Mooshik's quid pro quo and et ligare upgrade for Ganesha:

 “Set aside, the fear of reprisals and boldly stage a disappearing act. Use your divine powers and simply change Mooshik’s colour from grey to black to brown and white and then back to grey, in a cyclic manner. This miracle will surely bring back all and some more devotees, to your door steps. Try it and, you will come out a winner!” As Chitragupta’s words echoed in his mind, Ganesha resumed his solitary stomping-in-the-garden routine, confused and cursing Mooshik for contacting Chitragupta and fuming within himself, for hitting a cul-de-sac at every turn! He wondered, how in heaven, Brahma tolerates this so called protégé!

Ganesha’s worry took another turn in to another cul-de-sac.  The dwindling crowd of parents and examinees started a merry go around in his mind. The ever-present Mooshik, was nonchalantly inspecting his tail - a misleading act. Though, he was actively searching for signs of aging, the act was intended to create a false impression that he was earnestly attempting to come up with a solution, to stop the merry go around.

 Unable to bear the suspense, Ganesha asked, " Mooshik, got any ideas?"

Though, Mooshik was actively working out the menu for his next meal, he blurted out, “My Lord, I am working on it." Another curve ball, which Ganesha missed to catch. Having committed, Mooshik swished his tail a few times and said, "The days of queuing up in front of you has gone out of fashion. Nowadays, the crowd gathers in front of coaching centres and persons who could deliver tomorrow's question paper today."

" Mooshik, this a surprising news to me! Why did you not alert me to this state of affairs?"

" My Lord, I took a neutral stand on this issue, that is why!"

" What are you saying? Why would you remain neutral?”

" I beg for your indulgence. The fact of the matter is, your devotees never considered me worthy enough and never offered to break coconuts prior to or after the exams. With no teeth in this game, and no broken coconuts to gnaw at, how could I take sides?"

" Mooshik, still you could have raised an alert. What happened to your loyalty to me?"

"I pondered over this dilemma of loyalty, in depth and became confused, like the student trying to choose the correct option for a multiple-choice question."

Ganesh getting annoyed asked, " Why at all your loyalty should pose a dilemma and what was the need for the pondering?"

"My Lord, for my small brain, it was a ponderable dilemma. I chose to remain neutral to avoid getting overloaded."

Respecting their long-standing relationship, Ganesha accepted the explanation. He asked, " Now tell me how the situation could be remedied? Will a failure analysis help?”

Sensing an opening, Mooshik answered, "What immediately comes to my tiny brain is this. People have matured enough to expect the quid pro quo should have an et ligare element also. Their reasoning is 'a deal without a guarantee clause is not worth the paper it is written on'!"               

Ganesha had not anticipated this devious condition, probably a fine print, in the minds of the pious and innocent people, queuing up in front of him. He wanted to kick himself, for not having judged them as Mooshik with his tiny brain had done.

" Mooshik, is this not a backdoor entry they are after."

" It certainly is. But when the front door has restricted entry, what else is there, except the backdoor?"

At this reply, Ganesha started having a nibbling doubt about Mooshik and wondered "whose brief is he holding now, mine or theirs?"

"Mooshik, how does this quid pro quo and the et ligare element  works?"

"From the depth of my limited knowledge, what they are saying is " upfront guarantee with a back-end assurance. The quid pro quo is for them to start putting in some effort and the et ligare is for the assured  fruit of the labour."

Ganesha became annoyed. “Mooshik, enough of the diplomatic talk, from the depth of your tiny brain. Cut through the clutter and tell me what should I do now?

Mooshik fearing for his tail, becoming an object of cutting through the clutter, replied, " I have a glimmer of an idea. But you may face  lot of resistance while implementing it."

"Explain it in a nutshell"

“We should hit the roads.”

Why”?

“Remember all the non-mandated idols, doing the rounds as deemed gods”?

“What do they have to do with my problem. Is it another of your diversion tactics?

“No. I mentioned them because they might be your solution.”

How?

Mooshik elaborated, “This is part one of the plan. We get closer to them and sell the idea of getting them an upgrade.  I can easily manage it and bring them to your door steps.  The second part requires your active participation.”

Showing interest, Ganesha asked, “In what way?”

“By getting in touch with your kith and kin, and ask them to help you out”.

Exasperated Ganesha asked, “What sort of help they could extend to me?”

Mooshik replied, “By way of granting small rights to a select few of these non-mandated, street-dwelling idols.”

“I am not clear. What will happen, then”? 

“The rest of the non-mandated idols will form a queue in front of you, pleading.  Coming to know of this, the absentee devotees will race each other, and arrive panting to beseech and seek your blessings.”

Ganesha shook his head vigorously and said, " Mooshik, I should not become a salesman and neither you. Don’t you have any other bright ideas?”

“No, My lord. I give up. My very small brain is not willing to cook up another plan!”

Ganesha shouted, “Then get an upgrade for your little brain and then think of another logical plan. O.K”?

At last, Ganesha decided to think of a solution, for that matter any solution that promised a reasonable chance of succeeding.  How could he blame Mooshik’s tiny brain for sinking so low to dig up an idea, which at best, should have been left buried. Stampede or stragglers, he sat by my side, with unflinching loyalty. How can I punish him now? After doing all these analyses by himself, he ran out of stamina and decided to call a halt.

The next day, he announced, “Mooshik, I have found out a way to turn the tide in our favour. From this instant, let us turn our backs to them, exactly by 180° and park ourselves."

The confused Mooshik asked," What has happened to you? How turning our backs to them, by 180° will turn the tide?”

Ganesha in a calm and reassuring voice explained, "The news of us turning our backs to them will spread like wild fire. People will erroneously conclude that I have been greatly wronged and very angry. To cool my anger down, they will descend en masse with offerings and vows, to resume regular visits. How do you like this alternate plan"?

“My Lord, the master plan you have just revealed is way beyond comprehension of my tiny brain. I am worried.”

Ganesha said in a consoling tone, "You don't worry. I will soon arrange a sharper brain implanted in your head."

Giving in to a sudden impulse, Mooshik blurted out, " Do I owe you any quid pro quo and et ligare for this"?

Ganesha had half a mind to thrash Mooshik, but realising the futility of such an act, he turned his back, by exactly by 180° on him and his reluctant devotees.

