A Dead Hero
Raghuram Godavarthi
I was 9. School had closed early, and He had offered to drop me home, on his way home. It was the monsoon, and a cyclone was expected. Already, the first rains had hit the city with a foretaste of the disaster to unfold. The stagnating rainwater was just beginning to lap at one’s ankles. As I waved goodbye to him from the arms of my mother, he smiled, kick-started his scooter and was gone. School was closed for the month that followed, first due to the rains, and then due to the heavy amount of repair needed on some of the buildings. When I finally went back, I was eager to see Him again. They told me he was gone. I ran home crying. Mother and Father came to school the next day, and the principal told them simply that he was dead. They tried to explain that to the 9-year old me.
I am 23. I have come back to my hometown now that Father is retired and will not be transferred again. I visit School again. I meet the Principal, then an energetic 40-something, now a weary man waiting for retirement. I tell him I still haven’t forgotten Him. The Principal looks at me with a bemused expression. He asks me in a measured voice if I would like to know about Him. I say, unhesitant, yes. The Principal tells me of the first interview, when He first came to the school. He was all charm and kindness, a benevolent god who brought luck with him to the school. He loved the students, and the other staff loved Him. He was quickly promoted, and he took His responsibilities in stride without ever losing any of that charm or kindness. Five years on, He had become assistant-principal, and was virtually everyone’s Hero. I felt a nostalgic pang of envy – the 9-year old awakes again. The Principal continues – no one seemed to know much about His past, or His present. Like the gods of Hindu fables, He had come to the school at a time of great need. Unlike those gods, no legends were ever written about him, only one short obituary, composed by the Principal himself. His body had been found washed into the courtyard of a house the second day of the cyclone. It was presumed that He had had an accident. Then the Principal paused, looked hard at me, and said “But I thought it was murder.”
The Principal was 42. So, He must have been about 33-34. He was a champion swimmer, and if anyone could be trusted with rescue missions, it was Him. He had dropped me home, and then, reported back to school for more such trips. He had been sent by the Principal to take two other students home. All the staff had been asked to meet at the school after dropping off students, just to account for everyone. All came back, except Him. Then, the search parties were formed. They divided the city into six, one pie slice each for two teachers. That year, the cyclone eventually killed 68 people, and many more were lost. The house His body was found in was in the poorer part of town, and those stricken people had still dutifully called the municipality about His body. The crematorium staff collected His body on the first day possible, which was three days later. The full impact of the cyclone was only known eight days since it had begun, with very few services still active in the city. It was pure luck that the Principal even was called. “I went, and identified Him” the Principal almost whispered now, “and when I looked over him one last time, something caught my eye – it was a broken bit of glass near His ear – and it was jammed in His flesh. His whole body was swollen from water retention, but that piece of glass stuck – Why?” I winced, the mental image made me choke, and I shivered, not sure if I was ready to hear more. “And then?”I heard myself ask.
The Principal said he’d asked the morgue attendant about an autopsy. The morgue attendant had looked at him as if he were insane, muttered something about making a mountain out of a molehill and walked away. “Then, I called a police inspector – a neighbor of mine. It was a hard task convincing the morgue officials that it was a suspicious case, but the inspector handled it well. The autopsy confirmed what I feared.” He had been killed, his throat slit, and later left to drift with the rainwater. “The inspector duly filed a first investigation report on my behalf, but the case was never pursued, owing to lack of any leading evidence, and also all the pending rescue work –the concern for those alive or possibly so being greater than that for those already dead.” I stared, unable to believe that they had let it go at that. “But surely, they found some clue, some way of finding out who killed Him?” I said. The Principal looked at me with steady eyes, half-nodded, and then rummaging through his desk drawer, pulled out a threaded folder. He opened it, and flipped the pages, and handed me the folder, with a newspaper article stuck to it. “Perhaps,” he said” this will satisfy your curiosity”. I read the piece, a short one, but very heavy in its import. My eyes went teary as I finished and handed back the folder to the Principal, and crying, I said my good-byes and ran from the room.
