State of Affairs: 256

Everyone has a way. Can it be your way, my way or highway?

From: *Autumn leaves*

Though not a statesman out to save the world, this thought had Imaginch in a bind. If he tried to give a honest answer, he would surely be drawn into controversies. Whether his opinions mattered or not he expressed his contrary views, and never failed to use a heavy hand to hammer home the point. He did not believe in edited talks. As a result, he found himself owning a dubious record of holding a pile of unwanted currency called "mistrust". Close family members, relatives - near and distant, and friends gleefully made generous deposits. He even earned a few deposits to this account from the general public. 

He knew that no statement could remain consistent one way or the other.  He strongly believed in "Liar's Paradox" - a paradox cannot be consistently proved true or false by working from the same framework. The pity is, many do not want to touch upon this subject.  

When the inner gears and wheels started to mesh and gather momentum, he was reluctant to apply the brakes. His driving instructor had once said," At this rate, you would surely get stopped by another vehicle or tress on the road" and promptly got down from the vehicle. This chastening notwithstanding, rather than curbing the flow of his thoughts, Imaginch anticipated for a verbal clash. From some hidden corner of his mind, a feeble voice always tried to tell him “Why don't you ease up a little?" He silenced it by retorting, "I know I am wrong but let me find out by how far!”

(1) Faith in belief:

Imaginch pitied the people, who invariably invoked a variety of gods by chanting hymns and performing evil-chasing rites, to recover from ill health. On the sidelines, they also got in touch with a panel of doctors for advice, and queued up patiently at the pharmacy counters, to collect a basketful of medicines. This was one part of the affair and the second was the act of distributing their acquired wisdom, by suggesting a panel of gods and doctors, along with a list of pharmacies in the location nearer to them.  "I chanted this hymn that many times, offered prayers to this powerful god with acute hearing, and presto, my operation got successfully completed very soon. Why don't you also try this!" Like medicine sans frontiers, this particular brand of wisdom travelled through diplomatic channels, without scrutiny.

The untold part of this sage advice had the backing of a few lakhs of rupees in the bank, to fund the divine-blessed operation performed by a famous surgeon in a renowned hospital! Luckily for the listener, the advice did not shine on the highlights of the vetting procedure employed by them to select the doctor who held the scalpel and operated. Some freedom of choice to the listener!  

These self-appointed advisors never entertained Q & A sessions such as: “If you are so sure about your prayers, why at all go to a surgeon? If you are so sure about the treatment, why then these hymns and prayers? When you are not sure, why go about offering your suggestions to others, though they failed the test of reason and fly in the face of logic?”

Irked by this attitude of showing scant respect to Q & A, Imaginch confronted these medical advisors and asked them point blank, " If you had faith in your way of doing things, why don't you keep it to yourself and allow the others to choose their own ways?" Imaginch heard the gnashing sound and knew his inner voice trying to raise a cautionary flag.

Ignoring the flag, Imaginch continued to vent his feelings. If one tried to ride on two horses at the same time, the ride would end exactly like the nursery rhyme 'Humpty Dumpty'. Staunch devotion helps to ignore these facts and quietly allow the inverse square law a free run. Ease of avoiding self-analysis and stifling the voice of logic only helped these self-appointed ambassadors of health to thrive.

Probably the devotee operates on a dual channel of thinking; Devotion gets credit for any fulfilled wish and if not, then it happened due to a shortfall in the degree of devotion. This devotee has another stock explanation - only an ardent devotee is subjected to periodical hardships as a test of perseverance. When it comes to the working of real world, ardent devotees go into coma or start group chants and yagnas to envelop the world with peace and prosperity. 

This state of nirvana of such people, is like that of an ostrich, which supposedly buries its head in the sand. This is the third part which takes on logic by its horns, twists it in all dimensions +1, known to mankind. The confused logic gasps for breath, searching for a ventilator. In its death throes, logic finally understands the art of living - stand aside, not even as a spectator. 

Seizing the chance, Imaginch wanted to quote to them these wise words - "When the water level raises, fishes will eat ants; when the level drops low, ants will feast on fishes.” He only could recall these philosophical lines but could not remember the author or the context. Imaginch detested the words 'no comments' as it is a great gateway to evade responding.  He always said what he thought and disliked leaving a telltale sign - obvious answer unsaid or hinting at deniability.

(2) Legacy of a pandemic: The Covid conundrum:

There are three types of people. Those who perform duties even when in physical discomfort. Those who drop everything at the mere hint of physical discomfort. The third type takes the cake and walks away with it , without paying for it - those who don't do anything.  

Pandemic of unimaginable proportion took its octopus-like grip on the population. It made the governments of the day to scramble and scurry for cover, and to vacillate on 'to vaccinate or not to do? 

The manufacturing sector took a heavy beating. Software giants opted to hide their human resource in the safe environment of their residences, though it is not business as usual, but had working hands on the keyboards. 

Like everything in life, nothing is given under 'free lunch category'. Though this stay-at-home-and-work culture was alien to this crop of professionals, they adopted gladly, counting the positives that this pandemic has thrown their way. They started liking the freedom, aloofness from the workspace chatter and mobility to plan vacations at will - redefining work from home to include work from anywhere! 

As they grew to like this comfort-in-residence, a resistance virus started to afflict and tune their minds to continue in the same fashion, invoking Newton's Law of Gravitation. But this did not prevent them from questioning inadequate/lack of train services, banking facilities, postal facilities and so on and so forth. Now, the Software conglomerates started to hunt for fixes to cure the malady. The case of head-hunter becoming headcounter.  They used another of Newton's third Law of Gravitation.

The CEO'S & CFO'S aged by leaps and bounds to keep the flags flying, while their soldiers wandered around dressed in shorts and T-shirts, happily buying vegetables and fruits and loudly complaining about the workload to anyone lending an ear. Upheavals during appraisal time and heartburns looking at the pay slips led to the moonlighting syndrome. The audacious and clever ones, to keep a quiet conscience, chose the parent company itself for moonlighting! The CEO'S & CFO'S having enough worries on their plates, failed to gather intelligence or simply had no energy to read the writing on their monitors. It is true that when some tragic event occurs it always leaves a lingering effect.

