प्रकरण

Like a seed just beginning to sprout — tender, soft, delicate. An innocent life, complete in every sinew. This child was born after ten months of gestation in the womb of a simple, unlettered mother.

She has done her duty, that mother — yet the name and address of the father who quenched the thirst of unbridled youth, and ought to have built a future for this infant, remain unknown.

What now? Must this mother become the mud of a shamed society — a loving mother forced to suffer the cruelty of social contempt and bear the label of a prostitute? What does the human conscience say about the man who placed that helpless woman in the line of prostitutes? Is he not culpable? Yet cast out from among men, that mother must spend her bitter hours of fate with the innocent child born of ignorant youth's embrace. In these human settlements, people point fingers at others without looking at themselves. So today many see her and spit, snicker and mock. If some literary person chanced upon her, he would have created a story, play, poem, or essay — flourishing her as a character on the canvas of literature — and decorated himself with various awards. But what does that helpless infant understand of any of it?

If instead of adorning him with fictional trappings, society had given him the moral and ethical framework he deserved, that child would have grown into a hardworking, successful citizen of tomorrow — one who would eradicate the stains of a decayed tradition and stand as a man of the age. He might have raised the voice against the centuries-old exploitation that has hollowed out the poor. And that mother — who had to show her shamed face in a cruel society — did not need to measure herself against Sita and Savitri. She was either a patriotic heroine or, in any case, the architect of a great man's future.

Yes, that very child — years later, with a young and fearless chest — would have stood as a warrior at the motherland's borders, facing the enemy with unwavering resolve, confronting fierce cannon fire.

Had the wealthy not pushed him into the thicket of degradation, he could have been a Marx or a Lenin — one who would liberate the exploited and the destitute — or, like Mother Teresa, have the capacity and courage to light the torch of rebellion against suffering.

Life and the age are merely a stage. Everyone performs on this fleeting proscenium. Today's celebrated great men — Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva — if measured against that son of a so-called fallen woman, one might find little difference. Mother Kunti, testing a seductive mantra, could not refuse the arrival of gods, and so these warrior sons were born. Are they, then, the legitimate fruit of conjugal life? Certainly not. How, then, was the Mahabharata written with them as its heroes? Ultimately, he too is a human being. Because he was born poor, others do nothing but exploit him. A farmer sweating in tattered clothes under the fierce sun of Chaitra and Baisakh — did fate alone make him so? If he wipes his weary brow in frustration, who bears the moral responsibility? Not the indifference of society — it was the personal greed of those who enslaved him.

Even today, many uneducated souls work in hotels and tea stalls to survive. As they come of age, they are pushed into antisocial behaviour that muddies so-called civilized society. No one pays attention to this. The downtrodden have no voice. It is not words but action alone that can lift the lower classes. Here I take a line from poet Lakshmiprasad: "On the stone of effort, like a river, I flow laughing, full of waves. / I do not stagnate like a pond in one place — every grain of this life is pure."

That cursed life must make a Bhagirath-like effort to be free from the squeeze of circumstance and the grip of exploitation. A rich person is water stagnant in a pond — unfit to drink. But a poor person is clean, flowing water — one can quench one's thirst by drinking it. Gandhi said: "Untouchability is a crime against God and man." No one is born unfortunate or lucky at birth itself — it is humans who create hierarchies, and that is how the helpless are produced. Otherwise, if an infant abandoned in a drain were raised by a noble person who made no class distinction, that child would certainly be counted among the fortunate — like Karna in the Mahabharata. The country, time, and circumstance that produced these sons and daughters born of circumstance can also lift them up.

जातस्यहि ध्रुबोर्मृत्यु ध्रुबजन्म मृतस्य च। / तस्मादपरिहार्येथे न त्वं शोचितुमर्हसि ।।

In the twenty-seventh verse of the Gita's second chapter, Lord Shri Krishna instructs Arjuna: "The meaning of birth is death." This is incontrovertible. And again, the meaning of death is birth.

We are born in a state of deep slumber. Consciousness is absent, yet there is hope — it will fill someday. That consciousness, as a pot fills drop by drop with water, as clouds gather from particles of vapour before the deluge. Consciousness is the power of Brahma. Holding consciousness in concentration, the Buddha attained the divine — he received the divine reward and guided others. Jesus, mounting the cross, granted liberation to all. Our very birth is a great reward. To wager it in a gamble is to face defeat. We must give something here, leave something good for those who come after — as those before us left something for us. Childhood's love and play, ten years spent in semi-consciousness — the journey of life may be long, yet in this modern age, what is a human lifespan? This is an era of scientists racing each other, of global terror, of human depravity, of the atomic bomb's haunting shadow. Terrible and destructive weapons are manufactured everywhere without pause.

This ephemeral world could be rendered near-empty in a few moments. Unimaginable diseases circle around us. Within the crowds of humanity, people stray far from humaneness, absorbed in seeking rewards only for themselves. What kind of reward is this? A self-glorifying, self-appointed reward. Even so — subtract seventy years from an average lifespan of eighty. Subtract forty of those for the excitement of youth. Ten years remain. If those ten years pass without meaningful work, then all the years are wasted. Therefore, to be self-fulfilled before any other reward comes — this is the essence of birth. In this ultra-materialistic era: teachers and disciples at enmity, parents and children in cruel bargaining, places of worship invaded by the corrupt. Even living behind the veil of religion has become shaky. Where is your reward of humanity? A mad race for wealth overnight — moral or immoral, by sweat or by theft. Self-proclaimed winners, wrapped in the garland of shame yet sheltering under the umbrella of shamelessness — pockets stuffed with certificates — rushing to occupy the seat of chief guest. The unborn child makes a request: may I not be born disabled. But where is the reward of peace that answers that prayer?

The reward of rape, the reward of murder, the reward of corruption in temples and mosques. The reward of violence in the name of non-violence. The reward of sin in the name of religion. Shame — what a vile and hollow reward. Yesterday's fear was of ghosts in the dark; today, fear comes without evening. The departed spirits have reached heaven; the living ones have taken to the alleyways in gangs to terrify.

Graveyards have become quiet as temples. Those who used to emerge from crematoria to terrify have taken to dispensing spirituality. The poor man's hut remains confined to meals, shelter, and clothing. Those who do not value sweat have become gods of palatial mansions. The hardworking go to sleep half-hungry with their dreams.

Culture, art, and craft are confined to one-day programmes. Where has their priceless reward gone? Women sold in brothels, silently like dumb animals, selling their lives for money — their naked reward. The cruel reward of those who think of themselves as masters in child bondage. Like animals from birth — their greatest reward is merely survival itself.

From zero to zero, stretched-out numbers; the syllable-Brahmas that begin from the primordial Om — sometimes becoming Saraswati, sometimes clay idols abandoned along drains and river banks — where is the reward of your magnificence? The calendar pages keep turning, the six seasons revolve, the twenty-seven constellations repeat. The aspirations of the coming year wait in the hut for daylight. Nuclear weapons wait to explode over graves, over corpses. Men race to establish empires on other planets — the priceless reward of life. The telephone rings — murder, murder, terror all around. The culprit is caught and given the reward of punishment. The earth spins continuously — the timeless, dynamic reward. Day and night this is the divine gift — the age's sweet reward. Fire, earthquake, landslide, bomb blast — the breathless reward of people in panic. The village sleeps peacefully; the city, with sleepless, moist eyes, cannot sleep — this steamed reward.

Far away, a lamp flickers faintly — a person wasted by disease, waiting for fate to turn, has had his meagre reward quietly taken away. He received only an empty reward. The uneducated and dependent wait with outstretched hands for the reward of a filled stomach. Inside temples, rosary beads repeated endlessly — seeking the divine reward that resolves weariness.

In the peaceful atmosphere of the cremation ground, a half-cremated body waits for the final farewell — one fistful of earth, the final reward. Our finest cultural rewards are disappearing, replaced by the bare rewards of the West. Let us not erase, let us not sell, this magnificent reward of Gorkhali/Nepali identity.

A new morning arrived, full of energy, to awaken me. Stretching and yawning, I finally rose from my warm bed. Every morning I rise like this. The surroundings are beautiful, and small is the window of my heart. In that small garden-window, green vines sway, moved by the breeze. I open my small window and peer out — the cold breeze touches me and the bamboo grove sways. The sky is open. The stars are fleeing — where to? At last the dark lifts, and the night, too, flees. Let it flee — it is a contemptible night. I wash away my lethargy, smooth down my ruffled hair, and gaze at the blue sky, peering toward the distant horizon.

All is utterly still — hence it is said to be the sacred hour of Brahma. All is calm, all welcome. There is no anger, no envy, no jealousy. Spring has made the potted flowers bloom, and the wind has sent out fragrance. The dewdrops sparkled when I rose. Those creeping plants were strong, and the buds were blooming. I love what I see, and forget what I cannot — that is human nature. What creations had I missed by stretching and going back to sleep? I should have searched, broken old molds. The peach blossoms used to bloom and fall — yet the branches were silent. They did not weep, whether they knew or not — all was still. Perhaps in happiness, a washerwoman always ran, danced, jumped. She sang sweet, sorrowful songs, and then, clutching her chest in anguish, she called out — "Why did you lie like that?"

