Inspirations and Heroes --

Bob Dylan- You hear "Rock n roll". This man pioneered it. Period! It's blow'in the wind, my friend.

Jim Morrison- A poet, a philosopher, a rebel, an anti-establishment. Widely misunderstood. That is precisly why someone has said aptly," being misunderstood is the fate of most genuises." Jim never wanted fame & recognition. In fact he ran into death trying to elude both..

Peasants Barn --

The lorry driver was friendly as people over here usually are. Hitchhiking is indeed adventurous & this was my first. I told him to drop me over a bridge from where I took a detour towards the village. The place was somewhere near Pahalgam: 8 km’s to be precise. The paddy was ripe; murkish yellow in color. As I walked over the fields people were retreating back to their homes. The start of fall means predicate times for peasants. I was greeted with pleasantries all along my way. The wafting ambience from the fields spoke non-chantly to me. Suddenly tall lean poplar trees seemed to tell a tale about the village I was about to enter. Birds over the birches & in the vast skies were singing all along. Light was starting to loose its sheen. Beetles were making their popping clutter, I could see cute little havens of peasants: vegetable gardens laden with fresh purple auburgines, red chilles, spinanch, lettuce and broccoli. By the corner of my right eye I noticed a peasants barn overlooking the fields. I had found my place for the night. The owner of the barn was young, so was his wife. He gladly invited me to stay with them. I pitched my tent near the barn. From here I could see some peasant huts over my right. Smoke from the chimneys suggested that dinner was being prepared.Villagers over here eat well. Men work hard during the day with women helping them sometimes. Household chores are though mostly done by women.

Life there was quite simple unlike in the cities. The cold September evening being poignantly calm. I looked for hay that could be my fire. Hay catches fire fast so I added some twigs & brooks easy to find them in this season. Moon was gleaming bright. I could see some wandering clouds too, the one's that glow on a perfect moonlit night. Wind was blowing through the trees like a restless sea. These are the moments in life I cherish the most. City life has never appealed to me. In retrospect I intend to retire at a similar village. Have my farm, a library that can keep my mind working & a loving wife who looks after me when I'm old enough.

Meanwhile I heard the peasant calling his wife to serve dinner. She looked from the disjointed & rickety window. Zoon was her name. Beautiful robes that she had put on dazzled in the moonlight. A radiant smile that didn't give a clue about her hard life. She had no complaints from her life: her face said so.
The peasant ( Gul Mohammad) was stark & strong. He invited me to have dinner with them. I riantly and immediately agreed, from hunger as well as curiosity.

Dinner was already laid on the plates as we entered the hallway. The kitchen was nice & clean. I could see a samavor ( copper and bronze kettle used to keep tea warm with the burning coal at bottom). After a sumptuous meal I was served khewa from the same samovar.T he local green tea prepared over cinnamon ,apparently good for digestion. I had heard from my mother that my maternal grandfather used to cherish a khewa cup after dinner. I now knew why. Zooni got busy again with household chores. Me & Gul Mohammad went out for a walk. It was dark & we couldn't see much. Yet we kept on walking through the narrow alleys of the village. Moonlight being our source for finding our way. The village surprisingly wasn't quiet. People were talking in groups squatted up on closed shops. Children were playing running twigs over leftover cycle tyres. Women were talking to each other peeping their scarf laden heads from the windows. Life seemed to be sullen & mundane, yet refreshing in many ways. No mad rush for tomorrows important meeting. No late night video chats. No late hour boring parties where all what people do is ogle at wife’s of other men sighing or sing old hindi songs trying hard to act romantic. No blackberries & apple iPads. Here communication was still humane: mercifully! Just what I prefer.

 It was around 11 when we reached back. I made my bed of hay & laid my sleeping bag over it. There is this great satisfaction in making your own bed & laying on it. I unzipped my tent.I wanted the mild cold wind to caress me & I did what I love doing the most: Staring at the star stuck sky. I don’t know for how long I went on like this. I must have slept with some lovely thoughts.

The next thing I remember was a prayer call at the stroke of dawn which came from a nearby mosque. Birds were singing, morning air was acting like a muse, trees were greener, ground was wet with daisy dew. Villagers came out in numbers to offer prayers. People over here are very religious as I found out. They hold their religion very close to their hearts. Perhaps one more reason for their content living ways. As I said earlier Autumn( Harud) is harvesting time for the peasants. So days begin early just after morning prayers. I came out of my warm sleeping bag & ascertained if Gul Mohammad was around. Zooni came out of the kitchen looking prettier, which made me think if water here has such effects. She told me Gul Mohammad had gone for prayers. The coal in the samavor was red as I could see through. A morning cup of khewa would have been a perfect start to the day. Zooni handed over me a cup without even asking me. Perhaps she could see through my wishful eyes. To be continued