Chitragupta leaves Ganesha in a fix:

Chitragupta was mystified by the frantic messages coming, one after another. Drawn to this chatter, he decided to open one and to his surprise, that one click had opened to hundreds of messages and none had any content. He wondered whether spoofers or amateurs have taken over a repeater station or the station itself was suffering with some technical glitz! He tried to locate the sender of these messages, thinking that someone might be trying to drag him into some misadventure. He was shocked and perplexed to find that this avalanche had originated from the office of Ganesha.

Not a deity to be taken lightly, he dashed off a confirmatory message and prepared to reach Ganesha's abode as quickly as he could. A hurried inspection, assured him that no docket, containing heavenly secrets, lay open to the prying eyes of any clandestine visitor.  He believed in locking the vault first rather than chasing the missing documents, later. He chuckled to himself at this brief memory recall - of Yama's travails and trip down to earth, a long eons ago!

Arriving at the abode, Chitragupta expected to be taken inside to meet with Ganesha.  Instead, his ears picked up an elephantine sigh, blaring out from a spot in the garden. There, he saw Ganesha trying to vent out his frustration. Chitragupta got the feeling, that nothing seemed to have worked so far to calm him down. During a turn in his trampling march, Ganesha caught sight of the visitor. Quickly, trans-positioning himself, he acknowledged the visitor with a flap of his ears - so tired, he was unable to even lift and wave a hand in welcome!

“Chitragupta, did you get the message, my trusted aide sent to you? Are you wondering about the many repeat messages? Mooshik, has become jittery nowadays and often looks overly confused. After sending the first message, he might have sent the second to ensure. To make sure of the second, he must have sent the third and not knowing when to stop, even now must be sending the same message, to you.”

“Ganesha, what is the matter? I found no mention of it in the messages?”

“Thank my jittery assistant for these ‘no content’ messages. Lately, he has been acting a little strange. Ok, now that you are here, let me tell you everything. Chitragupta, you know very well, that I am a go to and easy to please deity, with minimum fuss.”

“No doubt about that. Even a lump of clay or turmeric paste is all that takes to invoke, worship and please you”. 

“See, now you are also trying to make fun of me for being too ordinary.”

“No, no. I was merely trying to bring out how easy it is to approach you, compared to the other deities.” 

“The rishis or the white bearded sadhus have conspired to portray me as a down to earth deity. They hit me below the belt, by introducing a lump of clay or turmeric paste to represent me. After invoking my blessings, they cooly sideline me  top start their main and grand Pooja. Don’t you think, it is little far-fetched?”

“ I did not feel this bad, when Vyasa requested me to be his scribe. I happily obliged, with only one condition that once started, he should not pause or stop the dictation. When he hit a difficult passage, he wisely circumvented my condition by posing difficult riddles for me to solve. This naturally slowed down the speed of transcription. I knew he used them to gain time to think through, and to keep up the charade, I too went along willingly.” 

Chitragupta watched silently, while Ganesha sat shaking his head, flapping the oversized ears and furtively glancing here and there. He understood that Ganesha wanted a breather, before pouring out his current woes. Unable to bear the suspense, he asked, “Are you expecting anyone to join us now?"

“Chitragupta, answer me, why being an approachable deity should bring blames on to me?”

Chitragupta blinked and wondered, how was he going to answer this question without knowing the context!

Ganesha continued, "A got-lucky devotee came with dozens of coconuts and started to smash them against a boulder, lying by my side. Exactly at that instant when a coconut broke into pieces, another devotee, passing by, got hit on his forehead. Of course, there was a little bloodletting."

"Oh, how unfortunate," murmured Chitragupta. 

“Yes, it was for me”, said Ganesha.

 “The coconut smasher blamed me for timing the arrival of the other person and the injured person blamed me for the unprovoked incident. I was lucky that the coconut also did not decide to blame me. Is this because I am an easy to please and easily taken for a ride deity?”

“Ganesha, you got unduly annoyed over this behaviour!”

“Chitragupta, hear this. Needy, greedy or solace seekers throng to my simple abode. The problem is, like a chain store I have a temple, in every street corner. As their ‘easy to please and easily taken for a ride deity’ they either plead or at times threaten me, to make favourable things happen or else tone. Should I be such an ordinary deity whom anyone can approach, threaten and getaway?”

“I agree. Even for a deity, tolerance has a limit. Why don't you try and scare them a little, and bring them back on track?”

“How can I, being only the gatekeeper for the other powerful deities? Those who come and threaten me are devotees of those other powerful entities. This is my problem. How, being what I am, could I take cudgels against all of them?”

“Definitely, your problem is of a peculiar kind and your dilemma is understandable but inevitable.” 

This sliding answer irked Ganesha. Narrowing his eyes in anger, he said, "Chitragupta, the messages were not sent asking for a chitchat. Maybe, I have overestimated your abilities to suggest a suitable solution. If so, free feel to go."

Chitragupta was unnerved by this outburst. He neither underestimated or overestimated his abilities. At the same time, suggesting a solution would surely put him in the path of an intense laser beam or land him in the slimy grip of a snake. Both the outcomes looked personally endangering.  As a best option, he chose to call a time out, for now.

In a conciliatory tone, he said, “Superficially the problem appears to be simple, but deep down it is quite complex. Give me some more time to come up with a solution."

Ganesha retorted, "Are you trying to imply that this problem is more complex than those riddles I had solved for Vyasa?"

Taken aback, Chitragupta said "How can I infer so? I am nothing but a tally-maker, with limited numerical capabilities. Will you not agree with me that I am out of my depths, when it comes to riddles or human nature?"

Ganesha sensed a trap. If he agreed, Chitragupta cannot be forced. If he disagreed, then Chitragupta will escape, after rendering some more of the sliding answers. He knew, Chitragupta will bite the bait, if cornered. Raising his voice a notch, he retorted, "Is it your habit to answer a question with another one? Now you have no choice but to stay here till you find a solution."

Instantly, a background story began its run in Chitragupta’s mind – the sufferings of Brahma.  Ganesha's brother Karthikeya had him imprisoned and in a fit of anger, his father Siva had clipped off his fifth head. Chitragupta understood the nuanced, unequivocal and implied threat. Ganesha was willing to follow their footsteps! His hope that his reluctance, to suffer like Brahma, would be appreciated, took a mighty hit.