She was a pure beloved, loving with the purity of the horizon and sky — but how could such deep love have been betrayed? Why had they to part? Her lamentation touched me. Why did these eyes well up at someone else's heartbreak? She would flutter away and then, looking back, wipe her tears. If I had been her fitting companion, we would truly have been bound in the cord of love. Her arrival was a daily constant, as was my one-sided gaze at her — it had become a ritual. Many rains had passed for her, many winters passed weeping. Many times others had made spring bloom — but she did not forget the pure love she had lodged. Perhaps that mad lover had said, "I'm coming, wait for me here," and gone carrying his beloved's love — and died on the very road, or perhaps another, prettier bird had caught him in her net? Whatever the case — couldn't he at least have sent word? Can even the promise of love be such a lie? In her crumpled heart she called out — "You shattered a helpless woman's heart — what did you gain? I search for you in forests and hillsides and thickets! Without you, there is no peace for me. If you are somewhere, come — let us renew our vows. Our promise — the oath never to be parted — was it left unfulfilled? Loving you has made me the butt of everyone's jokes today — so now I cannot love another either. So why did you say you would come soon? Why did you lie like that?"

Is it a life to live, suffering in someone else's suffering? And what would be its essence? With questions upon questions, she took her flight — from this branch to that. To live freely is the truest choice of living beings. This life is neither rain nor drought — it is a gift. One who has been given a gift must know how to use it. The demon Bhasmasura asked Shiva for the boon to burn anything he touched — but not knowing how to use it, he was burned himself. Love is the art of the musk-deer — rare to attain. Her heart is tender; she has great storehouses where love can be kept. She can share it equally with many — and carries no grievance anywhere.

Thus, having become a devotee of love, why did she search only for that one? So many betrayers of love exist in the world. She is helpless — spending nights weeping, squandering life's joys in unhappiness. A simple, honest beloved who kept her promise — once, twice, thrice. What constancy — poor thing! Where could her partner be? Living somewhere in luxury, with no word for her — what a tragedy. When morning came, in the early light, she would call out — "Why did you lie like that?"

Love is not poison, nor is it suicide — yet why do lovers drink poison? Love is a pure word — a bond that can be tied with anything and anyone. One loves the colours of flowers, all the forms of nature. Love happens whether or not one understands its definition. A dog loves its master and wags its tail. A serpent loves the sound of the veena. Some love is fleeting, some a betrayal, some long-lived. Love must be respectful — it is the jewel of the human heart. In its absence, a person goes mad and cannot be social. The bond between husband and wife is not held by vermillion and bead-necklace but by love — so much so that even in the grief of death's separation, love falls as tears. That is why this bird's love was no less — and so that washerwoman became a mad lover.

The love of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz is the historical identity we know today. Love weeps in torrents, love laughs in floods. Sometimes love is a baby swinging in a cradle; a pinch of vermillion can swallow a young woman's entire life. What shall we call this love — which, even in separation, blooms and falls again and again like a peach blossom in her fate? When the peach blooms, that old ache comes back, and she hums, her voice in time — "Why did you lie like that?"

If love is placed on the lips, it becomes a kiss; in the eyes, they flutter; in the heart, a sob breaks loose. Ulysses defined love thus: "To wound others is a sin; to cast an eye at a beauty is gain." Some say "Love is blind." Perhaps that is why love, tied so tightly, is equally hard to untie. Love has its own court — whenever one wishes to plead, the doors of that court are open, and once entered, one must stand for one's own justice. Here, the lover who deceived that washerwoman was perhaps in some dock, and when the natural court asked for testimony, she stood before the judge and said — "Why did you lie like that?"

Beggar — a word born of need and compulsion, speaking of degrading dependence, a purse empty of earnings that must stretch out its palm and say "pūrṇasat." A fire that burns from birth to death across the entire interval — no smoke visible, no flame to see, yet the heat keeps coming, and that very heat torments the worn-out canvas of the mind, raising a question: "I am a beggar because I beg." People call me a mendicant these days — unable to make ends meet, forced to beg. But to beg is not to steal. We cannot have everything ourselves. A student becomes a beggar at a teacher's door, begging alms of knowledge. One nation becomes a beggar of solutions at another nation's door. Sudama made Krishna aware of his poverty and begged for prosperity — yet Krishna also begged of Sudama for true devotion. Both appeared as beggars of different things to each other. The giver and the taker are both mendicants — because whoever gives anything to anyone also takes something from someone. A beloved begs her lover for love, becoming a beggarwoman. A bee begs the flower for honey, going from bloom to bloom. The laden cloud begs the atmosphere for rain to create nature. So who is the greater one here? The stomach begs for food, desire begs for satisfaction, the river begs for purity, the infant begs for a cradle. A person in ochre robes with a water-pot begging at the doorstep is not merely a beggar — nor is the person in tattered rags with a dirty bag merely a beggar; that is only a testament to helplessness. But we all beg, do we not?

The thirsty stranger begs water of an unknown passerby. The driver begs fares of the passenger, and passengers, fearing the weariness of walking, beg of the driver: "Will you take me there?" These two seem contradictory but are complementary. I beg of my surroundings a gentle breeze of simple life and good health.

To live and to save life is the wide road of the human mind — and to give is also to receive. Give alms to the beggar, and the beggar too will say "May God protect you" — so you, too, become a beggar. When a person reaches another's door, setting aside ego and placing even a little inspiration in that one's bag, the visitor feels joy. If one shrinks the door of one's heart saying "I alone am someone," intellectual bitterness can produce hatred. When one sheep in a flock falls into a ditch, all fall, they say. It would be better if the human mind did not think like a sheep.

The beggar's wish for alms has no specific stamp of assignment. If a speck is in one's own eye, one must beg someone to look and remove it — that person is a beggar of solutions. Like six blind men each touching a different part of an elephant — if those with sight cannot rise above the blind man's truth, what will such a person give to society? In front of the clairvoyant sage, I turned the vocabulary within me, touched his feet in silence, and stood mute. He understood: "Without performing great merit, you cannot reach heaven" — and walked away. In my beggar's bag there was nothing but a small piece of sky, and if he had given me even a little as medicine, I would not have been turned away empty-handed.

Alms given with scolding — when the beggar cooks them, the insults evaporate as steam, and the pure food sustains the thin body, immaculate. Everyone comes here to give, yet humans come to take. A nursing dog-mother licks leftover scraps with satisfaction, nurses her pups, and all night barks and barks as guard of the very civilized people sleeping in thick quilts. The faithful dog wags its tail in welcome — begging for affection — yet is chased away with a stick. A prisoner begs the law for freedom. A life hanging from the gallows begs the formless God for moksha. The seller begs for money; the buyer cooks the fish of desire and breathes a sigh of satiety. It is said: "Ask and you get an elephant; steal and you get a kick." A girl begged in marriage and became a wife. Ekalavya gave his thumb when asked. Savitri averted her husband's death sentence by begging the right boon. The manner of asking is many — a child begs milk by crying, a cow begs grass by lowing, some beg for money by singing.

Thus, all those who beg fall in the line of beggars. If one beggar gives something to another — that is enough, is it not? To put it plainly — all of us humans are forever begging something from God; this is just the way of give and take. The homeland begs its citizens for protection, and the citizens beg the state for security. One should not assume that because someone begs, they have nothing — nor does giving leave the giver destitute. If begging leads to a solution, that is right. Understanding what someone is begging for is the truth. All races, religions, and communities beg, and they are free.

The peace of one's inner conscience is what faith is.

There is nothing greater than this in creation. Otherwise, place your hand on your heart and think — you yourself say, "Ah, now I feel at ease." That is, news came that a precious lost thing has been found — you have faith that tomorrow it will be in your hands. Where is God, and who has seen him? Yet we light incense, take a single flower, go to the temple, and say: "Lord, may this wish of mine be fulfilled" — and if it happens as we asked, we say, "Blessed be you, Lord" — that very thing is faith. We say we hold faith in God — yet circumstance alone may also have accomplished the task. It is through faith that we sit peacefully on this earth. If we had no faith, and the planets far larger than earth were to fall — what would become of us? We go to sleep at night saying "Tomorrow morning it will be light and I will do this work" — faith that tomorrow will come is what lets us enter bed. This faith — when disbelief is found inside it, lovers drink poison or take the noose. There is no better word in the dictionary of all the world's activities than "faith." The idol exists, God does not — yet faith makes both palms join and rise, and the head bows slightly. Dreams are scenes the soul has sought out in sleep, and we have faith in them. We believe that if the palm itches, money will come; if the foot itches, we shall walk a road. A small iron hook brings a great elephant to submission — that is real faith. A serpent dances in faith when the flute is played. A soldier shoulders a gun in faith — what if it does not fire? Sometimes we are healed by faith alone — the medicine was already there. One country is at ease with another because a treaty was signed; without the treaty, there would be war. A pinch of vermillion pledged in a vow keeps the bond between husband and wife.

