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.

**

Mullah Naseeruddin Kicks Ass!!

Net Worth

Mullah was passing by a small lake on the outskirts of a town while travelling cross-country with his dearest donkey. A motley crowd and some ones' cries of distress drew his attention. He rushed to investigate. A man bathing in the lake was in trouble and was shouting for help.

Strangely, the crowd was not only passive but seemed jaded about the whole affair. They looked at the man and at each other and sighed softly. Mullah’s frantic exhortations to help him only deepened their sighs.

It was a puzzling sight, like dumb charade but Mullah postponed the demystifying till after the rescue. He slipped out of his sherwani and dived in. And given his age, quite heroically rescued the drowning man, who was about as old as him.

Back on dry ground, the man approached Mullah and introduced himself as the local baniya (a trader) from a nearby village. He thanked him profusely for saving his life and rather ceremoniously offered him a penny as a mark of his gratitude.

The crowd which till now hung around like a heavy curtain cussed and swore unabashedly. ‘We knew it. We knew it.’ They boomed, ‘This guy is so cheap.’ A middle-aged man among them said, ‘I am not too proud of myself for having reservations about saving a drowning man but he really speaks to the worst in me.’

Pocketing the shiny penny Mullah wondered, ‘Well, who better to estimate his life’s worth, than the man himself?’

With a bemused air, he slipped into his sherwani, hopped-on to his dear donkey and moved on.

**

Give and Take

Mullah was travelling cross-country with his dearest donkey when he passed a small lake on the outskirts of a town. He noticed a man bathing in the lake wave to him rather excitedly.

His frantic pace confused Mullah but thinking it a local custom, he smiled, waved back and kept moving. About a minute later, he felt something was amiss and rushed back. Indeed, the man was in trouble and desperately seeking help.

Holding securely to safety chains at the bank, he lowered himself in the water and held out his hand. Just about an arm’s length away, looking squarely at him, the gentleman would not oblige. ‘What am I not doing right’, wondered Mullah. The man was gasping for air, minutes away from drowning but holding his arms close to his chest.

‘Hey, give me your hand’, barked Mullah only to be greeted by a sheepish grin and a shake of the head. It confounded him no end. 

‘I have stumbled upon a mysterious land’, he was beginning to slip into a reverie when a crisp cry from behind startled him a little, ‘Are Mullah, baniya hai baniya!’ (Hey Mullah, he's a baniya). It was as if a light bulb went off.

Composing himself, he locked eyes with the drowning man and improvised, ‘Hey, take my hand.’ The man lunged as his life indeed depended on it and Mullah pulled him out to safety.

**

Mullah and Kant

Mullah returned home one afternoon and barged in as usual. His son lounged in the living room making love to his new Playstation II; eyes boring into the screen.

He felt slighted. ‘No acknowledgment from my own son.’ A stab of exasperation accompanied an adrenalin spike. ‘You must stand up and greet when I enter, baap hain hum tumhaare’ (I am your Daddy), he blurted out.

The son’s outlook was more progressive however. He had read Renaissance literature in school and browsed through Kant in his father’s library; that no man should be a means to another.

‘It is your house. You’re welcome to walk in-and-out as you please. Ritualized manner serves no end. It is to be discarded.’ unruffled, he replied.

‘My turf, my rules and if you would not stand, I order you to stay sitting’, barked Mullah as he sneaked out relying on his absence to win the argument! J

**

Pragnya, You Beauty!!

The Vedic rishis called it Pragnya, the Sloan Management Review calls it a ‘Systems-thinking’ approach. Buzz-fucking-words till we distill their essence and live each moment with an extraordinary awareness.

Trust a Zen parable to facilitate a deeper inquiry.

A Master swordsman had grown old. He decided it was time to pass his legacy to the most able of his three sons. He sent out a word that he wanted to see them.

The youngest one was called in first. As he entered through the door, an apple that had been precariously placed atop, fell. In one swift motion he pulled out his sword and slashed the falling fruit in two precise halves. He was asked to wait.

The second son was called. The apple fell as he entered through the door and he conveniently caught it by his side.

It was now the eldest son’s turn. As he entered, he reached for the top of the door, picked the apple and offered it to his father.

The swordsman called all three sons. To the youngest son he said, ‘You move like a butterfly and sting like a bee.  Your technique is flawless. Keep up the good work.’

To his second son he said, ‘You’re almost there. I hope you will continue in the same spirit.’