The general population from other walks of life have shed the 'pandemic' cloak and resumed their work functions, bringing down the curtains on the 'pandemic' drama. Yet, this miniscule section feels very reluctant to do so. 

Pre-pandemic, the CEO'S & CFO'S were wielding the figurative 'stick' prior to the pandemic. Now, in their harassed avatar, have started to go around with baskets of figurative 'carrots' to somehow lure the unwilling and home-zone comforted soldiers to take up their allotted front-line positions, once again. In addition, the CEO'S & CFO'S continue to endure nightmares featuring market share, profit margins and attrition, against the backdrop of shrinking opportunities.

The pandemic not only tested the peoples' resolve to fight but also left them with a new scale to measure it with - social distance to keep company with the already existing 'poverty line', and 'population density'. It made a killing on the stock market and took a strangle hold on businesses, leaving them gasping for breath. The afflicted persons' lungs and national economies fought for oxygen and a bed in ICU or ICCU to survive.

Epidemic or pandemic, nothing deters the 'pundits' who have the knack of waiting in the wings to dole out print and electronic wisdom with the sole aim of shining negative reflections. The count of lives saved did not square up with their equations nor the lives lost due to not opting for protection against the Covid virus enter into their counting. They latched on to the 'side effects' theory to flog the dead horse. Feeling strongly against such attitude, Imaginch lashed out(literally) by pointing out a human life is invaluable. Honour the living, honour the demised and least of all give hope to the survivors wit h or without side effects. 

Waking up, his inner voice sounded a bit annoyed and said, "Reserve this for a lecture, even there how many would listen to you, is my doubt!"

Understanding Father 255

In life, the flood always recedes below the bridge.

From “Mind in a maze”

This is a subject, which transcends generation gap or chasm. Is nothing conveyed by remaining silent? Of course, not! It may not be in words but by implied hints. What defines understanding? Is it based on vocally exchanged viewpoints or intuitively understood thought processes?  Generally, a viewpoint gets a response. What happens, in case of divergence? It gets many warm to heated responses. Either of them, will it be a gamechanger?

For some children, the father becomes a friend and remains so to the end. For some others, the friend slowly becomes a distant entity. For some, he transcends from a feared figure and becomes a friend and affectionate person. In any case, the father, rarely starts to stand up as an Idol from the start. This evolves over time, with right perception. Naturally, when a young child and an adult share an emotional space, some curveballs get served. How the father defends the serves, decides the game. The time, separating itself from space-time, gives the first use to space and waits patiently as a referee.

The nature of the world is to constantly evaluates and criticises, with or without reason – a bias. No one can really escape from its ever-present scrutiny. People, part of that nature, try boost what they like and decry to destroy what did not fall in line with their expectations. Expectation is a twin edged sword- earned by one and shunned by another. If it does not come into reckoning, this another person might have a reason, pathological aversion on expectations or no desire to fulfil them. 

With this background in mind, let us hear a father’s side of the story.

“Dislike has a humble beginning - a structured study time, less time for play and frowning upon hosting friendship.  Often times, it is either an economic consideration or latent burdens being shouldered might be the reasons to sour the relationship between a father and children. At that age, even if I had tried, the explanations would have failed to give them clarity.  At a later stage, when the children become adults, the issue never gets resolved and the resentment lives on. Here, obviously the time has joined the space.

Later on, the children embark on their careers and spend energy in overcoming their own issues. During all these tumultuous journeys of father and children, the mother has the home advantage and good working relationship with children. The father does one thing that is dear to his heart- silently admires and encourages this safe haven for the children. Has he ever told them that after a harsh treatment meted out to them, he cried himself in to sleep?

I might have outdone myself, in the kitchen space. My expertise sole is to boil hot water to make a cup of black coffee. Probably to hide this secret, I never played host nor went as a guest. My personal stock hit an all-time low and was trying to dig deeper into the ground.

Even, if the parents have independent means, the father remains isolated in an emotional island. Too far gone to smoothen the wrinkles - his opinions get over analysed, inadvertent advices are lobbed back on to the man, already marooned. His children have no time to evaluate his environment, by placing themselves there. A casual observer, might log it as an old man’s grumblings, echoing the opinion of children. This casual observer may not even know that “the old man never used the words I told you so”. Is not the father, and old man, implying that he still guides and not criticise them?

I might have over done in coaching them, then, after school hours. A learned teacher comes down to the level of students to teach but I made the mistake of going steps, above their requirement.  A classic case of bringing an elevator when the need was for a ladder. At that time, I might not have realised, the level of stress I induced in their minds. A regretful, misfired attempt - instead of becoming a bull’s eye scorer, I turned out to be a bully in their eyes.

 Today, as a grandfather, gathering their kids to teach, they would surely have noticed the passion. Probably, in the inner reaches of their minds, they would have understood this old man, as their father, then.

 Life is not a surgical procedure – begins with an incision, repairs and ends in suture. Whatever be the fatherly faults, should not the children remember, the anchorage he was able to provide. Of course, he might not have emoted appreciation in proper measures and might have given them a heavy dose of criticism, at that time. In his inner heart, the idea was not to allow praise to hop into their heads and make use of his criticisms to try harder. Emotional punches apart, are they not now their own masters of their destiny!

A suggestion, to them, becomes, a three-body problem, as in Astronomy. The source, the receiver and the fellow traveller (casual observer in this case). Nature has found a way to work out the mechanics, but you and I can only complicate it. A suggestion impacts in three ways - the giver if not taken seriously, the receiver if taking it seriously and the fellow traveller totes a mixed bag; happy if not accepted, sour if accepted. The message is to think, assess the impact, before acting. The problem cannot be solved by ignoring the third body.

