I

Swaminathan looked at it as it went on with its hypnotic sway. He had never understood who had made this and why this outfit became the symbol of his profession worldwide. It looked to him more like an executioner’s robe, deep weird and draconian. But aren’t they the first step to that? He reminded himself that he is not to bother about such trivialities as he is only doing his karma as per his dharma. Maybe these thoughts could have made him seek solace in God. As the days into his profession went by, he became more and more pious. He also tried his outmost in helping out the old and needy and often his out of way approach invited both sharp criticism and accolades also.

He closed his eyes. Time for a short nap before the clients start pouring in.

The hot court rooms and heated debates had exhausted him unlike his young days when he was known to be the firebrand among the apprentices and admired by his peers. Not that he has lost space professionally but the hectic schedules had taken its toll on the aging body which couldn’t keep pace with time.

Saar ..saar .

Swaminathan squirmed in his plush leather seat trying to pretend he didn’t hear anything. He felt annoyed at being disturbed of his precious nap.

Saar ..saar .

The hoarse sound continued on. Its that lunatic Raghu again. He is one person who is taking his good deeds for granted. He got up, dusted his sparkling white shirt and pants with his hands and opened the door.

There stood Raghu in his usual self. A skinny fragile figure with the widest possible grin he can make out of his ugly plaque engulfed teeth & scratching the dirty stubble which stubbornly refused to grow out into a full beard. His mundu (dhoti) was soiled badly giving it a dark reddish tinge, a far cry from the off-white when bought (or gifted?). A dark maroon over sized tee-shirt dangled from his drooping shoulders which anchored a worn out and soggy cotton bag hung carelessly.

He had been like this since the first day he had turned up at his doorstep some couple of years back. At first he had taken him for a beggar and provided him with some food (he was against in giving money to beggars). After having the food he had still stood there with the same grin. When asked for what he is waiting, he had asked Rs.2 for beedi. Swaminathan had shooed him away feeling annoyed at Raghu’s blunt request which he felt as arrogance.

The next day he was again at his doorstep demanding the same. Before Swaminathan could vent out his anger his driver was quick to chip in with a comment that this guy is a harmless lunatic who has been doing the rounds in the neighbourhood for the past one week. Swaminathan took a deep glance at Raghu and said “I will give you Rs.2 but you will have to do some job for me.”

Anything you say, I will do sir.

Swaminathan smiled and said “Good, now take my office bag & keep it in my car and open the gates.”

Raghu was quick in his job and had stood expectantly in front of Swaminathan. He had fished out Rs.2 coin and said “I will give you money only if you do some work for me, do we have a deal?”

Raghu was quick to take that coin and obliged. But every time he used to come for money for beedi, he would ask in the same old way as if he is asking for the first time.

He had that same look today also.

Saar, namaskaram

Hmmm .Raghu, what do you want? Swaminathan asked in his ostentatious way commanding authority.

Saar I need Rs.2, for beedi.

Swaminathan had lost count of how many times he had given him Rs.2 for the beedi he so lovingly demanded. He never demanded anything more or less. Once he had given him Rs.20 telling him that he better eat something rather than smoking beedies. Raghu had solemnly accepted the money and returned back in an hour with Rs.18.

What about the one I gave you today morning? Demanded Swaminathan.

I gave that to Amma. Said Raghu with a sheepish grin.

Then why did you say that its for your beedi?

I lied to you thought you will not give me if I said its for Amma. Raghu’s voice trailed as he looked down trying to avoid Swaminathan’s eyes.

Swaminathan couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle on hearing this. He had never understood who & how Raghu perceives his Amma. He knew that the verity of purported Amma existed as a delusion only. Sometimes he will consider Amma as his own mother and at times he will elevate her to a Goddess. Many a time people around the neighbourhood had provided him with clothing & money which he will gladly offer to Amma. Amma in the heavenly form existed to him in any clear water bodies. He has been spotted offering flowers & food into the private wells around the neighbourhood or in the local temple pond or the nearby river. Swaminathan remembers how during the last festive season he had provided him with brand new shirt & dhoti. Raghu had taken those to the river and let it flow in the furious currents with a couple of hibiscus flowers which he had plucked from Swaminathan’s garden.

Swaminathan looked at him and said “OK Raghu, I will give you Rs.2 but this time you will have to do two jobs because you lied.”

Most of Swaminathan’s job for Raghu used to be running for errands to nearby clients or to the local bazaar. Raghu looked up excitedly, jobs mattered to him the least as long as he was able to have his Rs.2.

For now I need you to deliver a packet to my client who stays at Valiaveedans, opposite to the local health centre. Come back then I will tell you what to do next.

He went inside and handed over a packet to Raghu. “Come back soon & don’t put that in your ugly bag!” Raghu was already past the gates set in a robotic motion.

Two hours is too long for a single stretch of sitting and Swaminathan was wearing out. He still had one more client waiting for him. He looked at his watch, half past six. That’s when he realized something, Raghu; where is he? He usually finishes these kinds of jobs in a jiffy. Swaminathan felt bad, he might be feeling hurt that’s why he has not come to collect his Rs.2. After all he had said he had given it to Amma. He thought of giving off Rs.4 if he turns up today.

Meanwhile he called up the client at Valiaveedans and got confirmation about the receipt of the packet. “Stupid, must have borrowed Rs.2 from someone else and might be smoking beedies now.”

Anyway, I will catch up on him tonight or tomorrow morning. He knew that Raghu always slept on the portico of his house.

Next day morning, he expected to see Raghu at his doorstep but he wasn’t there. He enquired with his driver but in vain. He looked at his watch, almost half past nine; “Can’t wait for this guy, potten (lunatic), he will turn up soon, where else will he go!!” he murmured. The court was in the centre of the town and alongside one of the most busiest & congested narrow lanes. If not for this narrow lanes, I would have got an extra fifteen minutes at home. Thought Swaminathan. He was still thinking about Raghu. He had often felt an envious empathy for Raghu. Wish he also could have such detached manner. For all the hideous nature & the pittance that he earned Raghu still seemed to be the happiest man around. Where did he go?

