Stories from Baghdad, Tibet and Siberia

Maalik kaun hai?

Sufi fakir Junnaid of Baghdad was walking across a village with his disciples. They came across a farmer leading his cow, possibly taking it to the market to be sold.

Not the one to miss out on a learning opportunity, Junnaid requested the farmer to stop. Graciously he agreed; eager to drop-in on a nugget or two of wisdom himself.

Junnaid turned to his disciples and asked.

fJoB: You see what you see here. Maalik kaun hai? (Who is the owner?)

One chirpy little fellow, Chatur, volunteered.

Chatur: That’s quite a no-brainer Sir. The man is the owner. The cow is his property. He is possibly taking it to be sold at the cattle-fair.

fJoB: A no-brainer hmm.?!? Fakir Junnaid has asked a no-brainer! From his bag, he pulled-out a pair of scissors and cut the cow lose. The cow made a run for it. The farmer dashed to recover it, swearing at Junnaid and his troop of loonies.

fJoB (thundering now): Maalik kaun hai, andhoN!! (Who is the owner? O ignorant ones!!)

Sotto voce he continued.

'The matter to ponder my dear ones is, whether you own ‘your’ Blackberry or the Blackberry owns you? Whether you have an account in Facebook or Facebook has created an account in you?'

Haah!! Laughing, cursing and dancing like a madman, Junnaid moved on.

*

Unse ab wapas khareedoon khud ko main,

Log jo maangein, woh apne daam doon.. – Javed Akhtar.

**

The Mosquito King

A Tibetan Buddhist story

In the tropical-monsoon jungles of Tibet, there lived a community of mosquitoes. Their leader was His Royal Highness (hereforth referred to as HRH) Mosqopold III, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII.

We condescend but only because the story is told by men. Mosqopold III had no such misgivings. He was the Atlas of his reality. He knew it was not so much the size but the sting that mattered!

Mosquito colonies were located in shallow marshes by the lake and in nearby bushes. Soft piles of dung, that chequered the lake-side, were reserved for mosquito aristocracy and the biggest load of bison dropping was the palace of HRH King Mosqopold III himself.

One afternoon, HRH briefed his senior staff that he was bored with his current quarters and set them the task of looking for an accommodation of befitting grandeur and additional perks.

That very evening two battalions of the Royal Culex Army were mobilized, the Malarial Parasites and the DDT Resistors, each about 120-mosquito strong. The elite commando unit, Spirit Anopheles was put on ‘Full Prep and Arm Ready’ mode to neutralize any threats arising during reconnaissance operations.

Hollows of trees, backs of buffaloes and abandoned or inhabited bird-nests were scoped-out. None deemed exciting enough, mosquitoes were called in at 0400 hours and Day O signed off.

The next day at 1300 hours, a passing elephant piqued the interest of a Colonel of the Malarial Parasites. Post further exploration he zeroed-in on the aural cavity. 

It was roomy, airy and well lit on the outside while the insides, offered discreet private chambers for His Majesty. There was ample space to hold a full court on the back. The soft undulations were a pleasant novelty and the view, a delight!

Col. Zanzara dutifully reported this to his seniors. The incident stoked his long-nursed hope of a Medal-of-Honor for commendable service rendered in the line-of-duty during times of peace.

To tell you the truth, that night in the barracks, he shined his shoes, put on a full-uniform, wing-suit and all, and received the Medal from HRH himself. He bowed and kissed the tip of his wing, as HRH pinned the twinkling piece of insignia to his chest.

Later he drowned himself in the finest blended Scotch in the history of the world. A malady shared by the Libyan dictators, the leaders of the Palestinian People’s Revolution, the Saudi Royals and the deceased Iraqi Baath Socialists,

Johnny Walker Black

Breakfast of Champions! Mortar of Winners! Accept no substitutes!

And every once in a while, feel free to enjoy Irresponsibly!

Nevertheless, the superiors saw value in his suggestion. They codenamed it ‘HkK-326-13-16’ and after a thorough security appraisal by the CO, Spirit Anopheles, HRH Mosqopold III was briefed of the development and invited for a visit.

Prima facie, HRH was quite enthused about the prospect of living in an elephant’s ear. It brought a smile to his face.

*

Mosqopold III arrived at HkK-326-13-16 with his entourage; service chiefs, administrative heads and a motley crew of architects, designers etc. The site was okayed in about five minutes. HRH specially loved the soft undulations!