Another Hero perishes
Last week, Mr. ____, a resident of the Cantonment, wrote to us with this incredible story. He had been travelling home with his family on July 9th, the day the cyclone hit the city. On the way, he saw this man with 2 kids on a scooter struggling to keep the scooter going in the swirling rain. What followed, in his words: “Soon afterward, both the car and the scooter were stuck in the water. Until that point I had not thought of rolling down the car windows, or even started thinking of a scenario where I would need to get out of the car midway. It was only after the car got stuck that I realized how fast the water was rising. Then the car’s battery died, and the electronic windows wouldn’t come down. The doors were jammed too, and I started panicking. My two children were already very afraid, and they started crying. I then heard this man knocking on the passenger window and I saw him gesturing towards the kids he was travelling with. I gestured back to him to try and tell him that the windows were stuck. He understood me, I think, because he waved to me and my children and then disappeared with his children for a moment. Then I saw him knocking on the windshield, and he gestured to me to move into the back seat. When he saw we were covered, he smashed the windshield with his elbows, and managed to free some space to jump into the car. He then pulled my children and me out into the open, and even as he tried to follow, a sudden surge of water pushed him over, and his neck stuck in the narrower part of the glass. The surging water also meant I was pushed away, and I did not look back for a few minutes, and then I saw what had happened. He was stuck, and the water rapidly carried him away. I do not know if he survived, but someday I hope I can thank him for saving our lives. He was a true Hero.
Dude! Where Is My Coffee?
The guests froze and the lounge became eerily quiet. All eyes were fixated on the body lying on the floor. Everyone was thinking the same thing: one of them had to be the killer.
Siddarth sat beside Mansi and looked at her widely open eyes. It had lost its magic and the twinkle in her eyes was gone. She was dead and he didn’t want to believe it. Just five minutes ago, they were sharing a joke and she had hit him. In a moment, she collapsed like a dry autumn leaf falling off a tree. She looked frail and drained of love, emotions, and life. She was gone. Just like that.
He took her on his lap and a stream of blood ran from her mouth. It felt warm, her blood.
“It would mean a lot to me if you come to the lounge party. My family and friends would be happy to see you,” he said as he stood at the door. It was their second date.
“Already? Isn’t it a bit too soon for us to be meeting each other’s family and friends?” she asked.
Siddarth took a step back and smiled. “I would understand if you didn’t want to come,” he said.
He looked around and his family and friends looked like strangers that moment. He felt out of place. It seemed as if Mansi was the only person in this world that he had known and he had a brief moment of loneliness.
“I want to come to the party,” she said when they met up for coffee two days later.
“Thank you,” he said as he stirred his coffee.
“There is something I need to tell you about my past,” she said.
“Is it going to affect our future?”
She was silent.
“If it is really something important that I should know about your past, you can tell. Otherwise I wouldn’t be interested in it,” he assured.
Siddarth looked at the broken glass pieces next to him. It must have been the drink.
“Who served her the drink?” he asked.
Nobody answered him. The crowd was still perplexed as to what had happened. Half the crowd did not know who she was. Half the crowd who knew her just a while ago did not know why she just died.
“You did,” his brother replied after a while.
Siddarth looked at his brother and his mind tried to race back in time to recollect what had happened. All his mind could manage was to crawl back slowly and decipher nothing at the end of it.
“Is everything fine?” Siddarth asked as they stepped out the movie hall.
“I get so pissed off when someone asks me that. Everything is fine,” she snapped.
They had not talked much that night. She was not in her elements, or so he thought.
“What do you want from me?” she asked breaking the silence.
“I don’t know yet. Aren’t we trying to understand each other to know where we are heading?” he said.
“Maybe we do not have a future together.”
“Why would you say that?”
She did not answer him. She left that night in silence leaving him behind with a million questions. He already saw signs of withdrawal in her.
Siddarth heard the sirens outside the lounge. Someone must have called 911. His eyes ran all over the floor for some evidence. All he could see was droplets of blood, broken glasses, her drink spilt on the floor and restless feet of others. He spotted her bag in the corner. He placed her body on the floor gently and waded through the crowd towards her bag.
“I don’t think I can do this. I must have told you this earlier, but I thought things would be fine between us. The more withdrawal symptoms that I see in you, the more I hurt myself” Siddarth confronted her.
“I understand.” That is all she said.
“Now what?”
“I guess we are done here,” she said.
“Is that what you want?”
She did not answer him.
“I can never decode your silence. Unless you express yourself we are not going anywhere.” There was a tinge of frustration in his tone.
“I told my family and friends that you would be there at the party tomorrow,” he continued.
“I can still come if you want me to,” she said with a smile sending him mixed signals.
He opened her bag and looked inside. The bag was empty and his suspicion grew. He opened the small zipper outside the bag and found a paper inside. It was a note she had left.