The car slowed down as it neared the market place. The air was already fresh with the raised dust mingled with the fragrance of jasmine from the flower vendors and with the usual hubbub of morning activities. There was a street urchin being shooed away by the police; the unloading of fresh vegetables by the noisy workers; a commotion near the govt. transport bus depot with the police shooing away curious onlookers. He could make out the silhouette of Inspector Wilson with a weary face already, poor chap. Swaminathan wondered, its all same everyday only different people, different outfit & different places but the bustling same. He closed his eyes, another long day ahead .

Inspector Wilson watched the white Toyota Corolla pass by as he gathered a crushed rusty container full of neatly folded Rs.2 and a soiled soggy bag which he put in to a transparent plastic bag ..”another one of those “unclaimed” headaches” .

The

Sukhi’s excitement was at its peak. He had performed live on stage on several occasions, but this one was really a mega event. One of the biggest auditoriums in the country was jam packed with people. The whole atmosphere was filled with excitement and a huge crowd of young hysteric boys and girls was already on the stage swarming over him. “Bolo.. tara ..rara..” was a chorus now with Sukhi’s voice drowned in it and his whole body caressed, kissed and licked by the crowd. His face and chest looked like a collage of different shades of lipsticks and the atmosphere thundered with “Sukhi… Sukhi…we love you Sukhi….”. He had fulfilled his dream. He was a pop-star now.

Sukhi was at the top of the world but he could not understand why at this moment of triumph and fulfilment he had a strange feeling of incompleteness, something missing, a vacuum, as if he was forgetting something which was more compelling and haunting than the ecstasy of success he was experiencing at that time. For once he looked up towards the roof of the auditorium. He didn’t see anything there but kept staring. His mind started visualizing something different, flashes of lights seemed to lose their beauty, looked more like gunfire from the anti- air craft guns and the noise created by tanks and machine gun firing replaced the sound of music.

***

It was one of the scorching hot afternoons in a small village near Hoshiarpur in the Punjab. Sukhbir Singh was smitten by the magic of what his professor had said to him.“Genius ! Goddess Saraswati has blessed you with an extra ordinary voice. Sukhi, you must get formal training in music”.

Sukhbir was so excited by his professor’s encouragement to take up music as his career that he intentionally tried to forget what his father, retired Subedar Major Banta Singh, thought about musicians in general. Unfortunately for Sukhbir, Banta Singh was not impressed by his professor’s opinion.

“Kaka ! if you want to learn music, go to Raagi Kartar Singh. He will teach you good music and you will get a chance to learn Gurbani as well” Sukhbir’s father staunchly opposed his wild thought of pursuing music as his career.

“But Papaji I want to learn vocal as well as modern musical instruments like guitar, drums…..” Sukhbir knew it pretty well that he was good at singing and dancing.

“ Silly boy, do you want to learn music or become a ‘bhand’⁾?” Banta was furious to know what his sons intended to do in his life.

“ I want to be a singer, perform on stage and be a famous man” Sukhbir was ambitious to be somebody like Gurdas Mann, Diler Mehndi or Michael Jackson.

“ My son a singer? No Kake, never. You can’t be a ‘bhand’ . You are my son, you belong to a family of soldiers. You have to join Army as a commissioned officer.” Banta Singh was not ready to compromise. As the first Junior Commissioned Officer, Banta Singh had achieved the highest military rank in the family. Sukhbir was about to complete his graduation and Banta had all his hopes pined on him as the first from his clan to join Indian Army as a commissioned officer.

“ My son can only be a soldier!”

“I want to be a star, I want to be famous” Sukhbir pleaded.

“Over my dead body…” Banta Singh put the seal on his decision.

***

Captain Sukhbir Singh was unable to move his bleeding limbs. It was hardly a few moments ago he was successfully leading the mission and his team to capture the target. They were in the Drass Sector of Kargil just below Tiger Hill, and a large contingent of enemy’s soldiers was guarding their bunker barely 100 meters from where Sukhbir and other soldiers were climbing up. Their goal was not too far from them but while they were moving forwards in the stillness of darkness, one of them accidentally displaced a stone down the hill. The falling stone produced a sound which got magnified with an echo from everywhere. The sound provoked heavy firing from the top of the Tiger Hill. Sukhbir sustained multiple bullet injuries in both his legs. He dragged himself up and looked behind him. Fauja, who was also seriously injured, was there, looking at him for further instructions.

There was a brief interruption in firing from the enemy’s side followed by deadly silence in the darkness. Sukhbir had no doubt in his mind that the enemy had spotted his team and they were very much in the firing range. But he was conscious that the diffuse echo had distracted the enemy to some extent and the enemy wasn’t too sure about their exact location. They were very close to the enemy’s bunker but just another sound would mean an end to the mission, that was for sure. Sukhbir looked at Fauja who slowly crawled to overtake him.

“ Sahab, you are seriously injured. Let me execute the plan. It is the last chance for us.” Fauja gradually moved past him. Sukhbir was not too sure what Fauja was trying to say.

“ Sir, These rocks will not allow us to go bac. Let me do it now.”

Sukhbir noticed something in the darkness. Fauja struggled to look up to Sukhbir and whispered “ Sahab Ji, I have some hand grenades in my pockets. Let me do it ”. Before Sukhbir could respond Fauja lifted his body like a log of wood and threw himself forwards to leap in to the enemy’s bunker in front of him.

It did not take long for Sukhbir to understood what Fauja was going to do. He wanted to stop him and say, “ No Fauja no, let me do it. I am commanding you Fauja. I will do it.” But before Sukhbir could say anything to him, Fauja disappeared in the darkness. Sukhbir tried to pull his body and follow Fauja, but he was unable to move. His right leg was riddled with bullets. He tried to pull himself with the support of his elbows but couldn’t move even an inch.