The thief steals. The murderer commits violence. The strong bully the weak — this is believed. And the innocent poor believe that the police will catch them and punishment will follow. The snake bites, poison kills, the son supports, the daughter looks after, the cow gives milk, the cat kills mice, the tiger devours, the tree bears fruit, the water sweeps away — all of this is life lived in faith. If these faiths turned into disbelief or betrayal — what could we do? We go abroad, leaving all property, house, children, jewels to a simple woman — we carry that firm faith inside us, and she waits, guarding the house, trusting her husband will bring something home. A small yoke tames great bulls. Passengers packed in a vehicle travel trusting the driver, and the driver drives trusting his instruments are in order. Strike the leather and the madal drum sounds in faith; put a finger in the hole and blow, and the flute sounds in faith. I still had a stretch to cover; by the hope of a moon rising in two hours, I walked slowly through the dark in faith. If all were bound by faith, the world would become heaven. Without faith comes doubt — and doubts are signs of disbelief.

A flower wants to bloom full of beauty and fragrance; a butterfly flies in the hopeful faith that the flower will bloom. The wind, however gentle, keeps blowing. When breathing becomes difficult, we speak our ailments in trust to the doctor. When a patient consults, he tells the physician the full truth — if he tells an untruth, the consequences show up in himself. This is life — where truth abides — "Satyameva Jayate" — truth does not waver. The medicine the doctor gave is faith. I know I will pass with first rank, because I have faith I wrote well. The nestlings sit swaying in the nest — trusting that the mother will bring food.

The four ages revolving, the planets moving without colliding — that too is faith. The goat whose neck is about to be cut keeps grazing, thinking it will not be killed — but in an instant, faith becomes disbelief. The family waits at home for meat — but the fisherman drowned in the river. So even the deepest faith can sometimes become disbelief. Occasionally, in a kind of amusing faith, someone's seed falls in a young woman's womb — and then the atmosphere is disturbed. Sometimes faith and disbelief both hang as lock-and-key on the bathroom door. The priest locks the temple and walks away, leaving his faith there. Yet the devotee bows in faith that God is within. The vast-bodied python waits hungry in faith — it cannot move, yet the prey comes as food. The spider weaves a web, plants signal threads on all sides, trusting that if prey falls in, the threads will vibrate — and indeed they do. Thus both sides' faiths can become uncertain and betrayed.

Even as faith is being given, sometimes one is made to swear an oath for faith itself — but does swearing an oath turn disbelief into faith? In marital life, a wife is burned alive in the name of dowry — the faith which should have been in her as a life partner replaced by a material demand. Can dowry ever fill the place of a wife? A life bound in love with the vow "I cannot live without you" turns into flames. And so one cannot have complete faith in anyone. If someone asks "Brother, what is your name?" — we say "My name is..." But did we name ourselves? Someone gave us that name when we were small — and trusting only what we heard, we say "Yes" in faith.

We call a woman "Mother" — but can we be certain she is truly our mother? Because since childhood, the familiar woman who cared for us was called "Mother" by someone, and we assumed in faith that she is our mother. But could one woman have given birth while another raised us? In that faith, whom do we call our real mother?

Therefore, there is no greater word than "faith." Let us exchange faith among ourselves.

One day I went into a show room to buy faith — paid the money. He gave me the item. The item broke on the way home. I felt I had bought disbelief — and was distressed. Just then, he appeared, looking for me, right there — and seeing the item, said: "Brother, you gave me a counterfeit note." Then we looked at each other. Our faith had become disbelief.

I have understood "ghost" in two ways: as the past that slips by as the present fades, and as the spirit of the dead — when someone dies by accident, people say "someone died like that there, it haunts the place." This word is remarkable. Just hearing it fills one with a kind of dread. Tall with long teeth, tangled hair, emerging especially at night in dark, gloomy ravines. If it frightens you, you not only fall ill but die too. "Don’t walk alone at night, lest the ghost devour you" — such cowardly vocabulary we plant in the tender minds of our small children. So at night people walk humming to themselves, or children and women live in fear. Within all these social superstitions we and our society remain troubled and undeveloped.

Yes, the soul doesn’t die — the Gita says so, and all sects believe in souls and spirits. How long should one fear this soul-ghost? After all, the living ghosts are far more frightening than the dead ones. The night-prowling ghost frightens only at night, and by day they hide in cemeteries. But living ghosts terrify both day and night. In this vast universe I see nothing but ghosts everywhere. Every present becomes past, and every future becomes present.

Thus, even while being consumed by the ghost of time, why fear the ghost-souls of the dead? The mind says: I wish I were supreme. From birth to death — all one’s exploits, deeds, desires — and the coming present, then fading into the past — why then be afraid? Like a wheel’s rotation, these three periods of time also take turns becoming past. The previous lines of this writing — past. Imagined futures consumed the present and again became past. So where is the fear when the ghost eats the day itself? Where is that childhood full of warmth? Life flows on smoothly. Here we ourselves are ghosts — why worry about another ghost?

This pen’s ink has run out, and while writing I found this ink has become past and in the present I refilled it. Stars, lunar days, weekdays, months that repeat forever — the pages of the wall calendar that keep turning. A year that never ends is also a ghost, and a future that never comes is also a ghost. Sound, echo, again sound — of someone I used to hear. The spring that keeps flowing where I always washed my face — the place is the same, but that water was not the same. The same sun appears again and again as tomorrow. Here, as seconds pass and become past, I too become a ghost. My hair has become the white ghost and I dye it — make the present black — and again it becomes past. The house’s woodwork has become a ghost — rotted. The eyes that see, their light having become a ghost, now need glasses to perceive the present. This writing’s date of 31 December 2008 is also becoming a ghost.

I am bewildered — my stomach has been troubled many times but as for dying, it’s "never happened before and never will." The ghost of hunger troubles me daily and I walk three hours to earn bread and satisfy myself fully for a moment. There are nothing but problems; the present finds me without a moment’s rest. I am exhausted, worn down, helpless. I am in debt, paying back life’s debts. I could not give like Karna. If these words count as a gift, count them so; otherwise all these passing moments are nothing but past ghosts.

In this gathering of ghosts, one dead-alive mushroom blooms in the rain and wilts in the sun. That mushroom without chlorophyll, seedless yet with a will to live, lives for a few moments. I am intoxicated by this world. Perhaps others have the same disease. All that is mine will be lost and become alien, become past. Everything created is coming to be snatched by plunderers.

Dead ghosts commit no abductions, rapes, murders, violence. They don’t eat by cheating. They don’t eat by stealing. Rather they come here in spirit, roaming in the memory of the past. But here the living ghosts have already tormented countless people — some in ties, some in uniform, some in saffron. In this ghost-assembly, those whose intentions will be fulfilled will come to an end forever. There is a connection in the context of my life; this society expects something from me because I have borrowed something. Therefore I must leave a gift, because without hesitation I will have become a ghost.

Let no marble tomb be built for me — it will take up fertile space. Those of the present will curse my decaying mortal body. How many living gods are waiting for my gift. Having fulfilled the duty of acting on this stage, the fate written by destiny — its signature on my forehead — so be it.

Let research be done, and let them read the past, present and future — and if they can, resurrect it, and then say: "Ah, what a marvelous ghost!"

What will happen tomorrow? Tomorrow is a future, and we are anxious about tomorrow. The patient says: "Father, what if I die tomorrow?" The traveler says: "Where will I have reached tomorrow?" A scholar will have been born tomorrow, and the nation will have advanced. There may be a great earthquake tomorrow. But tomorrow always comes. I am always eager to get one tomorrow. Lying in bed, I make a curious schedule of those upcoming goals I wish to start with the new dawn. Until sleep — like a mother — soothes me to rest, I toss left and right. I wake up to rouse many households from their sweet dreams. Becoming a companion of the delightful breeze, playing house. Ah, how wonderful is my tomorrow! When the cool breeze touches me, my skin tingles. At that moment, the east has risen — it has become tomorrow.

The fragrance of flowers will suddenly pour through the nostrils tomorrow — "oh, how sweet" the scent. The dew-covered leaves will glisten in the morning. I will still be alive tomorrow to hear the songs of birds. The sound of conch and bell issuing blessings from the temple, and the fragrance of incense. God becomes my morning tomorrow. He speaks auspicious words in the flickering lamp. The sun's ray, calm, warm, pale yellow, spreads and lands gently on the balcony. That tomorrow is peaceful and innocent, yet how many hearths tremble before it — perhaps because livelihoods have shrunk — but I am happy with the daily arrival of a fresh tomorrow. May tomorrow keep coming joyfully. Many have waited for tomorrow to meet their beloved. That bud has waited for tomorrow to bloom, and the fledglings in the nest have waited for tomorrow to fly. Perhaps the nation too has waited for tomorrow to write new history.

It may be that tomorrow has come the turn of that innocent animal to be killed, and flavors have waited eagerly for tomorrow. The verdict is being declared in court — let's see whose victory it will be tomorrow.