Threat hanging over his head, Chitragupta managed to come up with two likely approaches. First option, to appeal to Ganesha’s family, requesting for an intervention, A long shot worth a cautious attempt by Ganesha. But it guaranteed two possible outcomes for the proposer. (1) He may have to run for dear life, to escape the wrath with the head still attached  or to avoid the laser treatment or the jail term.

(2) He may have to befriend the many headed snake and get into its master's good books. Oftentimes, Chitragupta had wondered, if disturbed, who gets easily annoyed - the master or the snake? A snake bite is treatable but what about its master’s anger? Will Ganesha provide him with an insurance cover, against snake bite or the attack from a flying saucer of the snake’s master? Or to play it safe, will he choose the relationship as  more important than my discomfort?

Unmindful of Chitragupta’s predicament, Ganesha happily resumed his plodding, listening to the peculiar crunching sounds coming out of Chitragupta's mind.  Chitragupta has this habit of making these crunching sounds, while cursing himself - this time, for having rushed to respond to Ganesha’s messages.  Chitragupta felt like a rat caught in a mouse trap. Being an intelligent “rat” himself, he hit upon an idea to come out of the trap unharmed. 

Second option, to appeal to Ganesha’s intelligence, to solve his own problem. Approaching with a smile, he said, " With immense intelligence, you had solved Vyasa's riddles just like that. Probably, you’re thinking that complex problems should end in complex solutions. This might be preventing you from looking at simple solutions, as beneath your acumen!

Ganesha's heart swelled with pride, on being praised about his intelligence. He hastened to ask, " Chitragupta, what is that simple solution that I did not consider?"

“Just disappear from the worshippers’ landscape, wait and watch for a while. Your problems get solved automatically, without much effort!”

Though this suggestion perked up Ganesha's ears, he immediately sensed a hesitation. “Ganesha, if you don't want to disappear and drive away your devotees, I have this remedial suggestion. With your divine powers, you can simply change the colour of Mooshik from grey to black to brown and white and then back to grey, in a cyclic manner. This miracle will surely bring back all and some more devotees, to your door steps. Over all, how do you like my ideas?”

“Mmm, ok. I agree to try out the part of the idea that involves Mooshik. But, how am I to deal with the superior deities to sort out the sidelining issue?”

Chitragupta wondered why so many doubts sprout in Ganesha's mind! He explained, " Have no qualms about how the superior deities will respond. They follow divine principles, which they themselves have revealed and got a legion of sages and rishis to set them in scriptures, for posterity. There will be no risk of a confronting, but an outreach to find a solution for your inconveniences. At the end of the day, is it not all in the family?

Set aside, the fear of reprisals and boldly stage the disappearing act. The performers of poojas, will be perplexed and confused and their grand pooja plans will hit the roadblock. Half-hearted poojas will only invite the wrath of the propitiated. Sensing this stalemate, the superior deities will proscribe the act of invoking and sidelining you, henceforth. And you come out a winner!”

Chitragupta did not wait for a reply, and took flight at the first opportunity, happy to escape without a rap on the knuckle or a prison term. Ganesha was fuming within himself for hitting a cul-de-sac at every turn!

He resumed his solitary stomping-in-the-garden routine, confused about the usefulness of Chitragupta’s solutions. For good measure, he cursed Mooshik, for contacting Chitragupta.

Diplomacy of everyday kind:

During school days, he was a borderline case in geography. History frightened the wits out of him - every other chapter, letting bloodbath in battles and conquests. Mercifully, some historians tried to lessen the nightmare by including chapters on acts of vitalising art forms, music, dancing, literature and architecture. These few narrators tried to show the victors, notwithstanding the sufferings wrought on the populace, in a positive light – a nascent form of modern day paid promotion.

Escaping the mandatory academic stream did not end in anyway better. Modern history filled the chapters with same old bloodbath stories, with bullets, bombs, missiles and diplomats. Somewhere down the line, the geographical borders became meaningless as new breed of fighters emerged – the terrorists. They became freedom fighters, for any cause, as long as their acts are sponsored by sovereign, nations, and violated national and international laws. Sponsoring nations and rubber-stamping international bodies, hibernate instead of acting to weed out the crop of terrorists and their yield - terrorism.

While nations moved their diplomats around the globe, how can he sit idle, twiddling his thumbs and feeling sidelined? what could he do? Why should not he be involved? He decided to, whatever it takes to, lay it threadbare, in the public domain, so that the passer-byes would recognise the nuances of his brand of diplomacy, sans diplomatic couriers, pouches and passports!

The needed expertise is not acquired, through a stint in Foreign Ministry or by chasing-the-shadow-of a jetliner, over the oceans. If at all, the skill gets fine-tuned by staying ahead, on one’s own learning curve. This diplomacy is active, not between countries in conflict but within the ordinary people - us and among us. Broadly speaking, a domestic version and an equally important vocational version, of this diplomacy exists, with striking parallels. Geopolitical diplomacy is structured with many parts. Likewise, this type too uses many parts – of the body! Due to utter lack of appreciation, this diplomacy does not draw media attention, though it comes with the possibilities of retreats.

 Under the bus:

Maybe it is an embedded technology, in the DNA of escape artists. To walk away from the mess – created or stepped into, these artists don’t think twice to gladly push a scapegoat under the bus, laden with the blame. No ‘goat worth its bleat goes willingly to the slaughterhouse’! At home, the scapegoat could be a past-the-prime person, and in the work environment, it would be a face-in-the-crowd junior artist without dialogues. These diplomats know the golden rule - all fingers are not equal and there is a world of difference in what each one could mean.

 Indexing diplomacy:

By far, the favourite for many reasons is the index finger. By lying horizontal or parallel to the ground, it helps in effortlessly shifting the mess on to someone else. Standing straight, the index finger wags, left and right, to send warning signals to the blamed one. At home or in the work-related context, the index finger could zero in on anyone, bearing a striking resemblance to the crowd-scene junior artist with inappropriate makeup. This is a 2-in-1 finger diplomacy - effective in shifting the blame and at the same time to send warning signals.