A few moments later the quiet and dead rocks of Tiger Hill echoed “Jo Bole So Nihaal.. ” and the next moment Sukhbir saw a figure standing up and throwing himself into the enemy’s bunker. There was a thunderous sound in the bunker followed by deadly silence. Sukhbir’s eyes became heavy but he could feel his own soldiers advancing past him to capture enemy’s bunker.

***

While staring at the roof Sukhbir suddenly felt deaf with his ears, his mind groggy and his excitement dampening. His charity show in the memory of “Shaheed Fauja Singh” was a great success but he felt low within. Like the images in a kaleidoscope Sukhbir recollected the sequence of events following Kargil war, the battle of Tiger Hill, Fauja’s widow receiving posthumous gallantry award for her husband, his own formal discharge from Indian Army and then his own training in music, his success as a famous pop-star. All these images and many more pictures overlapped with each other making a collage of familiar faces, but his heart sank like a child lost in a mela.

Pop-star Sukhi again looked up in the sky he imagined through the roof of the auditorium. He could see Fauja’s toad like eyes peeping from the clouds. For the first time in his life Sukhbir felt that his father was right. His dream of becoming a top pop singer was a reality now but he was not happy. He realized that a popular entertainer can not match a soldier. There was no doubt in his mind. Fauja stood taller than him. He strongly felt that he missed a chance, a life time opportunity to succeed. He was overpowered by a thought of a near miss, something he didn’t want to lose. He looked up in the clouds and screamed “ Fauja, I am your officer. I command you to stay back. Give me this chance. I am going to dismantle enemy’s bunker. Let me go first”.

Sukhi did not realize it when he actually threw away the hand mike and jumped in the air as if throwing himself on to the enemy’s bunker. His Jaipur foot, which helped him all these years to perform flawless dancing on the stage, got disengaged and suddenly he felt excruciating ‘phantom pain’ in his amputated stump.

For Sukhbir it was even more painful to hear a whisper from somebody in the audience “ Who was this Fauja Singh…?”

Mouji cleaned the steamy window with the curled end of her shawl and turned my head to face it. That gloomy vision of snow brought back to me the memories of Noori, myself and Hajira Jan frolicking in the snow, making snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other, when I was able to move like all the other girls. These exhilarating memories touched my heart, but just these memories touched me. Not my hands. My body was in eternal sleep. Eight years back, the doctors had declared to my parents that I was paralysed. These eight years had passed like ruthless time crawls over a burning barren desert. Mouji caressed my hair gently and hummed, “Zeba Jan, my lovely daughter, one day you will be fine and you will play with me on that snow, like all the other children. Look at yourself, you are splendid with beauty and with each day that passes you are becoming even more ravishing. Zeba Jan, apple of my heart, I myself envy you sometimes for your divine beauty. Soon enough you will get up on your own, and a charming suitor, an inamorato, will come to steal you away from me.” All the while, as she spoke, her warm tears splashed at my forehead, jolting my lashes. “My beautiful lady”, she continued “Your Uncle Habib Hoja told me that he met Eli the healer, this morning, at womb of Mount Solomon, where Eli seemed to be in conversation with the birds. Habib Hoja has told him about your suffering and Jan meri Eli has agreed to see you very soon”

Eli the healer, as everyone called him was a medical doctor by profession, but seemed less of it. In the early 1930’s Eli was honoured by the King of State to head the General Hospital but he turned down the position without a reason for it. Rumour had it, that Eli talked to the unseen and needed time for his unearthly and metaphysical encounters. He was famous for his sharp memory and would remember the entire medical history of a patient even if he had seen him way before ten years. He would examine a patient repeatedly by himself. Eli was a recluse but he was also the most punctual and dedicated doctor of the hospital. He always tried to treat patients without drugs and if a patient deceased under his care, Eli would disappear from the hospital for days together. It was said that he wandered around to unknown places, mostly, the womb of mount Solomon and the Nigeen Lake.

Mouji kept telling me about the healing powers of Eli, and I knew she was trying to instil hope in me. She spieled, “Have you not heard of Eli healing a lady who came in search of him from the far away land of Andalusia with her husband. They say, in the first meeting the couple told him about the cancer that lady was suffering from and how vexatious it was to fight the cancer after all the drugs had stopped working. Eli the healer, listened patiently to them and suddenly looked into the eyes of lady with his piercing gaze, he then stood up and without even looking at her hands, took off the Tourmaline ring she wore, and commanded them to throw the ring into Arabian Sea, from where the stone comes. The couple left and did as he said. It was after fifteen months that the couple visited Srinagar again and told Eli how the lady was recovering gradually. They also donated him money worth two silken Hamadan carpets, which Eli refused to accept, but at the insistence of the couple, he guided them to distribute the money amongst children affected by the War against the reign of the King. I have all my hopes, my charming apple, that you too with the power of your will and our love, will soon be rid of this bed” Mouji kept speaking and patting me gently, until I resigned to sleep.

