The White Scar

First the palm, he loved it there. It was such a sensation. Deep inside, he feared it would end him someday. The touch would be gone and so would the sensation. It would be numb. But he let it grow. The whole hand felt the same. Wasnt it good? White, his hand seemed strange. He loved the sensation. It was a disease, he knew. But then he was enjoying it. That day, while taking bath, he realised that it was there to stay. Scared he jumped around trying to get rid of it completely. Most of it was gone. Just a bit remained on the palms. He was happy. He enjoyed the sensation. He could not get rid of it completely but was happy that he subdued it completely. Just that a thin layer of the skin went with it together.A skin disease. Was it?
A few days, the white marks grew again. He wanted that sensation back again! He let it grow a bit. Again one day he was at it. trying to remove it completely. Some of the skin went with it. Again what remained was in the palm. He just had to close his fist to get rid of it completely. He thought of that sensation again. Didnt he love it? He couldnt kill the sensation. Something did not let him.
Days passed, the scar grew again. He did not know what to call it. It was a skin disease he thought. A beautiful one. This time, he was caught up in a lot of weird stuff. The scar reached his neck! He realized but knew he could get rid of it as he did the last couple of times. It was just that he had to do it once. A few days later, he decided to remove it. This time, it was more difficult but then he managed. Managed to remove it completely. Even from his palm. He could not react. He looked at his palm, touched it and felt that it was gone! He was happy that it was gone, but that sensation had too!
A couple of days later, he saw the white scar on his forehead! He looked at the mirror again. The scar now grew from inside his head! He shook in fear. There was no way the scar could now go! It was a part of him. He could only hide it by removing it each day from him forehead. But the scar was deep inside him. To end it completely was no longer as easy as closing his fist! He had to get rid of himself this time! It was a part of him.
He did not care. He loved the sensation. He would not kill either his self or his own self! He could not. He closed his eyes and let all senses enjoy the sensation.

The Line Maker with no name

A child
A small kid of five, he frivolously kept making linings on the sand.  He made those lines, stood up, went around, saw the lines, giggled cutely, jumped in joy at times and then waited for the sea wave to erase whatever he had done so far. He would never go towards the sea, just stand there at the shore keep scratching the surface of the shore. A few meters away, on the sand, lay his mother looking at him from a distance. She could die seeing him giggle like that forever. These were the best moments of her life. She could feel him so close to her heart. As if her heart pounced with each of his jumps, it pumped blood each time he giggled. It stopped each time he drew the line on the sand as if he was making those lines on her body and she giggled instead. His laughter sounded like the whisper of the breeze in his ears. The wave sounded like the beats of his heart and each would sound like music to her ears. Each time the sea wave came close to wipe the lines drawn over the sand, she anticipated a new beginning. She waited for the same cycle of joy all over again. She had all her senses mesmerized.

Still a Child
A couple of years later, he would still keep making those lines. A few boys of around his age would play football at a distance. The ball would take a leap and he would look at them and wave his hands acknowledging them. He would turn around and see them laugh all soaked in sand and water. They would occasionally come to him after the match and they would chat. As they left him, he would sit back making those meaningless lines on the shore again. The wave would come and blur those lines as they did for years now. He did not care.
As days passed, he would see these guys starting to mock at him, first it was a crooked smile. Then it turned to comments that they would make. Slowly it started to be loud laughing voices mocking at the lines he drew. They would often come to the place dance over his sketches and then rush back to playing football. He would step aside and let them dance and let them hate him and then when they went back he would get back to drawing lines again!

The mockery increased, he suddenly retreated. He was no longer to be seen. Even though the guys playing football hated him to the core, they began to miss him around them. His drawing those lines on the sand was a part of the picture now and a major part! He was there no matter how hot it was, how cold it was or how much it rained. Suddenly one day he wasn’t there. The village was small and every corner was known to everyone. His mother had died a couple of months back. He had always been a quiet guy. Just a gentle smile when someone came close to him. As friends, he knew these few guys playing football. He would never forget to bow his head and give a gentle smile when he passed by any familiar face, just to acknowledge their presence. His evenings were spent at a tea shop. The shop owner would pay him 20 bucks for a day and give him an afternoon meal and the dinner. That is how most of the villagers knew him.

The Anticipation
The coming week, there would be a huge mela, an annual celebration, where people from close by villages would come together and have a lot of fun. It was as cherished as a religious festival. The kids waited for it even more. It was the celebration of the harvest each year. 

This time, they all heard of a sculptor who could make statues that looked exactly like a person. They were all waiting for him. People would have to travel 4 miles on foot to the mela. Some rich ones would use the horse carts or the ox carts that they had. But for most it would only be foot.