Siddarth,
I was sent to kill you at this party. I poisoned your drink. But now I have decided to drink it myself, not because I like you. I never did. I just had to act as if I was interested in you. I don’t think I can handle this anymore. My boyfriend is out there to kill you, Siddarth. He is here in this party. I hope he realizes his mistake once I’m dead. Or maybe not. I just have to do this. Save yourself.
Mansi
BOXED
By Macademia the nut
You may not believe it now, but the Box once contained precious little sparkles. Sparkles, which made it glow with an iridescence that drew everyone to it.
People were curious. “What,” they wondered, “is making it shine so?”
But there were others who were not happy. “We cannot let the Box become so popular,” they said. “It’s we who must possess the sparkles that are within the Box! It is we who must glow!”
So they plotted and schemed to break the Box and take away its sparkles. They waited and waited, until one day they found the little Box all alone. They took it up a hill and threw it down from the top. The Box fell hurtling down. It hit boulders, rolled over thorns and stones and slid to a stop at the edge of a huge lake. But it did not break.
This enraged the people further. “Use a hammer!”
“No use a saw.”
“Set fire to it!” they yelled. But the Box remained unbreakable—battered, torn, and sullied, but still locked and glowing.
Suddenly they heard voices. The others were coming in search of their Box. Run, they whispered. We will find another way to get the Box alone again.
So they began to spread rumors.
“The Box contains sins,” they said. “It’s the devil’s own trap.”
“It will be the downfall of us all,” cried others.
Slowly but steadily, the crowd around the Box dwindled.
“There can be no smoke without fire,” they all said.
Day by day people stopped visiting the Box until, one day, it was all alone.
“Why don’t you like me anymore?” it cried.
“Go away!” yelled the people and pelted it with stones.
Two tiny teardrops rolled out of the Box. As they trailed down its side, a secret latch popped from within, and the Box slowly opened.
The watching people drew back with a collective gasp.
“Sorcery!” they whispered as they backed away.
For a second or two nothing happened. Then, out rolled two of the most beautiful things they had every seen in their lives—the sparkles that were inside the Box. They shimmered and blazed with an unearthly radiance.
The people ran to posses them. They fought with each other to be the first to claim the two sparkles. But when they looked up the next time, they were gone!
“Where are the sparkles?” they asked the Box. “What were they?”
The Box said nothing at first. The people advanced angrily towards it, demanding an answer. And the Box began to speak.
“You were my people,” began the Box, “My very own. The two sparkles were planted inside me because of the way you made me feel.
One was called Happiness, the other was Love.”
“Today you’ve taken both away from me. You will never revel in my glow again, nor will you ever possess your own little sparkles!”
Saying this the Box turned away and walked. It didn’t know where to go but it kept walking. It walked from the only family it had known. It walked from its friends.
And I walked and I walked until I could walk no more.
I had no tears left to cry … just a hollow where I once held love for my people.
I am just an empty Box now.
A Musical Medley
Rehna tu hai jaisa tu
Thoda sa dard tu, thoda sukoon
Rehna Tu hai jaisa tu
Dheema Dheema jhonka ya phir
junoon
A.R.Rahman’s composition was playing on the iPod as Sid was walking across the street to catch a Bus. He was thinking; Thinking about the one girl with whom he hadn’t spoken to in nearly 6 years now. Would she remember me at all? Ah! Those college days….Those blissful days of the yore. Canteen, classroom, coffee and conversations, can he ever stop thinking? He wished he could. He wished there was a pause button
on his brain just like his iPod.
Solah Baras Ki Bali umar ko salaam
Eh pyaar teri Pehli nazar ko salaam
Sunita was putting away all the utensils that she had just cleaned. Anil would be coming home for lunch any time minute now. The song was wafting through her neighbor’s television set. She was wishing she had one too. Marrying the man she loved, going against the wishes of her family, not having enough money to even lead a comfortable life, nothing seemed easy. She often wondered whether she had made a mistake.
“Ek duje ke liye” was the first movie they had seen together as a couple. “Ah those young immature
days!” , she thought to herself.