Children need not cause a tsunami near that island. The least, a marooned person expects now, is no further isolation. This island-man has two questions for them - are you perfect in every sense of the word? Have I uttered anything other than an alert, fully aware that it has a take or leave tag?

Remember this. Always, interests cannot be aligned.  Viewpoints will differ and verbal exchanges will occur. Denials are to be suffered. This is the sum and summary of life. Then, the father had only the time to thank and his resolve to keep them protected from the aftereffects of his junked life. Has he not prevented his grief from becoming theirs’s too?

Instead of appreciation, all I have been receiving are snide comments and insensitive actions., contravening one' belief should not cause grief in another. The father asks himself, “Who am I, to expect a better deal?”

When these missing links are identified and connected, everybody becomes to matter, on the same page.”

Bring it on Grandfather 254

                                                                                         A broom is as good as the hand holding it!

                                                                                                             From: “Settled dust”

The grinding stone, the steppingstone, the door mat and other inanimate objects  are more useful than a grandfather. He mumbled to himself, as he walked along on the footpath to nowhere. This might look like a sweeping statement, but a closer attention to incidents that have happened or happening or would happen in the future will be the proof for the pudding.

 The first salvo gets fired at him, when a grandkid doesn't respond immediately. Grandmother trains the gun to fire " like grandfather, he is hard of hearing or does not want to hear hard words." This leaves both, the grandfather and the kid perplexed. The grandson who was deeply engrossed in reading did not know what this is all about. The grandfather trying to recall the times, when and why he didn't respond, in the past! No way he could retort, “You are always saying something, whether it has anything to do with me or not. Truth be told, I do feign of not hearing to avoid a disagreement."

 The second salvo was fired when the grandson brings home a report card. Now, on this occasion, the son is quick to join issue with his father," You are too much for him and see what he has brought home now. Anything I ask, he replies, grandpa only said not to worry and strain too much and follow the clues I have given. If only I could have remembered them." 

 The grandpa feels like a potato being skinned alive (scrapped). He wanted to give a hot reply, " Is he Old Macdonald from the nursery rhyme?" But chose to remain silent as his grandson had used his words out of context and his son easily fell into that trap and jumped to a wrong conclusion.  Yet, as a grandfather he could only swallow the bitter pill administered by the grandkid. Affection needs a thick skin out of necessity, he mused!

With the grandmother, always in hand, to clue in the likely trajectory of the tracer bullets, the clan simply aimed at the painted target and fired away with telling accuracy. In effect, the grandfather had become a bullet ridden veteran, without being awarded a chakra of any kind. Seriously thinking about the needless potshots being taken at him, gave an idea. He allowed it to germinate in his mind for two reasons - collect some more of such 'wounds' and decide on the structure, with all embellishments, which would anyways creep in, as he planned a narrative. 

Once finished to his satisfaction, he decided to share it to all, in his Blog, which was tired of waiting for so long. He did not want to miss this golden opportunity, for dropping two fruits with a single stone throw.  As usual, he needed additional time for selecting the fruit and the tree.

Never a believer in coincidences, since none had worked in his favour so far, he was pleasantly surprised when his daughter asked him to come over. She had added, without forgetting, a sweetener " You know, kids love you!" He, then literally pinched his skin (on thick and thinner regions) to make sure that he has been invited (commanded). The dampener was hiding in the next sentence - have booked two tickets and check your inbox. A one act Shakespearian tragedy.

The practice of off- loading tasks, on to spare hands seems to be the norm from hi-tech companies to common households. He unsuccessfully tried to find out which stream came on-line first. In the household, older the helping hands the better it would be and only thing to be done is to brand them as "seasoned hands". The rest, as they say, is a misery with twists and turns, in his case.

Attachment has a way of getting a fault line to open as a crack. Stronger the attachment, the wider it opens. It all started with a no value number zero. At that time, it was a beautiful tool to explain a mathematical concept to my granddaughter. Lo and behold! He, never expected it to assume a significant value, after some time. Like long-term deposits growing with interest.

 A person who could not determine his place value in life, had the onerous task of teaching the place value a number assumes, written in different ...ok, you get the drift. He took pains to explain what happens to the value of a number, when shifted to different places like ones, tens, hundreds and so on.

In his over enthusiasm, the granddaughter is a willing and absorbing student, he tried to trick her with zero as often as possible in ones, tens and hundreds positions.  It is difficult for a child to grasp the meaning of zero. Adults, too, are not entirely out of the woods because our mind has to create something out of nothing. How a child can understand this contradiction - on the number line it looks easy, but it does not exist.

To make matters easier, he hit upon the idea of this one-liner – a zero is zero and it will not become a hero under any circumstance! He drilled the concept into her mind that zero is nothing and whatever position it occupies, it shows no appreciation in value. This he did not realise as an over kill. This comedy ended as a tragedy, a few days later. But, what his granddaughter did in the class resulted in a call for the parents to meet with the teacher. When told of this, the naughty girl quipped ‘with or without the hero’, sheepishly pointing at  her grandfather. 

This was enough for my daughter to call the riot army to march all over me. She had an axe to grind- I had not discovered this noble property of zero, while tutoring her decades ago! 

Like a school student standing in front of the principal, I fidgeted, twirled my thumbs and remained mute. Pity or impatience took over the reins and the stand-off fizzled out, when all of us retired to our safe corners. 

 I know, this rumbling volcano of my daughter, will spew out gentle wisps, for a day or two, after all it is her father. For my part, I gently twisted my granddaughter's ear and asked her why did she do what she did? I got a one-word response, " What?" in an AI generated voice and vanished like a switched off hologram.

Not to be left behind, my grandson inadvertently laid a trap, into which I happily stepped in. As he stepped down from the school bus, I was shocked to see him, with palm closed over his left eye. Usually, he runs toward me, hugs and immediately hands over his school bag and lunch bag. 

