DABBLER SCRIBBLES

“You get the documents and I will wait here”, Arnav urged Faizaan to get the college documents while he waited for him in the dim light of the mosque near his house. The mosque that seemed calm suddenly broke its silence by the “Adhan- prayer calls”. The little steps that walked the muezzin to the Minaret top was beautified by the green flags. The little boy who was reading the Quran Suras just peeped once to glance at the calm and dim aisle. Arnav looked at the Mosque’s entrance which beamed with the lamp at its foot. He played with the pack of sweet and rice that he got from the temple few minutes back.  It was Saturday and Arnav was agnostic enough to offer his prayers at the temple and the pundit often gave him a pack of sweet and rice after offering it to the gods. He was still humming the chants from the temple and the clanks of the bells ringing in rhythm with the prayers in his head.

                           “Excuse me sir, can I have something to eat?” A woman scooted out from the dim aisle of the mosque, covered in her dowdy Burqa, the black cloth that covered the Muslim women from the unworthy eyes of the world. The small patches of green cloth pieces on her Burqa screamed her poverty. The faded mud lines on her face told about her tears that flows more often than she can wipe. She now slithered coping up with her old age and reached closer to Arnav! “Please sir give me something to eat, I am very hungry”, she pointed at the rice pack with Arnav. Arnav looked at the pack of rice and pitched his voice with compassion to speak, “I could give you this pack of rice but this was an offering made to the god at the temple and I was told that Muslims don’t accept the offering from the temples…. Aren’t you a Muslim?

              “I am sir, but before that I am a poor helpless woman who is hungry. What lines of code from religious book can satisfy my hunger except for a pack of food?  Sir my hunger does not see if the food is coming from the temple or the mosque or from the church or a Gurudwara. It is hunger sir, what religion does it have?”

“Pay for the ticket or get down from the bus”, the ticket collector was aggressive now. “Are you going to pay?” he exclaimed at the old man who was all dressed up in his dowdy clothes, with a series of stitches on his shirt screaming out his poverty. “Sir, please… I do not have enough for the fair but I need to go to my daughter’s place. She is ill, please allow me to travel”, he pleaded his best with wet eyes. “Pay or get down”, decreed the collector.   

              “Ridiculous, why do people travel when they cannot afford to”, Arnav looked more judgmental than concerned. “Such dowdy poor people reduce the standards of our city, they should not be allowed here in the first place”, Arnav muttered loud enough for me to listen while fidgeting with his watch he bought from USA on his last trip. He took a glance at the old man again and drew into his seat, staring out of the window with no signs of compassion.

             Monday morning and we were travelling in the state bus to the city Museum for a documentation of our history project. The populated roads and the nooks, the series of little native shops at the either sides of the road with human voices of all ages screaming an invitation to visit them, the old, partially fallen buildings still holding the flag of “old city”, were all to be taken into account for the culture study project and nothing better than a ride via state bus could have been possible.

      “Ok driver, stop the bus now”, the collector made up his mind to have the man out of the bus. The old man threw a glance at the passengers but none seem to feel his plight. Arnav witnessed everything but choose to submerge himself in his IPad. “Get down”, he screamed his best, “If you don’t have the money don’t board the bus”. I swiftly got up to the conductor and drew a sum of 100 and smuggled it to him. “Let him travel, he is poor but still a human…. Show a little compassion”, I proclaimed and started walking towards my seat. The old man nodded his head in gratitude and wiped his tear off. I drew back into my seat, gazing back at the wonderful city. 

What a shame! Our culture has gone down the drain. Look at the way she is dressed! Mr. Dutta was all over the case of “diluting Indian culture” again. Sipping a cup of Assam handpicked tea with ½ spoon sugar owning to the fact that he was diabetic and munching on his favorite Osman biscuits that I got him over my last visit to Hyderabad, looked troubled again over the exposure of oneself through the decreasing dress lengths which was rampant now among the colony girls.

                                  I sat with him in his balcony, a projected space on the third floor of the apartment, secured by the iron railing which were adeptly decorated by the creepers planted by Mrs. Dutta when they moved in five years ago.