Nnilavum malarum paaduthu
Een ninaivil thendral veesuthu
Nnilai mayanggi mayanggi kaathalinaal
jaadai paesuthu
A.M.Raja’s voice was streaming in through a small transistor. An old man was rocking back and forth in his chair listening to it, spending his late afternoon listlessly sitting on the patio. It had been more than a decade since his wife had passed away. Somehow he still couldn’t come to terms with it. As he closed his eyes and enjoyed the song, her face became more and more clear. There she was, yes, he could see her face. A content smile erupted on his wrinkled countenance .Look into my eyes you will see, what you mean to me
Search a heart, search a soul, when
you find me there you will search no more
A seventeen year old girl wearing faded jeans and a tank top was listening to one her favorite yesteryears
Rock idols, Bryan Adams. “Wish Mike would ask me to go to the prom with him!” , she thought to herself. She had been following him all around campus the past week hoping he would notice. Never having got any a
cheerleader’s looks, though she knew she did not have a chance at being asked to go to the prom by the most popular guy of the senior year. Yet she couldn’t stop dreaming. “I wish, I wish and I wish….…… If only they came true.”
Tum ho to gaata hai dil Tum
nahi to geet kahan
Tum ho to hai sapnon ke jaisa
haseen ek samaa
Neha was thinking, “May be I should call him! But what if he doesn’t remember me? What if, even worse, he is angry at me? If only he called me once, that idiot Sid.”
Songs vary, music varies, singers vary, why even language varies….But somehow the emotions buried deep underneath each song does not. Some songs make us cry, some inspire, very few simply elevate you to the
feeling of absolute bliss, and even fewer make you fall in love
Rehna tu – Delhi 6 (2009), A.R. Rahman
Nilavum Malarum – Then Nilavu (1961), A. M. Raja
Solah baras ki – Ek Duje Ke Liye(1981), Laxmikant Pyarelal
Look into my eyes – “Everything I do” – Bryan Adams (1991)
Tum ho to – Rock On!! (2008), Shankar Ehsaan Loy
—ANURADHA CHANDRASEKARAN
Pic Credit :
Unspoken Dreams
I have always been told that there is nothing more confining and boring than traveling by bus. To most people, the easiest way to travel is by plane. However, they fail to realize the time that they spend getting to the airport early to ensure that they check in on time, the wait between the time of check in and that when the airplane actually takes off and finally the time after landing is almost equal to that of a bus ride for shorter distances. Given that most of the airports that I fly to are far away from the actual place that I need to go to, invariably I end up taking more time getting to and from the airport, compared to the actual flight.
In addition, I really love the time that a bus journey gives you. For just a moment, you are taken away from the crowded cities, where everything is in fast forward, where everything has to happen a moment before this one. You are taken away to a world where time seems to stop, where everything can take place at its own pace. Even though I do not live that life, even looking at it throught the glass windows of the bus brings great peace to my troubled mind.
These bus journeys are the best when you have someone to travel with: a companion, any companion. It is even better when that someone is so close that there is nothing that you have to say; every word is meaningless and more is said by just the slightest actions, rather than the most garrulous speeches.
The ride from Pittsburgh to Newark by the Greyhound is not a journey to talk about. Other than the fact that one has to stop in Philadelphia, the journey is nothing special. However, given that I was on the trip with that one girl made the journey all the more special.
The reason that I said that the presence of a companion, even if she is mute during the entire trip, makes it more interesting in the sense that there is so much that you can sense from her actions, from her behavior, from her pattern of breathing, that you do not notice the time passing.
The girl I am talking about is the one woman who makes my life go around. She is not beautiful in the conventional meaning of the word. However, there is something about her that makes her attractive in a way that I cannot even come close to describing how beautiful that I think she is.
I guess that given the fact that the bus departs pretty early in the morning, I was not surprised when she fell asleep the moment that the bus pulled out of the Downtown bus stop in Pittsburgh. I am not the person who can fall asleep during any ride; while she can catch forty winks even in the nosiest of bedlams, I am always afraid that the moment that I close my eyes, the bus driver will do the same and we all will end up crashing.
As I was saying, she fell asleep within a few moments of the bus leaving the station and did not speak a word. Well, given that she was asleep, I do not think that I can hold her not talking against her and neither did I mind her dozing off for I had a million things that I wanted to think about. I had to think about the future, how we were going to get married in a few months. I could even see the ceremony.
I am sure that we were going to have a small ceremony. There was going to be no one other than close friends of mine. She would want to invite her family, her parents, her brother, and his wife along with their two kids. I can see the fight that we were going to have. She would ask why my friends are more important than my parents; I would not have an answer. I would talk about how demanding they are and how inept I am in handling them, her brother, or even her sister-in-law. For some reason I am sure that her sister-in-law would want to do things her way, for she has had a wedding and is a self-proclaimed wedding planner, and that will make my girl cry. I cannot have that, and since I cannot not invite her sister-in-law, I do not want her entire family there.