I longed each day and night to visit Eli the healer and one freezing morning, to my numb excitement, Uncle Habib Hoja visited us, carving his way through dunes of snow. Mouji greeted him and made some Saffron Kehwa for him, as he told her to make arrangements for carrying me to Eli’s house. Eli had agreed to see me on the next Friday. My hopes ascended to a pinnacle, I wanted to rise up and hug Mouji, but it was just a distant dream to move. Those five days of waiting to see Eli, appeared far longer than all the eight years of my paralysis. Every minute was like a month and every hour heavier than a decade. The night before Friday, with all my veiled excitement, I wasn’t able to put even an ounce of sleep to my eyes. Mouji fed me in the morning and dressed me up in a beautiful dress that she had sown for me with her own hands. Uncle Habib Hoja, Hajira and Noori carried me to a horse buggy. My head was laid on Mouji’s shoulder and we were on our way to Eli’s house. The buggy kept skidding and slipping a little, but I enjoyed this ride to the depth. It was after five years that I left my house, earlier they took me to Abba’s funeral, who was martyred for rebelling against the king. We moved along River Jhelum to reach Eli’s house in the old city. Habib knocked the barky door and Maqbool, the servant of Eli, greeted us and took us to Eli’s chamber. The chamber was full of thick smoke, there was dull glassware, whittled stones, dusty vases, ragged paintings, old rugs and to top it all, there were books, yellow massive books as if written by the hand. The servant told us to wait till Eli finishes his prayer, which he did at unusual times and in unusual ways. I was bursting with a brew of excitement and unknown fear as the thick thudding steps began approaching the chamber. Eli the healer came in. He was dressed in a heavy black leather coat, maroon-white tie, sharp creased pants and his famous Karakul cap. He said nothing and sat comfortably in his armchair. Mouji greeted him and narrated to him the incident that got me crippled. Eli was silent and looked huffish. He did not say a single word but seemed to be listening to the details of my medical history with rapt attention and alacrity. He finally stood up and came to me. He kept the pulp of his fingers on my pulse and looked out to the sky. Suddenly, he dropped my hand and stood looking deeply into my eyes for a full minute. It was as if I was going to die with the intense stare of his green spiking pupils. He closed his eyes and left the room immediately. Mouji, Habib Hoja and me, we all stood perplexed. After a while Maqbool came into the room and quipped, “Eli is not feeling well and wants all of you to go away this time, but do come back on the next Friday”.

Mouji and Habib Hoja spoke in a bleakly depressed voice, as we rode back to our house. It seemed that they were losing hope. The way Eli rushed back after looking into my eyes made it appear more disastrous than worse. Nights passed and there was an unending confrontation between hope and despair in me. There were voices and arguments between the power of desire and fear of helplessness in me. Each time I tried to put sleep to my eyes; the visions of misery threw me up. For the last eight years my physical suffering had also cremated my hope. I was numb and had resigned myself to the dictates of destiny. But this time the defeat in the tearful eyes of Mouji spiked a zeal inside of me, to fight back all that had chained me; and for the first time I challenged the destiny to rewrite it myself. I strove every single moment to fight against the despondency in unison with Eli’s healing wit, without letting my destiny choose for me. I tried to kill the monster that sat on my chest, crippled me and above all had accommodated me to paralysis peacefully. I strived to release myself from the djinns of mental inhibition in me that often haunt us throughout our lives. All I visualized that week was myself getting up on my own. I annihilated any feeling of suffering that started to bud in me, with full enthusiasm, right up to my throat, to help myself with the power of my intention. I was hankering to see Eli again, this time with a strong intention and unreasoned happiness.

It was the Friday morning, the streets were full of mist and there was somewhat slushy snow on the roads that day. There was a strange feeling of wellbeing in me. The tick-tock of buggy was like a beautiful piece of country music to my ears. I listened to it keenly, with a furiously beating heart, all the way to Eli’s house. It took us by a surprise when we disembarked the cart that Eli was strolling back and forth in his lawn. He seemed restless and walked towards us when he saw us entering through the gate of his house. He spoke up for the first time, greeting Mouji and Habib Hoja in a heavy husky voice and looked at me with a smile on his face. Eli appeared perky. He led us to his chamber and called the servant Maqbool to make hot Nunchai for Mouji and Habib Hoja. He kept talking cheerfully to all of us for a while and after some time of blithe exchange Eli pleaded “I will have to ask you two to leave this chamber for now” and then turning to Maqbool he said, “Bring to me my glass and a glass of water, and hold on, take good care of the guests.” Maqbool brought in the glasses and Eli dictated once again, “Make sure no one disturbs me now.”

Eli locked both the doors from inside, he also closed the windows, and nothing but silence prevailed. He brought his chair to a touching distance from my bed and turned my head to face him. He made himself comfortable on the chair, lit his cigar, and turned on old Sufi ensemble music on his gramophone, while holding my pulse under his fingers. He began staring into my eyes and I noticed that these eyes of Eli were far different from the ones that greeted me with a smile. Eli started drinking his glass and without a blink he kept staring into my eyes. They pierced me deep into my heart. He quaffed his drink and puffed the smoke right onto my face. The way he was gazing at me made my heart skip beats and I was beginning to feel breathless. Something was amiss.  I wanted Mouji to come in and sit by my side, but in vain. His eyes looked more sloshed as he was crushing the burning end of his cigar in the ashtray, without taking off his eyes from mine. He loosened his neck tie, and opened the collar button of his shirt. His grotesque antics made me totally befuddled and I just wanted to call out to my people. I started sweating, though it was the peak of winter. He stood up and moved more towards me, his face was a breath away from mine. His commanding gazes were creating chaos inside of me. He stood there for a while. And then, shaking my life upside down, his hands started fondling my thighs. Eli looked intoxicated. Tears started flowing unabated from my eyes, down the nape of my neck into a void. But he did not stop. His hands, those poisonous hands went on to fondle whole of my body. I professed that it was the last day for me on the earth, all the morality that my father had infused into me was being lost. My soul was pleading for someone to stop by, for someone to know of my plight and save me. His hands came right up to my head and he snatched off my scarf. I lost the count of sweat and tears. I prayed for my death. I prayed that I die before anything happens to me. Eli seemed as insane as a street vagrant. Eli went further. He pulled off my pyjamas and threw them back onto the chair. Everything before my eyes blackened out, I was meeting my death, and the angel of death was being a stoic healer. I tried to bawl out loud for help, but no, I was just a mute spectator to my own apocalypse. I trembled like a sparrow in the mouth of a street dog. Eli did not have a trace of compassion for me, for my helplessness and continued his plunder. I wanted to scratch myself, pull my hair and kill myself before him. And in the midst of it, he suddenly disrobed me off my frock. There I was lying bare and denuded on his bed. The heart inside of my chest was beating like a drum machine. I knew I was near my end. I struggled to save my honour, get up and kill Eli and myself. I strove to put a piece of cloth on myself and then die peacefully. Eli stared at my naked body, with his drunken eyes. I died a thousand deaths. I trembled so hard that I could hear the shaking glassware on the table, despite the music. All I wanted was to screech hysterically and kill myself. It was right at that time when ensemble music faded that he splashed the water from the glass on my face. I heard a moan and I passed out.