Thumbing diplomacy:

Next in line is the thumb. Its sole diplomatic brief is - ask someone else, I don't know. This is slightly different from the shifting the mess diplomacy. This thumbing diplomat leaves open a backdoor to easily escape without assigning responsibility to a specific target - a sort of hoot and scoot move. Having obtained this diplomatic wisdom, the person starts to practice the shoulder-shrug diplomacy, to be little more emphatic in conveying- the I don’t know! This thumb and shoulder-shrug diplomacy has no competitor in its universal appeal as neutral diplomacy.  It is as useful as note verbale or demarche or aide-memoire  or any other diplomatic tool!  

Middle finger diplomacy:

This is a rarely used, un-diplomatic diplomacy. It has an ‘adult only' restriction as only they can get away being crude or rude by quoting justification and clauses, from their own diplomatic code book. This middle finger diplomacy, also known as rage diplomacy, is practiced among the general public, when one becomes angry by the actions of another. The flip side is, whenever a juvenile tries to raise this finger, it is forcefully put down and frowned upon by the same people who happily pursue this modus operandi.

All fingers on deck diplomacy:

This a classical act, in itself. This, universal gesture needs geometrical perfection to pull it off. Here is how this diplomacy unfolds - hands swivelled outwards by 45°, back of palms parallel to the ground, all fingers extending out in perfect alignment to the palms and matched with a half sheepish grin. This gesture conveys a nuanced philosophical approach - who knows, whose fault it is? what has to happen has happened, what I can do? In the practice of this diplomacy, the diplomat ropes in the palms and reluctantly co-operating (remaining close to the body) forearms.

Closed first diplomacy:

This diplomacy is reserved for use between individuals, either related or unrelated. Outbursts laden with harsh words are exchanged (not allowed in geopolitical diplomacy) and closed fists are brought to the table.  Sometimes, the engagement stops abruptly and at times lingers on for a length of time. When the situation spirals out of control, irrespective of time and place, this diplomatic spat ends in fisticuffs and bruises. Since claiming diplomatic immunity is not an option, facing the music of Law & Order is a given. Few nations use this form of as “posturing or provocative” diplomacy, just to gauge the reaction of another nation, without exchanging punches.

Wolf in lambs’ hide diplomacy:

This kind. a go-to-diplomacy, is assiduously practiced when a nation or a person believes, that it is easier to escape consequences, by diverting attention rather than holding on to an unanswerable mess. Spreading reasonably sounding, dubious allegations, on any likely contributing factor, from the past to the future does the trick. Use of software glitches and computer viruses add mystery to the misinformation.  This diplomacy is exclusive to overt or covert dabblers in others’ affairs.

 Reverse or boomerang diplomacy:

There comes a point, when push comes to shove, and the mess created is very serious. As a last-ditch effort, the “perpetrator” - be it a nation or an individual. plays this victim card diplomacy. This category of action is so potent, like the nuclear deterrent, it draws in ‘others’ who are in no way affected, to scramble to the aid of this blame-shifter. To be effective, this diplomacy, has to be played simultaneously at multiple levels. After all, the world is a stage and is not everyone an actor?

The perpetrators have this nightmare. What happens if this victim card diplomacy results in one of the following responses?

Raising the shoulder or washing the hands off and or standing aloof?

Now, the perpetrators get a reality check with the Digging the pit diplomacy.

Who is the “He”?

An individual who has been keeping tabs on the flurry of diplomatic and back-channel activities around the globe.

What inspired him?

For all the money and time spent in all these activities, these diplomats and back-channelers are left with no resource or energy to focus on the ordinary individuals and their sundry problems. While at it, he thought of this exercise, as a means to position himself as a pseudo-diplomat. All said and done, he is smug happy for having involved the human body parts, to the extent possible!

In your opinion, if you feel that he had created a mess, you are free to use one of his suggested diplomatic manoeuvres, to settle the issue with him.

Brahma tells a story

After hearing Chitragupta’s word-by-word account, on his one-to-one meeting with Yama, Brahma sensed an opportunity, after many eons. He decided to seize it and lay on the table, the missing pieces of the heavenly puzzle concerning Yama. Brahma decided to have his own one-to-one with Yamadharmaraj. He had a long story to tell, about Yama and his family tree. Though Chitragupta had not revealed the role he had played, Brahma wanted to balance the accounts – how Yama dimension-hopped and portal crashed to land in his current abode. How his exemplary dedication to service in righteousness qualified him for quasi-naturalisation and leadership in Yam Lok.

Yamadharmaraj was shocked and surprised, to receive a call for an audience. He hurriedly assembled a universal dossier, to fall back upon, in case Bramha asks some unexpected question. Chitragupta's words echoed in his ears– “information clears doubts and questions get information”, though he did not understand the paradox, “when doubts get cleared with information, then why ask questions?” 

His intelligence sources assured him that Brahma appeared in good spirits and Chitragupta had left a long time ago. “Might be one of my lucky days”, Yama chuckled to himself. As soon as he entered the abode, he was guided to the meeting chamber. Brahma looked at Yama with a radiant, bright, permeating smile, flooding him with a sense of oneness with the Cosmos. Yam stood speechless, fighting hard the urge to float away, not out of fear but in ecstasy!

“Yama, before I start, let me lay a proper foundation. It would, then be easy to comprehend the perspectives. For the Creator, the infinite Cosmos is a safety vault. It housed a population of super immortals, immortals and semi-immortals, as a functional hierarchy, in the heavens. Likewise, the vault sheltered a population of super mortals, mortals and semi-mortals. Though wide open, the vault is protected by barriers of complicated dimensions, portals and wormholes, restricting free access. Under certain special circumstances, highly developed mortals, were allowed a rare access for a brief stay in the higher dimensions. Designated portals and wormholes were the entry and exit points.  After gaining advanced knowledge and wisdom, these chosen ones, propagated it, among the other earthlings.

From here on, my “hear and forget' rule comes into play. You know, Chitragupta likes to play pranks, now and then, but harmless in intent. Though, I had difficulty in understanding the ‘why’ part of his actions, at those times. 

