possible in the highest reality envisioned in pluralism. If I love a reality, my actions should show it. If I believe ‘God is the most compassionate, the most merciful’ my actions ought to reflect compassion and mercy. Faith is binding, because only faith can release. This is why it has been said: Let thy righteousness exceed the righteousness of the scribe.

May we, as Indians, move closer to the clear conscience which embraces variety, and not lose sight of the single soul from which we are all created. Let today be a day of strength, and let tonight be a night of power.

The light of inner burning

इज़हार-ए-ज़त क्यूँ ज़बाँ का दर्द आखिर सह रहा है
काहे काफ़िर आशिकों को बेपरस्तिश कह रहा है

कोई वीराने में साहब याद करतें हैं उसे
चश्म-ए-तर से जो लहू का आज दरिया बह रहा है

बाँध ले बाहों में कसके ओढ़ ले ‘सुन्दर’ उसे
जाने कबसे घर में तेरे वो अकेला रह रहा है

War on Hunger

Bismillah!

Sometimes, the greed for spices makes one forget the need for food. Only hunger can remind us the real taste of food. This is why it is said, hunger is the best sauce. Fasting is not just a passive ritual of the meek; it is a supreme tantra practised voluntarily upon one’s own body, a noble war. It does not cause weakness; it can only make one stronger. Moderation in everything means avoiding all excesses, even an excess of moderation.

But then, hunger is not just an absence of food; to many in India, it is an absence of opportunity to food. Call me bourgeois, but the involuntarily hungry ones have no choice; here, the question of free will is addressed not merely intellectually but compassionately. A skimpily clad actress is not vulgar; poverty is. Some say, at the risk of being cynical, that Satyajit Ray’s films made a product out of an Indian poverty; but he might have considered them as incontrovertible factoids, as a human document, as a report to the boss on the failure of a project. My aim is not to reduce any form of art to mere propaganda–although art used as a vehicle is not necessarily kitsch. I am thinking of Franz Kafka’s Hunger Artist.

The other day I was reading some unpublished letters of the great writer Hazari Prasad Dwivedi, who wrote the marvellous and beautiful ‘Banabhatta ki Atmakatha’. He is writing about the rates of nominal measures of rice, rental, school fees for children and the trouble of making ends meet. He wishes to coach students in language, but ‘outsourced coaching’ is against the law. Increase in salary is accompanied by disproportionate inflation. If there is protest in his words, it is muffled by his warmness. It seems to inspire him to write another book, that he believes will get him some monetary reward. It is a moving letter, a human document in itself. It cannot be forgotten, like the hunger artist. Anyone who has read ‘Banabhatta ki Atmakatha’ has met the exuberant and intense panther. But, the sense of failure in the letter is draining. As an audience, we gather round the cage to celebrate the festival– the happy waste of energy which the panther symbolizes– and we never want to move away. How long can one continue to forget that he belongs to the hunger artist, with him in his cage? In the story, till the curtain rises, or shall we say falls, the manifestation of his fine art remains esoteric– the latent channelisation of energy. Thanks to Dwivediji’s congeniality with suffering, we find him as one who has amicably lived in the forest of paradoxes and saved himself from bitterness.

There is a terse question with no accurate answers that faces us: How can a writer act when all he knows is how to remember? (Jean-Marie Gustave le Clezio)

I began writing this before I had read the lecture. When I was through with reading the lecture I was amazed at how thin the membrane is between the common memosphere of the writers in which they all compete as jealous lovers spurned by the Goddess of truth and beauty. They all express the same personal experience. I was in my room trying to think if there shall be an earthquake any moment. Great writers have a way to make you feel they are talking about you, whenthey are only talking about themselves. It is so because of the nature of a lover’s consciousness. And who can love without language?

Language is not mere words, but also sounds and gestures. Songs and dances. The lion’s magnificent roar, the snake’s hissing, the rustling of leaves in a forest, the sound of one hand clapping: they are all instruments of literature. Language is richer than merely grammaratical rules. Even divine communion is, after all, a communion. Silence in the face of ineffable ecstasy speaks volumes. When King Kong climbs up on the top of the Empire State building and pounds his chest in vainglory, may I dare say that it is a higher culture than the one which espouses the Empire State building? Do I dare disturb the universe? How can a writer act when all he knows is how to remember? Jean-Marie, I have become you.

I think therefore I am.
I speak therefore I become.
I act therefore I continue to exist.

