Aarasii IV

The park I frequent is not big. In fact it is about the size of two large traffic islands you see in New Delhi; like the one at Janpath and Akbar road crossing or one near Udhyog Bhavan.  Its shape is like a loose rubber band, uneven oblong. It mostly has fragile Rain trees along the periphery. Their grip of earth is very weak therefore often uproot in stormy rains. Rain trees normally form nice round dome like canopy but here they are in competition with tall buildings for sunlight therefore take vertical route for growth. The result is; the park looks like bottom of an irregular shaped high walled vessel. There is a raised walking track along the perimeter just enough for three people to walk abreast. A circular pagoda like shed at one end of the park is used mostly by smug but stern looking wise women/men imparting wisdom to lesser mortals. Inside of walking track on the lush green are concrete benches for people to relax.

I generally take a few rounds of brisk walking then settle down on one of the empty benches to catch my breath, spend time observing people. To each his idiosyncrasies! Like any other day the stretch of grass was dotted with islands of human clusters. Groups of ladies were gossiping while attached children having fun around them. Occasionally someone from them would yell out some instruction to children ‘don’t  do …….’  The group near me had a south Indian woman, young absentminded, striking for her detached demeanor. Dark complexioned she had that fatal appeal, not the sexy kind but of feminine vulnerability that spurs men to reach out and protect them. Suddenly she became violently animate…..

I could see a dark malevolent man standing behind the fence on the edge of park. Just the torso visible making deep guttural threatening sounds the kind hardly audible in lower range but very disturbing. The woman got up began speaking animatedly with in her native language with exaggerated gestures. She stayed rooted to her spot, staccato outburst quickly changed tone, now indignant, now cajoling and now issuing threats.  The man at the fence kept steady supply of provocation lest the woman relax.

Everyone of the group had now risen looked at her in stultified horror some totally flummoxed. I was surprised that none bothered to confront the offending man. The old man sitting next me on the bench whispered, ‘She is schizophrenic!’

‘What nonsense! Can’t you see the man on the fence threatening her?’

‘What man?’ he looked at me bewildered.

I saw what she saw because I also had the same mirror to see......

M I S T

Mist lets you see partially therefore word automatically acquires a sense of mystery. It also has the ability to place a layer of shroud over things therefore removes ugliness of a scene. Mist is like nostalgia, it purges unpleasantness of past, presents a hazy romanticized picture of past with blunt edges fudged out a le fantasy in slow motion. When I reminisce past, I see an innocent kid running with a kite or on a swing in wet monsoon or climbing Jamun, Ber trees; not the brutal schools, difficult parents or general deprivations. Hard truth is, I don’t want to live out the past all over again. I suppose nostalgia evolved in the context of evolutionary scheme of things to purge unpleasantness from our mind else collective garbage from past wouldn’t let us move on unbiased.

This amazing picture shows in a metaphorical way conclave of serious individuals busy in a hushed conversation.  . . …..

Beautifully captures essence of Mist!

RAILWAY STATION

The hillock was mostly bald with patches of green but largely ugly brown. At the summit were two skinny trees with little leaves and not too many branches. The larger of them had Y shape; appeared like a woman mulling with one arm, elbow bent, resting on her hips. The other looked like her child with a basket on head. The visual was disturbing.

Beyond the hillock was a forlorn railway Station. It was mostly empty of people; a single train went up in the morning, the same returned in the evening. The platform was not raised but its vague boundary was marked by red bricks dug into the ground upright. It was at the same level as the railway line. A small three room building in very bad shape served for the office of station master, ticket window etc. Signal towers at each end of the platform and a steel structure at one end of the platform holding a small water tank completed the station complex.

It was twilight time. A lone man with crisp white shirt and dark firmly ironed trouser with a brief case in hand was restlessly strolling up and down the platform. He looked very odd in that milieu, apparently an agriculture implements salesman. He had already enquired with the station master several times about the arrival train. The place appeared to him stuck in some kind of time warp. There was nothing he could do to accelerate passing of time. Then he saw some hope. At distance he saw movement over the railway line, a train was arriving. His hopes were dashed when a goods train came to a halt with nasty shrieks of breaks moving down the train decaying in a wave like surge. The trade mark guard’s cabin was in the middle of the train. He saw a funny character jumping from that cabin, immediately began running towards the engine. He began attempting to climb to the roof of that engine. Strangely it was a diesel engine so the effort made no sense to the man at the platform. In fact he felt fearful for the guard as a high tension wire ran over the track. He hesitated briefly then briskly walked over to station master’s room to report this bizarre happening. He expected a minor eruption of temper but the station master looked at him sympathetically through the thick glasses, which made his eyes look grotesque, said ‘Sorry fellow, a goods train will pass first before your train arrives.’

‘Goods train will pass! It has already arrived and halted. I have come to report the same. A crazy fellow is trying something incomprehensible. Please stop this crazy man.” 
‘What are you talking? The train hasn’t moved from the last station!’
‘I was about to tell you about that crazy guard in that goods train. The fellow will get electrocuted? You must stop him.”

The station master looked at him curiously and got up. When they came out, the sales fellow was shocked to see an empty station. There was no sign of the goods train.