It is strange and wondrous — somewhere construction is collapsing. Why panic before tomorrow? It is calm, smiles gently. Today is like yesterday, and tomorrow is like today. Perhaps unbridled desires, rage, and competition have brought misfortune. Let's ask a child — they say: "I will be a great person tomorrow." Ask more: "What will you do?" They say: "I will be a great person and ride an airplane." Indeed, that joyful tomorrow arrives tick-tock with the clock. A newspaper lands in hand. I read: at such a place there was an explosion and many women and children have died. A woman was raped. A daughter-in-law was murdered, a young man's corpse was found. Twenty-seven injured in a vehicle accident, an elephant crushed a house, a tigress mauled an old woman, a bridge broke and travelers are stranded. Oh, what a tomorrow! I forget tomorrow and it becomes past — that present. The shaggy dogs who kept guard all night I find sleeping quietly. Children sleeping soundly in their cradles, sucking their fingers. The milkman comes to the door; ah, morning has come tomorrow. The priest comes before me reading blessings. I find myself rejoicing, having boiled the milk and made it pure.

Tomorrow is a question-mark word. It is quite active as well as worth contemplating. If something is to be done tomorrow and its fruit is to be eaten, then the mind must be fertile today. Tomorrow a landslide may block the path. Snow may fall and it may be bitterly cold. If you don't dig a well today, what will extinguish the fire when your house burns tomorrow?

Every student today has the nation, society, village, and home all living in complete trust in them. May tomorrow's sunrise be a reliable blessing for all living beings — not a curse. Oh, tomorrow! There is fear in many places. Among many innocents one is frightened, and whoever hears it is startled. A child enjoys tomorrow because tomorrow is the day they get to wear new clothes. Tomorrow is Dashain and they wish to eat sweets; but if tomorrow the exam results come out, somewhere they hesitate out of fear. Remarkable is this tomorrow.

Yes, one strand of my hair has turned grey and those who see it say: "Oh my, your hair is getting grey." Embarrassment arises because day by day I am getting older. Tomorrow will come with positive and negative reactions. We are born by our mother's tomorrow and die by our own tomorrow. I plant a mango tree and that tomorrow, becoming tomorrow after tomorrow through countless tomorrows, will flower, and its tomorrow will be laden with fruit, and yet another tomorrow I will eat a tasty mango.

Tomorrow keeps running and yet we chase it. Works saved for tomorrow may not come to fruition. Tomorrow more may be added and today's remaining work may not be gathered. Each tomorrow runs away one step at a time carrying separate meanings. Running breathlessly behind it, one day our death will have become tomorrow.

This country, our country. A country pointed to by hills, valleys and terraces, the pure environment of white Himalayan peaks. The touch of cool breeze blown down by the temperate climate and invigorating Himalayan summits, and in the music of drizzling rain the fervor of babbling brooks crashing against stones always bringing forth new enthusiasm — truly our beautiful country.

A country of simple, honest Gorkhas who embrace the farmer's weariness, share happiness within Darjeeling's affection — settling the evening meal with the sour taste of gundruk and sour buttermilk and the old flavor of the cinema. A country where the great Mahakala Baba rises in a swirl of white mist, wearing the crown of equality and giving blessings. A country with a simple rural life lived happily, the soul swimming in the nourishing cold waters of Sinchal, always smiling gently. The call of the bird "the kafal is ripe" from branch to branch calling Baishakh with its own special voice. Always ready to delight in the memory of childhood playing hide-and-seek in snowfall like the white silk floss of the cotton tree. Here the joys of rural young women. The fearless vitality of the lark dancing in the morning, and the peaceful childhood memory of playing house.

Sometimes a forehead wet with the heat of the sun, sometimes delicate palms soaked in rain — with millet, buckwheat and lentil flowers, settling a sweet hunger with kusumed and wild yam and home yam at Maghe Sankranti, sleeping one night's sleep — this country. The great Mahakala Baba is the lord of subjects here. The green country where the future soldier surrenders, sleeping in a cradle, suckling at the chest of a simple woman who carries a heavy load on her back.

Ting...ting... the bell rings, its sound enters the ears, waking from the sweet morning sleep to the rooster's crow — a country of earning mothers who weave the dream of their offspring in the tender buds of green tea. Selling desires through the ages and buying unwillingly — compelled to settle hunger wrapped in a mist of dreams — the country of our ancestors who spent their age seeking destiny in rebirth, sleeping peacefully on the funeral pyre wrapped in a single shroud.

A country of brave Gurkha warriors who spent years illiterate, standing at the bars of this open prison without handcuffs, writing fate like a sworn soldier. A country of compulsion where a widow from the hills — after her honor was stripped — had to go abroad in shame to raise her children. Who will hear the call of the hill queen? She has grown old, weeping soaked in a shower of tears, and sometimes losing her endurance she wants to commit suicide, poor widowed mother.

Sometimes the Himalayan peaks shake with cold, sometimes drought dries everything, and sometimes floods wash it away. Life is migrating — Darjeeling's heartbeat is emigrating. On the terraced fields, the honest labor of farmers pouring salty sweat — doctors, engineers and scientists in half-naked clothes from the footpath, sharing happiness in joy, tending the small saplings of the world's precious tea with a bonus hope. May there be no barrenness anywhere — the soil here is fertile. The tea gardens earned by our fathers and forefathers, the fields plowed by our ancestors — that is why Himalaya smiles today. The honest farmer's labor still wants to bloom like the orchid. Wherever you go, don't forget me, says the wayside shrine — give your happiness a joyful death, says this country's identity.

Countless times around the earth, Tista, Rangit and Balason have always held Darjeeling in their lap. I will quench your thirst, says the waterfall. To reach a conclusion through patience — follow, says the radiant sun. One child is slowly stepping forward holding the guardian's thumb, reading the alphabet from "Ka" to "Gya." If those who read understand, those who understand act, and those who write arrange the scattered pages by page number, the meaning of basic needs would become clear.

The hopes of our ancestors must be grown in the fields of identity and unity. The calloused hands that cleared the forest and planted tea are not auctioned off. May there be no barrenness anywhere. As the new moon passes, the full moon is coming, because light can be seen inside the veil of clouds. The exploited people of the twenty-first century are swallowing cold sips of bread and pale tea at Darjeeling's Balyasi, enduring the pathetic exhibition — the soldiers who guarded the border and returned home. Therefore this country, this Himalayan territory — the value of the red blood and salty sweat splashed on this soil is precious in the world market.

One can compare the empty stomach to the empty belly of a sarangi. The philosophy of Marx can be read on the faces of small begging children.

The night is thick; there is not a glimmer of light anywhere. Four hours of night yet remain before the sun rises. It is neither a moonless night nor the night of separation wept by the monsoon's parting rain. The night is deepening, carrying hesitation in the mind without hesitation. Like the immeasurable depth of ocean water, and in the emotion of a lotus floating above the water, the layer of night is slowly spread even in the pupils of the eyes — as dark as an Eskimo's cave. Sleepless sleep is torturing the bed, yet one must sleep. I am in a hurry to take my daughters to school — I still have to teach them the alphabet. I have to tell my son the accounts of the house's debts. I have to press a thumbprint on a government paper to instill trust. Walk some four leagues of road — for a moment, lend me your moonlight.

May I be able to see the milestones of the destination in clear light like a full moon, so that the fountain's water may be visible to wash the crust from eyes sealed by the warmth of the quilt. May I see the martyrs' blood-red sacrifice rise from the chest of the tomb, and may I see the beggars' names written not on the path to the temple but in the history of the country. To see a young woman's ornament arranged after gold has been tested for purity, I need light — but not the fake light reflected in the ocean's surface, lest it be a desert mirage. To see my country bloom and see my people fed, to see their smiles — just lend me your pale moonlight. May the journey not become lame from the sharp thorns underfoot, may the earth not become barren from wasted seeds. To see the plowing bulls eat their fill and our soldiers hoist the victory flag at the border — lend me a handful of your moonlight.

You were burning light in the day and sleeping, and after waking you were spending time playing games with a yawn. What is it like to belch at citizens who stand firm with all their pain drawn away in hollow hope? Who knows? Therefore to complete this hungry journey from new moon to full moon, give me one light.

The small hands of childhood that played together now ask "give me money." Asking is not bad, but where is self-reliance? Therefore to give the divine light of the eye, still more awareness is needed. Therefore you and I — show them the way by taking that moonlight.

When the country rises to repay your moonlight's loan, I will come. I will build you one grand memorial. When our countrymen shine like stars, then they will write your history with their own hands tomorrow.

A parrot in a cage is speaking — a myna. Imprisoned, yearning for the beloved in freedom, the sun has burned. Repeating the memorized words, it wants to watch nature rejoice outside the open window. Let the cage rot and collapse — then I want to fly with my own wings and see that moon. Blow away all the clouds — I want to kiss the moon.