His sister came down next, with a serious face. I sensed that something has gone wrong. Posing like Moshe Dayan, he blurted out that someone has hurt his eye and he is barely able to see. I was taken by his facial expression and accompanying tear-jerking dialogue - an Oscar worthy performance, His sister, still remained serious without uttering a word. The three of us made the trip to the doctor. I came out with a litre of black paint on my face (grandson’s hoax call) and incurring additional expenditure for two cups of ice cream, as penalty. 

At home, mother and daughter joined the chorus of tirade against me, for spoiling them with ice cream when specifically, been told not to so.  Their breathless monologue left me speechless, as the frantic signals from the kids forbade me from explaining the background. He mused, once you have given in, it is nothing but all the way, on the highway, of course with a toll!

 

The heavenly dilemma: 253

All the second-rung gods and goddesses, worth their boons, had gathered for a marathon meet. Brahma had been roped in to preside over as he had the least of bother from earthlings seeking boons, waivers, write offs with or without haircuts. 

With no other option but to accept, he brought along Chitragupta and Yamadharmaraj, in case of an out of the box solution might be called for.

Though the presence of Yamadharmaraj was not that essential, he did not want to churn, not even a pot of controversy. He did not know what would happen. 

This starter shook the legs of the very seat he was sitting on. Brahma was asked why he could not have curbed these tendencies during creation? Should they take it as a deliberate attempt to put them all in trouble? They thought since Brahma was the behind-the-scenes causative; he might have twisted the DNA yarn a bit differently.

Brahma regretted his decision to chair the meeting. This curve ball he didn't expect and sat defenseless. Glancing aside, he saw Chitragupta nodding his head after Yamadharmaraj whispered something. 

Brahma looked a little amused and wondered whether they are trying to bury the hatchet or holding a consultation in the sidelines! His doubt got automatically cleared when Chitragupta passed on a note, under the table. As he started reading, Brahma broke into a wide grin and patted himself for bringing along these two. 

Brahma was pretty impressed with the points for counterattack: (a) I don't get to sport avatars like the others (b) Even if I had, I would not have gone about distributing boons so freely, as I don't get easily convinced and (c) Most of the rishis wrote stacks of slokas and such things only about them. and not on me. With this timely input, he was able to fire at least a few salvos, himself.

It was a blunder to give insights to rishis. What they went about doing was writing slokas to praise and pry loose boons. You were all happy when extolled extensively and granted boons, without wasting time, by the baskets. 

Why the earthlings would not almost demand the same treatment as they had studied these scriptures, detailing the boons granted to many bad apples?

At present they have got accustomed to regimes of freebies. Now, all of you have issues with the unprecedented clamour for more from these boon seekers rather boon hunters. 

In various avatars, did I go about seeking such characters doing penance, tapas and gladly granting boons without forethought. Some recipients turned them into a twin edged sword, no surprise there!

Brahma had the satisfaction of a hit on the target.

Think about it like this. Why all the above issues - wanting more and threatening with swords - happened or happening? Certainly, not because of my doing! Brahma scored a second hit.

In stunned silence, the entire gathering of gods and goddesses started shaking heads, fidgeting fingers and then sat like statues. 

To give them time to contemplate, Chitragupta suggested a break.  After announcing an adjournment, Brahma trooped out with Chitragupta and Yamadharmaraj. He wanted to use this break to work out a strategy to tackle the issues. Chitragupta and Yamadharmaraj came up with probable questions and suitable answers. Brahma hoped, at best, this could give him a handle on the situation, when the session reconvened.

As expected, the second attack was on the chants and rishis. The collective assembly pointed out the times of rishis had come and gone long, long back. 

Looking at his clue-sheet, Brahma counter-pointed out - though rishis have become an extinct species, the hymns still exist. Of course, after heaping praises on themselves, they have kindly included your name also, though as a footnote. Not only that, stepping on the shoulders of the gullible devotees, a mushroom growth of avatars and gurus are already doing hectic business, making up their own hymns. Is it not?

Again, their missile going off target, the assembly then came up with the question how could we avoid donning avatars meant to mingle, suffer with and to impart bhakti and morality to the populous? 

Brahma had already glimpsed at the near enough answer but to add a bit of drama, he waited a few ticks. In the meanwhile, the assembly sensed the smell of victory that was about to pervade the chamber. 

Simple. If you all had curbed the desire to use the power of boons, no need for many avatars, many rishis and many sacred texts.  The assembly, after hearing Brahma's reply, took a step back to work out a face-saving counter argument.

How could we hold powers without exercising them? Oh Brahma, don't you know only a hunter has to go after a pretty but not the other way around?

Undaunted, Brahma replied, "That was precisely the reason I said all of you all should have curbed the desire to exhibit the vested powers. I quote from your own example, the moment a prey senses the presence of a hunter, it escapes. The hunter need not even hint his killing skills." 

Brahma admired Chitragupta's this quick retort, hurriedly written and passed on in time. The assembly lost one more missile that strayed way off target.

How do we overcome this?

Anticipating this very question, the duo had drafted a succinct answer. Brahma liked the manner in which they had managed to bring the spotlight on to him. Beaming with pride, he cast all his eyes on the duo in acknowledgement. While Chitragupta took it as a normal gesture, Yamadharmaj experienced a chilling effect, and worried that normalcy had not yet returned among them.

Brahma continued, after going through the note, " Controlling the desire to grant boons might give you all the feeling of deserting the devotees. Had it not made the devotees to think, in simple terms, ring the bell and bag the boon? There are no easy-way or hard-way but only one way - that is my way. Meditation upon meditation."

Truly at this point, the assembly looked thoroughly confused and became silent by this unexpected prescription. They started to wonder whether it was a mistake to invite Brahma to chair the meeting or allowing his minions to attend the proceedings. They knew Brahma's penchant for meditation and suspected the hands of the minions for giving that clue.

A weak voice asked, "OK. Still, we would be disturbed by the clamour of boon seekers. Then what is the use of your suggestion?"

Brahma with a benign smile plastered all over the face said, " That is why the suggestion was for meditation upon meditation. The first one is to shut down the disturbance and the second one is aimed at reaching the goal."