The fine chirpy songs of parakeets scratched sleep from my heavy eyes but I never wanted to open my eyes again. My head was heavy. But after I heard Mouji call my name, I arduously tried to open my eyes to see her beautiful face. She seemed exhilarated with happiness and had a glowing smile on her face that was dearer to me than any treasure of the heavens. I also heard sound from the corner of room and I turned my head to see Hajira Jan and Noori giggling and hugging each other. I looked back to Mouji’s youthful face and suddenly I realized that I had turned my neck on my own. I was moving my hands and feet on my own. I touched my face for the first time in eight years. I was hysteric to see my limbs obeying at my will, but all I wanted to know was what happened to me after I passed out at the hands of Eli. Mouji lilted, “Eli came out of the room, glittering with happiness and took us into the chamber. He told us that you had cried and moved your legs just before passing out. He had wrapped you under a shawl and commanded me to redress you. He then had a Nunchai with us and told us to wait until he finishes his prayers, again, at a very unusual time. Eli also escorted us right here upto our house and prescribed you some medicines. He assured that you will regain most of your strength back in the coming six months.”

I never got to see Eli again. Whenever I wanted to see him and thank him he was busy curing his patients and one day I heard that Eli had left Srinagar to find cure for the cancer he was suffering from. Had there been no messiah like Eli in my life, I would have never given birth to you two, the light of my eyes. I would never have been able to recite my story, myself.

Mouji- Mother in Kashmiri.

Nunchai- Kashmiri salt tea.

Kehwa- Elaichi tea without milk.

Hamadan- An Iranian carpet design often made in Kashmir.

Unfortunately, today an unbelievable trend exists, especially in India: a rusted writing class perhaps too lazy to fight for freedom and react against oppression. We couldn’t even witness a feeble cry from the intellectual and writing class against the modern day oppressions like corruption and vandalism against human rights and free speech. They did not mind to raise their voice against the issues involving Tasleema Nazrene, M.F.Hussain ans Shalman Rushdie. Even the historic appraisal against corruption by the civilian group led by Anna Hazare have not received a strong backing from the Indian litterateurs barring some stray voices like Arundhati Roy who herself is an activist. Have most of the modern day intellectuals and writers finally come in terms with the pleasures of globalized economy that gives bountiful for those who compromise? Then when will the pen start to fight again?

Sandhya S.N & J.T Jayasingh

Chief Editors

Aiswarya T Anish

Christina: Before I begin let me congratulate you for having published your
first poetry collection, “The crescent smile”. How do you feel upon
having accomplished this dream?

Aiswarya: Thank you. It was indeed one of the happiest moments when I got to publish my book, that too, the first one. I’d been dreaming of the book since I was seven, but I only got to realize it seven years later. And to get the book published by a great personality like Mr. K. Jayakumar is a rare privilege. It has certainly encouraged me to write more than ever, and that is what every person who likes to write would want too, I think.

You have mentioned in other interviews that it is your picturesque
hometown that inspires you to write. Would you elaborate on that
please?

I can proudly say that it is my hometown that has inspired me to write. Mangalam is a beautiful fishing village in Alappuzha. A l

ake on one side, the sea on the other, you can practically call it an island. It’s very green, calm,

simple and notvery populated, so everybody knows everyone and we have our shares of joys and sorrows. The temple bells, the old schools and mosques, the tradition that is ours to keep, I think anybody will be moved by it. When you live in the lap of nature, you cannot help but be inspired. And for me, it doesn’t just inspire, it is what makes me write. I love my hometown.

You have achieved an unthinkable miracle at such a young age. How
do your friends and family acknowledge this? I’m sure they must be

pretty proud.

I’d never have been anywhere if it were not for them. Every moment, there was someone to help, guide, and support me. My mom is my first reader and critic, who still save every paper I scribble on. She collected things I wrote when I was a kid, which others saw as childish nonsense. All along, she encourages me to write and I never feel satisfied about a work unless my mom smiles and shows me a hi-five. And my dad’s always there to do anything that I need and he is such a perfectionist I cannot but be surprised at the way in which he do stuff. And of course, my teachers are the best! They never grow weary of encouragement, and are always there to help me any way they can. And there is nothing if there are no friends. They’re the best sort of people you can

Christina Anna Alexhave around.

The work that they’ve done is much more important, for, without them, my wish would have remained a wish. Without a support, a vine would remain on the ground, unseen.

What are your views about the deteriorating reading habits and
indifferent attitudes of our generation towards poetry and other
genres of literature?
Reading habits did see a fall for some time, but I think it is improving now. The tastes have changed; the reader’s demand is different from that of a few years ago. There are lots of poets among us, who write and enjoy poetry. If a good book comes our way, I think anybody would want to read it. But poetry has fewer readers than any other form of literature. Our generation, I think, is not very good at time management and we say that we have less time for entertainment and reading. We have just switched over to newer ways, but the time our ancestors had and the time we have is the same, we use it differently. With the advent of electronic gadgets, we have become more used to direct entertainment rather than the comparatively slow process of reading and then visualizing.

What is the feeling you get when you see yourself among people
twice your age receiving awards from dignitaries?

I used to feel awkward and scared at first, and I’ve asked myself a hundred times ‘Why am I here?’ when I’m placed in such situations. But what I found out every time is that everyone is very welcoming and treats me as one among them. They give me guidance and advice and now I feel so fortunate to be with such experienced and skilled people that it gives me an idea of what I would like to be as I grow older.