Would it surprise you to know that it was due one such prank, many interesting developments were set in motion! At that time, the level of intelligence of most of the primitive earthlings, was not, very much different from that of animals. They badly needed an upgrade, to survive. Using this as a pretext, he cleverly chose the time to play the prank - he let in a few gifted with above average intelligence and imaginative beings through the wormholes, he was guarding.

After committing the prank, he convinced each one of us to believe- as that one Divine entity, invested in the upgrading and bonding with earthlings! He explained, individually to each of us, that by this 'sleight of opening the gate’, he had delivered the perfect glue, to bind mortals with the Divine. It took me long eons, to understand the ‘why’, I mentioned earlier. But by that time, the developments have already been underway. The Cosmos  had no choice but to smile and exonerate Chitragupta! He escaped by the skin of his prank.

Back to earth from the higher dimensions, the enlightened ones authored colourful stories, to test the extent to which they could stretch their imagination. Not sparing anyone in the Cosmos – the Creator, gods and demi-gods, as avatars in human forms and the celestial objects assigned to do astrological tasks. To immortalise themselves and their narratives, characters born on earth, out of boons granted to mortals, walked into the scripts of epics, Vedas and puranas. As times rolled by, different versions emerged and all were skillfully woven back into the scriptures, as meta-physical explorations.  In effect, we all had a colourful presence in the scriptures.

Are you wondering, what is this background information about?  As I said earlier, this would help to you understand the story of your family tree. Don’t feel bad, they have a similar story for me too!

The Sun, their local star, kept the life forms alive on earth. To keep this process ticking, he had to discharge hot and harmful, but essential particles, in the form of intense and potent flares. His periodic venting did not escape the attention of the gifted narrators. Without carefully weighing the good and not so good aspects, they saddled him with a chariot-load of negativities and painted him as a malevolent. Later on, a hoard of individuals, who became astrologers, began exploiting this characterisation.

Now, back to your family tree. The Sun had his hands full with lighting up earth to breathe life into everything and shepherding planets and other objects and warding off intruders, from his domain. Focusing his full attention on these responsibilities, he devoted less time to family matters. It is not due to complacency or ego. He had no other go but to abide by the Divine will and Cosmic laws. But the imaginative narrators had other ideas!  They sowed seeds of discord, to spin a few stories.

You became the first progeny of Sun. Not forgetting to give credit where it is due, they vested in you the characteristics of righteousness and benevolence of your father. As a reward, the story tellers created a chance for you to escape from earth. Here, they conveniently remembered the prank played by Chitragupta and used that breach and the portal hopping technique, to teleport you to Yam Lok, but not before adding a logical twist. Here is how, they did it.

Unable to bear the intense heat and insufficient attention, your mother went incommunicado, leaving a shadow of herself at home. As time rolled on, you began to feel neglected, after the arrival of your half-brother, who got all the motherly attention.  Sensing the under current running in the family. you brought your father into the picture, who was unaware of these developments. A domestic fight ensued, and the shadow woman spilled the secret of deceit, behind the disappearance of your biological mother. Even in this agitated state of mind, your innate righteousness took charge, washing away the guilt of your actions over the dark secret. At this opportune moment, the inspired story tellers engineered your escape from earth by teleportation.

They placed Saturn, your half-brother, under the same roof, for a radically different motive. The same undercurrent flowing in the family, affected him differently. Besides the stigma of illegitimacy being born to a mother who existed as a shadow, he resented the ill-treatment he and his mother suffered, at the hands of his father. He fought and left home to become cold and distant. To further embellish the story, the narrators depicted Saturn as a rebel and an arch enemy of his father. Angry, yet righteous.  Thy turned him into a stern task master, with a ‘suffer, struggle and get rewarded’ attitude. A crime and punishment entity or the astrologers to exploit

There is some more to come. After placing you and Saturn in an exalted position, the earthlings wanted a hero for themselves. To venerate and admire. They devised a clever strategy - made your father to grant a boon to an innocent mortal, on earth. She fell into the trap, invoking the boon with childish ignorance or innocence.  The invocation brought a child came into existence. That child is your unseen and earthly half-brother, named Karna.

They reserved the best, for this boon-born-baby. Karna was loyal to a fault. Laid down his life in gratitude, for a friend who brought him honour and recognition, as a person and warrior. Integrity and unrestrained generosity were second to his nature. He suffered with the stigma of illegitimacy but was not vindicative and forgave his parents for deserting him as an orphan. He honoured and fulfilled his mother’s wish, unmindful of its cost on his life. He gifted away everything, even his life protections, without questioning about the guise, guile and ulterior motives employed by that person. Even on the battlefield, he did not waver. Willingly donated all of his accumulated virtues, knowing fully well that this act would certainly bring him death.

He was a haunted soul, weighed down with complex emotional and moral dilemmas. Is he not truly a tragic hero, a martyr, par excellence, to attain immortality and the exalted status of a karma yogi?  The story tellers excelled themselves by literally writing Karna’s greatness, literally, in his own blood! Would anything less do for their own hero!

Yama, did you not get the honour to assign Karna, a worthy place in heaven? Be proud of your sense of duty and his greatness. Cheer up! Your family tree is respected and envied by all, in the Cosmos.

The narrators started to feel guilty for portraying the Sun, in poor light. Realising that their very existence depended on his munificence, they wanted to make amends. And how they did it? All of you were made to suffer neglect, in varying degrees. Unable to tolerate, your biological mother chose to abandon. You, citing step-motherly treatment left home, in indignation. Aghast and in defiance, at the ill-treatment of him and his mother your half-brother walked out. Whereas, your earthly-half-brother, walked into glory with acts of magnanimity and liberal generosity. Thus, all of you ended up mirroring Sun’s multifaceted personality. Cleverly done, is it not!

These earthlings knew how to spin yarns, from woven cloth. A hoard of astrologers found a way to use these fascinating stories about the Sun and Saturn. To leverage the advantage, they roped in the other planets and the moon to assist. To further complicate the process of prediction, they created imaginary plots and houses in the sky, delineating rulership, friendly and enemy territories. Tightening further control, they devised exalted and debilitated status, using the planetary positions or transits. A predetermined cyclic order allowed each celestial body a fixed tenure of influence. Unaware of these gravity-traps and tempted by the lure, the celestial bodies fell in line and took stance of a friend or enemy to act as benefic or malefic - to each other and the subject of interest to the astrologer.