Mindful of trespassing private property and knowing ‘a kind word’ to be the best first move, HRH announced,

‘O elephant, I am Mosqopold III, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII. I have chosen to make your left ear my home and to hold court on your back. This is my great benefaction and must be a matter of immense pride for you.’

There was no response.

So, Mosqopold III, repeated himself, louder this time.

Still, no response.

‘Very well then, Maunam sammati lakshanam’, said Mosqopold III, ‘the elephant’s silence is the mark of polite acquiescence. Begin preparations. I will move-in by early next week.’

The elephant’s ear was a flurry of activity.

*

A week later, HRH Mosqopold III made HkK-326-13-16 his home. It was official christened, ‘The Grey Dome’.

A platoon of Spirit Anopheles commandos, specializing in personnel security, was stationed on the nape, camouflaged in the creases. And life moved on.

*

{Like the Godly gooey brownie that becomes nauseating by the fourth helping or the peppy dance number that refuses to excite on Day 3, the novelty of ‘The Grey Dome’ too wore off and HRH was looking for a change of scenery. He mentioned it to his staff and the State machinery was set in motion once over, greased with tax-payer dollars. A suitable venue was soon found.}

*

When vacating The Grey Dome, never one to shy-off chivalry, Mosqopold III called out,

‘O elephant, I am Mosqopold III, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII. I made your ear my home. It was my great benefaction and an immense privilege for you. I am moving out now and you have my best wishes.’

There was no response.

Raising his voice, Mosqopold III, repeated himself.

Still, no response.

This was mildly embarrassing for HRH. It could not be brushed aside as Maunam sammati lakshanam this time. How could the elephant not bother?

So Mosqopold III, repeated himself, shouting at the top of his voice.

The elephant thought he heard something, maybe a small animal in the grass? Or someone whisper? He strained to listen and noticed this tiny mosquito putting itself through enormous travail.

‘Can I help you Sir?’ the elephant wondered.

Finally Mosqopold III had its attention. At his cue, in unison, his staff introduced HRH and explained the current situation.

The elephant listened patiently and said,

‘My dear Sirs, accept my apologies but I don’t know about you. I don’t know when you came, when you made my ear your home or held court on my back. If I have been of some service to you, I am pleased to know. And, I did not realize you were leaving. I wish you the best and you are welcome if you’d ever like to come back again.’

‘What did he say?? Ahh.. whatever. All right, all right, you have my blessings!’ Glazed Mosqopold III and HRH, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII, buzzed away with his entourage.

**

'This is the story of man', the Buddhist say. 'Talking up a big game, putting-up facades all over the bloody place.'

Whether it’s,

Hunt protected for animals for kicks; get sloshed, mow-down a few pavement-dwellers and seek absolution in ‘Being Human’.

*

Or on an entirely different scale,

‘We’re moving in to establish democracy in Iraq and while we do that, we’ll engage more private contractors than the number of US Marines! (That's a fact.) And make Halliburton richer by 20 billion dollars, costs extra.’

Question: Excusez-moi Monsieur Rumsfeld! Would we be as interested in ‘demon-crazy’ in ‘I-rack’ if their national product was onions.. yaa fuck-head?

*

Or Friedman and his Chicago-boys tooting the free-market capitalism horn, 

MF: Okay, this is how we do it. Steal from the ‘School Mid-day Milk scheme’ and give tax-breaks to private enterprise.

novice Chicago-boy: Wow! Are we promoting young Chilean entrepreneurs Sir?

MF: No, you idiot. I meant our American billion-dollar multinational corporations.

‘Why, that sure sounds elegant Mr. Friedman!’ said the Nobel prize committee!

*

Or Marx, pandering the utopian goodness of Communism, urging to abolish all private property. Failing to take into consideration the little voice in everyone's head that says ‘You could have it all, if only..’

The result,

Stalin, a 5’-4’’ tall, abused son of an alcoholic Georgian cobbler, with a withered arm, a clubbed foot and a face scarred by small-pox.

And, by the most conservative estimate, 20 million peace-time deaths.





*
And there were the Freuds, the Jungs, the behaviorist, humanists, ethicists, the Hegels, Kants, Heidegers, Schopenhauers, not to mention the Potemkins, Goebbels, Barneys and Ms of the world.