I have a belief that the insight of the writer is carefully carved out by God to make him see the most beautiful in the most despairing. The vision of the writer is enlarged so that he may be able to keep the faith while making the leap in his imagination. He is taught the word so that he may acknowledge the truth. Writing would’ve been an end in itself if the climate that bred it were not so overwhelming that one could only bear witness and submit. The only writing which seems to me as an end in itself, is the literature which follows the tripartite work-ethic of truth, divinity and beauty. This is the work-ethic of God, the Lord poet of the world, whose expression all writers seek to imitate. To never give up on the reality which is the reality given upon us, is not only a noble ideal but a duty.

Like all delusioned generations, mine too wishes to alter the reality that we inherit along with its burden, experience and salvation. It would be too easy to join the gang of organized dissent, but that is not the way of my heart. Despair is the path of least resistance. It can be difficult to find one’s path around in the forest of paradoxes. Jean-Marie says: The best writer as witness is the one who is a witness in spite of himself, unwillingly. I think of Satyajit Ray. He was an unwilling witness, absent today when critics indict him of showcasing Indian Poverty. The words of Dwivideji do not seem to bemoan his condition.

Can we be brave and sensitive critics when we fear to see others lampooning us? Ad hominem arguments are often considered bad manners, and spite is a mark of professional jealousy. I personally think that someone who calls me an ass on my face is my best friend. While those sitting on eclectic Mt. Parnassus wrestle with structure and purpose, those at the footstools combat the instructions dictated by the overpowering tyranny of helpless human subsistence in the face of ignorance. One feels for the other that they would be better if they were alive; the other feels in return that one is a bookless, backward, superstitious race which had scarcely emerged from the twilight of mythology. None can see both, save the witness, and he sees both turning a blind eye to themselves. This is what we can learn to do, act like we are not blind to ourselves, hypothecating the vision of summum bonum.

They believe the world has moved into the 21st century; they must add that poverty is an anachronistic absurdity. Those who hunger and thirst after righteousness are continuously filled in the spirit; those who hunger and thirst after the world are continuously filled in the belly. Man does not live by bread alone; man does not live by word alone, either. One can have both, and enjoy neither.

When wars are made for such things as oil or the supreme name of God, Hunger is a cause not altogether unworthy for war. To make peace, we must feed the hungry– those hungry for salvation, those hungry for love, those hungry for justice, those hungry for knowledge, those hungry for freedom, those hungry for attention, and above all, those hungry for food. And we must not draw any boundries. This is the great sacrifice, the great Yajna.

For God’s sake,
Let the war on hunger be fought without weapons and with noble acts.
Let language fill the dark empty space between cultures and divides.
Let there be peace amongst political forces so that one may eat in peace.
Prithivih shantih, aapah shantih, vanaspatayah shantih, vishwedevah shantih

Pre-Marital

To whom it may concern,
who shall tolerate my worship for the rest of her life
———————————————————————————————–

देखो महाभारत मेरे मन में छिड़ी हुई है
दर्शन के बाद ही से तपस्या कड़ी हुई है

हारने के डर से हृदय में जो स्पंदन है
छीनने को आगे ये दुनिया अड़ी हुई है

आगे ही बढ़ते रहना संकल्प हमारा है
ये जान के ही पीछे  पराजय पड़ी हुई है

आखिर तो इस रण में हो जाना समर्पण है
क्या देखते रहने को दृष्टि बड़ी हुई है

अगला भी जानती है, पिछला भी जानती है
ऐसी निगाह मेरी नज़र से लड़ी हुई है

तारों भरी निशा में सिन्दूर की रेखा है
रौशनी लपेटे  तेरी मूरत खड़ी हुई है

चेहरे की इबादत मन्ज़ूर क्या नहीं है
मुस्कान भी साहब की मोती जड़ी हुई है

होना  है धर्म जिनका ‘सुन्दर’ वो  हो रहे  हैं
शायद किसीकी रचना मन में गड़ी हुई है

A Gift for the King

For my Shi’a friends
————————————————

वली का यार हूँ फ़क़त बशीर नहीं हूँ मैं
मज़हर-ए-फ़तेह हूँ सिर्फ़ नसीर नहीं हूँ मैं

शब-ए-दीन की किस्मत में अँधेरा कभी ना हो
बनी चाँद का ख़लीफा हूँ वज़ीर नहीं हूँ मैं

डरता है क्यों मुसाफिर इस राह के पत्थर से
बाब-ए-आलम-ए-क़ल्ब हूँ जहाँगीर नहीं हूँ मैं

होकर मुझी से ही मिलना है फिर भी ज़रा लिखो 
कलम-ए-अकबर हूँ लक़ीर का फ़क़ीर नहीं हूँ मैं

कैसे न हो ज़मानों का नूर शान-ए-मोमिन अमीर
तुम ही कहो ‘सुन्दर’ क्या शेर-ए-क़बीर नहीं हूँ मैं