                           Mr. Dutta was a bank employee, a man from old school and an orthodox to a large extent with a little flexibility to allow his daughter, Aakruti, to go to Hyderabad to pursue her engineering from a reputed college.

                 “Do you think our Indian culture has really lost its roots? With all the westernization and adulterating of morals, Nudity in the first place, I am more than worried about the course of our culture in the country”, he picked up the last biscuit from the plate and stared in the open space over his balcony, expecting an answer.

                   “Nudity is in the thinking”, I pitched my voice loud enough to smuggle these words clearly in his ears while placing back the cup of Assam tea. “It has always been a part of our culture since long but we seem to have adulterated our thinking over it”, I continued. “What are you talking about… been a part of our culture? What do you mean by that?” Mr. Dutta was demanding a justification of my words now.

         I pointed at the replica of a sculpture of nude pairs from Ajanta and Ellora caves that hung elegantly in his hall. “India is the mother of art that celebrates the beauty of nudity and freedom of expressions. Kaamasutra, the compilation of urging desires between two bodies and souls, the sculptures of Ajanta and Ellora, the elaborated depictions of nude divine figures at Khajuraho, few of the paintings of Raja Ravi Verma, have been the pride of our culture. People then did not adulterated their thinking but rather celebrated the creation of beauty and appreciated it. Doctors do not see the patient’s exposure as nudity and forsake treatment. Children are never ashamed to expose themselves infront of their mothers. Nudity is in the thinking Mr. Dutta and it has been a part of our culture but what was not is the fact that we adulterated our thinking over it”, I proclaimed clearly.

Like the verse that long freed men,

So break down the art of thinking,

Rebuild, rethink, rehearse, reborn,

And be the one, not sinking,

Do not despair, agonize, halt or rest,

Embrace the core, let go off your crest,

So bring all that you can,

From the little shelves of your heart,

The nooks of your brain,

The marrows of your life

From the gutters of your vein,

 And weave them all up to fabricate,

To pull it over world, the vicious crate,

With the words clearly knitted,

Carpe-Diem! Seize the day!

So I ask, celebrating your soul,

What will be your verse, today?

       Essence:

            This poem urges a writer to encourage himself into creating wonders by having a whole new perspective towards life exemplifying the fact that he is the one who can have a different thinking, ability to judge things and who can eventually create some marvelous verses to contribute in the legacy of literature!! 

* Carpe-Diem means "Seize the day" and is an inspiration from the movie "Dead Poets Society"* 

“Look at the man out there, I am sure he must be low born”. Friday evening and Utkarsh and Tavish were on their way back from office. Bound in their formals, though the perfectness has worn out by the day’s work, they were still logically well dressed. 7 pm it was and their office cab broke down compelling them to take the bus. Packed with passengers from all walk of life they could secure a little space to stand near the back seats ensuring a seat away from Mrudhan, a dowdy dressed middle aged guy who has rightfully settled himself on the seats reserved for the low born.

                            Utkarsh was high born and had his ideals shaped to meet his reputation. He often avoided contact with the low born(s).

                                       More than a century has passed since the walls of castes have fallen but Utkarsh was still holding the pillars strong in spite of his magnificent education and equality speeches that Tavish offers him every now and then.

      The bus jerked to stop and Utkarsh was sucked to the front along with the rest but he managed to avoid a physical contact with Mrudhan.

                                          The bus moved and Utkarsh sprung back to his little space feeling victorious of his avoidance. 8:30 pm and the city looked as pretty as the newly wed bride with the lightings. With a rush of vehicles on road the city looked alive and the delicious aroma from “Karachi Bakery” reminded Utkarsh of his hunger.

                             “Tavish have you still got the bar? I am hungry”, Utkarsh urged while still having a last peep at the Bakery which now was left behind. Tavish drew the bar and Utkarsh adeptly tore the cover and smuggled a piece into his mouth.