My Introduction to Kahlil Gibran --

I have an anecdote to share. It is about how I got introduced to Kahlil Gibran. Those were the days when I was on a self discovery entourage; and its amazing how mellifluous things fall into right places once you decide upon something. There were questions looming in my mind: answers were few. In one such aimless travels I found my luminary. The town was Coorg situated on the western ghats of the state of Karnataka. A town that has a charm of delightful yore- Coorg easily takes you back by few decades. People are very friendly; you are greeted all along with pleasantries; no suspicious eyes, just warm smiles. I befriended a similar friendly local, who offered to act as my tour guide. We started off from Coorg museum. A large humongous colonial architectural piece, which except its huge lawns and medieval cannons had nothing much to offer. After a few hours of loitering around the lazy town, he took me to his friends farm house: 40 kms away from the main town. Timma, my guides friend, was a 45 year old man living a hippie lifestyle. He had a lovely farm house decked up on a mountain ridge: street dogs were taken care here and art was visible all along; on walls; on clothes and in his pleasant talks. We were like a house on fire. Long discussions ran deep into the night with retro music playing all along on his satellite radio. Next day I woke up late to a coffee cup awaiting me. Timma handed over me a frail and visibly old book just when I had the first sip of my brewed coffee. On its cover page written in italics was, "The Wisdom of Kahlil Gibran."  It was one of those kinds, that are murkish yellow in color and smell peculiarly. I don't know why Timma wanted me to read that book. I guess it had a lot to do with the discussions we had about love, life and religion the previous night. He told me it was gifted to him by his grandfather and he valued it the most. I vividly remember turning those pages and getting engrossed completely in the book, inhaling the aroma of printer's ink and dust, my questions began to find their answers in Gibran's subtle words. The haze in front of me was waning through the illuminating inspirational words. I stood up, hugged my friend and thanked him for the treasure that I was exposed to:  from that day I have been reading his works: amazed all the time and quietly whispering countless thanks to my spiritual friend. Thanks Timma. May God bless you always.

Coming Of Home

The wheels of the plane touched the tarmac of the make-shift airport at Awantipora. There were army barracks lined up on both sides of the runway as I peeped through the window. Plane stopped finally to my relief. It was a long ardous flight back home filled with drama and utter chaos.

The bus drove us from Awantipora to Srinagar-a beautifull serene drive of 25 kms. There was visible quietness on the roads. Over 100 young Kashmiri youth had been killed in the wake of unrest from last 3 months. People were squatted up on shops. A old man with wrinkles as old as my imagination could take me, was throwing up smoke from his hukka. Women were carrying manure on baskets, early autumn air being muse to the beautifull robes they were wearing. Children running through the tiny lanes of some quaint village. Men wearing Phirans discussing hot pot-boiled failed politics, as I could guess, outsides mosques was a comman sight. The chill of autumn air was visible. For a moment it looked like a fairy land, this torn land of mine.

The disjointed bus drove through the two lane highway. Poplar trees lined up on both sides. There aroma filling up my senses with calmness that is hard to explain. As some wise man has said , somethings in life dont need explainations. The purpled huge himalayan mountains were standing tall as ever. I could see snow over the peaks. I took a deep breathe and in a moment my whole life ran across me in memories of light and shade making me poignant about so many things.

How all far we may go, but our destiny lies here I told myself, as we left country roads.

The spirit of a frail old man

My only point is this: We all seem to know the problem but solution none has. Mere rhetore does not serve a nation good. We are fast becoming a nation of mongers. I'm asking you who are these leaders? They are not aliens poured out from outer space. They are amongst us. Leaders are as good as their countrymen. We have to show collective responsibility and stop preying to the whims of these hartals and stone pelting menaces.The spirit is alive in us cannot doubt it, but sometimes implementation leaves alot to be desired.


 I will narrate a incident from 2008 uprising. I was in kashmir those days. Hartals and curfews had crippled life. Situation in downtown was grim. People had run out of food stock. Somehow we got a let off for a day or two from curfew. I took a walk around Lal chowk and happened to come across a frail mid 70's years old hawker ( the one's in residency road selling bangladeshi clothes). I kept on looking at him for sometime. I wanted to talk to him. His condition told me that he was worried but I didn't knew how to strike a chord. Somehow I asked for a match box to lit my cigratte and we started our little small talk. I asked him if these incessent hartals have any value in his eyes, that if he doesn't feel disillusioned when his family has barely two meals a day and sometimes even not that. I mean for someone like me I have the liberty to do nothing yet I know I won't suffer a great deal.There was a sense of guilt too in me due to this. But his answer laid to rest everything. He told me son untill we give something we wont have anything. Freedom requires great sacrifices and if that means my family remains hungry for some days I'm ready for it. I went back home and thought about this for a long time. What keeps this old frail man so optimistic when honestly I could see only deceit all around this struggle. The answer lies in the indominitable spirit of oppressed people.I stopped thinking about the unkept promises of our leaders.It didn't matter at that point of the time.That night I could sleep peacefully, for i knew the spirit is alive and kicking.

Lost Childhood

We all have little stories from our childhood to share. I have mine too- as a 7 year old witnessing the carnage at Kow Dara (when the whole area was set ablaze by the Indian troops). It was late October, a season when rolling incense of the roadside chestnuts warms the quivering breathe while walking down Lal Chowk. The bees were still in their hives,  flowers faded and curled. Circling birds and emanating smoke was unsual to the stray chinar leaves that burned at every nook of  of the autumn city- some grim event we could suspect was unfurling while driving through the city fringes.

I remember we took a detour from Nishat, I was attending my cousin's marriage ceremony in Buchpora , going back home to Khanyar, watching the whole area going up in smoke, as we inched nearer to the carnage. The blaring siren of the fire engines going past us- the siren haunted me for years to come. It gave me sleepless nights. Even now when I hear that siren, those ghostly moments of that fateful autumn day sends shivers down my spine.

The innocent child in me could not comprehend what was going around me. Monopoly, snake & ladder games were replaced by penchant for guns & bunkers. I remember vividly building bunkers out of pillows everywhere I could & firing bullets. Making weird sounds. Suddenly guessing correctly the right gun from which a bullet was shot in a cross firing was competition amongst us cousins, rather than the woodcutter's story learned at school. A army sepoy we were told should be referred as major, to wee away his wrath. Pak train, Afghan train, Kashmir train were courses I thought. So, I asked my cousin who came from Bangalore that year, completing his engineering, if he was Bangalore train. He smiled.