The Semal Tree

The Semal tree was inanimate in that hot afternoon, a bored Kali Hawa, having nothing to do and not inclined to take afternoon nap, sat under it contemplating mysteries of universe. He saw a non-distinguished person approaching. When he came near the tree, said that inconspicuous fellow,

Do you live here?

I do for the time being. But I don’t know where people live. If they live in their body or in their home or in some exotic realm. 

Eh! I can tell you where you live but only if you will help me find the person I am looking for, said the stranger.

Really! Who are you looking for, does this fellow live here in this village?

Perhaps he does. I am not sure; I don’t know his name.   

All right what do you know about him?

Not much. But then who knows much about himself. Do you know all about yourself?

I said, Sure I know a great deal about myself. My name is Kali Hawa, I have a wife, children, relatives and friends and there is a body of work I have done in my life. That makes my persona real.

Oh! I see but for me it means nothing and I still cannot place you as a person.

Why?

Because the body of work you mention by a fellow name Kali Hawa and the people who will be vouching for you are themselves suspect as to their own identity.  In nutshell you are saying your persona is real due to other persons who do not have proof of their own identity. Doesn’t that make a recursive circle.

I see your point stranger. Perhaps I don’t know much about myself just like the fellow you are looking out for. But do you know about yourself?

I think I do?

Would you care to tell me?

I am illusion of Maya and I am your consciousness. I can tell you where you live! You live in your consciousness nowhere else. When you open your eyes and pierce through the veil of illusion you will know I am you.

Bizarre House - II

 The house we lived in Kanpur was a soldier’s barrack turned into quarters. A long shed like structure converted into four dwelling units, may be the word “quarter” comes from there. Ours’ was the corner unit on the main road side and the far end towards MI room. A long covered veranda on the front ran through the entire length of the building.

But the peculiarity was not the barrack like construction of the house, it was a mysterious door between our house and the adjoining unit. We had put a heavy wooden box snugly filling its frame lest no one would inadvertently open it and intrude privacy of neighbour and vice versa. A similar box was sitting on the other side of the door for similar reasons as ours. It was clear what was behind the door and yet it looked mysterious to little Babu who would often stare at it.

In summers we would take out “khatia” (bamboo cots, very light weight) put them under open sky, put up mosquito nets and sleep outdoors. Once Shubhakar told us that he saw a ghost making rounds of Ber tree in front of the house dead at night. I was gullible so believed him. From then on, whenever I woke up briefly in the middle of night, I would furtively look at the Ber tree, if the ghost was there making rounds. Once I was so much primed with fear that I actually felt a shadow like thing made round of that tree and as soon as it turned my way disappeared.

Of course, it could be real but most likely a false visual induced by fear.

Bizarre House - I

 Of all houses where I have lived and I have lived in many of them, 14 Mumfordgunj was quite intriguing and bizarre. It was built like a child adding parts to a sand castle, sneaky narrow stairs, and suspended in air crossover ramp. Pillars rising from nowhere and stairs going on and on without fold leading to a large terrace. “Lois Kuti” was the name of that formidable building, underneath that name was printed H Williams. Façade did not open to a regular road instead a brick paved gully lead to it. The approaching end from the main road was neat but that gully ended in crossing where tabellas with buffaloes and cows, their muck painting it into a dismal gloomy locale.  Right across the gully there was a large open space and beyond that was another locality funnily called Balrampur House a posh colony of collages. From our perch we can a standalone house belonging to “Pahadi ji”. Some guy Rama Prasad Ghildiyal “Pahadi” who wrote children’s book.     

We lived on the upper floor, H Williams down stairs in dark chaotic section. His wife an absentminded frail lady and occasional visitors to his home, a spinster daughter, a choleric limping son Vimal and another estranged son and his wife. It was an interesting household.