Noticing the frantic signals from Chitragupta, Brahma got the message and promptly declared the meeting closed. Before the assembled members could realise, the entourage vacated the chamber.

During his meditation, Brahma could not exclude the glow of satisfaction about the duo's counter points and seeding of the idea for a double dose meditative course turned out to be nothing short of a master stroke. Unable to continue, Brahma decided that the interruption in itself was a process in mediation.  

Something unusual 252

Timeline: The bone chilling narratives happened in the year 1946-48. India was living in villages, without electricity, roads and telephones. This young man has heard, rather eavesdropped it, in the year 1957-58 . He relived a similar, horror filled experienced at the age of 23 year (1973).  But for the similar backdrops, he did not get to meet the ghost, his father had an altercation with. This experience had left such an indelible impression in his mind. As a result, even after a few decades, he is still apprehensive about going to unknown places, after sunset! 

The write-up, you are about to read, is based on real experience of a person. Giving it a semblance of an account is my only contribution. Go back to that time and imagine the life in a typical village, without electricity, good roads or telephone, before reading the narrative. An event can only be observed, if you happen to look at it exactly at the same time as it occurs.             - Author-

The evening of that day started with missing a connecting bus, which would have taken him to his hometown. Without thinking, he decided to go to his relative's village. This impulsive decision looked appealing, as the last bus service from that station was about to leave. He thought of himself to be in luck as he remembered the village can be reached, off this bus route. After requesting the conductor for an alert where he should get down, he settled down for the journey. It was already becoming dark. The headlights of the bus led the way on the greyish ribbon of a road. Looking out through the side windows, he could see only blackness, which brought cheer to his worried mind. Counting the minutes did not hasten the arrival of his destination.

Another misstep, a travel through black rural landscape. Literally, this trip appeared to be the last for any kind of vehicular traffic as he did not see anyone trying to overtake or come from the opposite direction. A co-passenger offered a helpful hint - take the approach road on the left side; it would be dark to see anything clearly. The next question, "is it your first visit?" loosened the tentacles of fear. It started to slowly tighten its grip which made him to curse himself again. He immediately scratched off the joy he felt earlier for being in luck to catch this bus. The full weight of his flash decision descending upon him, he alighted from the bus. Unmindful of his predicament, the taillight of the bus, he had just got down from, receded and disappeared from view. He found himself alone in a nowhere - no man's land. With the only illumination gone with the bus and with nothing else to bother it with, darkness encapsulated and swallowed everything into it.

The few steps he took brought him on the to the path to the village. Only a single low watt streetlight was trying to fight a losing battle with the surrounding darkness. Its futile effort could not lift the darkness even near the lamp post. He found to his utter horror, that this is the one and only streetlamp on the path leading to the village. His dread to blackness in any form - light, moderate or heavy, increased by leaps and bounds. Once again, with a mixture of fear and anxiety, he rued the impulsive decision. Fear of visiting an unknown place and anxious because his relatives may or may not be at home. He took few tentative seps on the gravel road with the faint star-studded night sky, indicating the late arrival of moon on the scene to improve lighting.  

Except for reciting the poem "Lead, kindly light amid the encircling gloom" by John Henry Newman, he was all alone in the pitch darkness, wondering why he suddenly remembered this poem. The chaotic dance performance of fireflies, around the dark shapes of trees, brought home into his mind the images of ghosts spitting fire. Even in his wildest dreams, he never had an inkling that this mid-summer of 1973 will bring such a trauma and almost take him to the cleaners. 

For every fear, there should be a background story. He as a child had eavesdropped, two vivid, chilling narratives. And the narratives made hairs to stand on ends, all over the body at that time, and got etched in his memory for instant recalls. The story tellers were two brothers, none other than his father and uncle. Both had a streak of a daredevil attitude in them and lived in a perfect setting - a village on a riverbank, surrounded by fields, casuarina plants and a huge banyan tree standing guard at the entrance. 

After about 100 meters down the road, he felt as if he was literally parting the darkness and making his way. On either side of the road, only clump of trees, hosting his imaginary ghosts, silently watched his progress. On his left, a barely visible patch of land parcel, with round objects strewn all around a small heap of earth, came into view. Promptly, at that instant, his uncle's narrative of a journey made  under similar circumstances, started to playback that soundtrack of 1957-58, to top up the fear in his mind. 

"It was very dark when I got down from the bus. Took a short cut through the casuarina trees as had been advised, to reach the village. From behind me or from somewhere, a peculiar whistling and snapping sounds came on and off. An eerie feeling engulfed me like an ominous cloud, as this was my first visit, on an unfamiliar path to that village. Left with no other choice, I picked up courage and walked some more distance to reach an open stretch of land. Suddenly, at a distance, I noticed a tongue of flame shoot up and vanish. At that point, I was neither here nor there. So, with a thudding heart and a million of goosebumps, I pushed on without another glance at the spot, where the mysterious flame appeared and disappeared.

Fear fueled my strides and focusing my eyes straight, I somehow reached the relative's house and banged on the door, enough to wake up every household in the street. Seeing me at that odd hour, the host reacted to my appearance as though he had opened the doors to a ghost. Being an elderly person, he let me get settled down and then asked, have you gone nuts? Don't you know even our villagers hesitate to travel that way, late at night? No doubt you must have heard whistling sounds and seen a tongue of fire flaring and disappearing? I nodded in silence. Then he gently told me the secret that the shortcut I took was around a burial ground. Out of reverence to his age, I didn't ask him why he had not included this piece of information, while giving me the directions. Probably, he might have thought I would come by during the daytime.”

His uncle's narrative pushed the young man deep into the panic pit. He started to suffer a modified Caesar's dilemma - to go forward or to retreat. Both options looking inimical to his wellbeing, he decided on the best foot forward strategy. A few meters later, his feet stepped into a pool of cold water. With a mixer of fear and dread, he pressed the 'pause' button to assess the situation. Vague outline of a canal lay in between him and the barely visible path. Wading in, to his dismay, he found himself in another miscalculation and hip-deep water. Again, the modified Caesar's dilemma had its second run.