The Mela
At the mela, there were lights everywhere. It was fun filled. It was frolic. There was a charm in the air. There was a scent of flowers, there was music and there were chirps, chirps not of birds but of men, men and children. It was here that one realized that humans also chirped and it was not just birds that knew the art. There were thugs and there were saints. The women dressed up beautifully, so were men. Only Itra would differentiate the rich and the poor. Young girls dressed cutely looking at guys from the nearby villages and then laughing loudly when they saw some guy look at them.
As one entered the mela, one could see the tents. Each tent trying to be the center of the mela. The magician had 3 shows every evening, limited seats, 50 each show costing 10 bucks each. Then there was this tent with a baboon that could do tricks like humans did. People in the village had rarely seen a monkey. A baboon was a fascination. One ticket cost 2 rupees. Then there was this dance troop from somewhere in Arabia. It was ballet and was a rage among young and old men. They loved to see the ballet dancer. It was a place not for most women and children. Each ticket cost Rs. 10. Show for 45 men at a time! Then there was this game arena. The children and kids loved it. You had to throw rings over the dolls and the games. Each one who did, won the prize. Rs 2 for each try. There was the famous Bombay chat and the Delhi chat, both trying to beat each other. Both Rs. 2 for each plate.

The Art
At one corner, stood a lean guy with a small stick. No one would even notice him there. He kept working on sand. He made lines in the ground. He was looking at no one. There was no price to look at him. There was no fun either. He kept making lines. The only difference was that there were no waves here. All that he drew remained there. He did not call anyone to pay attention. He kept making lines and groves for an hour. A few kids that went that side in excitement saw some marks in the sand and left the scene seeing nothing great or fun.  As everyone else engaged in the frolic at mela, he kept carving shapes on the ground. He hardly noticed the other tents and people around him. To him making the curve here was the same as making them on the sea shore.

An hour passed and the mela was at its peak. Suddenly people started circling the work on the sand. They were all bewildered to see the work. No one had ever realized how he had become an exponent at carving those lines and how his lines were so perfect. He could not just draw lines on the sand he could make figures with depth. The shapes now had not just the borders but also a curvature. He made them look so real. The figures would stand out as if shapes covered with thin sand. You could see bubbles of water in his work.  Even the sound of the waves seemed complete given that the mela was just around 300 meters from the sea.

He kept working on his artwork for another hour. He hardly noticed the people around him. Once he was done, he receded into the darkness of the night, not to be seen anymore. He did not care what the world thought of his art. He knew what he could do and how much he had to improve before he could call himself a genius. Probably he never could. He never would. A life time he thought would never be enough to get to the depth of an ocean and understand it. He was at the shore of the ocean drawing curves. That is all that he had learnt in the last 10 years! All he knew was that he loved it and that is all that he cared.

Back to the village
The villagers talked about how the young village boy stole the show and left the famous artists completely pale. The next evening he was there at the tea shop as usual. The shop owner was happy to see him. People who had noticed him there began to appreciate his work. He looked at them, smiled, said “thank you” and quietly kept serving tea to the other customers. He knew this was his source of living. He could not sell his art. It was not for money. It was his love. He could not sell it. He would not either. 

Imperfections.

It is not for the perfect to see and appreciate the beauty and perfection in imperfection...

Relegion.. My views...

This post is just a reflection of my opinion about religion in general.


The problem is that it is very easy to generalize, very easy to type cast things. I dont know if i should be saying this on an open forum, but i am generally very clear about my views (specially these)... The fact is that hindus/ muslims/ whatever are not good/ badd.. Everyone is human. And every human can be modified in a way that is defined by the environment and conditions that he lives in. I am also racist at times. I am sure there would be atleast 50 people who will hate me for writing this as well. A lot of Hindus have decided that all Muslims are like "that". Same with a lot of Muslims. They have decided that India is not for them and they cant progress in India or that they will always be oppressed. Look at what has happened to Sufism in Kashmir due to the minority hardliners and may be the oppression by the Indian forces and hatred there! I am not religious but i get attracted to Sufi music, so i pity what has happened there! Do we hear any sufi voice from Kashmir? I guess all we hear is war mongers and people ready for death. The beauty & softness associated with Kashmir is getting lost. The majority has lost its voice and has become the minority.

The important thing is that the SANE majority (I hope that the majority is moderate) should not let such insane minority take over.

It is a general notion that the past was perfect and the present is bad and the future far from good. I always remember the lines "ab na rahe wo peene wale ab na rahi wo madhushala" when i think of it. The fact is that there have always been good and bad people. People who have been moderate and people who have been intolerant. It is nothing new. Infact I think that the present is better than the future in this respect no matter how bleak it may seem. The fact is that there are no Crusades any more where children and women are sent to war because there are no men.

This is a gentle reminder to the sane world not to allow insanity to engulf us!