Who is your favorite author/poet and work? Can you tell us why
you consider it so?
I love classics, and the work of Thomas Hardy, Charlotte Bronte and Charles Dickens. They have beautiful imagery and they feel so real. Looking at modern writing and the old ones, we can learn a lot.

But one of the works I loved most is A Town like Alice by Nevil Shute. His skill at narration was excellent, and it makes you go on reading it. I love Wordsworth’s poems and I admire the way he writes about nature. And of course, I like Chetan Bhagat’s books, for their simplicity of language and humor. Every book has its own unique style and sets it apart from others. Every work is the result of unmatchable hard work and dedication, so I believe I should appreciate all the works I read.

Events that move you inspire you to write. But what kind of
emotion is prominent in your works? Is it sorrow, indignation or joy?

I’ve always felt that I am controlled by an invisible force when I write. Writing can express any feeling, we all believe. But I think one of the most difficult one to describe is the urge to write. Your mind becomes a bucket which is about to overflow, the pen’s the sieve and the paper a more reliable container to catch it as it flows over. It all a flurry of feelings- some of them snippets of different emotions- you just have to write it down. I usually write poetry when before an exam or when I’m sad, upset and even when I’m completely indifferent to things. You become the slave as something takes over and makes you write. I have not been able to find out what that something is, and I think some things are better left unknown.

You mention that you wish to join IIT. Is that because you believe
the notion that a person in India needs to be an engineer or a doctor
to gain a particular status and survive?
No, the era of the rush to become an engineer or doctor is seeing signs of decline with more and more students coming forward to try out different areas of studies. But for me, science has always been a passion, like poetry. It is as intriguing as the world of imagination and deeply connected too. The way in which science can be churned out of literature and literature out of science makes it all the more appealing. Our choice of studies should not be based on the ideals of status but on how much we enjoy doing it. Every area of study has to exist to sustain the others. All of them are equally important. But the question of survival remains, but if the arts have to survive, then there should be takers for it. Thinking nobody reads poetry, so I should not read it either is killing its chances of survival. I think it applies for everything too.

If you were given a chance to be born again into this world, would
you like to be a poet again or choose a different kind of life?

I would want to be born as a human, and I would certainly love to grow up like I do now. Being human gives you lots of possibilities and opportunities and it includes the one to carve our destiny. To find more about the world, to write about it, feel it, to think about it, what more can anybody ask for?

Would you like to pass on a message to our readers? And a few
final words about you as well.

I would like to thank all the readers, because without the reader, a poet cannot remain a poet, for it is they who give the poet the name of a poet. Otherwise, I would remain ‘the girl who writes poetry’. I greatly value my readers’ response because it helps me improve and remove the faults that I have. It is undoubtedly the reader who keeps the poet alive.

Encyclopaedia of Philosophy (Vol. emphasizing Tagore’s intelligent sense of balance puts it – combining “the best insights of humanists… and of otherworldly seekers; of naturalists… and extreme partisans of spirit; of determinists and defenders of free will; of hedonists and ascetics; and of romantics and realists” (75) and seek to explain away his reputation as an Oriental sage. Bracketing away Tagore’s spiritual outpourings may lead us to ignore the essential aspects of his philosophy, which is purely related to every other aspect of his vast output, and indeed the natural metaphor itself is central to his worldview.

The very opening line of Gitanjali reflects the inner harmony that the poet has experienced. The words are an outburst endeavouring to articulate the intense pleasure that the poetic experience has conferred upon him:

“Thou hast made me endless such is thy pleasure”.

‘Thy’ here becomes poetic inspiration itself and ‘thou’, the one who inspires. Anyone is bound to be ecstatic if his prayers are answered. We see the poet here starting at the peak of inspiration. He experiences eternity for in a state of eternity only a single entity exists and articulates this oneness that he has experienced by means of language- articulate abstract, extra-sensory. Tagore elated experiences divinity, as a humble being who is completely aware of the all-encompassing spirit of the divine being. In a state of wonder, awe and admiration there is no room for the poet’s vanity to exist when he is subject to the ‘grandeur of divine inspiration’.

“My poet’s vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.”

It is said it takes moral courage to accept truth as it stands. The poet here confesses how his own vanity vanishes when he realizes that in no way he can surpass the ‘master’ poet, and he desires to surrender at his feet and earnestly emulate Him. The Supreme Being, the master poet, is one single entity, who bestows poetic inspiration upon man is a poet himself, his creation being the universe. The poet is only an instrument, like a flute, and it is the divine giver of inspiration who fills it with music. The poet knows that it is only as an instrument that he must ideally come before his master’s presence:

“I know that thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.”

Also note these lines:

“I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement.

My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made me captive in the endless meshes of thy music.”

Nirad C. Chaudhuri, in an essay, Identifies Tagore as a combination of mystic and humanist, and explains it thus: “in the history of Hindu religious creeds, and particularly in certain folk cults, which have held sway among the Indian masses in the last three or four centuries, there is evidence of an intense faith in supramundane life going hand in hand with a child-like clinging to mortal existence. Even mendicants with their backs turned on the world and going about with the beggar’s bowl have sung with poignant conviction about the value of life, and with equally poignant regret of its transience. In Tagore’s work combined mysticism and humanism, one often detects insistent notes of these folk creeds”. (Chaudhuri, The East is East and the West is West 10).

The Philosophy of Rabindranath Tagore – (Asiatic, Vol. 4, No. 1, June 2010 32)

“All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony- and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across.”

Tagore believed that God, nature and man required one another, that the eternal diversity of forms in nature was crucial to the Supreme Being’s self realization that between the Supreme Being and each individual’s self sustains a cherished and personal relationship of liveliness which was boundless giving meaning to both. God, Nature and Man shared a supramental concord in which each retained its distinctive individuality.