Legs shaking in wet pants and with fear, he tentatively lifted one leg and put it forward, while digging deep with his other foot in the slimy soil. Squishing sound, as the foot came up, started his heart to lump and thud. After a few squishy steps, he found no appreciable change in the depth of water and moved forward. After a few more steps, he was able to move freely and cross the canal. Still there was no sign of moonlight and he did not really know if the moon has a scheduled appearance that night or not. Every Minute stretched to give the feel of an hour's passage, and his heartbeat started the tick-tock counter, while his ears enthusiastically took station to amplify even the silence.

To further his misery, by the courtesy of fear, his bladder started filling to bursting point. Its frantic calls had a decelerating effect on his forward journey. Now his acute hearing started to pick up rustling sound, intending to collapse his lungs. To his immense relief, he saw a giant bandicoot, trying to run across the road, on dry leaves. With mounting tension, he moved forward, and a rhythmic, scrapping sound started floating through the calm night air. Intermittently, the sound of tinkling of bells, joined in now and then. 

Fortunately for the bladder, he had somehow managed to relieve the pressure before hearing this second set of scary sounds. His pupils dilated to extra-large size, though not improving his night vision appreciably. Ahead of him, a white clad tall figure, started to slowly appear, on the horizon, with the sounds of scrapping and tinkling bells, playing musical accompaniment. He sensed the presence of some question marks, hovering above him - Is this white clad, tall figure real or not? Is the figure approaching or standing still or going back? Or am I imagining things to mess up with my courage?

As if exactly waiting for a cue, his frightened mind switched on another 1957-58 soundtrack of the 'ghost who talked', narrated by his father. That day, as a child he had eavesdropped this story, in the dim light of a hurricane lamp and plaintive wailing of dogs in the background, enveloping the entire atmosphere with an eerie feeling. 

"One day, late in the night, I was crossing the riverbed, on a bullock cart. The pale moon barely illuminating the cart-track. A moment before, there was nothing and then suddenly, a tall and well-built person stood in front of the cart, blocking my way. After the initial surprise, I immediately judged it to be a giant apparition, in the guise of a person. Then, the figure initiated a dialogue, in a voice that sounded 'alien', challenging me to get down from the cart. Being a hardened villager, I have heard so many stories of such apparitions and   ways to deal with the issue. The strong belief is, as long as you are possessing an artifact in the shape of a wheel or wearing leather chappals or sitting or moving on a vehicle, the apparition is powerless to do any harm. You see, even the ghosts have fears.

Becoming clear about its intentions, I promptly refused to take up the challenge.  The ghost then changed tactics and asked me for the chappals as it was finding it difficult to walk on barefoot. Curious, I looked down at its feet and found it had no feet, sort of floating a few inches above the ground. On high alert, I refused to oblige. Once again it changed tactics, and now asked for a portion of my finger along with the nail. It promised to let me go afterwards, unharmed. Not the type to sit twiddling thumbs. I took a risk and did the unthinkable. Shouted and threatened it to show me its fingers, offering to cut one of them. Undaunted, the ghost tried to intimidate and scare me by showing its glowing fingertips, from a safe distance. Taking another risk, I asked it to at least get on to the cart and then decide who will cut who's finger. Failed in all its wily attempts, the ghost did a vanishing act. I don't know whether out of boredom or fear."

He could relive the same experience of that horror filled moments - hairs standing on ends, goosebumps erupting from head to toes, pounding, hammering and racing heart trying to do everything short of scheduling a heart attack. Coming to the present, he blinked his eyes several times, in disbelief, as the figure appeared to grow gradually in size with the sound accompaniment increasing in volume, by every passing second. Mesmerised and terrified at the same time, he stood transfixed. The mental picture forming in his mind, of angels hovering overhead like wingless helicopters, was scarier than the experience of watching a hardcore horror movie, all alone in a late-night show. 

The heart, threatening to jump through his mouth only accentuated the frantic signals from the ungrateful bladder. As the figure drew nearer, a deep gravelly voice sounded out, "Who goes there?" Relief washing over like an avalanche, he could not believe his ears hearing a human voice, yet a doubt niggled its worry - whether it is the apparition speaking to fool him. He did not answer as his vocal cords refused to move. After spending interminable terrorizing moments, he noticed a villager alighting from his bicycle, whom he had mistaken for a ghost.  In his confused state, he had failed to see the parallel path on his right, which the villager had used, coming in the opposite direction. Getting no reply, the villager repeated his question. Not waiting for an answer, he departed with a word of advice, " Don't dare to come on this route alone in the late nighttime." 

The story did not end there. As he approached the below-the semi-rural ranked village, a pack of dogs snarled and barked at him in displeasure. Luckily for him the dogs were only sending feelers and quickly lost their interest in him. Finally, he reached the house and knocked at the door a few times. He keenly listened for any noise, from behind the closed doors. After a long delay, his relative came out, blinking away sleep and holding a hurricane lamp. He doubly ensured the credentials with a Q & A session at the entrance before allowing him inside. Though it was late, dinner was served along with choice reprimands on his foolishness to travel like that. Overwhelmed by the ordeals and near-death experience, he questioned himself, " What made me to undertake this foolhardy journey. What would have happened if I had really come face to face with a ghost. Would I have acted like my father. The stories my father and uncle narrated were true or imaginary?"

Tēburugāden , easy... is it? 251

 All of a sudden, an idea floated into the mind, like a breeze enriched with oxygen. All day long, or most part of it anyways, stuck inside an apartment and looking out at other apartments that dotted the skyline, was becoming an eye sore. The tall glass pans, to let in sunlight and allow a peek in to the neighbouring apartments, did not help much as the apartment was a wall-to-wall rectangle, without a sit out. Of course, a safety grill, behind the glass pane, prevented anyone from getting down to the ground floor, avoiding the lift.