Not reflected in a mirror, but may the light of the pure, stainless moon fall directly on the eyes. That is the moon I need. I must walk in your night too. Therefore for a moment, lend me your moonlight. The sky does not wear away, the light does not end, their radiance does not diminish. Great moments of crisis have been victorious many times before. These pages turned by demonism — deities deal with them easily. The autobiography of the Pandavas who fought the Kauravas and the story of the final verdict of Kurukshetra is fresh. An age is drawing to a close. This calm atmosphere's Mahishasura who would disturb it has already died at the hands of a young woman. The young woman is beautiful as she is, but to make her even more beautiful she must be adorned with sixteen ornaments. She needs a full moon to see her purity in the mirror — and so I am saying: lend me your moonlight.

In the battlefield, the old mother who gave birth dreaming of guns — her sucked-dry chest saving everyone while wearing herself out in sleepless nights — to see his fate at the border posts, a round, pure silver light is needed. Therefore lend me your moonlight. To write the sixth part of the fate of that unwed orphan and to see his coming destiny, ample light is needed — we will even pay the fee. Therefore until that moment arrives, lend me your moonlight.

Many lives have already died. Some were killed, some died on their own. These days, having eaten as much as God gave of a full life, on the funeral pyre, one asks relatives to light the fire. The mourners are seated. The soul's nest is shattered here and there. To write the definition of that sacrifice in the dark, the light of a firefly was not enough — lend me your moonlight. I cannot see myself in the mirror's reflection. The sun's blazing heat has scorched me. Rather, I will spend my time waiting, and after the sun sets — not a full moon — lend me your moonlight.

In the dictionary of the world and in the spirit of generosity, there is no word greater than "service." If devotional song is the path to finding God, then serving the afflicted is God manifest.

The avatar of the Kali Yuga, Satya Sai Baba, has said: Love all, serve all. The serving hands are holier than chanting lips. Service to man is service to God.

Therefore the very word "service," when presented with an open mind, is the form of God. God is invisible and formless. The idols and images we worship are only adoration of God. According to Indian civilization, to serve the welfare of the poor and destitute is to serve God. Merely leaning on religion and saying "I am of such-and-such religion" does not serve anyone, and if one acts contrary to the tenets of religion, neither is religion protected nor is the action service. "Dharmo rakshati rakshitah" — protecting dharma is protecting oneself. Dharma builds character, and character protects the individual.

Though humans are conscious beings, they are externally driven creatures. All the world's religions are guides for humans, and one guru after another is needed. Therefore at the beginning, middle and end of ages, the birth of guru-figures in the form of God has been found — Shiva, Vishnu, Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Jesus, Nanak, Mahavira, Sai and other divine beings. Even as they give dharma, education and initiation, humans display the influence of violent tendencies. Despite so much free education being given, humans stain themselves in their own morality and fall victim to bad behavior. Such reprehensible acts humans commit to humans themselves.

In the natural world only one era runs — the Satya Yuga, the age of truth. But among humans, four yugas run. Whoever wants to elevate themselves through the karma of service, they alone can know God. But the human world today is in a hurry — no one cares for anyone.

Creatures with incomplete consciousness live harmoniously together. Millions of ants of different kinds live in one hole making a common home. Billions of termites fit into one mound. Then why is it so in conscious humans? Today, rather than detonating atomic power to destroy human by human, is it not more fitting to use the even greater weapon of "love" to keep the world at peace?

It is this God full of love that Mother Teresa worshipped by serving the wounded — just as Florence Nightingale had done. Mother, born on 26 August 1910 in Skopje, Yugoslavia, is indeed an angel. Having left a historical mark on this great world through service as God commanded, she departed to participate in the religious assembly of the universe. She stamped an indelible imprint of service on every page and every line of every human heart's book. We must follow her duty. She lived in India as a balm for the burning pain and agony of the afflicted.

If so many parents cannot give enough affection to their own children, then which wounded person would not weep today at the memory of Mother — who became the mother of the afflicted born to others, the mine of love, the embodiment of affection? She was a pure woman; she had the vision of seeing God in every wounded person. She too was a human who could operate all religions and sects of the world. Why show a violent tendency by one religion insulting another? If any religion is followed, then it is a test of oneself. Just as gold is tested on a touchstone to distinguish real from fake. We see a devil in someone else but as long as the devil hidden inside oneself is not brought out, God cannot be found — say the saints. Egotism, lust, greed, jealousy, abuse, threats — these are the various devils of the mind, and to defeat them is human dharma. Rather than feeling deceived by thoughts of "eat the banana after death, Baba," it would be better to leave some good deed as a mark on this world.

Mother did exactly this. Having spent even the prizes she received on the treatment of patients, she created history. The absence of Mother has been felt. Having spent her entire life in beneficence, she received a peerless prize — the highest among all the prizes of the world. "Do your duty, don't be attached to the fruit" (Gita) — because a good deed is itself the best fruit. Women are also mothers. But in all women the qualities of a mother are not found, and some who have them lose them. Thus she was the guru-mother of mothers, who is now gone. May her soul find God's embrace.

Year of composition: 2009

"Did you hear, uncle…?" someone calls from behind. Curiously I turned my head. He was saying: "There's an important meeting today, you must go." I nodded to signal "I'll come." Yes, I must go there — because the population is the workforce (Karl Marx) — everyone must raise their voice together. Suddenly a crowd of proletarian people passed this way, chanting sky-splitting slogans: "We must get it — we must get it!" dripping with sweat. I joined in to add my "yes" to their "yes." I read the distributed pamphlets. There a respectable man was sipping water and speaking challenging words through the loudspeaker's microphone. I didn't know how much I agreed with those feelings, but as others clapped when the speech ended, I clapped too. At many such meetings, people like me — the afflicted — have joined blindly and clapped. Yes, we clap because we are helpless, uneducated, simple and honest. That is why we are set as bait and lose. By Shakuni's deceitful dice game, today not one but hundreds of Draupadis have been disrobed and many Pandavas have had fire set to their wax palace. Therefore I keep clapping with each word.

Chanakya said: "Silence causes no quarrel" — but even if you speak rightly, you don't get justice. "Suffering too much is also a crime," some say. The intestines have developed remarkable courage lately to digest pumpkins and squash that have been maintaining silence in the market for days. When I return home, I share the sorrow with my wife who swore to live and die together. The eyes begin searching for yesterday's leftover rice under the pot's lid. With a despondent heart, the developed woman of the twenty-first century goes to the neighborhood to borrow rice.

From birth to death — always raising slogans — the physical responsibility of the helpless. Those who are low get the jab in the mouth, yet I raise slogans: "We must get it!" On an open stage, a dancer dances gracefully in the musical scales and the audience watches — not her dance but to drink in the dancer's youth with their eyes. Such are the worthless lamentations. Still the orphaned children are being taken advantage of. Those who should have been scientists have become watchmen and clerks due to lack of opportunity. On the roof terrace, a group of children is holding a public assembly. One has become a leader and is giving a speech. Others are clapping. No one knows what the meeting is about. In the nursery, the citizens of tomorrow are crying loudly with their sleep disturbed.

Today too there is a march to join to seek rights. Somewhere, one wonders if peace will come after revolution. Maite's son is killed in Kargil. Pokchi dies in childbirth without medicine. But this time the bonus percentage didn't increase, they say. Yes, today too I went to the march.

These days I have become unpublished news. I have fallen into the wastepaper basket of the printing press, with no headline. There are many definitions of life to recite from memory. Life is an incomplete story unedited by swapping one life for another. I tremble in the cold of snow and fly in the warmth of the plains. Having become my own leader, slightly drunk, I deliver speeches to the innocent trees in the forest and find some peace. Knowing I am hungry, to survive this thin life I eat a plain morsel and drink the salty sweat of my warm body to digest it. Pressing my thumbprint, I'm looking for envelopes to send to heaven — so my leader's name won't appear in the slogans written in Dharmaraj's court.

O God! You yourself filled humans with the habit of showing poverty by shrinking their mentality. Stop creating such humans now. Therefore, O merciful one, if I am to be reborn, let it not be among cheating humans but among the birds that fly freely in nature's beautiful dawn, or among the ants that always live in brotherhood and unity. Here in every human settlement there are slogans, marches — to demand rights. A slogan of milk to quench a child's thirst. A slogan of food for the hungry. A slogan of earnings for the poor. A slogan of a grave for the dead. A slogan of farming for the farmer and a slogan of medicine for the sick. Where is the slogan of solutions? Here there is only the proposal…

Year of composition: 1986 (Jhapa, Nepal)

Poor thing! The word "black" is innocent — yet more than innocent, it is one characteristic among types of colors that carries much fault. Our habit of welcoming some and excluding others. Everyone ought to be seen as equal, and so it should be, but our attitude remains the old one. We are quick to criticize but don’t practice it ourselves. We count the centuries up to the twenty-first and twenty-second. If we wish to claim we belong to a scientific age, one shouldn’t blame another — but isn’t one’s own mentality deceiving oneself? We are quick to point out others’ faults but can’t see the buffalo on our own back.