According to Tagore God being all pervasive was present in mind, body and action. Therefore it is imperative, if a man wants to satisfy the nobility of being born as a higher order species, to stay pure in thought and action. It is pertinent to consider Tagore’s mystical experiences in relation to the tradition of Indian mysticism. The Indian conception of “ultimate” reality (i.e. Brahman in its cosmic aspect and the atman in its personal aspect) has its origins in “Hindu infancy” (Kakar, The Inner World 128). Kakar identifies mysticism as “the mainstream of Hindu religiosity,” so that “a Hindu mystic is… normally quite uninhibited in expressing his views and does not have to be on his guard lest these views run counter to the officially-interpreted orthodoxy” (Kakar, The Analyst and the Mystic 3).

To Tagore, God’s presence can be experienced in the realm of everyday experiences, more than at conceptual level of understanding. Tagore himself records that his childhood was spent in a state of communion with nature: Almost every morning in the early hour of the dusk, I would run out from my bed in a great hurry to greet the first pink flush of the dawn through the shivering branches of the palm trees which stood in a line along the garden boundary, while the grass glistened as the dew-drops caught the earliest tremor of the morning breeze. The sky seemed to bring to me the call of personal companionship, and all my heart – my whole body in fact – used to drink in at a draught the overflowing light and peace of those silent hours….

I felt a larger meaning of my own self when the barrier vanished between me and what was beyond my self. (The English Writings, Vol. 2, 590)

William Rothenstein first read Tagore’s manuscript of Gitanjali with W.B.Yeats as the editor responsible for selecting and arranging sent it to Tagore with the comment, “…we are not moved because of its strangeness but because we have met our own image…….” The Portuguese translator of Gitanjali says “…Tagore still shows us the future: the day when each human being will finally be able to exclaim in ecstasy –“Thus it is that thou hast come down to me. O thou Lord of all Heavens, where would be thy love if I were not?” (2003:285)

In conclusion the vision and philosophy of existence of Rabindranath Tagore finds expression in Gitanjali etched with universal appeal. It is an indicator of the need for introspection and inner journey. Apart from having great aesthetic appeal, Gitanjali projects his deep understanding and the subsequent vision about the immense possibilities and potentialities of attaining sublime ideals in ones life. He asserts this attainment is the beginning of human beings emancipation beyond the self and societal bonds. In the present materialistic world where people are drifting away into vanities leading an aimless life of transient pursuits, Tagore monumental work brings with it the rays of robust outlook and positive attitude to architect a society “where the mind is without fear where the head is held high, where knowledge is free….into that heaven of freedom, my father, let my country awake.” (LXXX111,55)

Science too provided a different kind of mirror to the society and its constituent unit, the man. The objective truth about the place and role of man in the scheme of nature are not always in agreement with man’s own impression of himself. The necessary corrective measures fall in the domain of science and its related investigations.

We, the humans, are destined to inhabit two worlds simultaneously. The first is the world of our physical existence as an individual with flesh and blood, and is common to all species. This could be referred to as autonomous existence. There is another world where man considers himself as part of a whole (referred to as homonomous existence), the whole indicating entire creation, a group or a subgroup — be it all living things, entire mankind, a nation, a sect or a clan. The two worlds are entangled in a complex web in all thinking individuals although in most cases the autonomous self predominates. Very often the two domains are in conflict with each other and this conflict is the source of much of man’s problems. However, the same conflict may also be a source of creativity in art, and literature, and elsewhere too.

“I dive down into the depths of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless.” Not only the poet (Rabindranatha Tagore) but most of us are in search of that undefined pearl. Among other pearls I may at times gain the pearl of pleasure of knowing

– knowing that I am part of the whole, and connected to it in an intricate way. In this search science too has its share. In a different context and to a certain extent science is also doing the same. Only the language differs, and the methodology too.

I often wondered on poetic utterances such as viewing of “universe in a grain of sand”. However, now I know, based on hard scientific knowledge, that every atom of our bodies (except hydrogen) has been cooked in the core of several stars at temperatures ranging from 10 million to 50 million degree Celsius. The atoms in our bodies and elsewhere on this earth were not born on the planet itself, they have come into existence through the participation of a significant part of the universe, giving a scientific validation to poetic imagination.

The fact is: the universe is truly reflected in an atom which is much smaller than a grain of sand. And the poetic imagination does not stop there, it goes beyond. In Indian mythological literature ten incarnations of Lord Vishnu relate to fish, tortoise, boar, lion man, dwarf, and humans, Rama and Buddha. That poetic imagination of including life forms in ascending order is matched and reflected in the scientific fact brought forward by Darwin. The life forms have never been static or frozen in the states we see them, they have been constantly changing. And the story beyond a certain stage of evolution begins at sea with fish being one of the important milestones in the evolutionary process. The mythological literature reflects the intuitive understanding of the reality which at times comes close to the reality itself.

Abstraction and use of metaphor are common in many human endeavours. In poetry they play a vital role, and so they do in science. In science the language of abstraction is that of mathematics, and its frequent use enhances the elegance, depth and power of a theory. Much of physics, astrophysics, cosmology, engineering disciplines and computer science would not be what they are without the use of this language. One of the greatest minds of the twentieth century was Niels Bohr who is credited for his interpretation of quantum theory. Based on abstract and baffling concepts quantum theory is marked for its dualism, fuzziness and often beyond-common-sense expositions. Bohr described this as:

At the level of atoms language must be used only as in poetry.

Quantum theory is about transition between the possible and the real. The act of observation converts one of the possibilities to actuality while discarding others. One can cite somewhat similar situation in examples like toss of a coin or throw of a dice. All possibilities exist before the dice is thrown. However, the moment an observation is made only one possibility is realised whereas all others fade away. In literature especially poetry this kind of game is played regularly with the poet taking us on a journey in the reverse direction — from the actual to the wide world of possibilities. Is it a mere coincidence or there is more to it that the two aspects of human concern seem to be in some kind of a complementary role.