I smile, thinking of the argument, for this is the way that we argue. I think of far too many things while talking to her, taking into consideration far too many things, while she is content looking at the smaller things in life. She would be more worried about what we are going to eat for dinner, while I would be more worried about where we are going to live after the wedding.
I look at her; her head has tilted in the roll of the bus and now is resting against my shoulders. There is nothing that she finds more comforting than her head on my shoulders. I guess that it gives her a sense of being protected, a sense of being wanted, and a sense of being with someone that promises to keep her safe and takes all efforts to make her happy. There is nothing that I find more peaceful, she has given me someone to take care of, someone whose happiness shall be my responsibility and that makes me fill up inside.
Just as I think of this, I look down at her and her eyelids are fluttering. She is not awake, but then her eyelids are fluttering. I guess this is what they call REM sleep. I do not remember the details clearly, but then I remember having read that this is the time that a person has the most vivid dreams. I think that given the way that her eyelids are fluttering, she is dreaming about me, about us.
Looking ahead, there is so much for us to do. I can see the day that we will get our own car. We do not have the money to get a car now. We use the bus; however, we have plans for the car after we come back from the honeymoon. I want to get a Japanese car, she wants a Mustang. I cannot blame her; I love the Mustang. We have put off the decision on the brand of the car for the moment, but given that I want to start a family as soon as possible, I still think that a Mustang is a poor choice.
The kids are going to be so beautiful; I say kids for we are going to have two of them. The first one is going to be a boy and the second will be a girl. If we are lucky, then both the kids will take after her both in looks and in brains. It is not that I am not smart, it is just that she is brilliant. I always joke with her, asking her how she is with me, if is she actually is so smart. She says that I am her one drunken one-night stand that is going to last her a lifetime. I guess what she is not able to put to words is the fact that we fit, together, with each other.
I can see it now, getting up late on weekends as the kids come up to our room and jump onto the beds, waking us up. The dog follows at their heels and we all cuddle up under the blanket. She wants to get a few more moments of sleep; neither of us has slept all night for our daughter was up, afraid of the gob-monster under the bed. It was late by the time that we managed to put her back to bed, and we had barely slept a few winks when both the kids ran up into our bed.
Well, I guess that nothing can be done; we both get up, make breakfast and sit down with the family and Pugsy, our dog. We had to move out of the city, for we did not want the kids to grow up where they cannot run and play. I did not have a childhood where I could do that and I do not want my kids to miss out on that experience. We have a small house in the suburbs, not so far that I have to commute most of the day to work and back, but not so close that we are hard-pressed for space. The perfect balance, her and me, and the kids.
Even though I am thinking of events that have not occurred yet, for some weird reason, it is not as if I am looking ahead in time. I feel like I am looking back in time, reminiscing on these events after they are done. I feel like I am almost ninety-years-old and am thinking of the times gone by. Strange, that I think of the future as the past; however, it all makes sense for these are certainties, are they not?
Harrisburg has come and past and we ride on. The bus conductor says that we are pretty close to Philadelphia and that the ones that ride on to Newark should get off the bus at Philadelphia and get onto another bus to Newark. I do not move even though I am going to Newark. I do not want to disturb her sleep, I do not want to ruin this moment. At this very moment, we are perfect. We are not saying a thing. Heck, she is not even awake, and yet we are perfect. Soon she will get up and things will go back to what they were before we got onto the bus.
I always maintain that a companion while traveling, especially if it is by bus, makes a world of difference, even if she is mute to you. I never saw that girl before, and I never have seen her since. I left the bus to catch my connecting bus to Newark. She just shifted in her seat as she let me pass and then curled up against the empty seat next to her. I am not even sure if she realized that I was gone. I sure did realize that I was gone.
– Aditya Rajaraman
Downcast
Asha was on her way home when the November rain decided to play peek-a-boo with her. It would drizzle for a while and then change its mind and fizzle away. Asha ignored the rain’s mind games and continued walking. She was just a few blocks away from home when the rain decided to go rogue and transform in to a heavy downpour. Asha had to take refuge under the sunshade of a store on the pavement.She twisted her stole which had become wet due to its brief contact with the rain As she finished dripping off the droplets of water, she noticed the items displayed in the shop through the window. A particular piggy bank caught her attention.
