Humanist

Whats the time by your watch sir? The voice was a faint but filled with confidence. I turned around, and expecting to see a some well dressed man in the corridors of my hostel. Instead I found him, the bookseller, dressed in an old 'lungi' and a crumpled shirt. His routine was almost exact. Every sunday by 10.00am he would set up his books for display outside our common room. He would chat with students from various disciplines about the books he had and even show some of the contents. It was not an uncommon sight to see him show the individual chapters in different books and talk intelligently about them. He would promptly close the shop by 12.00 and leave to be back the next week. He always sold only books by then out of print Mir publishers from USSR. His frail looking body, thick eye glasses, stubble, grey hair and crumpled clothes could not hide the aura of a mystic around him. There were many legends about him...that he was a former PhD student at IITK. He was always there promptly on every sunday to sell his books which I always suspected could not help him earn his living. One day I joined the usual chat on the sidelines of his business. It was a time when Mayawati had just constituted a jumbo ministry of 150 ministers a day ago. I was surprised at his political awareness when he made fun of her ministry saying every tree, rock and stray dog had a minister.
He would very nonchalantly say he had no family. No mother. No father. No wife. No brother or sister. No son. He was alone he would say. I wondered often how he would feel..afterall whatever stoic exterior we may display, we all are vulnerable at some point and seek comfort in trusting arms. He would proudly show us that the lungi he wore was only 10 Rs and he bought it in Vijayawada(in AP). He refused to be carried in a rickshaw; would always put his books in them and walk beside it. Another day, he, me and another friend discussed about the philosophy of learning. I was amazed at his depth when he told us that learning was a gift. It had to be given to anyone willing to recieve it. Therefore the books, the storehouse of knowledge had to be freely availiable and to make that happen Govt. must subsidise them if neccessary. He spoke of good old days when USSR was still around and the Mir publishers would publish books. He would criticize capitalist way of learning, where essentially it is the rich who have access to best books. At this point, my friend made asked him if he was a communist. His answer was plain and simple...Sir,Iam not a communist or a capitalist. All I care for is the welfare of everyone. All I want is a misery free life with two square meals for everyone. Iam a humanist.
At that time I saw in him a wisdom of a vedic sage who had declared long back,
sarve santu sukhinah;sarve santu niramaya,
sarve bhadrani pashyantu, maa kaschid dhukhabhagbhavet.
[May everyone be happy, may everyone be free of worries;
May everyone see security in their lives, may none be unhappy]
In this age of political correctness and contrivied vocabularies, need a few more people like him who are the change they want to see in the world. The lasting image I have of this humanist is his frail figure on the KGP railway platform, dressed in his blue checkered lungi he bought in vijayawada for 10 Rs, reading a newspaper through his thick glasses with the three bags overflowing with books lay beside him.
I never asked his name. To me he is always a humanist.
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Why hurry?

Whats the hurry to bloom? I ask the plant. It pointed to the bud that had fallen to ground unable to withstand the storm and said, perhaps next one will bloom in time to express my appreciatation to the old gardner. Perhaps it will be just in time for his daughter to pick the flower for her daily worship. Perhaps, it will be just appropriate for his young grandson to gift it to his friend at the end of the street. More often than not, the appreciation, devotion and love go unexpressed just because they were being perfected and the mortals for whom they were destined departed, just like the falled bud. Hence the hurry to bloom; to appreciate, to give and to love..just for the sake of it. Sometimes you run...lest it may be too late.
I brisquely walked on the road with a new understanding.
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Innocence heard?

I settle down on a bench in the almost empty quad on a cloudy day sipping hot tea from the mug, enjoying the occasional rain drops on my hands and face. A dark blob of feathers moved beside me. I went near to have a closer look and waved a twig above it. I was expecting to see a flutter of wings with the bird trying to fly away.
General experience has taught me that other free living things have lost the trust in humans long time ago. You may see a crane sitting on a buffalo but never on a human being. You may even see a bird eating scraps in the open mouth of a crocodile (This IS true )but never a mouse running on a person.

The bird did something unusual. It opened its mouth as if the twig was some kind of a worm. I realized it was not an injured bird but a young bird that had fallen from its nest. Its wings were still not strong enough to carry its weight. It still had the innocence left in it to trust a human. I didnt know what it would eat, but realised it must have been hungry all night. I opened my bag and found some Indian snacks I was carrying to my office. Hesitatingly I fed the bird and to my relief it gulped it and opened its mouth again. I fed it a few times and left for the office to think of better alternatives to keep it alive. However, I was almost confident that its parents would come and pick the bird. But it had to be protected from the predators in the mean time.
On my way to office, I sense increasing frequency of rain drops. It meant sure death for the bird as it could die of cold with wet wings and would be a dessert for the wild cats that roam around. I looked up, and borrowing a little bit of innocence from the bird, prayed for the rain to stop. Few hours later, there was no rain and no trace of the bird. I searched the area twice and still couldn't find it.
I dont know what happened to the bird, but something tells me that my prayers were answered.
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On a summer night...

