peace

When the waters kiss the boat with a rather stern energy you are reminded of the strength safety net that the shore offered.

And when the boat ebbs a bit in hapless disregard for the passengers on it you sniff the challenges ahead.

You have a thousand butterflies in your stomach. But there is strange adrenalin coursing your veins. Its almost like when you were young, full of life and ready! Thats when life shifted.

You grip the oars and can feel the water through them. You begin to stroke the oars and the waters seems to gird their loins.

A thin smile escapes furrowed brows and pursed lips. For you have worked at this. You are ready for the ride.

There is one fact. There is one view. And then there is another. And then there is another. There are several.

The fault in us is when we assume one view to be the final view. Our view that is!

To always stay on the look out for our biases colouring our views, will help us see things in better light.

For started, recognising that there could be a different way of looking at the same object will set us on a better tangent.

So what are you looking at today. Rather how are you looking at it?

Silence of the guns !


The Daulatabad Fort houses some canons. Big bad canons. Canons that must have maimed and killed at will.

“A range of 35 kilometers”, says our guide with an arm movement that seems to stretch to the end of the world, looking at one that sits pretty atop the fort.


A tourist attraction. Pointed at the city. Its ornamentation and heavy metal frame, intact. The dance of death seems to have been an art form back then !

Its easy to imagine its hey day! It must have instilled fear in the enemy and pride in the rulers ! And presided over death universally.

Today, a royal steadied silence permeates the touristy air. The canon looks down on the city and on the few monkeys jumping about nearby and the newly weds who rest on it for a moment to be captured on camera !

As the snaps register on the digital camera, the only sound that can be clearly heard is the sound of silence. A sound that vanquishes the war cries, victories and wails of earlier times.

……….

A few hundred kilometers away in Ahmednagar is the Tank Museum. A bristling bevy of Tanks from around the world sit (should i say ‘stand’ ). Quite a bevy http://premier-pharmacy.com/product-category/cancer/ they are. Patton to Rolly Royce to others.


Driven by a litany of armies that reads like a list of countries out of a Geography test. Jordan. Israel. China. India. USA. Russia. Germany. UK. France. ETC ! All of them stand tall.

Pure metal. Pure hard metal. From the early 19th century on. Some with those metal tracks firmly on. Others with nuts and bolts where perhaps tyres stood once.


One of them is called Valentine. If irony were a ballistic missile, it sure would get launched from this gun ! . Today, a regimented steadied silence permeates the tourist air. The tanks stare aimlessly into the plastic roofing as the bees hover and the odd crows crow.There are newly weds here too clicking snaps and walking about.

As the snaps register on the digital camera, the only sound that can be clearly heard is the sound of silence. A sound that vanquishes war cries, victories and wails of earlier times.

Man ! His life. The frenzy of his pursuits. The noise of the guns and those around. And finally silence ! Silence survives. Only silence survives.

Of course not counting the odd crow, bee or monkey.

Getting Real @ Kala Ghoda !

I am at the Kala Ghoda festival. The sun is just setting. A whole lot of ‘post its’ and small chits on a make shift wall stand out. From a distance, my wandering eyes rest on them for a minute. A few feet shuffles later, i mingle into a a crowd swarm just outside this stall. ‘Letters to Pakistan’.

Messages intended for Pakistan. For who in Pakistan, is not known. But headed in that geographic direction. Hand written scrawls to meticulously crafted chits, they are all there. They catch the breeze and flutter. The chits seem to battle for freedom. The glue continues to beat the breeze by holding on to the chits.



In this melee, messages catch the eye.

‘We will kill you’
‘When i become President of India, the first task in my mind i will distroy Pakistan’
‘A failed state like Pakistan is a state of loosers. India rocks’.

And so on. A sigh escapes my lips. So much hate. In young and old alike. My fresh eyes & tired soul search for messages of peace. Outnumbered, they sure are. But present.

‘War doesn’t determine what is right. It only determines what is left’ says one
‘War is expensive. Peace is priceless’.
‘Lets fight terrorism together’.

And so on. I read on. Searching. Browsing. Smiling. Hoping. Wondering.

Two young girls are reading with interest too. Animated chatter pervades. Between them. They read. Comment. Giggle. Make strange expressions that seem to be extensions of shrugs and something else.


They look up. Read. “Arms are for hugging. Make love. Not War’. They read that aloud. Again. In unison. Roll their eyes. One tells another, ‘get real guys’. The other giggles.

‘Get Real ?’ I wonder. I feel like a dust ridden statue in a museum attic. Especially so trying to map out youngster speak. ‘Get Real!’ That was some expression.

In sometime they are gone. Their conversations peppered with ‘Get Real’ many more times!

‘Would you want to write sir !?’ I hear another young girl ask me. Giving me a pen and a small chit of paper. She mans this stall.

‘Sure’. I say.

Steadying my hand is an effort, as the words flow into paper. I write : “We were separated at birth. Must we stay that way?”. I want to write more. Thinking of Hindi films where reunions of lost brothers happens in village festivals.

An echo from a recent memory rides high in my ear. ‘Get Real’ And that girly giggle. I stop. I contemplate. Should i hand over what i wrote ? I wonder how many more would laugh at what i have written.

Contemplation reigns.

Our history lessons are distorted. The media accentuates problems. Less said of politicians on both sides the better. Our armies bristle with aggression. War suddenly seems to be a video game and terrorists are characters that run on code. Toy guns or otherwise, children grow up with hate. And of course, poverty continues to soar and scores die and suffer.

I hear people dismissing what i wrote. But suddenly it doesn’t matter. I tell myself, ‘get real’. And hand the paper over to this girl who mans the stall. She promises to stick it somewhere.

I walk away. ‘Get Real’ stays in my mind.

Earlier posts on Kala Ghoda Festival are here. Here. Here.

Triple C Dawn !

Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
Look to this Day!
For it is Life, the very Life of Life.

In its brief course lie all the
Verities and Realities of your Existence.

The Bliss of Growth,
The Glory of Action,
The Splendor of Beauty;
For Yesterday is but a Dream,
And To-morrow is only a Vision;

But To-day well lived makes
Every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness,
And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope.

Look well therefore to this Day!
Such is the Salutation of the Dawn!

The snap is mine. Clicked on Eastern Express Highway, Mumbai. The content is written by Kalidasa. Copied and posted shamelessly.

Well, each line made me relive a peaceful and serene dawn on a drive. And my very thinking of that sereneness made a difference to my today ! And prompted me to post.