“Here you go darling. For this birthday, you can have this piggy bank. It is like your own little bank!” said her dad as he handed her a brand new pink and white piggy bank.
If Asha was upset, she did a good job of displaying it. She had wanted the new princess doll that everyone in her neighborhood had. She was looking forward to her birthday so that she could have the doll as her gift. This piggy bank was nowhere close to the beautiful doll. The princess had a big flowing dress and even her own crown.
“But Daddy, why can’t I have the princess doll like everyone else in school does?” asked Asha half hoping that her Dad would replace the piggy bank with the princess doll.
“Why don’t you take the piggy bank, save a lot of money and then by the end of this month, we will have enough money to buy the princess doll. What say huh?” asked her Dad trying to get Asha excited about the gift.
Just like any other eight year old kid, Asha thought dolls were the best things in the world, only second to candy, and having a piggy bank as a birthday gift did not make any sense to her. Not having enough courage to throw tantrums in front of her dad, she just took the gift from his hand and walked towards her room.
Looking at the same pink and white piggy bank in the store brought back memories to Asha. Right next to them she saw what was a today’s version of her princess doll. The one that she would never have.
It was just another day; at least that is how it started out to be. Asha kissed her dad, waved to her mom and left for school. She returned home to a sobbing mother. The house seemed alien to her. There were people everywhere, voices all around, whispers, whimpering, sobs, screams, and in the middle of it all, her dad.
She knew then that there wasn’t going to be a princess doll.
She heard someone screaming for money to pay the icebox delivery service. She looked at her numb mother. She slowly walked towards her room and returned with her piggy bank, never to see it again.
Asha looked away from the store and started walking back home. The downpour did not matter; it could not cause more pain than the piggy bank, the dolls or worse, the memories. The memories we create only to feel the pain of not being able to relive them. As she reached home, she wondered when was it that the rain water had started to taste salty.
–Nivethitha Kumar
Upon Reflection
Akṣapāda Gautama’s Gurukul…
“What is the difference between good and evil Guruji?” I asked.
Gotama replied without opening his eyes,” Good is what you do onto others without expecting anything in return which is beneficial in its effect. Evil is what you do with the intent of harm onto others.”
I absorbed what was said and queried further, “Guruji, why is it important to do good deeds and not what is called evil?” Gotama still did not open his eyes. He never got tired of the questions his Sishyas came up with. But over the years his responses had become stereotypical. He replied,
”Young one, I have already introduced you to the theory of causation. You should have inferred by now that cause and effect should be homogeneous in nature, and yet the effect is a new beginning and was not already contained in the cause.”
I was ready for this response. I had contemplated for half a year now and this was the way I had decided to draw out Guruji. I responded,
”Guruji, I have been doing something for six months now. I steal half a liter of milk every day because I know like clockwork the cowherd’s schedule. The conundrum has stupefied both Mataji and the Cowherd as to why the cow has been giving half a liter of milk less for the past six months as he knows through inference of the milk giving capacity as related to the weight of hay fed and its ankle size. Now though the Cowherd does not say anything in front of Mataji he curses the cow when alone for his repute is at stake. If I did not confess now nobody would ever have known. I did so called evil deed and yet other than the silent curses there was no other effect. And I am also at peace with myself. And yet it is evil… What is that explains this situation?”
Gotama opened his eyes,” Young one… what is it that you seek?”
I replied honestly, “The truth Guruji…”
Gotama said” Young one, it is time for you to continue your journey. I have imparted all the knowledge that I can… I can give you an answer but you will not accept it because you want to back anything that is said through the experiment of self.
But young one- Do not forget the primary knowledge of Causality that I have imparted. In the case that you present your inference of the effect was easy because the inputs were controlled. Remember that young one.”
I was scared at the answer that I got for this was not what I expected. But I said Abhivadhaye and asked, “Guruji, what is it that I can offer as Guru dakshina… “
Zen Arcade- 2000 so years later…
Have you ever heard of the band Husker Du? They came out with this album in the eighties called Zen Arcade that changed the phase of music. Almost every decade had such an album one could argue but it (actually an album, a book or a movie) takes meaning when one comes across the idea being presented for the first time in his or her life. The album followed the adventures of a disoriented young kid who is disillusioned by his parents and the environment he is in and decides to head out into the world to seek the truth. As the album progresses so did the young kid – he experiments with sex, religion and drugs along the way and then returns home, apparently back to square one, having discovered the world outside is even worse than the” safe haven” that was his family. The album ends with a ghostly song called “Recurring Dreams”. To me everything in the album made sense. I have always toyed with this idea. What If there is no ultimate truth? But the thing is each has to experiment in order to prove to him or herself. Some of us accept it after a little experimentation that we have found god and ultimately it will be revealed as to why is that things happen as they do. Insanity I say! But what is the alternative.