‘Aur Astitv shaant hai,’ Buddhists say. That’s a tough one to translate.

‘If only you would shut up and listen. If only you’d pay some God-damned attention!!’

**

The Story of the Sparrow

The Story of the Sparrow is a deceptively simple Siberian tale. It has a legacy of being well-received and passed-on by remarkable dissidents, subverts and members of the espionage community of erstwhile Soviet Union and Eastern Europe.

I adapted it to an Indian-setting by a nuanced tweak of a character’s persona. The spirit however remains uncorrupted.

*

It was a crisp, sunny morning. A tweety sparrow went about  picking twigs for its nest.

The frantic activity attracted the attention of a foxy fox.

A perceptive cow, sensing the undertones, covered the tweety sparrow with a large dollop of soft dung, providing a veritable safe-house.

Settled in its blinkered perspective, it protested vehemently, compromising its location.

The foxy fox offered to help clean-up.

FF: There’s an India Mark II hand-pump just south of the big Banyan tree.

TS: Ohh.. sure. Thanks!

Getting every bit of dung off, its wings still soaking wet, the foxy fox finished-off the tweety sparrow in one bite.

* 

Moral von der Geschichte? Nicht nur eine, sondern drei.

• Not everyone who covers you in crap is an enemy!
• Not everyone who cleans you up is a friend!
• And most importantly, when you are deep in crap, quit tweeting to the whole wide world about it!

**

Diogenes, the Cynic & Alexander of Macedon

 

Diogenes was a Greek philosopher, a Cynic, notorious for his very conspicuous philosophical stunt of carrying a lamp in the marketplace during the day, claiming to look for an honest man.

A delicately concealed way of saying, ‘sab chootiye hain’ (everyone’s a dud).

*

Some anecdotes,

On a voyage to Aegina, Diogenes was captured by pirates and taken to the slave-market in Crete to be sold. A Corinthian named Xeniades approached.

X: What is your trade slave? What can you do?

D: I know no trade but to govern men. I would be of most value to a man in need of a master.

(He was hired to tutor Xeniades’ two boys)

**

Diogenes’ only material possession was a wooden bowl to consume soup and water from. One day he saw a village boy drink from the hollow of his hands.

Discarding the bowl he exclaimed, ‘What a fool I have been to carry superfluous baggage all this while.’

**

When Diogenes left home, his servant Manes was ordered to accompany him. A month later, finances dwindling, he eloped.

Diogenes’ acquaintances suggested a legal recourse.

He reasoned. ‘When Manes is on his own without a worry should Diogenes be running from pillar to post? Who is the master and who is the slave? If Manes can live without Diogenes, Diogenes must flourish without Manes as well.’

And so it was from that day forward.

**

One nippy winter morning, Diogenes was soaking up the warm sun when Alexander arrived with his entourage. (He had just returned from the successful conquest of Persia.)

A (thrilled to meet the famous philosopher): I am Alexander the Great of Macedon. I have heard many a tale about you Diogenes. I would be pleased to bring you a favor.

D: Do I look like I am missing something?

A: Well Sir, I am the King of the largest empire in the history of man. Sparkling jewels, glorious horses, prolific lands, tasteful women, I can grant anything you fancy.

D: Grant me my beautiful sunshine Alexander. Please step aside.

(Alexander’s guards tensed up, reaching for their weapons but he ordered them at ease.)

At this moment, Diogenes rolled over and peered intently at a pile of bones lying beside.

A: What’s caught your fancy with the bones?

D: I was looking for your fathers’ but cannot tell them apart from those of his slave.

**

A report that Philip II of Macedon (Alexander’s father) was marching on Corinth, threw the town into a bustle of activity. Blacksmiths casting arms, masons patching the main-wall and strengthening battlements, others, wheeling stones up the bastions to be used as projectiles. Everyone made themselves useful, one way or another.

Diogenes had nothing to do. No one thought of giving him a job. But boy, was he moved by the sight! He ditched his coat and began rolling his tub animatedly up and down the street.

(Diogenes lived in an old discarded wine tub in the town-center.)

To a curious crowd he posited, ‘I do not want to be the only idler in such a busy multitude. I am rolling my tub to be like the rest.’

**

Diogenes rejected even normal ideas of human decency.

He ate in the marketplace (then regarded bad manners), urinated on some people who insulted him, defecated in the theatre and masturbated in public, about which he said, ‘If only it was as easy to banish hunger by rubbing my belly.’