Among the many types of colors, why do we demean only black while not insulting the others? "The mouse eats, the frog gets the beating" — bluntly speaking, we say: "the black goes away, the white comes." If so, how narrow-minded our mentality has become. When the British want to say the same thing, they say "Black is handsome" — but we just say "kale" (blackie). They say "Black beauty" but we say "kali." What can we do — our luck is like that. The most fearsome and powerful goddess is also called Kali — but we add "Maha" ourselves and say Mahakali. Why is Mahakali given blood sacrifice? What mother would eat her own children’s blood? The Bengalis became wise by worshipping Kali, while we place an image of the white goddess Saraswati, decorate it elaborately, spend all night drinking and dancing the twist, and in the morning with tomato-red eyes take the idol and line up on both banks of the Pagal Jhora stream. At first glance it looks like a Saraswati beauty competition. As a result, by the eighth grade we either elope with a girl or fail and start loafing about. Aren’t we hill people’s mentalities somewhat unbalanced?

White, blue, yellow, red and other colors exist, and mixed colors too. Black may be more nourishing in some ways. Otherwise, let’s think: night is black yet we can sleep all night; snow is white — can we stay on it for long? If you put black compost in the field, crops thrive. Black soil is fertile. If there were a race to choose a color, I would choose black. Because night is black and we sleep off the day’s weariness in the kingdom of sweet sleep, floating in dreams, giving the body rest and nourishment. In the dream world we sometimes cry and sometimes laugh. Poet Devkota said: "I forget the world in an embrace, the shy Manorama flees at dawn." The great black night where dogs keep watch truly appears glittering. That is the black night where the cuckoo sings joyfully through the night and the owl calls in every watch.

Elephants are black and also wise. Lawyers wear black robes and adjudicate cases. Train conductors wear black. But don’t be mistaken — not all who wear black are conductors. These days we apply Black Rose to make our hair black, because as long as the hair is black there is said to be great strength in the body — but making hair black doesn’t stop aging. Coal is black, and how many virtues does it have! Black letters written on white paper appear clearly. The light of a firefly in the dark night looks so wonderful. Those who can’t read letters say: "Black letters are as good as a buffalo." Did we tell them not to go to school? On Laxmi Puja night the night is pitch black and we decorate homes and temples with twinkling lights, and the Bhailo women sing: "The golden sari shimmers, Lakshmi Puja glitters." Perhaps if it had been a full moon night, it wouldn’t have mattered as much.

To brighten one’s eyes or look beautiful, it has been fashionable to apply kajal. The words composed by Nepal’s King Mahendra Bikram — "those kajal-lined big eyes became a pearl within my heart" — have been sung by Pakistan’s ghazal singer Ghulam Ali. And we also put a black dot on one side of small children’s foreheads so that no evil eye may fall on them. A black snake, even if small: "Oh my, what a big black snake!" we say. Seeing a black horse in a dream means death, they say — but a black cat’s hair in an amulet tied to the right wrist brings great luck in gambling. A black koel bird coming to the rooftop in the early morning and singing sweetly fills us with emotion. The crow is black — everyone knows. That is why the crow is considered a messenger bird. The poet Devkota was born on that very black moonless night and became great.

One piece of advice — if you’re unmarried and looking for a wife, choose a dark-complexioned one. Because they are generally healthy — you save on doctor’s bills, save on beauty parlor expenses, and there’s no fear of someone else taking her away. Besides, with vermilion at the hair parting and green glass beads at the neck — ah, she looks beautiful just like that! And she won’t have vanity about her looks. Sucking on black native sugarcane cures jaundice. The sugar from it is sweet, and the black juice sweet-dish made from it is very delicious. The pupils of the eyes are black and can see very far.

There is evidence that Lord Shiva, Krishna and Rama were all dark-complexioned. Krishna once asked his mother Yashoda: "Why is Radha fair and why am I black?" The Abyssinians are dark-skinned and courageous. And what more to say — the car’s tires are black and roll on black tarred roads. Travel is possible. The glory of black is immense. It is endowed with all virtues. But we humans don’t like black.

Well, I’ll end this writing with a folk song:

"The black smoke of the train, / We’re black umbrellas, sir — rain or no rain…"

Eyes have a unique quality. A person makes every effort to protect them. Just as a nail cannot exist without flesh, eyes cannot exist without tears. In reality, these two are close friends. The eyes are a very sensitive organ. Perhaps that is why — when dust or specks fly, or when something seems about to land in the eye — people close their eyes, and though a big injury may come elsewhere, if the eye is saved they say: "Oh, just a little — nearly hit the eye!" Poor eyes are innocent and yet get cursed: "Watch carefully when you walk, or else…"

Due to human nature's corruption, one can see people entrusting one's wife to another's gaze. Eye-casting has its own special uses according to the situation. If someone leaves home for a few days, they tell a neighbor: "Brother, keep an eye on my house." A child is advised: "Walk paying attention to the road, child, or you'll fall." Similarly, eyes cannot exist without tears and tears without eyes. Salty water from inside the eyes — tears — appear in human eyes due to various circumstances, but in animals they appear genuinely. Because animals don't know how to pretend and yet shed tears. We cannot answer why.

Tears fall when there is a speck in the eye or smoke — but also when one is angry or very sad; and when one is happy, tears of joy also fall. Tears are a kind of deception on one hand, and pain on the other. It is deception — so some have called it "crocodile tears," because crocodiles shed tears while catching prey. Seeing the emotion-filled crocodile, living beings passing nearby get murdered by its deceptive attack.

The tears of a baby crying in the cradle may be from hunger, thirst or discomfort — but the tears of a life on the gallows are in the form of God, and the tears of those who commit suicide are impulse. Tears of anger are fire that burns oneself. Women cry more often — that is also a womanly quality, as well as the courage to wash away pains with tears and remain duty-bound. Those with the habit of crying often are called "crybabies," and those who cry while eating are called ill-fated.

Tears of farewell can also differ. The tears of a servant driven away may carry feelings of revenge; the tears at a bride's farewell can have mixed reactions — the happiness of going with the husband, and the tear of having become a stranger by leaving one's parents' home. A prisoner's tears comprehend both freedom and repentance; the tear of death-separation is the authentic tear that defines grief's ending. The tears of a stranger who cries upon seeing such realities are imaginary.

Tears that come from laughing too hard are forced; the tears from cutting onions sting; the tears from stumbling are pain; tears from not having enough food and clothing are the symbol of poverty. When people protest before the government, the administration releases tear gas — and the tears from the protesters' eyes are a mixed reactionary response of enthusiasm and spirit.

The tears that come from yawning when sleepy are a sign of relaxation — but the tears of ink from the pen weeping with emotion are literature. Perhaps that is why — when circumstances match — people cry reading books and watching films. Tears are contemplation. Tears are reflection. If you can read them, they are philosophy. This is liquid poetry. The language of tears in the dialects of the eyes is a science that must be deeply studied. The relationship between eyes and tears is profound. I feel the eye is some kind of luminous diamond, through which the dew of emotional consciousness evaporates and falls from the eyelid — that is the tear.

How do I define life? Many have lived it and yet life keeps being born and growing. It is squeezed, tortured, emptied and scarred. How many lives have already burned, and how many have been buried. Desire, anger, greed, attachment, fear, fearlessness, give and take, rich and poor — all is life.

Penance and devotion, trust — all of this is life. And yet again, life. On that same path, at that same crossroads, strewn like scattered biscuits — some are enjoying and some are weeping. Not just suicide but killing others, defamation, theft and then action and re-instigation. Is that life? The life of those who beg is also life. Even more free — no one else's worry. Whatever is given, they eat. Wherever found, they sleep. No rent is paid, no law applies. Rather, from one or two people comes a "poor thing, tsk tsk" — a showy sympathy. A small momentary affection. But they are strangers to all. The difference is this — no one weeps when they die, because they are beggars. "It's fine, they hid their sorrow," they say. No funeral offerings in their name. No prayer to God for their soul's peace. Where is the tribute humans give to each other? Is that life?

"Namaste!" A namaste from an unexpected person to me. I returned it verbally but didn't fold all ten fingers like they did. Because they were drenched in monsoon rain, in tattered, dirty clothes. I was dressed up in modern fashion. Therefore my condescending reply was just pretense. Life — a livelihood, theirs and mine — each acted in their own way.

In comparison: I am civilized, educated, but arrogant. They are poor, helpless, self-respecting. I display each of my activities to others and want to hear praise. I am hungry for respect and cannot tolerate disrespect. I have given nothing to society. I can't either, because I myself am incomplete. Therefore, to complete an incomplete life dependent on others, I continuously set it as bait — like a gambling cowrie — restless time bartering life.

I need money to maintain the body, and the beggar needs money to fill the stomach. After all, we are both beggars. Money is supreme. I watched them for a long time then turned away, thinking: "Drenched in that brackish water, in dirty clothes, having spent countless nights on the cold cement step of some market alley with an empty stomach — how many nights of turning over, having received abuse rather than alms, must that platform know? Why do so many beggars come to the city? There, life is hard to sustain. One must be competitive. So then is that life?" Let's ask the village — there simple people live, self-respecting and honest. They grow their own food and ask the contractor: "What is the price?" The simple man exhausted with sweat doesn't set the price of his own harvest.