And to the eldest son, he said, ‘You are now ready to begin’.

**

The Orientals and the Occidentals alike have pondered what it means to be wise. To understand our world in a sense that’s more evolved than raw numbers and analytics that turn its wheels. Also, what are the limits of epistemic access? What can be known? Is wisdom actually capable of prescience as suggested in this story?

Some would pursue this inquiry along the line of statistics, research, projections, boggling computers and haloed experts. I am not convinced. All the above have been marshaled to manufacture the greatest crisis of our times and to support the loudest louts. The problem is much more human; I want to go deep.

A wise man was challenged by a yuppy to tell whether the dove he was hiding in his coat was dead or alive. ‘If he says it’s dead I’ll present the bird as it is. Otherwise, I’ll break its neck and show it dead’, thought the yuppy.

And the wise man said, ‘The dove is dead. Now, please set it free.’

How does one unpack that?

**

Information hierarchy,

Signal -> Data -> Information -> Knowledge -> Wisdom

Knowledge is more sophisticated than information. It's processed, value-added information. Wisdom is even more special. To be wise is to have an intimate access to knowledge from across arenas of time and space. By intimate I mean actionable. Knowledge that has been customized and integrated so there’s no execution-lag.

Wisdom neatly stitches together relevant knowledge, culled from across time and space into a coherent reality. In total attention, the mind begins to uncover wisdom.

**

Through this rickety lens, I peered at the Madoff scam and the Shakespearean tragedy that ensued.

Bernie Madoff ran the biggest Ponzy scheme in history, swindling investors off $65 billion before his arrest in Dec ’08. He was a Wall Street legend and a pioneer, a one-time non-executive chairman of NASDAQ managing his own hedge-fund.

It was reported that he never lost money when in fact, Bernie had not bought or sold a single dollars' worth of stock with investor’s money. Not one trade had been placed in years. He just used the sum as his personal piggy-bank. Earlier investors were paid-off with new inflows, the classic Ponzi.

**

When it all came down, Bernie was sentenced to 150 years in prison. Counseled by lawyers, his sons severed all connection with him and their mother, refusing to provide a bail-bond for him at one point. The older son, Marc 42, couldn’t bear the accusations of complicity and committed suicide following which Bernie’s devoted wife of almost 5 decades, divorced him. The daughter-in-law squarely blamed him and came out with the dirty linen on national TV. Some part of their wealth was seized.

One of his partners, Jeffery Picower, the largest feeder of money and the biggest beneficiary from the fund was found dead in the pool of his ocean-front mansion.

**

From the prison Bernie said, ‘I feel happier than I have been in years. I lived the last 20 years of my life in fear. Now I am no longer in control of my life, I have no decisions to make and that is a great relief.’

He acknowledges that he should be punished, that he destroyed his family and feels terrible remorse. He’s depressed and has horrible nightmares. He says he contemplated suicide earlier but did not have the courage.

**

Bernie’s daughter-in-law recollects how once in a very fancy store, he matter-of-factly bragged about ‘whatever his wife touches is dutifully delivered to her’.

A wiser Bernie would,

..see that the ‘anything she touches, she gets’ life is being paid for by the Pensioner’s fund. The $700 spent on the useless trinket, set some kid in Texas back on his college tuition by a couple of months.

..see his young son lying in a coffin as he peered into his collection of Rolex watches or Belgian loafers.

..experience jail-time, horrible nightmares and feel the agony of contemplating suicide while partying on the Bull, his luxurious 55-foot vintage yacht.

Wall Street smarts know this better than most but how deep is this knowing? To intimately know so it informs and directs action is pickled in quiet attention. That’s Pragnya!

**

What is time? Is it so far-fetched to see into the future?
A case for prescience.

Let’s throw it wide open. Let’s be brave. Let’s for once walk our talk about stepping out of our comfort zone. Let’s have our imagination grapple with a novel concept. Let’s surf the wave of space-time.

Theoretical physicists acknowledge a great mystery called the ‘mystery of the direction of time’. The idea that, ‘there is a fundamental sense in which the laws of physics don’t make any interesting distinction between past and future’.

It is a puzzle from the standpoint of these laws that we should be able to remember the past and not know the future. It is a puzzle why we should think that by acting now we can affect the future and not the past.

It is so fundamental to the way we experience the world that to not be curious about it is to be three-quarters of the way to being dead.

- David Albert, theoretical physicist on the ‘mystery of the direction of time’

What a gun of an attitude!

**