**

Diogenes was invited to the magnificent house of the most prosperous grain-trader of Crete (a veritable Ambani of his time).

On being introduced to the host, he cleared his throat and spat at his face. ‘I could not find a meaner receptacle’, he said.

**

Lao Tzu And The west-Delhi Punjaabi

Lao Tzu walked with his long-time friend each morning. He spoke sparingly, close to nothing. The friend follows suit.

One day the friend has a visitor. He brings him along for the stroll. Lao welcomes him and they set-off. As always, neither Lao nor the friend utter a word. The silence is unsettling.

The visitor, a west-Delhi Punjaabi, had only ever combined his morning yap-yap with a ghost of a walk. Nothing more, his triglyceride-laden heart would permit. This, to the tune of loud methane-emissions, embarrassing Pammi auntie.

Twenty minutes in, he’s ready to blow his lid off.

‘What a peaceful, sublime morning’. He looks at Lao. He looks at his host. The host looks at Lao. Not a word is spoken, not a step missed; as if nothing happened.

Fighting feelings of being snubbed, he resorts to mentally planning his day, rehearsing his negotiation strategy, his arguments and retorts. He’s due to meet local manufacturers of cheap electronics later.

The walk consummated, Lao quietly whispers into his friend’s ear. ‘Avoid him tomorrow. He’s but a gossip-monger.’ They bid good-byes.

*

That evening, the friend pays Lao Tzu an unscheduled visit.

Friend: I was quite troubled by your manner this morning. He only once complimented nature’s beauty. It hardly fits your description of him.

LT (after a pregnant pause): My dear Sir, I must talk about beauty. What is beauty?

Is it out there in what you see? In the mountains, the sunrise, the pines, the birds, in the grandeur of the Gompa?

Or is it in the eye of the beholder as they say? In the eye that is trained to appreciate proportion, depth, shadows. And dismiss that which has not all of the above.

Or is it in neither? What is beauty?

*

Beauty Sir, I submit to you, is when 'you' are not. Beauty is when the mind, which is thought, is knocked-out and hence time, being a creation of the mind, ceases to be. It may never be expressed but that’s an entirely trivial matter.

*

It is only when the mind snaps back, comparative studies are made, commentaries written and universities teach art-appreciation.

These are ancillary matters; matters of a restless mind seeking titillation, increasingly matters of commerce too; art consultants advise investment in high-art. But beauty is long gone by then.

Your guest’s words only revealed that he was untouched by the spirit of the morning, for the faintest glimpse of it nudges even a chattering mind into the timeless.

Deeply pensive, the friend walked back.

**

It’s A Rape-Fest and Everybody’s Doing It!!

Get on with it mate! Stick it out and shove it in at the next unlit street-corner, abandoned paper-mill, behind the tall grass or in a moving vehicle. Have a good one!

The PMO and the Antilla are opportune settings too though it’s the big boys arena. This where they rape communities, ecosystems and if you’re at the top of your game, entire civilizations. The whole world’s your playground! 

Let’s talk about rapes and while there, I invite you to widen your imagination. Let’s not limit ourselves to just non-consensual penetration. What is that; a little bit of in-out, in-out? Like some trivial game. Let’s broaden the canvas, shall we?

Fundamentally, rape is about power and its unchecked use. The most personal and private choice being violated by the rapist. I wonder if it’s rude to suggest that the right to wholesome food and clean water is a more fundamental and inalienable right. I wonder if it’s a travesty that it has come down to this but there certainly is a hierarchy to it. Without food or water, the right to choice of a partner would very soon be compromised.

So how well have we done here?

**

The state of Maharashtra is in a severe hydrological crisis. On the Mumbai-Pune Expressway, deeply psychotic developers are constructing 5-star hotels, golf-courses and super-luxury condominiums that boast of a swimming pool on each floor!

The construction laborers are mostly ex-agricultural workers; small and marginal farmers from drought-affected regions of Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Andhra Pradesh and as far as Tamil Nadu. Entire communities driven out, families broken up for want of water.

*

With all energy devoted to loot and accumulation, the psychos have little left for drinking-in the som of life; the pearls of the deep, the juice of the marrow. At the hotel, they hang life-size Renaissance art in the lobby, fakes of course. Blissfully unaware that any Renaissance man worth half his salt would bring a bloody flame-thrower to their establishment.