The grower sets the price for another — is that life? I asked one person: "What is life?" They said: "Life is trouble." Perhaps they too don't know all the definitions of life — but is life perhaps acting? On this great stage of the world, once the announcer has raised the curtain, before the second scene's curtain falls, you must present your performance to mesmerize the audience — life is that play.

The story of life printed on confused pages of imagination — a journey where you must carry yourself away like a moth in readers' confusion — that is life. Those who don't understand fate's handwriting say fate has written it. Those who read destiny in amulets stamp red ink themselves, making themselves masters. The cat that goes to Kashi knows the weariness of life's journey, and the mouse that survives and returns knows fate's salvation.

The butter that comes out of mortar-churned curd, melted over a low flame to pure ghee — always granular and full of fragrance — is that life? Those who drink say drinking itself is the pleasure; ascetics say life is penance. Call it aspiring for a prize or addicted to luxury. Or is life an argument? After all, humans are greater — because humans can become God. If every human becomes God, the earth will become heaven. Yes, perhaps that is life. Neither does anyone understand another's life, nor does one understand oneself.

Those who die without understanding life have perhaps failed the interview in heaven and gone to hell. This experience too is not as one imagined. Unable to build one's own character oneself — shall we call it a landslide or a confluence? How then to look in the mirror of life. Is that then fraud? Is that life?

Worldly bondage is marriage; after that, the status it gives is husband and wife. The attraction between two genders, mutual liking and the union of hearts — that is the meaning of wise, willing consent that is marriage. After this, the oath sworn at the deity's shrine to live together and die together. One heart two heartbeats — or two hearts one heartbeat. Both are the identifiers of husband and wife.

Describing the qualities found in a good husband and wife, they are also called two wheels of one vehicle. For the wife, the husband — and for the husband, the wife — both are unfulfilled joyful moments of life. Here the need for each other's support is felt. The journey of life must be adorned for a long time. Children are the attachment of husband and wife. To raise and nurture them is the moral responsibility of both. Both must navigate the river of problematic life as fellow sailors. The wife is also called "ardhangini" (half body) — and if husband and wife are half-body, they are also the confluence of two rivers.

The meaning of husband and wife is the construction of a home — the beginning. It is said that after marriage, so-and-so now has a home. That is, there is unshakeable trust that the two will live and earn together. Whether the home is mud-built or brick-built. What does it matter if you rent? Without love, even wealth in a palace is poverty. Better to live in a shack with love, for then life is successful. But if the characters of husband and wife are not good, how long will it take for that marital home to break? There is a saying: "Wealth is lost, nothing is lost. Health is lost, something is lost. But character is lost, everything is lost." Therefore, building character is the wall of life that protects from society's evil eye.

If both have transparent thoughts and pure feelings toward each other, perhaps they won't notice time passing. It is good fortune to live together from youth through old age. The separation of old age and the distance within the bond of love from yesterday is a horizon that can be seen but not reached. This condition is very pitiable and sad. This world requires leaving some mark or trace. Eating and wearing is not all of life. Spending some valuable time selflessly toward society — through this, one can live even after death. That is why I recalled the lines from Devkota's poem: "May the season of life keep ringing the heart's field — may it not go fallow — may the rain keep falling, pure white conscious water."

In life, there is one subject no one can win — death. This is the truth. Even a bulb needs two separate phases to light. Savitri saved Satyavan from death. Because here there was love. Husband and wife — those who have exchanged their identity as relatives — a stranger cannot fulfill that role. Here the pleasures and inner pains that last for ages are shared equally between each other.

The bond of romance becomes even tighter. May life become full of love, and may this liquid love become wine. The more the thirst, the sweeter the wine of love — but not the destructive liquor of a distillery that would mock love. A girl and a boy's romance is the accepted entry into society. Every spring new flowers bloom and every Baishakh new buds sprout. The world is perishable, but a human is a conscious creature. How a person should be — that should be for humans to decide themselves.

In Sanskrit there is a saying: "Purvajanma sukyo nari, purvajanma sukyo dhan" — that is, based on the earnings of a previous life, wealth is determined — and whoever was the wife in the previous life is the wife in this life too. It is still the custom to call women the Lakshmi of the home. A soft-spoken wife with good character is Lakshmi; the husband is the senior member who resolves problems and provides protection. Women are universally respected — we call everything from earth-mother to rivers and goddesses "mother." Today our women are still not sufficiently educated. Moral education is lacking. The word "mother" is very important. From the lap to raising children — all of this is possible through the mother. When one woman is educated, the whole family benefits.

The relationship of husband and wife does not begin from birth. It is a bond tied voluntarily in youth. This relationship, when death separates it, brings the identities of widower or widow. Even if death separates the relationship, if willing, one may remarry. Once the marital life is broken, the pain of joy-sorrow's experience and the agony of separation is lodged in the chest. That wound cannot be fully soothed by remarriage, but only the necessity of practical life is fulfilled.

The inner pain is burning. Fire without smoke — when the dew of the mind evaporates, sometimes the eyes are emptied in memory. Separation + separation = a kind of union, yet the pains of life's experience become memory and refresh in imagination. Happiness is not just having much wealth and eating well. Bad behavior in a good house is like a waking dream. But the romantic love before husband and wife's separation is happiness. Even if wealth runs out, love has supported. That is why Sita left the comfort of the palace and went to the forest with Rama.

The pyre — a strange yet sorrowful stack of raw timber on the riverbank where the five-elemental body is cremated, intermingled with tears. On the day affection was severed, after burning and forgetting and turning away in that merciless instant — you who create sorrow for all and then laugh watching others weep, you scoundrel. You, the fire called hunter, the burning pyre, who can never be investigated or held to account.

You roast and eat the flesh of all kinds of people in your fierce, roaring heat — vegetarians, meat-eaters, the lame, the crippled, the old, the righteous, the sinful, the young, the beautiful, the ugly, the healer, the priest, the scholar, the king, the pauper, the wise, the fool — you have eaten them all. Yet not one belch of satisfaction, reeking of human flesh, has come from you. You still flicker, unsatiated. You ate all my ancestors one by one. Like a cat pouncing on a mouse — don't pounce on me just yet. Because I still have something to leave behind for this world. The world gave me shelter for so many days. I must repay that good.

For now, go — and listen: burn those who are past usefulness, but don't devour anyone indiscriminately. You ate the mothers of millions of infants, gleefully consumed the fathers of crores of descendants. You widowed so many by eating their husbands, and orphaned so many by eating their guardians.

Laws were written in stacks. Police posts deployed, prisons built for punishment, handcuffs and chains made — all for criminals. But no one brought law upon you, nor held you in custody. From sacred chants to the last, you chewed up even the shriveled skin of the dying. Neither fear of dharma nor karma. Festering wounds, rotting, decayed — you ate it all with relish, without disgust. Hearing "Om Mani Padme Hum," without grasping its essence, you turned corpses to ash, and listening to the melodious gyaling flute, you made loved ones weep in torrents. Mercilessly, in blaze after blaze, you turned them all to ash along the riverbanks.

By now the ashes should have made mountains, the shards of bone formed cliffs — yet amazingly, you destroyed them all. How did you incinerate everything? Some brought firewood, added ghee — but you, laughing and joking, ignoring all pleas of the weeping, became intoxicated. How sweet the juicy flesh of the young, swallowed with salty gulps of tears, eating while sitting on riverbank stones. The butter-soft young bodies of small children — incinerated in an instant. Old grandmothers who said they'd live a hundred years, grandfathers who walked on into their nineties — all right, take them. But the little ones — how much more they wanted to live — that is your nature, you who devour the innocent.

You roam the villages, lusting to cause partings, slinking like a jackal. You creep through fences and porches. You think the solitude of the riverbank should never be empty. When saliva comes to your mouth — without revulsion, shaving the head of someone in grief — in simple white cloth, teeth chattering in the bitter cold of Magh, you perform the funeral rites and bestow the name of orphan. You ate the husbands of wives who had vowed to live and die together. You shameless pyre — your name is riverbed. The place where night creatures play, jackals, dogs, and vultures rejoice. You are known by inauspicious names: cemetery, cremation ground, mortuary. It is indeed true — your name is Chita. As you worry (chitaunu) others, so you act — and you are Chita.

A farewell washed with reverent, heartfelt tears — "the pyre," an uncomfortable bed of heaped firewood. At the cremation ground, a pyre five to seven layers high of various woods — chilaune, kutus, uttis, phalledo — to cremate one five-elemental body. Additional materials: sal incense, agarbatti, ghee, mustard, kerosene, and even tires. All mourners and well-wishers share an emotional moment that day. Words of condolence — "poor thing, alas, tsk tsk" — and "matti," the mourner's moral support. As tribute, three pieces of wood as samidha, and thirty-six handfuls of water for the peace of the departed. Offering ahuti on the pyre and praying to God is the duty of the mourner.