Like all fingers on a hand are different, the members of a family have opinions that refuses to get into the same page. Sometimes, it is the earning capacity, sometimes it is the vocal capacity and sometimes it is the obdurate adamancy that gets the upper hand, in settling an issue. From this moment onwards, it is testing time for this project leader. He wonders, “why such an ado about having some potted, indoor plants and what will he do with the 'self-caring, non-hungry and non-crying' plants he had already ordered for home delivery? What will he do with the downloaded files with colourful images, kept like hidden away in some obscure named sub-folders, like squirrel hoarding nuts? What is the meaning of guaranteed individual's freedom?" 

It made him sad to realise that the so-called euhemerism of enjoying freedom did not exist even when he was an earning member. All these thoughts racing through his mind made him go nuts.

To settle his disturbed nerves, he glanced through the list that came highly recommended (his own reasoning on web-based sales pitch).The baby-like qualities of the chosen plants - Aloe vera, golden pothos, snake plant, spider plant, ZZ plant, held his expectations locked (crooned by the seller). Notwithstanding the sales pitch, he wondered why in this world, plants are to be named after an insect or a reptile? It worried him a little that, from among the ordered plants, only a single plant appeared familiar to him. He believed, for the rest of them, on the say so of the vendor.

He kicked the hindsight into action (should have done it in the pre-order phase) and Googled the biodata of the ordered plants. Better late than after the arrival, seemed a tad little consoling. After noting down salient characteristics, do's and don'ts, he obliterated the telltale electronic crumbs of clues from the system. He was sure that his grandson would ferret out the search history - password protected or not. At least, he has not lost his touch with dealing the ticking time bomb called search history. The laptop remained his only window of opportunity and freedom of action. With a chuckle, he remembered the laptop came loaded with Windows operating system.  

The waiting, literally at the front door or nearby, period started earning him glances and icy glares from the family members. He sensed their growing intolerance, sitting like a rock on his shoulders. When the courier delivered the plants, he experienced joy side by side with a low frequency anxiety. The anxiety part reminded him with two questions, "Where in this apartment you are going to keep these plants. What is the scheme to hang, to place or to clump them together?" 

Deserted by hindsight again, he had no clue on what to do. Little did he realise the stock of shocks waiting for him.  He decided to take the package and leave it on his table for the time being. He knew it is a ruse to postpone the facetime with the plants, inside the package. The suspense was stronger than his tepid enthusiasm. The first shock hit him like a boxer's punch- the plants were of midget size, ordinary looking and had no resemblance to the beautiful colour pictures printed on the brochure. He understood that he had been taken for a ride, expense paid for by him. Not averse to swallowing bitter pills, he decided to prove the game is not yet over. He left the plants to bathe in light and breath.

The second shock was an upgrade - delivered with a heavy weight category boxer's punch.  Suspecting the size of the package bigger than the content, he found a false bottom hiding five instruction manuals. At this point, he had suffered enough shocks and called it a day. The urgent need to give first aid to the plants made him to rush to a nearby pharmacy for disposable syringes. In his worried and harried state of mind, he didn't even read the instruction manuals, fearing hidden shocks. 

He was not sure whether the plants need ORS (oral rehydration solution) but decided against too much of nursing care for the plants, though touted as baby-like, no-care varieties.

Entering his room, he saw his grandson inspecting the plants on the table. Grandpa, why you purchased Aloe vera and money plant? I would have got it from my friend's garden for free! Like the aftermath rumbles of seismic activity, one more shock was delivered - the identity of two common plants. To save face, he blurted out, is it not better to buy them together, sort of fostering comradery-in-leaves?

Deciding the time has come to unlock the secrets buried in the manuals, he started to read them and penciled important points for ready reference. The Pencil is his handy tool as always, he failed to retain what he read minutes ago. The next shock lay in wait in these important points - watering and nutrients feeding schedule, like that of an ICU patient. What scared him really was the mention of exotic insects that some of these plants attracted as guests and if not promptly exterminated, the host plant wilts and dries. 

At this juncture, the sales pitch -'self-caring, non-hungry and non-crying 'baby-like qualities, was trying to crash through the glass pane. As usual his hindsight came online to torment - did not your children cry, throw up tantrums, fall sick?

The urgent need to give first aid to the plants made him to rush to a nearby pharmacy for disposable syringes. In his worried and harried state of mind, he didn't even read the instruction manuals, fearing hidden shocks. He was not sure whether the plants need oral rehydration solution but decided against too much of nursing care for the plants, though touted as baby-like, no-care varieties.

Entering his room, he saw his grandson inspecting the plants on the table. Grandpa, why you purchase Aloe vera and money plant? I would have got it from my friend's garden for free! Like the after rumbles of seismic activity, one more shock was delivered - the identity of two common plants. To save face he blurted out, is it not better to buy them together, sort of giving them a comradery -in -leaves feeling?

Deciding the time has come to unlock the secrets buried in the manuals, he opened to read and penciled in important points for ready reference. The Pencil is his handy tool as always, he failed to retain what he read minutes ago. The next shock lay in wait in these important points - watering schedule and nutrients like that of an ICU patient, exotic insects that need extermination. At this point, the sales pitch was trying to crash through the glass pane.

By this time, courtesy of his grandson, the arrival of plants has reached the ears of the 'nay' saying members of the house. Though the majority was on their side, they saw this as an opportunity to draw a line on the floor and said, "No hang-ups or public display. Other than these conditions, it is your choice and freedom." After reading this preamble, they vanished from my sight. I got their message loud and clear- have them for company in your personal space, your bedroom! His grandson graciously withdrew from the scene and trooped out to play.

His hopes were dashed to the potted soil, on two counts- sick looking plants and the preamble. Wasting energy on finding loopholes or getting an amendment appeared hopeless. He felt the invited guests need to be given the hospitality, whether they deserve it or not. Blowing through his top is not his strong point. A weak sunlight and drafts of fresh air is guaranteed on his study table cum dining table (his mealtimes fall at odd times, an independent streak). 