***

LIGHT HOUSE

by Kali Hawa

The sea was calm and the wind a steady drift. That lone bloke standing on the deck was thinking, the ocean looked so refreshing and endearing in the middle of the day has morphed into a sinister maelstrom in the darkness of night. The lit cigarette held between his fingers was making fascinating crisscrossing patterns in the dark canvass. Occasionally some spark would detach from the glowing head, for a moment swing around, abruptly die. In the loneliness of night he could see ruins of a towering structure not far away. A light-house perhaps!  Like the kalaiwala*, ruii-dhunnewala, and pager, it’s time to fade away has come leaving space for more glitzy and efficient contraptions. Who knows how many flotillas, barges or even pirate ships corrected course taking cue from its simmering beacon; now this grand relic is having tough time asserting its usefulness. Surging waves would fill up its shaft and when receding, fountains would burst out of the crevices on wall, declaring audaciously its struggle for existence. 

Suddenly he felt a large blob of light hung in the air some distance from him. He then heard someone whispering to him…

rukaa kuch bhi nahiin hai

sirf rukne ka ehsaas hai 

zindagi ka markaz aik equilibrium  hai

uske ird-gird pendulum ki maanind ghumati hai 

raftaar ka ehsaas jiine ki shakl hai............'

[Nothing is still; what seems still is only our perception.  Life swings around an equilibrium and the feel of motion is our sense of living]

‘Who are you?’

 I am your God!’

My God? Does every individual have his own God?

Yes indeed. I am merely projection of your thought.

What is with the sphere shape?

It looks the same from every side!

Abruptly the blob of light went blank; everything sank in an abyss of darkness. Then he realized the light from the tower that was focused on him had gone off instead a dull dying white glow occupied that spot.

    

Aarasii III (Mirror)

The man entering the room was a psychic. The room was about twice as long as its width, looked largely bare with minimal furniture, a couple of pictures hung on the side walls. It was brightly lit, walls painted in matte white finish. He could see a high mirror neatly embedded into the side wall on his left in the middle of the room. It had varnished wood frame delicately worked with flowery patterns as if it was a celebrated painting.  As he entered the room, the door swung back slowly, closed with a mild thud.

Nothing to do, he walked up and down the room scrutinizing the little furniture and looked at the paintings on the wall critically. Eventually when he looked at the mirror he felt a surge of fear running down his spine. All was normal except the mirror didn’t reflect his own image! In reflex he looked at his hands, bent his head to look at his torso for reassurance and then looked back at the mirror, nothing; his image still wasn’t there. He was a psychic, he knew it was just a trick, mostly sleight of hand to fool people, sometimes strong persuasive suggestions to warp consciousness and fool the mind but brazen disappearance of image was not explainable. In auto reflex his hands moved up to mirror to feel it. He was surprised that there was no mirror at all. It was open space, a pane less window. In fact an identical room in the style of mirror image of the one he was in; complete with reversed pictures and furniture existed on the other side.    

The above was merely a writer’s way of creating allegory, a powerful allusion or metaphor to make a point. There is nothing in the world we can say with finality. If I say am agnostic, it is only at conscious level I reject super-normal and irrational but I have no control over my subconscious. It is still ruled by occult, paradigms of superstitions and belief that my destiny is enshrined in wriggly lines on my palm. Is death then cessation of existence? Indeed it is at rational level but life is a lot more complex, there are mindboggling thoughts that prevent us from acknowledging this possibility. When I think of life after the death it seems to me that secrets of the world will be revealed to me after the body’s expiry date.  It doesn’t quite gel. If the secrets are revealed, our reason to exist in any form will also evaporate. Paradoxical, isn’t it. We must live to know that we will never know why Universe exists!  There really is no mirror on the wall to show us what we are, why we are. 

Aarasii II

[Bizarre world on the other side of Mirror]

The door didn’t open to the room instead a short passage and then a large room. Peering through the smudgy glass on the door, he opened his eyes wide to make out what was in the room. The passage had blocked major part of the view of room but a mirror on the side wall reflected clearly an emaciated body sprawled in the middle of the floor.  Another woman reclining on an easy chair, as frail as the one sprawled on the floor, was trying to snooze oblivious to the inert body on the floor. In fact she pushed lightly the frail body with her right foot to get some space to spread out her legs. Amazingly the presence of inert body didn’t bother her at all. Suddenly she stood up walked over to the adjoining room, returned with a glass, not washed in weeks, with water, lifted the woman’s listless head, poured a few drops into her mouth. She then whispered something into the woman’s ear, didn’t wait for answer. All the effort had drained this woman as well. She slumped back into the chair and sank into a bout of delirium.

They broke open the door. A burst of foul stench whiffed past them. They softly lifted the bodies and carried them over to waiting ambulance. The melee in room had knocked the mirror off the wall, crashing, shattering pieces on the floor. The women who was still half conscious, briefly opened her eyes, thought …..

The delicate equilibrium of life has slipped from its peg, who knows where it will settle now!

http://www.telegraphindia.com/1110413/jsp/nation/story_13848334.jsp

Aarasii

Aarasii is a mirror as in the muhavarah “haath kangan ko aarasii kyaa”. But a mirror is a great metaphor because it is so graphical. It shows us our image, tells us ‘this is how you appear to others’. So we make superficial alterations to present ourselves in a way we want to tell the world ‘this is how I am!’ Mostly a fake exaggerated copy.  And we make the mirror lie to us and for us.

But in spiritual realm Aarasii is profoundly more substantial. The aura of the other side of mirror is mysteriously bewitching. Sometimes, when we have time in hand and are all by ourselves, the urge is to cross over to the other side of mirror, begin peeling off the farcical layers, heaven knows how many and see what we really look like. It appears to be one access point of our quest to unravel mystery of our deeply buried inner-self, tantalizingly so near yet impossible to reach. It occurred to me that our world has a small place that emulates the other side of mirror.

When I see Anna Hazare! Seems like there aren’t too many layers over him.