Year: 2020

Tomorrow comes daily

Ruts don’t dig themselves. Most of the time, we’re in a rut because that’s precisely where we put ourselves. Actions become habits, and habits get repeated because they feel safe. The easiest way to make things more interesting is to simply stop repeating your habitual behavior. And that often comes from reacting to triggers. Remove the triggers and you can alter the habits. Tiny changes. Different ways to keep score. Tomorrow comes daily. But we don’t have to take the same route to get there.

Homeland

He woke up four inches below the snow like bed. But the day ahead was going to be as treacherous. He felt excited because travelling to rural India gave a smile to his face. Indian villages to a good extent still practice their civilisational old traditions. The air is different, the land for miles is green. But leaving Delhi behind is a lengthy affair. Their is an infrastructure push. Hundreds and thousands of trees that once gave beauty, breath and shade have now given way to expressway and highways and along with it empty, always being constructed high rise buildings. Slowly we start going past it. And we start seeing cow dung cakes kept for sun drying for kilometres. For centuries cow dung cakes known as “upla” in Hindi are used for cooking, cleaning homes and for homa- the fire worship. It’s smoke is known to purify the environment killing small insects and creatures. Many years ago someone said to Nara about India, when he was roaming in the river valleys of Kedar, that India …

Food and the world on a new yogi’s mind

It was time the sun arrived when he decided going to bed again. After last night chocolate truffle the cough had soared. In his sleep he chanced upon the pizzas of fat lulu because only they had items where he could find some vegetarian ones. The voice inside him for many months had been asking him to leave dairy. Even when it is the best time to be a cow in India, he thought, milk like few other well marketed products have been projected as a necessity to humanity. So he started writing alternatives whenever any possible eatable came to his mind. He wrote it on a small diary he was keeping in the right cheek of his behind. But while on the road that led to an elite market, he saw a fruit man selling in February a watermelon. Is there something called a season ? Because time seems to have taken a back seat. But he stopped, thinking all fruits are good. When Manu Called he was counting his chewing the papaya in …

Lovers

His year began with a cold shower last valentines morning, of course it was February, of course it was cold. For many years he dismissed the love day by saying valentines’s mother was a pagan and did not believe in Christ herself, rather was in love with a tree outside her home. So he would love a tree that stood outside their home. She would rebel even thinking about going outside and say I detest this urban theatre. Every one is a clone of the other. Look a likes inside outside. He left mother for school where he found children crushing and tearing a chit that was given to them to call their parents. Later the painter came and looked at the plant pots and said no. They cannot be done. Twenty five years had passed. Then one day somebody complained about the school running in the park of a society. The notice came and school was shut. On the closing day school organised a reunion inviting all the ex parents where they served them …

LAST FLIGHT OF AN OWL

He kept looking towards the sky while floating in the water kept for cows. Big round button yellow eyes like ever watching you do the doing. His death seemed such that at one time I felt he chose it. But would a predator or anyone can choose his own death? May be. But When Maharaj arrived, he first closed his eyes. May be he needed someone to close his eyes before it could be plucked out. May be he earned this burial. To only put a stop to this cycle. May his body rests and the spirit awakens. Aum Shanti  

The Pride of the Capital Parade

Sometimes guilt pushes for better results. Thus Chatter woke up dot at four in the brahm mahurat. Even though he left home at five. We were able reach Rajpath in the darkness of the dawn. It was no less than grand theatre going on there. Never was Delhi be heard and felt from the pride and the energy with which they marched past. With the bands of each regiment leading the way. The drums, the beats, the smell of the sweating young, the valour in the air. The discipline, the clacking of the iron bar beneath their marching boots to the tar ground woke us all up. The mist, the vapours coming out of mouths while a woman officer commanding against the street lamps of Rajpath takes you close to India’a colonial cold faced armies. The practise and improvisation that has gone in the making of them. Oneness in the motion. The pride. It felt like they were owning the day. It felt like they made it our day. Whole, united. It was a day …