More Mirrors: a Comedy of Errors

Science has not only exploded several myths about man’s status and role in the scheme of things, it has constantly shown mirror to otherwise faltering ego of man. What is evolution after all? Genes are capable of carrying information from one generation to other thereby helping in replicating the life form. The replica is fairly good and almost identical to original. But there are bound to be certain copying errors. Continued genetic transformation leads to a copy of a copy, and the process carries on. Over a long time the copy that is available may be quite different from the original. That is the way life has evolved, and this includes man. We are thus a by product of genetic copying errors. As if man’s relationship with chimpanzee was not enough to show him the true mirror there are new revelations to challenge his self image relating his very existence to copying errors.

This mirror may not be pleasing to the human ego although it is about connectivity between everything that is – from the tiny atoms created in the stellar interior, to protein molecules where life saw its early beginning; one then comes across transformations through the early stages among fishes and reptiles to our closest relative, chimpanzee. This relationship between all life forms, all atoms at the microscopic level to the giant stars, is amazing. This scientifically realised unity of all things and the mythological intuitive reality implicit in the ten incarnations of Lord Vishnu seem to be in fusion with poetic imagination ( Wordsworth), in being overwhelmed by ‘a notion and a spirit, that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought and rolls through all things.’

In this materialistic rat race… somehow somewhere, humanity is loosing its essence, its soul. Sadly, virtual reality is fiercely taking over innate and intimate reality: the reality of relationships, people and emotions. People prefer meeting up “online”, than meeting over a pleasant conversation. People rather express themselves through the “sms” and “phone calls”, rather than face the fruits of their talks face to face. People are so interested in making “virtual friends”, that they have long forgotten those real and genuine friends who have stood by them through thick or thin.

Is this what we actually wanted to ever evolve into? Are we genuinely happy at this progress, where we have reduced human emotions to emoticons, real people to avatars and meaningful conversations to tweets?

They say, God made man in his own image. And who would disagree? Man can do what no other organism can, he can think, he can understand how he feels, he can purposefully live. Then why have we stopped living and started existing?

Life is a beautiful gift when one can understand what it is to be “alive” and what it feels like to savour each and every day. To savour each day like it was our last, and live every moment, like it was meant to be forever. That’s when we would truly appreciate our lives for having “lived” and not merely existed.

Humans are blessed with innate love, compassion, peace and harmony. Every single soul possesses each of those wonderful elements. We only need to look within ourselves each day and learn to connect within. We need to love ourselves once more, for only then will we start loving others around.

The world’s best things may definitely be expensive.. but the world’s best feelings are very much affordable and deep embedded within us.

Let’s make use of the wisdom of the changing times and build on “who we really are”. Let’s never forget the importance of people, emotions and relationships. Ultimately and eventually, we will always remember how people made us feel and absolutely nothing else.

“Namaste sir” he greeted me as usual and offered me a chair. It was not as crowded like other days though there were two or three waiting to receive their parcel. Some have parked their vehicles and were on their mobile when he blinked his eyes off the smoke while stirring hot chowmein in the pan. His assistant served food to some and also was busy packing for the customers.

When it was my turn and I began relishing the hot egg chowmein, I saw a few students of mine heading towards us. They were on their way back from some coaching classes. Parking their cycles, they placed order. I covered my ears with a shawl and withdrew to a dimly lit corner. Since they couldn’t recognize me, they were quite natural in their talks and behaviour. They went about discussing some problem in Maths, a hangover of the coaching class. Since two of the three were getting impatient about the wait, they were passing comments on the vendor. One said,

“Ask this fellow to speed up yaar.”

Another added, “Tell him that we have to reach home and prepare for Physics test tomorrow”.

The third one chuckled and added,

“Wah..the right person to discuss your exam worries with!! Whether physics or chemistry, what difference does it make to him?”

I looked at the bearded vendor and saw no expression on his face. He was almost through. Now he served them as his assistant was busy winding up.

Though I finished eating, I waited for a while after paying him. While my students relished the hot stuff, he got ready to close for the day.

When one of them came to him to pay, he asked,

“Are you studying science? Which class?”

With a shocked expression, the boy said “class xii”.

“So, you have a physics test tomorrow, right? I could sense that u r pretty worried about it.”

That was it. I could see the faces of the three musketeers close together below the bulb staring at him in wonder. I am sure it took them no time to digest the food.

“Have you read Carl Sagan’s Cosmos?” I knew his question pierced through them like a nail.

Though the “NO” didn’t come out orally from the boys, it was evident in their eyes.

“At least any of his popular science books?’’

Now again, the “NO” came out accompanied by a “SORRY” miserably through their eyes.

“Bhaiyya, sorry Uncle, sorry sirji… how do you know about all this?”

“Dear friends, I am a graduate in Physics. I couldn’t continue my studies due to financial constraints at home. But I still have a passion for science.”

I found them wriggling in guilt and discomfort. Turning to me, he said,

“Sir, I have got some good collection of books on science. Please find out if it can be sold to your library or any one is interested in buying them.”

“Sir!!!!” A smoke of shock came out of the three seeing me, like the hot frying pan sprinkled with water. I was now close to them and took the shawl off my face.

“Sorry” they said in unison and rushed off into the darkness, heavy now, unable to hear another word from him or to face me.

“You did a wonderful job” I said, while he smiled caressing his beard.

“I would find out if any one is interested in buying those books”.

“Thank you, sir. Good night”.

“Good night .”

On my way back home, I remembered the words of Carl Sagan,

“I went to the librarian and asked for a book about stars … And the answer was stunning. It was that the Sun was a star but really close. The stars were suns, but so far away they were just little points of light … The scale of the universe suddenly opened up to me. It was a kind of religious experience. There was magnificence to it, grandeur, a scale which has never left me. Never ever left me.”