The sky was beautiful with twinkling stars. The clouds glowed orange lighted by the city lights underneath. Few twinkling stars stood were imitated by the lights of a flying aircraft. As I gaze at them under a summer night sky, lying on a freshly mown lawn and smelling the earthly scent, I get lost in the distances between us. After a few futile attempts to obscure the star, the clouds left the sky leaving me alone with the star. The dark sky and the spaces between seem to shrink and soon I could see nothing except the star in a far away galaxy.
The infinite spaces, bigger than the spaces between galaxies seems so large to me. I take a deep breath and wonder about amount of air in my lungs. So little, yet so vital to my being alive and dead. I wonder what the star would think, if it had a life just like this little human sitting on a far away planet and dreaming of a little freedom every now and then. I wondered whether it would even notice the small planet circling an ordinary star. Then...do we stop by every time we see an ant struggling on our path? or watch a little sparrow learning to fly or a squirrel cracking a nut?
What is the bond that unites us all? the infinity that engulfs all and the nothingness that it was born out of?
Can this mind of mine ever hope to get a feel for the infinity? It is one of the words I speak without understanding, just as I speak about nothingness. When I ask whether I can be close to infinity by expanding my mind, little do I realise that just as addition of two numbers, however large, doesn't ever bring them close to infinity, the quest to infinity is not in expansion, neither is it in withdrawl of thought. Then, am I any close to realizing nothingness? Defining emptyness as absense of anything I tie it to the implicit presence of things and sadly I go away from both emptiness and the infinity that it fills.
I tried measuring the waters in ocean of thought with the palms of my little mind. My heart tells me its futile and instead asks me to delve deep into the ocean itself to transcend the ocean. Tired of walking in the shallow waters of clever word play, I seek depths. The depths of life where feelings come as a result of silent strength gained by withstanding the storms in life and character strengthened in the testing fires of temptations. Somewhere in the silent depths of my heart, I realize that there are still winds of hope that will guide me. I look at the star, it was still twinkling in the clear night sky...at that moment we divided the distances with the nothingness between us and touched infinity. And I could hear the bells toll at a distance.
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Juggler

He was a juggler par excellence. He had won many championships and was considered a prodigy. Someone fished out a packet of white powdery substance during one of the many celebrations held in his honour. They said it would give an exalted feeling and he should just try it. He hesitantly took a snuff at the stuff and it felt good. He had a feeling of a feather floating carelessly in spring breeze. Members of the party wanted to see his tricks. He hesitated for a bit, then thought...he was the best juggler, how could years of practice be lost with one whiff of that stuff? Sure enough, he performed one his most difficult tricks juggling a dozen glass globes while holding a candle on a spoon with his teeth and silenced lone friend who tried to warn him. Everyone except his friend clapped...and this did not escape the jugglers eye. That evening someone had taken a photograph of him juggling and everyone present at the party signed...except his friend who scribbeled on the back of the photograph...It all begins with the first step. Juggler held a grudge against the friend for spoiling such a beautiful photograph.

He almost forgot about the incident...a year later during another party, someone held a white powdery stuff. Someone said," It is not that you are addicted or anything like that.Its just once in a while. And you didnt even lose control the last time you had this. My God, what a performance it was..juggling so many globes" He held his hand out and had one more snuff for the second time in his life.

The time flew and slowly the frequency of the parties where he had the stuff increased. He never admitted he could be affected by the stuff yet, he longed for it. When he was thrown out of his job for non performance he blamed his manager. One fateful day, police raided his house, searched his house. One of the young cops accidentally pushed an old album as he clumsily searched on top of the old bookcase. An old dust covered photograph fell down...The scribbled letters were clearly visible even thought the photgraph was old. They read. It all begins with the first step.
[Authors Note: An old chinese story that was the inspiration for this would end here. But eternal optimist Iam, my story continues]

A few months later, as he walked free from the rehab centre, he took out the photograph that he cherished and went confidently to meet his long forgotten friend
who said, It all begins with the first step.
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Tracks in sand

I walk the mile hoping to make a mark. I put my foot firmly on the ground and mark my step in sands of time. Looking ahead I see many tracks that once stood out proudly disappearing into the sandy canvas just as the steps behind me have started to disappear. The tracks of a child, old woman and the dog walking beside her all disappear with one large wave. Looking at them, I wonder why do we struggle to make a mark in life? Isn't it futile when all will be forgotten in a few years. What is it that we strive for? What endures the life and the death thereafter? I ask people, preachers and scriptures only to be smiled at. Some tell me it may be the wealth that we earn. Some tell me its the respect we get from others. When gently reminded of the forgotten heros of yesteryears, ruins of once majestic palaces, unknown heros of wars of life they look at me in a strange way, their eyes full of pity for my confusion. I smile at them and myself before walking away.
A learned one told me it may be the goodness within that we yearn for. I ask him, what remains beyond this duality: happiness and sorrow, good and bad; life and death. He stares at me and says don't let your mind wander too much.
Dont ask me for I dont know either. Probably the silence between the conversations and thoughts will provide the answer. I am still trying to listen.
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