यारों, दोस्ती बड़ी ही हसीन है

For my sister

————————————————————

मुहब्बत है जो की जाये, इश्क़ अपने से हो जाता है
वली और बशर में फ़र्क़ यहीं से ही शुरू हो जाता है

सीने में तूफां का डर तो रखते हैं हम भी, लेकिन
याद तुम्हारी आ जाये  तो फिर आपा खो जाता है

ज़ख्मों पर लबों से जाने क्या लिखकर तुम चले गये
दीवाना उनको पढ़कर अपने ही समझ रो जाता है

उफ़, ग़म-ऐ-उल्फत ज़बां से ज़िक्र  करें भी तो कैसे
माली ही तो ग़ुल के संग काँटे भी बो जाता है

मैला है आँचल मेरा धूल और मिट्टी से सना हुआ
जाने कौन आकर अनजाने में उसको  धो जाता है

ज़ालिम हो जो मिलते हो तुम किसी ग़ैर से उसी तरह
जलते रहते हैं हम और वो क़म्बख्त सो जाता है

बेगरज़ वो दोस्ती क्या जो न हो हर दम ‘सुन्दर’
वैसे ही चला आये चला ऐसे ही जो जाता है

Becoming nothing

For the anonymous reader
———————————-

Given to extremes, abashed, amongst all I became.
The greater I grew, the more miniscule I became.

The hardest hole was hidden behind the holy house.
The wings had barely flapped when entrapped I became.

My entire being is a witness to it’s destruction. 
Why swear upon myself, when I that guy became?

The snake, too cruel to ask me if I am doing well,
slipping from head to tail, a sorrowful cry became.

What reward may your love offer in this world,
which, even without you, an oppressive lie became!

Too crowded was the air for the lack of insight. 
The grace of a tiny gaze an entire sky became.

Ecstatic, I kept a story writing drenched in blood. 
All the while pen-like absorbed and handless I became.

Ah! The warmth of your blood, from fear of which 
a haughty hollow heart the means of high became!

The lusty ones’ victory is in giving up the fight. 
Those lifted off their feet, flag-bearers shy became.

Witness, I didn’t stop to be naughty in the night;
a lover of others’ charity a beggar sly became.

Inside the home, outside the house

For my Mother
——————–

Dhyana Moolam Guru Murti
Pooja Moolam Guru Padam
Mantra Moolam Guru Vakyam
Moksha Moolam Guru Kripa

Beholding the Guru means concentrating.
Serving the Guru humbly means worshipping.
Words of the Guru are the means of chanting. 
Guru’s grace is the only means of liberating.

The first Guru of all mankind is the mother. Prophet Mohammad was once asked by an inquisitive admirer as to who had the greatest claim on that inquirer with regard to service and kindness, to which the admirable Prophet replied, “Your mother, and again your mother, and once again your mother. After her, is your father and then, other relations.” Not only this, but we are told that at the mother’s feet lies paradise. It is the mother who introduces the child to the concept of unconditional love. There is absolutely no self-interest involved in labour pains. The Siddhas have taught that a soul chooses it’s mother before being born.

My mother was born in Hazaribag and brought up in Ranchi and Calcutta. Her father was a General Manager with HMT. She was the eldest of four siblings – two younger brothers and a younger sister. The youngest one was stillborn, and my grandmother could not take the loss. Her consciousness gave up on the world, and she became like an unguided body. Her mental condition was irreparable. My mother became the lady of the household while still a child. Greater still was the pain when the elder of the brothers renounced the world for reasons best explained with silence. With all this, she managed to top her classes academically, and even finished topping the state. She completed her graduation with a gold medal in Sanskrit, but never gave up learning.

My father, a young poet and playwright, was given her hand in marriage. He was one never too keen on classical education. He, an expert in kite-flying and making the head of other people swoon with love, always considered the marriage as a turning point in his life. He started a little business of his own, a Xerox shop. He would go to companies to get orders for making photocopies of documents. Since he was a poet at heart, he always found the enthusiasm of an impulse more fascinating than the hesitant poise of wisdom. He was one given to living for the present. Making the Xerox-shop a success meant little to him; what he liked more was contributing political satire to the leading daily of the city. He was quite admired for his writing. Naturally, my mother had to take up a job. She completed post-graduation in pedagogy and became a school-teacher.

Writing is a call which, in its dreary depth, so enmeshes its possessor that nothing can beguile him from being absorbed in it. Who can control divine love, but that divine love control us. There is this story about a man, an ardent brahmachari, who got married. On the nuptial night, when he removed the veil from over the bride’s head and looked into her eyes, he entered into a samadhi and began to write. He continued to write for the next 36  years. When he finally came out of his samadhi, he saw a maid-servant cleaning his house. He asked her who she was, and she broke down on the spot, and died. The fate of the writer is left to the gentle reader’s discretion; the writer, having written, is oblivious to fate.