While the proletariat scrambles their young ones for ‘Operation Seek and Secure’ to bring a pail-full, the hotel's restrooms are fitted with large WC tanks, 25-liters. The Minister’s mistress mounts a hydro-war against every last rebel turd. She likes it squeaky clean!

**

Advised by a PR department that’s more influential than Operations, they name their learning centers Heritage or Sanskriti, calling them Global or World schools.

Without a prayer of a connection with the human spirit, ravaged by a wretched poverty of imagination, they seek an escape from routine by chomping on international cuisines. Moroccan lamb testicles, Icelandic caribou roast, Scandinavian smoked salmon and Prussian shrimp salad. They post photos of it on social fora and specify spices and herbs for preparation and garnishing. Whoever gives a bleeding rat’s ass.?!?

It’s an extended bout of self-deception I say, a bubble. It’s bound to burst and when it does, some would end up blowing their fucking brains out. Which, had they considered earlier, would have saved the world so much trouble. I can hear the shrimps and caribou cheering and the lambs, the loudest!

**

P Sainath, the lone ranger, the shining beacon of Indian journalism, standing tall in the rubble of ‘to comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable’. The only man among Ornobs, was on tour when he was approached by a group of social workers, barely 50 km outside Bombay, Mumbai. They wondered if he could pull some strings and have the ‘school mid-day meal’ ration doubled for Mondays.

PS: Doubled for Mondays! Why?

SWs: Sir because Sir, for the most children, it is very hard Sir. They have no food from last Friday. We don’t get anything done till lunch-time Monday Sir.

(Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday; kids as young as 6; 50 km from Mumbai)

**

Rapes don’t follow the laws of classical Newtonian mechanics. Not limited in time and space, they operate with a quantum mechanical mystery and splendor. They occur in Bangalore but also at the same time in New Delhi, Yavatmal, Baghpat, Hissar, Itanagar, Lucknow, Haldia, Badayun, Mumbai, Rajnandgaon, Khairlanji, Imphal, Bilaspur and Dantewada.

They are perpetrated on a girl or two but scar multitudes. And like funky Hindu Gods, they are everywhere at the same time and if you ask the Police, nowhere in particular! Shrouded in a probability cloud of reasonable doubt.

**

I meditated on rape. Not ‘he raped her’ or ‘they raped her’ but rape; that which came from rape and that which would become rape.

**

They wanted to keep the bauxite in the mountains. A porous ore, it absorbs rain, replenishes rivers and supports forests and farms alike. You wanted it for your cars, jets and missiles.

*

They wanted to keep their fields and a semblance of sovereignty and dignity to go along but you wanted your factories, dams, mines and highways.

*

They wanted to save seed for the next crop. But you legislated against it; against a farmer saving his own seed! You said they must buy from us and then jacked up the prices, as much as 7000% (not a typo). Hopelessly indebted, hundreds of thousands killed themselves. The news stories focused on Lakme Fashion Week instead.

*

You seduced them with promises of ‘fruits of urbanization’ but offered slave labor, slave wages, slave rights and heavy metal poisoning, as bonus.

They were smarter, the next time around so you called in the riot-police who did not bother using rubber bullets. Their sheer existence at stake, they refused to capitulate.

So in addition to the Air Force, you recruited the ‘hardened from a lifetime of crime’ news editors, the spin-doctors. 'Let's brand them an ‘internal security threat’; raving lunatics dismembering and gutting our brave soldiers.' The urban middle-class cheered Har har Mahadev and voted likewise.

**

Rape has been institutionalized and structurally built-into the fabric of our society. It’s in our mythology. Duryodhan/ Dushyasan attempted it. If you believe Jung and that ‘we are the stories we hear and the stories we tell’, you know it is in the collective unconscious. Woven into the archetype of power, it lurks deep in the recesses of the psyche.

So are we all potential rapists, unrealized?

Unique beings we are, not one but many; ghastly as beast, divine as Prophet and everything in between. It is upon us to choose not to rape when someone or something that’s not rightfully ours catches our fancy. When we’re powerful to arm-twist, out-negotiate and manage the consequences. And yet we don’t.

Till then, let’s not get too carried away with the candles.

**

Kabhi to insaan zindagi ki karega izzat,

Yeh ek ummeed aaj bhi dil mein pal rahi hai..                                    

                                               

                                                 – Javed Akhtar

**