With complex calculations and doomsday predictions, the astrologers took a strangle hold to wage a proxy war, on the life of humans and nations. They did not forget to leave an escape door for themselves. The golden key? Blame their failed predictions on divine will or fate or whatever excuse that could be marketed!

Burdened with Cosmic duties and the knowledge that he was one insignificant star among the countless, your father did not want to spend energy to fight with these narrators. He might have even thought, if these fictious narratives bring some benefits to humanity, why not sit back and enjoy it!

I see the rays of confusion spreading rapidly across your face. Have you ever wondered, how I gather information from all over the Cosmos? Would you be surprised to know that Chitragupta and Narad are my offsprings and care to know where from all these relationships are coming? Thanks to those story tellers, my family tree also has a colourful story! Why am I telling you this now? Thinking wisely, Chitragupta left this task to me, as it is not merely your story or my story - but something much more and beyond that.

Don’t you think that we would have had a dull existence, without these fine narratives? Do you now grudge these enlightened human beings for their inspired narrations?"

During the entire narration, Yama’s face reflected conflicting emotions of hate, regret, kinship, respect, awe and wonder. In the end, the same powerful euphoria experienced at the start of the meeting, engulfed over, leaving him speechless.

Surgical strikes of a different kind

You are already conjuring up images of events, across the border, with exploding armaments and collapsing fortifications. Before you stray too far into the mine-field, let me urgently apply the emergency brakes, to arrest your over speeding imagination. This narrative is a family affair and the incursions involve no air strikes with bombing runs or missiles attacks. Instead, innocuous and handy objects fly with deadly accuracy, to create a scare and occasional lacerations. So, the word ‘surgical’ precedes the strike in the title. The only similarity exists, in figuratively crossing over the L A C or L O C.  As you reach the end of the narrative, you might want to speed up the halted imagination, to recount your own experience with similar ‘surgical strikes’.

Keeping one’s own counsel, preferably in a deep freezer, would have been prudent. Alas! Oftentimes, this prudent realisation strikes later than sooner and always after the event. Like the proverbial croaking of frogs, I had once proudly declared, " If boiling a glass of hot water is culinary art, then, I am a Michelin rated chef; I could even conjure up a cup of black coffee!" What happened next was pretty much predictable; the croaking frog became a snake's meal!

Words boiled in anger flew thick and fast. I challenged the homemaker that I could showcase my talent, whatever be the menu. Having crossed the LOC or LAC, I   found myself in a mixer cum grinder. The veteran, who had handled many such threats in the kitchen, smiled wistfully and handed me a tray populated with the items needed for cooking. The meaning of that wistful smile hit me like a hammer blow. The tray did not come with a menu card or an instruction manual detailing whether the operation involved are chopping, slicing crushing or breaking. Flipping up the collar and rolling up the non-existent sleeves of my half-slacks, I approached the tasks at hand, awaiting on the tray.

The Onion strikes:

 As I hefted the first grenade like onion, a shrill voice commanded me to wash, dry and peel the first layer before cutting. I quickly replied a ‘on the job’ and hurried to complete the steps. But for that promoting, I would have ignorantly skipped them and landed in hot water along with the unwashed onions. The onions happily had a bath, a vigorous towelling and sat expectantly on the cutting board, which I fortunately remembered. As the ‘operation onion’ got underway, supported by the lachrymal glands, the shrill voice assailed my eardrums with “Did you wash and dry the board before use? It reminded me of the ‘shake the bottle before use’ instruction and you guessed it - I had overlooked the wise saying, both for the bottle and the cutting board.

Flustered and scrambling for an evasive reply, I ran the knife and managed a surgical strike on my left-hand index finger. At this point, I had no other option but to wash the cutting board and the onion, which had turned red with my blood. Somehow, the onions have been processed without additional finger-injuries. After dispatching the onion rings, chops and, dicings along with the tears I had shed, I hurried in search of a wash-proof band-aid. You know what? The empire struck back – I need only diced onions.  As a Michelin rated chef, can I cry foul, now? Me, the onion rings and chops, just sat in silence.

The coconut strikes:

Remembering it in time, I bathed the coconut and the lump of stone and towelled them dry. Before I could enjoy the satisfaction of methodically completing the preparatory works, the voice from somewhere in the house, took to the air – “Are you using the same cutting board? The diced coconut would be reeking with the smell of onion.”  I had this doubt - when both ingredients go into the same preparation, why this ruckus? To keep the flag of peace flying, I hurriedly washed the cutting board of 'operation onion fame' and called out, “I am aware of it.” Though the band-aid in time did not save from further injury!

When ready to use things are available, why buy a whole coconut and then go about breaking it, with this stone-on-coconut-smashing routine? Please keep your answers reserved or better in a sealed cover, and remember bitter pills are better swallowed fast, without hesitation! 

The coconut, the size of an apple sat in the palm of my left-hand and a ready to strike, dark coloured block of rock took position in my right-hand palm. Surveying for a vulnerable spot on the shell, I gave the coconut a 360 ° panoramic view of me and the kitchen walls. Drawing a deep breath, I struck the stone on the coconut shell, like a crashing meteor. When the stone landed on the shell, I jumped up in severe pain.  I had misjudged the size of the nut and the girth of the stone. I had scored a direct hit on the shell as well as my fingers. I came out of the first coconut strike, with minor laceration, gashes and not before donating blood for the cutting board, once more. Unable to find some cotton swabs and a roll of gauze, I ended up with grabbing a pair of gloves (shh...actually, meant for use in dishwashing). With renewed and painful effort, through my injured left-hand palm was ready to desert from further strikes, the shell broke, approximately into a 1/4^th and 3/4^th spheres.

“You broke the coconut into unequal parts or what? Can you at least manage to cut the gel into small pieces?”  I don't know whether I imagined this comment or really heard it! Done cannot be undone and a bell that has rung cannot be unrung.  With the injured left-hand, lifting its hand in non-cooperation, I coaxed and forced the right-hand, to complete the remaining operations.

The screwdriver strikes:

The thick gel (meat or copra or matured flesh) looked pristine and white. The omniscient voice spat out, “cut them into small cubes.” Forced to wear the mantle of a sculptor, to carve out small pieces, I looked for a knife (blunt, of course) or a screwdriver, whichever was in easy reach. The screwdriver besides the cooker beckoned me invitingly, saving a combing operation for a blunt knife.