So, my father had a call to write and he went away to Bombay, to pursue his dream of writing for the film industry. I did not know then what loneliness meant. My mother worshipped her god daily. Her god must be a Jealous god, for He continued to test her repeatedly; the magnitude of her goodness, unrecognised. God must be having a taste for patience.

Who else can serve as the illustrator of nishkam seva – selfless worship –  but the mother who thinks that the greatest gift that God has given her is not her own life but her children. Thinking of her, I tell myself, I am not allowed to get depressed. Despair is the path of least resistance.

The mother is the first idol. To break an idol means to stop recognising boundries. To transcend from mother into the Divine Mother, the last Guru. From the form into the formless, as simple as that. Three times over, says Prophet Mohammad, to love your mother above and over yourself. It was indeed good news that the Prophet brought.

So, what does a mother mean apart from your mom? Someone who suffers for you, loving you unconditionally, not caring about recognisition, giving you certainties when you don’t have any. Buddha has rightly called suffering a noble truth, to which he adds that there is no suffering like separation. There is a song which I remember, by this lovely band called R.E.M. which says things is a most straightforward manner:

When the day is long and the night, the night is your’s alone,
When you’re sure you’ve had enough of this life, well hang on
Don’t let yourself go, ’cause everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes.

Listening to this song makes me feel like a teenager leaving a world of drugs and depression behind, and discovering Christianity, or religion in general. When the awareness is acute, it even makes me cry and smile at the same time. Such ecstatic moments are worth cherishing, when you are certain that there is motherly and fatherly understanding available for you everywhere at all times. Why renounce the house, when you can find it at the home?

Only if all houses were homes, this world would be a big happy family. Till that happens, god known when, the world remains a guest-house. Here too, my mother has the last word, for she means it when she says that, for her, the home is the world.

सब पागल हैं

सोनू के लिए
—————

मैं तो पागल हूँ , मेरे भाई .
यहाँ कोई नहीं जानता मुझे .
क्या ही बुरा है की
कोई पीछे नहीं पड़ता मेरे.
मेरा तो काम है जगे रहना ,
हवलदार की तरह , सारी रात , चौकन्ना .

चारों तरफ सन्नाटे में लिपटे
जब वो पी-पा के टुन्न होकर आते हैं ,
और बहुत देर बीत चुकी होती है ,
तब वो मुझे पहचानते हैं .
कहते हैं, सवेरा हो रहा है .

पागल कहीं के !

Guwahati Geet

पापा के लिए

——————

गुवाहाटी में अकेला हूँ .
शाम को घर लौटता हूँ ;
गेस्ट हाउस का दरवाज़ा खोलता हूँ
तो सामने पहाड़ , जिनके सर बादलों में है .
और नीचे ब्रह्मपुत्र लाहे – लाहे
समय की तरह बहती है .
और नीचे देखूं तो ,
हरियाली , पीपल के झाड़ ,
उनमें छोटे – छोटे से घर .
ज़रा – सी आवाज़ होने पर
इधर – उधर पंछी उड़ने लगते हैं .
और मैं , यहाँ ऊपर , कितना अकेला सा ?

अक़्सर , एक गाना याद आता है :
यहाँ कौन है तेरा , मुसाफिर , जायेगा कहाँ ?

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वो भी एक समय था :
तुम गाते थे , मैं सुनता था ;
तुम स्वर छोड़ते थे ,
मैं स्वर पकड़ता था ;
तुम लय बनाते थे ,
मैं नृत्य करता था .

सिवाय एक दुनिया बनाने के ,
सिवाय एक गीत गाने के,
सिवाय एक कहानी लिखने के ,
सिवाय प्यार का इज़हार करने के –
कोई ये कैसे बताये के वो तन्हा क्यूँ है?

तुम तो बड़े त्यागी थे,
हमें आधी नींद में छोड़ के चले गए.
तुमने अपने आपको काम में
इतना उलझा रखा है ,
तुम्हें याद करने की फुर्सत ही कहाँ?

हम तो किसी लायक ना रहे .
तुमने ऐसा धोखा दिया की
अब सभी सज्जन लगते है .
तुम परदे के पीछे ही रहना ,
सामने आ गए
तो उनका दिल टूट जाएगा.

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आज शाम लौटा , तो मन किया
कुछ और गुनगुना के देख लूँ :
हमको मन की शक्ति देना , मन विजय करें .
दूसरों की जय से पहले , खुद को जय करें .

लेकिन मैं गा ना सका .
तुम तो सब कुछ जानते हो .
तुम्हारी बड़ी जोरों से याद आई .