                                         Before he could realize, he seemed to have already taken in a big piece and was already coughing his lungs out. He needed water and none seem to have. He was coughing hard now holding the iron bars of seats with Tavish beside him standing helpless. A hand with a bottle made its way from the little mob of the passengers and urged Tavish to take it. Utkarsh peeped up and saw Mrudhan extending his bottle to him. Utkarsh couldn’t forgo the pressing urge for water that he seemed to have finally left the pillars of difference and grabbed the bottle, drank to finally cool his lungs.

                       Yes the pillar of difference has finally fallen and Utkarsh stood there holding the bottle not trying to match his embarrassed eyes with the low born.!!!

      

9 feet tall, spreading its beautiful arms to embrace everyone it stood amidst the little creepers and a few concrete boulders of a broken wall fence. It stood rather strong now, today, it stood like never before, that little tree.

                                3 years back when Mr. Singh decided to plant it in the open courtyard, he was very skeptic of its survival. A thin helpless sapling bending by the stroke of a little breeze, how it would survive the constant patrolling of herbivores? Indeed the chances were low. But he decided to plant it fending by a circular wall of bricks around it like a little cage of protection.

                             2 years after the fencing and its root were pouring themselves deeper and deeper into the womb of the soil, it was more than ready to withstand anything. Mr. Singh on the other was still cynic of its healthy growth and the day when few of the cattle in his open courtyard breached the brick wall, he decided to cement the fence.

                                                                               A cemented fencing!! Why? It felt like being caged, like not being given freedom to bloom and spread. Traumatized, but it could never say a thing to Mr. Singh about its lonely pacific nights, about the little chat people have under it when Mr. Singh gets busy inside, nor about the poor burglar who broke into the house only to be scared away by Rox, Mr. Singh’s dog. Never had it spoken a thing to him about the ruthless hindrance that cemented fencing was causing it, simply because it cannot……

                       A year past since then and it tried to box itself within the fence as much as possible, but it was just not enough. Like the little bird that needs to fly off the nest, like the last strong hit on the boulder in the stream’s path only to make a way, it’s root broke the fence, emerging out of it to spread to huge extents……. Like the era of anarchy finally ended by the thoughts of freedom…. Like the final breaking by roots!!!

                               

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Anybody can answer this? The professor cleared his throat only to scream again….. Anyone? I knew what he was asking for, what he expects as an answer but I chose not to raise a voice or my hand. Saturday afternoon cradling in the soft breezes which sneaked in through the window, accompanied by the euphoria of the new blossoms touched by their aroma, swept through the aisle between the desks and finally hit me on my face. It was the best season of the year, spring, and I was stuck in the monotonous loop of lectures. No one knows? The professor deeply craved for an answer now. But I did not raise my arm.

     Why be the first one to be telling, first one to raise a voice even if I am capable of? I drew back on my bench among the little whispers.

                100 decades back when the human race was on a merge of being a better civilization, a better society which encompassed the mark of beginning of kingship by what law was the first king chosen? I was struck by a random thought. The first one? Who would enjoy decades of dictatorship, years of royalty, and eras of unquestionable powers? Was it not someone who chose to be the first among the rest of equals………the equals who did not have the guts to raise a voice or be the first one? Over 60 eminent civilizations which have shaped the modern world came into existence only because someone from the mob decided to be the first one to start, the first to raise a thought…….Yes… indeed the first one!!

                                 I chuckled at my thoughts and raised my hand. Sir I do!!!!!  

“Click a pic!” Arnav threw his camera at me while he got himself busy appreciating the beauty of place. 9 am in the morning and we were at the fort palace of Nizams, rulers of Hyderabad and nothing got better than peeping over the city from the fort top. More than 5 decades since the abdication and the essence of strength has not abandon the fort yet. Beautiful gardens, like a speaking art of a connoisseur. Each boulders that measured half my height, piled up to make that place an everlasting fort. “Pic!” Arnav screamed from far, “use panorama mode”, he added while I was still busy exploring the fort. Panorama mode! I haven’t acquainted myself with it before. I surfed through his options of modes, 30 plus in number, before I slipped on panorama mode. I selected it.  A green bordered rectangle urged me to move the screen to right after I began clicking a shot. Move right! The voiceless arrow along the border was screaming. I did that without questioning. It stuck for a second on the screen and again urged me to move right. Right!!! Why go right when I have a better view downwards? I tried to fool it by sliding the screen down. The piece of wires breathing on software with the grace of few electrons giving it its life, was not ready to be fooled. The arrow pointed up. Why click a shot of a scene when I have a better view here?  