 I decided to dice, after releasing the whole gel from the shell.  Mentally calculating the angle of attack and force to lever the gel out, I placed the 1/4th portion on the cutting board, I pushed the business end of the screwdriver, all along the line of actual contact, between the shell and the gel. This frontal attack failed, leaving a thick, brown scar along the line of contact. It was pure bad luck that I did not do a pre-inspection. The business end of the screwdriver had a coat of rust. Inadvertently, I had opened up another, unguarded front, ripe for another surgical strike.

The cover up needed an urgent options and a a blunt knife. Sweat was breaking out by the time I could collect a handful of coconut slices/slivers/misshapen cuboids with a brownish vein. Short of washing them with detergent, I did everything possible to remove the stain, which only resulted in spreading the battle scar wide and far. 

Who said that a blunt knife is harmless? The renewed vigour with which I poked the 3/4th portion, must have angered the knife, as it simply broke through the shell and dug into my already injured left-hand palm. I am not that stupid to count three strikes, on the same target, as a coincidence. Injury or not, the battle has to end. Somehow, I managed enough of sparkling white cuboids and rhomboids of coconut gel, artfully displayed on the cutting board. Are you wondering about the red oxide coloured coconut gel? They are interred safely for the earthworms to feed on!

The cooker strikes:

I realised rather late, when Edison’s bulb failed to glow, that the rusty screwdriver had something to do with the cooker and not with the coconut. The cooker handles on (vessel and the lid) have had serious disagreement. Unable to bear it anymore, the holding screws were threatening to come out and be done with it.  I felt happy that at least this work could be finished without an instruction manual, which anyways would not have detailed contingency plans.

An unwanted prompt rose in my head – don’t they use dissimilar metal screws to tighten parts like the lid/cooker? Something to do with differential expansions! Though having failed by the experiments many times, I never failed to do an experiment - foraged into my junk box and came up with suitable screws. Cajoling them to cooperate, I assembled the handles to the lid and the cooker vessel. The proof of the pudding moment came when I lifted the cooker. To my consternation, the insulator handles de-docked from the hardware. The sheared and untethered screwheads availing gravity assist, quietly fell on my feet. The hastily conducted failure analysis, which insulted the injury, propelled me, to a proper repair shop.

The icicles strike:

Not satisfied with all these bloodletting activities, the devil took the wheels only to ditched me once again. Was it blood thirsty for another surgical strike? What made me to open the fridge now? You better ask the all-knowing devil, racing on all wheel drive!  A look at the freezer compartment, instantly transported me to the North Pole. This, fridge-grown Arctic Circle, brought memories of the hanging garden of Babylon. Instead of vegetation, this garden was populated with icicles! Though it was a tantalising sight, I pitied those things that get stored there without protective gear. Having seen the glacier across the width and breadth of the freezer, the devil that drove me there asked, how can you leave it like that? 

I drove the sturdy spoon, on the ice drift, like it was a lawnmower. The cold fingers of worry gripped and kept on reminding me, about the awaiting potential damage to the freezer box. Reluctantly, a layer of ice-drift parted, exposing the hardened criminal lying in wait, underneath. The strength of the spoon and the force delivered were no match to the determination of the clinging icicles and the frozen over glacier.

Discarding the spoon and my caution to the frigid wind, I brought in a hefty screwdriver into play. Taking turns, I forcefully fist-tapped it, into the root of the hanging icicles and hardened skating rink. Different types of crackling sounds emanated and scared the day light out of me. Did I, inadvertently apply too much force? Fearing the worst, a sense of foreboding parachuted on me from somewhere. Not to miss out on the fun, my heart started to hammer at the ribcage. Giving me no time to rue, the front door opened and closed with a thud.

Trying to temporarily hide my misadventure, I quickly but gently closed the fridge. With two bags of vegetables, the homemaker entered the kitchen. The first thing she noticed was the forgotten-to-discard gloves on my hand. Why are you wearing the gloves? What these band-aid wrappers are doing on the floor? Are you trying to teach me geometry with these cuboids and rhomboids shaped coconut gel? Why the quantity is so less? What made you to dissect the onions into rings, dicings, choppings, slivers and wedges when I told you to dice them? Why don’t you say something, has the cat caught your tongue?

I almost fainted, hearing these intuitive, rapid-fire accusations. How would I admit to my misadventures in the kitchen? Had I responded, you would have found me in the middle of another self-inflicted surgical strike! Exasperated, she dumped the bags on the floor and walked away with her voice over. This deafening silence sounded scarier than the screaming of bunker busters.

I plead guilty to the charge of unauthorised border crossing. You have been watching me all along, would any one of you come in and aid my evacuation from the war zone? I have learnt my lesson – to stick to making black coffee and keeping quiet about my expertise and not bragging about Michelin star ratings! Like the rolling credit, at the end of a movie, slivers, slices, wedges, chopping, dicings, gratings and rings flashed past, in my mind’s eye.

 Any story has hidden moral. This too has its share:

Bluster is not a substitute for expertise.

Statements, made in jest, might land you in the kitchen.

A sheep has no business to be among wolves.

Frogs should learn to practice their music in vacuum.

The Olympians:

 Even a new mirror is bound to show only the old face!

From “Images”

When an individual or a team wins a medal, not an issue whether it is a gold, silver or bronze variety, the Nation, State, City, Town, Street and the households erupt in joy. Everyone feels, as though it is a personal achievement. If lucky, this happens once in four years. The four yearlong, strenuous preparation of the individual or team, that preceded the event, is known only to the involved households. Media blitz and governmental support gets talked about in public places, till such time, another event appears on the horizon, to replace the hurrah of the bygone Olympics.

But, like the exception to the rule, there is a type of Olympians, who wish to earn a medal every day. This sport is not being on the list of approved games, does not deter them. Since these ‘sports persons’ lack the where withal, never succeeded in lobbying with the National or International Olympic Committees, for a chance. As in sports, they believe in playing it, for their own enjoyment and if endorsed would whole heartedly accept it! Since acceptance had not come their way, this type of ‘Olympians’ have devised ingenious ways. Close-knit siblings, likeminded or forced-to- side with relatives and friends, under the threat of ‘with me or with not ‘, are roped in as sponsors and active participates.