I had an alternative that I had pondered with for years together now… and it made sense….
1930 years ago…
It had been thirty years since I had left the Gurukul. And yet I found myself walking into the valley again. Guruji was on the throes of death and had summoned me. I somehow did not feel pity at his shriveled old body when I saw him. I had found that death did not affect me as much as life did. I don’t know why but over the years I had learnt that dealing with my inner thoughts was the first step to learning to deal with others. I touched his feet and sat beside him.
He whispered,” Young one … “and he looked at me fondly. He continued,
”What is it that you have learnt? Tell me…. “I looked at him with almost anger…. “Nothing Guruji… absolutely nothing! I do have a better understanding of the world around me or the people that reside here. But the question that I asked you years ago still hounds me. And now I have thirty years behind me to make a perfect argument that even you Guruji will not be able to counter. Yet I cannot get myself to do something truly evil” I sighed.
Guruji smiled at me, “Young one to me it was not as much as finding the answer as developing tools of thought. The fire you had in you and that still burns in you burns in me even as I feel death come upon me. I am sure you have by now thought about…. “And I looked at him… it was not possible… how could he possibly know! And he smiled and continued, “There is one explanation that conscience must hold the true answer to all that… “
1945 years since the Gurukul was left for the first time
I stood there observing a two week old kitten. He was furiously scratching the concrete floor and looking confused and then sat upright and… I yelled, “Bad Kitty!” The next day I saw a similar confused scratching and I carried him outside and put him on the ground. He continued to scratch and then I realized he wasn’t scratching but digging. He dug a neat hole and the sat in the in thehole and did his thing. When he was done he got up and covered his poop with mud making sure the hole was filled! I was pretty amazed and it got me thinking. I wondered about the preprogramming that was innate to every living thing. I contemplated the concept of conscience and how it hounded humans into doing the right thing in more cases than less. Where is it that this was passed on from for you were born with it. I wondered.
1930 years before the Husker Du incident:
I looked at Guruji and said, “But you have never fed that idea to me Guruji.” I was a little out of my element. Guruji smiled,” Young one, the day that you put forth the conundrum for the first time I inferred you would reach the same conclusion.
But I had to wait for the experiment to happen and confirm the result. So what is it that you concluded?
Did you reach the same conclusion? The only way to truly break away from conscience and yet not affect causality!
I slowly replied, “I think Yes… that you …. “I stuttered a bit”You… ummm commit…“
He looked at me eerily and completed, “SUICIDE! But how? But how? … How do you create the perfect accident?” I looked at him and whispered… and with that he took his last breath … I got up.
1930 Years before the Husker Du Incident and at that time too
I walked into the empty space. It was time to commit the act. But it was very important to create the right conditions. It meant freedom. True freedom. Maybe many people had come upon this conclusion and had carried it out. But the knowledge truly remained a secret because no one had lived to talk about it. Ha! I smiled ironically. All knowledge that Is passed on can only be applied with the physics of this world that surrounds us i.e., the interaction of Purusha with Prakarthi. But that was all an illusion and the conclusion that I had independently reached had been inferred by Guruji as well. It had to work!
I walked into empty space. It was time to commit the act. But it was important to create the right conditions. It meant freedom. True Freedom! Maybe many people had come upon this conclusion and had carried it out. But the knowledge truly remained a secret because no one had lived to talk about it. Ha! I smiled ironically. It had to be done this way; the inference of the kitten was but the start point. This was the only way to let’s say short circuit the system!
The conditions were right. I had planned every detail to the second; death came at all simplicity and…. I was free! I opened my eyes…. I was blinded and I heard a voice….. A strange form of communication but I somehow understood, “You almost got away the very first time you tried this… To think! Ha!” I felt a sort of eeriness… It was unbearable….
A baby was born somewhere… somewhere… and she cried…
Note:“Filarial was listening to two bands as he inferred the truth- “Pavement” and of course “Husker Du”. He likes to back his fiction with facts.”
–Filarial