                         It was 7 years ago that Arnav decided to take up science even after having a love for literature. Science! Why not literature, I seemed to have asked him all these years only to never get an answer. Sheets of scores from his childhood bragging about his excellence in sciences fooled him into tacking sciences, but his heart still beats for literature, craving for a chance. But what now? The arrow now pointed towards right, move right, urging voicelessly. He has come too far to make a choice now. He didn't choose the right grounds to start the panorama mode of his life and now he can just only follow the arrow, his decision, the ever urging one, yes……..his only panorama of life!!!

10 am in the morning and I swayed in the streets along the countryside gandering at everything. Two streets off and I was stuck at the courtyard of a hut. Covered in hay stack it had walls of brick that held it. The wall owned many cracks that smuggled light into and eventually opened in an entrance covered by rugged sheet of cloth. None of these caught my sight but the spinning wheel at the wall’s feet. Covered in layers of indistinct mud, it spun endlessly. It splashed drops of muddied water at the wall and the potter, who himself looked nothing less than a statue of mud unless he decided to draw his stick to spin the wheel. I stood there with my eyes transfixed on the transition that was going to impose a question on mankind.

     The potter drew his stick to spin the wheel, this time more vigorously. He bestowed a block of clay to the wheel which curiously spun aping the nature of time…it spun like the never stopping time and with it spun the clay too. The potter drew his hands closer to the clay and touched it. Like a sorcerer’s touch to a lifeless body, the clay started to take shape. Molding itself!! The wheel spun with vigorous enthusiasm as if it was curious about the consequences of the touch… as if it was curious about the clay’s fate. The clay continued to mold itself but the potter’s touch has decided its fate already. The touch has defined its existence already like the million years of humankind which has endlessly spun on the wheels of time molding itself by the touch of his society, by the touch of his thoughts, by the touch of his experiences….and like the one which will continue to spin for a million years to come seeking for a touch that would better his existence, justify his eras of evolution and a touch that would define him finally. He spins like the clay on the wheel…. Waiting for the touch of his soul!! He spins!!! I chuckled.


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                                               (Does the pic say nothing or something!)

Nothing!! That’s a strange word. 4 pm at the coffee shop on a Sunday evening, I asked her,” What’s between us?” Nothing”, she whispered while texting to her friend. Nothing!!” How could there be nothing?” I thought to myself. I drew back on my chair and felt the breeze hit the chimes at the shop’s door. The chimes were singing now and the air glided from the door and slithered between our coffee mugs. Between the gap where there was “nothing”!! Nothing!! I was still whispering it to myself … softly! A series of thoughts stroked my thinking and I went from air to molecules to atoms to electrons to quartz trying to find her “nothing”.

                                                   Nothing!! Having my eyes still fixed at the gaps, I thought  if air existed between everything, what existed between the air molecules?? Nothing!? I put my palm between the gaps to feel the air again! Vacuum, a voice screamed in my head and my thoughts rolled on an article over vacuum and space, does nothing mean vacuum? Does vacuum mean not having anything? Then how does our universe have vacuum and still have something? A bunch of lilies, set of tissue papers, 2 spoons, knitted cloth covering, I saw nothing of them but just the two coffee mugs. Sweet coffee aroma mixed in the fragrance of the raspberries from the pie, I felt nothing of them but just the air gliding through the gap, still wondering what nothing is? Does nothing mean having something so minute that it could adeptly hid itself? Does nothing mean having something and not reckoning its presence? Does nothing mean not meaning nothing at all? May be yes…yes!! So there is always a minute something in every nothing!

                             I looked at her, chuckled and whispered, yeah nothing…… may be “nothing”!!!

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