Except for the Arctic and Antarctic regions, the siblings and their close relatives and friends live outside the Motherland. Be it education leading to employment or only employment, the foreign currency signs could be seen hanging behind them, like a halo. Instead of enlightenment, here the halo signifies enrichment. One or two of the brood did not join the flight, staying fixed in the native. With Google, X (formerly Twitter), Facebook, LinkedIn, WhatsApp, Talk-to-me and a host of electronic highways keep them close and at a call away. After all, for the closeness of heart, distance is just a matter of perspective.

Here comes the kicker- the separation distance is bridged by travelling through the memory lanes, unmindful of bystanders and other traffic, overlooking signals. The sad part of the story is, they do not want to upgrade their often-travelled memory lanes. They do not even want the bystanders to change and don't let go off the jumping-the-signal habit. Here, a little explanation, on the signal jumping habit, would be of help - these Olympians don’t think twice to hop from one conversation to another, even if it happens to be a scholarly discussion. Emotional drought and affinity to mundane things!

Thinking and talking, within the box, is the Olympic game that is played, when siblings or relatives comes home for a brief roost. As soon as they land, a hectic schedule for temple runs, holy dip in not so holy waters, medical runs and family functions is drawn. The resident sibling is affectionately drawn into this whirlwind tour. Feeling suffocated and irritated by the chatter of memory lane anecdotes, the man or woman at the wheel of the vehicle reacts in frustration; honks the horn or burns rubber without reason and unsuccessfully tries to stop the deluge. For a larger audience, these Olympians prefer family functions, as an ideal stage to conduct their symposia.

For ordinary, resident mortals like us, falling hair, receding hairline and going bald is a universal phenomenon. But for this effervescent group of siblings, the phenomenon and the underlying root causes are unique. To support their assertion, notwithstanding your disinterest, they will explain with the help of their 300 years old genetic tree. Still on this ‘hairy’ subject, the Olympians shake the genetic tree to quote examples, with detailed timelines, for greying and falling of hairs, receding hairline and up to becoming a bald head. The passion with which they describe how the baton has been passed on, leaves the listener scrambling to understand how this natural occurrence is unique for that particular genetic tree! 

The age-old signatures of hanging bags under the eyes or crow feet guarding the eyes or wrinkles on the skin is another fertile topic, because now the ‘hen and chicks’ game can include many players - parental generations, generations of relatives who have had or are having any of this 'hall mark'. Once again, the family tree is placed before anyone who dares to doubt.

Clinging to the past and giving a re-run of the same audio clip with on stage performance, will surely transport the unsuspecting, to a movie theatre. The mere mention of 'mirror' is enough to start the ‘mirror in the attic’ game- details about a Belgium mirror the great great grandfather bought and how after migration it has found a place in the attic, among cobwebs. The build-up makes one to doubt whether the factory closed down immediately, after producing this one and only family heirloom! Since it did not aid the flow of the nostalgic narrative, the vanishing coating at the back of the Belgian mirror, became the feed to selective amnesia.

The episodes do not end here.  The Olympians happily open the listeners' eyes, before or after an eye checkup, to the world of glass for spectacles. Like a freight train with failed brakes, they move on crushing the grade of glasses you bought, just now. The durability of their great grandmother's pair of spectacles will be used to hammer the nail. By these sweeping comments, they manage to convey another uniqueness- that the family tree speaks, pokes its nose to happily trample over others’ feelings.  A glass is a fragile thing that needs careful handling, even more so, when the Olympians are around. This is all about the ‘eyes, glasses and tears’.

As the Olympians move as a pack, the narratives come out with different voice overs, one trying to outdo the other vocally. Generally speaking, it is tiresome to keep the audio going on for ever. But the clan tirelessly claims and credits it to their unique gene-pool and urges you to count it as a boon and not a bane.

Now, over to the game of ‘scare the health out of you’. If you happen to have a band-aid on your hurt little finger, any member of the clan will seize the ball and take the game away from you. The Olympians will commence the game by asking, 'wash-proof or ordinary' and take the narrative right into an operation theatre and ICU. Just you name any injury, or illness, they will recite an encyclopaedia of diseases, suffered by a member of the clan! Maybe, the 300-year-old family tree, has much more pages devoted, in the encyclopaedia!

The unwary, not getting the clue, persisting to describe how his/her pinky finger got injured, must be ready to hide from the Brahmastra - 'my distant relative underwent a surgery for removal of an aneurysm, which incidentally my great grandmother also had, not one but two!' No doubt, the listener gets to walk away out of ICU alive and kicking his/herself. Of course, after looking at the family tree, now the wisened listener, maintains a tactical silence, fearing a lecture on A-Z diseases. If the Olympians do not touch upon certain diseases, it is not definitely out of disrespect to side line those diseases. It only means that the family tree did not bear those fruits!

The Olympians are experts in the field of psychology, paranormal and building of highways to spiritual kingdom, for a blessed after life. The experience, though a little far-fetched, will be like what you get with ‘a buy one and take the shop free offer’! Getting a whiff of someone struggling with present difficulties, bush-telegraph alerts the entire clan and each one hurls a suggestion, in person or through their never silent social media chatter, projecting a holistic view of the family tree in the background!

The Olympians game will not be complete without playing the ‘emotional monopoly chorous’ among the siblings. The simple verse is to heap praise on each other overlooking faults. if possible, all should collectively shine the favourable light on their children irrespective of shortcomings.  When do they keep the wise counsels to themselves? The Olympians become Ostriches and bury their heads in the sands of Sahara, when it involves a member of the clan.

Are you wondering why Sahara and not any other place? By this time, you should have guessed the answer - simply because one from the family tree might have done it! Once, an ostrich from the clan buried its head in the river sand, which with poetic license has become The Sahara Desert! Wondering why this narrative and what is the connection with the narrator?

Imaginch sat helplessly unable to decide on an option, from among ‘to be sad' or 'to pity' or 'to walk away from it all'. The narrator being his friend, he decided to mentally tick the box - "none of the above." He chose the safest approach – to become an Olympian’s Ostrich!