He cleared some space and arranged the plants per their height, to ensure all of them enjoyed their sunbath. He was prepared to nurse them to their potential growth. He had no more use for the manuals and used them under the respective pot, as spacers. He got mad after seeing the enclosed insurance policies for the plants along with the manuals.

His grandson looked at the table and said, "Grandpa, what a brilliant idea, you have just created a "Tēburugāden."   Watching the puzzled look he said, " It is a Japanese word for table garden. If you want, google it!

Angst of a writer 250

 Why at all to write? 

It is an urge that defies control, only to get trapped in a framework. It is generally constructed with accepted or understood pegs, marking the corners of the many-sided work. With each side demanding adherence to a certain regimen, the writer is stressed to squeeze out ideas as a topic, hoping to capitalise on the reader's interest. As in the sides of the framework, to evoke the interest in a reader, the writer does a gymnast's act of marshalling ideas as sentences, sprinkling some similes, humour and philosophy here and there, and waving the magic wand to produce an abracadabra. If lucky, rarely so, the writer gets someone to point out errors in spelling, grammar or facts. If not, a solo sailing into rough weather of errors being pointed out, after the writer goes public. 

Only an experienced writer can understand and empathise with the struggles of a budding writer. The exercise of writing is strenuous to put it mildly. The writer has to shoulder many roles, as hunter to trap ideas, as a linguist to search for apt words, as a drill sergeant to discipline and parade the sentences, as a soldier facing 'writer's block' lost in unknown land and finally as a seasoning chef to dish out the menu. At this point the menu awaits tasters.

It is like a sentence of solitary confinement for the plot in the mind. Seeking out thoughts, collecting one-liners from the life of historical figures, named syndromes and paradoxes without knowing where and how they would fit into the narrative, which itself has not revealed the course it is going to take. Finally, when all these things make their way into the narrative, the writer gets to see the rough draft. 

But before this rough draft – The writer walks alone, only with his thoughts for company. Thoughts in the meanwhile try to befriend words and then sentences to give some help.  Now, how can the writer keep quiet? The lonely walk is now becoming longer, to iterate, chart factual and logical routes to get them integrated into a rough narrative. All the while keeps an eye on pitfalls and grammatical mines. Tension builds up regarding the apt choice to be made- active, passive, neutral, past, present or future tense. A worried walk ends in a quarter- final draft.

Red signals dot the draft here and there. Spelling, verb, tense and punctuation marks continue to cry for rectification. Second reading of this quarter-final draft indicates, the tone of the narrative is not resonating with the topic in some places. This correction brings this draft to a third reading. In between, some inspired inclusions started knocking at the door for consideration. One more reading with the latest additions to the draft leaves the writer in a dilemma. Which draft was better - before additions or afterwards. In frustration, the writer labels it a semi-final draft and takes a breather. 

The upbeat or down stroke of weaving the corrections into the latest semi-final draft, due   to self-doubt on literary talent haunting after too many redrafting leaves the writer weary and low on energy. Now all but shouting the hurrah moment has come. The writer decides it is enough, becoming worried about some more walking, stamps this draft as corrected and final.  

This maiden attempt, without the guidance of an editor, makes the writer lean on to the willingness of friends - for a fresh look and comments. Like a writer's block, now he comes face to face with a reader's block. Hope alternating with despair, the writer starts to wonder, "Why at all this much pain?"  

What can the writer do, at this stage, if all the prospective readers suffer from bibliophobia? Run to the nearest pharmacy for a hair growth medication. Maybe, it might come in handy after splitting hairs, wondering how to drag the unwilling horse to the trough!  

The writer understands, the love for reading is neither contagious nor transferable; if forced, becomes an abhorrent. How to make such reluctant persons, to read, who are too happy to bond with the screen of a smartphone?  

The writer remembers this bath-room experience.  “Assume, having left a mug of water, thinking it is full, and what happens when you lift it after some time?  You lift it, assuming it as a water filled mug. Don’t you feel its weightlessness for a microsecond? It almost flies off your hand.”   

Or, unknown to the writer, any other personal reasons each held as an excuse to give his writing a rejection slip, without giving him a chance? So much for erroneous assumptions. Like this, previous perceptions come in the way to change and accept the present! 

The writer understood the reason for this. Relatives thinking what he knows about writing or I would have done it better than this or I have no time to spend on this type of reading material etc. Friends, on the other hand, may come up with responses like ‘ebullient’, ‘effervescent’, or 'tepid’.  The writer spends time wondering whether to take this as positive appreciation or indirectly hinting to improvise some more. At least, this sits better than ‘no response’ or ‘no comments. 

Persistent person that the writer is, quickly comes out of wishful thinking, to find a way to positively deliver the reach outs. For a writer dreaming a plot, populating it with characters and prodding them with dialogues, this ploy is like a child's play. Though the task of messaging appeared simple, the complexity becomes apparent, considering the differing tastes of the targeted prospective readers.   

Prepared messages, with topics of interest, and a surreptitiously buried link that will take them to the writeup.  Now at least the 'read or unread' itself will be an acknowledgement of interest. Incase this ruse fails, the writer is ready for a fresh round of thinking on how to catch an elusive fish!  

The messages generated neither ripples in the cell towers nor waves in the internet. It was disconcerting a bit but the hope of a slim chance of getting a reply lingered in the mind. Exasperation piled over exasperation. Why at all to write, only for getting cold shouldered?  

The writer’s mind was getting overloaded with a lot of ifs and buts. It spoke to the writer in sotto voce, “As you draft, the software does prompt mistakes that need correction. Not satisfied with this, you try it on email. Here too your mistakes are prompted with suggested corrections. Coming to the lamenting part about an editor, have you not already used more than one, till now? Calmly think, who has been reading your thoughts so far - Me, Microsoft and Google! Don’t we qualify as your readers? This exercise is harder than writing a new story!” 

The agitated mind, then came up with an energetic sentence, which it promptly hung beneath the other sentence.  

Why at all to write? 

Why not write! 

Of course, on the wall of the writer’s brain!