Are we perhaps today forgetting our customs, culture, and ancestral identity, entangled in foreign fashions and tasteless language, forcing ourselves into ultra-modernity and forgetting reality? We humans of twenty-first-century scientific thinking — shouldn't we advance while preserving our traditions and on the basis of intellect? On one hand we consider ourselves civilized, while on the other we live in a polluted environment — short-lived and sick. It seems the time has come to think whether we are truly educated or not.

Trafficking of daughters, kidnapping of children, terrorism causing explosions everywhere. A saint blesses: "May you live long" — but due to our own actions, those blessings have become impossible for us. Other creatures have not entered the Kali Yuga — so why is Kali affecting only humans? Regarding forest resources — humans themselves are the cause of their destruction. Protecting forests is our collective responsibility. One person needs eleven trees to survive — how many trees are needed for crores of people? We know forests are our life, yet we neglect them. As a result, we have invited global warming.

In holy Bharat, sages in tapovanas knew the past, present, and future through penance — the four Vedas, Upanishads, medicine, and science were created by them. What have we done in comparison? The Varaha Purana states: trees serve as fuel, as offerings in fire-rituals, as cool shade for travelers, as shelter for birds, and as medicine through their leaves, trunk, roots, and bark — five major functions. Yet human society remains a mute spectator while forest resources are destroyed. The Hitopadesh states: the tree's root is Brahma, the bark is Vishnu, the branches are Shiva, and in every leaf is the name of God — salutations to this tree-king. Growing medicinal plants is growing medicine itself.

Protecting wildlife has given us recognition. Snake stones, tiger skin, musk, bear bile, rhino horn — these are our natural treasures. But today, for the profit of a few, their numbers dwindle toward extinction. Humans themselves must take moral responsibility for the world's heating. Today, factory smoke, forest destruction, toxic fumes from bombs, burning of pollutants — all damage nature's purity, drying up water sources. The great crisis before us is global warming: daily increase in heat, decrease in snowfall on peaks, sudden weather changes, heavy rainfall causing floods, droughts reducing crops, extinction of plants and creatures. To some extent, we all need love for nature. The protection of the environment is the protection of ourselves. Otherwise, the world itself will become the common pyre for all of us.

A dog is not merely a domestic animal — it can be considered a member of the family. Its watchfulness and loyalty, obedience and great contentment toward its owner — this is the dharma of a dog. Though an animal, it is trustworthy and brave when needed. In some ways it has a more ideal character than humans, with a sharp sense of smell. Why such a fine animal is called “dog” (kukur) I don't know — but when angry, people abuse each other with the same word. Whatever the case — this is a fanciful account drifting that direction.

From the first spring to this spring, I hadn't even noticed that our dog had run away. No one told me. That I didn't notice for so many days is my own heedlessness. I couldn't even distinguish my own dog's bark from another's. His habit? He'd absolutely refuse stale rice but leap up at fresh food. Needed meat at every meal. He had a very big appetite, that Tibetan-type dog — brought as a pup from a sheep pen, he'd never left home. He barked loudly, never tolerated jackals, but growled fiercely at people, not letting them set foot in the yard. Those in the know came with something in hand — when he saw a gift he wagged his tail; if you came empty-handed, he'd act like he'd bite you out of a year's grudge. Very black and strong, long ears, a bushy tail, sharp eyes. Though rough-looking, an agile body. His name had been given in English — “Tiger.” He'd only get up when called by that name and shown food.

He'd like to be around the village's female dogs but would try to bite the males — yet take turns gnawing on bones they brought. A dog of very strange temperament. Sometimes he'd do nothing even when you passed right next to him; then, feeling secure going by again, he'd suddenly snap. Other times, expecting him to snap and going quietly, he'd turn out to be fast asleep.

Barking all night and disturbing sleep — the villagers complained, but that was his nature. From newborns to white-haired elders, apparently no one was comfortable with him. Even when I was grown, people wouldn't walk alone out of fear of such dogs. People said: “Your dog has gone mad — kill it, otherwise it might bite. A thousand-rupee fine per tooth.” Perhaps so, but how to catch and kill it? No order to shoot; keeping a gun without a licence wasn't allowed. Can't just kill it either — because it was so loyal. Since raised from a pup, I had never once hit it with a stick. So I wrote “Beware of Dog” and had it put near the entrance gate. But by doing this, many guests coming to visit — uncles, ritual-fathers, in-laws — began to be afraid. At a child's rice-feeding ceremony, no invited guests came — but regretfully, the dog wasn't even home. I had written it only so they'd be careful about rabies. But things turned out differently. On the very day of Kag Tihar, a newspaper carried the notice: “People are warned not to go to such-and-such area — a dog has gone mad there.” I had to go to Calcutta on important business and couldn't read the paper.

On Lakshmi Puja I arrived home, decorated the house, lit candles, burst firecrackers. Now the deusi groups would come, we'd chat — but a whole group of women turned back from that direction. No deuse came either. Tihar was very dull. The day after Bhai Tika, the search began. Hills and slopes, cliffs, streams, rivers, riverbeds, lanes of the town. The police station was informed, news broadcast on local radio. A reward of one thousand and one rupees was offered with a mobile contact number. Even after so many days, no information came from anywhere.

Then one day there was commotion around the house at night. The next morning I had the good fortune to read the paper — with a colourful picture: “Body of lost dog recovered.” After that I removed the “Beware of Dog” sign too. Even so, vexed as I was, the habit of keeping a dog couldn't be given up. A puppy was found for just two hundred and ten rupees — stolen, as it turned out. “Quick, take it — if they see you they'll kill you.” Whatever the case — I didn't need a thing, I needed a dog. It grew bigger. Eating and silently sleeping is a dog's dharma. When the fur on the front of his face covers his eyes, you can't tell whether he's watching or sleeping. Thinking he's asleep and going near, he snaps — thinking he'll snap and going quietly, he's fast asleep.

Suddenly the postman handed over a beige envelope. I tore it open and read quickly. The post-mortem report of the previous dog had arrived: “The dog died of rabies.”

In reality, dreams can be said to be an exhibition of pictures seen by the soul in sleeping state, about subjects experienced or desired. I am not a dream expert researching this.

This dream is a realistic portrayal of imaginary characters in events that have occurred. Human society is narrow-minded. To remove this narrow-mindedness the heart must be vast and expansive. A vast heart can accommodate both society and nation — but in a constricted mind one exploits another, and a class is formed of honest but simple people who can barely sustain their lives.

Here the dream is a pregnant orphan daughter. Her birth comes this way: "The birth of a daughter is a defeat of karma" — from the categorization the previous generation made, exploitation begins at birth.

After many years hoping for a child, the elder wife had been sent to her maternal home and the younger wife brought. One day the younger wife quietly told her husband: "Somehow, last night in a dream I saw rice scattered and cucumber seeds."

A tractor driver of old, carrying the desire to become the father of a son — the tractor jolting back and forth on the road for three or four hours a day, smoke billowing from the chimney, the puttering sound. His total aspirations in life: a yearly bonus, Sunday holidays, and retirement gratuity. Time flies like chimney smoke; the body's efficiency drains like oil. "The new sahib has come — stricter even than before. Overtime now too. The company is making losses." His wife, lacking nutritious food, looks very weak. Medicine being given. He wished: "Maybe this time I'll get to be a father. If it's a son, I'll put him to work. If we keep a cow and a few goats, the school fees would be covered." Just then someone passing said: "From tomorrow the estate is closed — someone beat up the sahib." He had just been writing future plans on the pages of his mind — and a great flood arrived, washing away everything.

The sign that food is ready comes from the hearth. A meal corresponding to earnings — each grain tagged with the price of sweat — but there is joy: after eating one gets to rest. And another happiness: a child is growing in the womb. Husband and wife, tired out, ate as much as they liked and after washing the dishes spent time with neighbors in light gossip. The night is long. The lamp oil has run out — it's ten o'clock. Both fall into the embrace of sleep. Quiet spreads. Except for the barking of a dog, the nights are silent, and in thin hope, the dream hums softly.

The descendants of ancestors who cleared the fertile land of Darjeeling for tea cultivation from around 1856 — worn down by the tea gardens for generations — may not own land, but at least the company has given them work and a place to live. "If a son is born, I'll educate him to supervisor level. If a daughter, after raising her, even if another takes her, I'll make her literate." Unable to sleep, turning over, adjusting the pillow. Must sleep tonight — and must drive the tractor tomorrow.

With the estate closed and the stomach compelling them to find work elsewhere, the couple enters the city. Yesterday the driver of an automatic tractor, today the driver of a hand-pulled cart. The pushcart's weight barely held by the shoulder, in a rented room, silence fills with sighs. He explains to his wife: "Those who work hard get poorer, those who cheat become rich. We tell the truth and they look down on us. They don't even take our namaste but accept the two-fingered hello of those who claim importance." Today's earnings from carrying water: four hundred and eighty rupees. One kilo of goat meat and two kilos of basmati rice bought, they enter the home. Tonight their love-bond's history is refreshed — and tonight a flower has bloomed in the lap. I too woke with a start. Ah! What a sweet dream.

"Everything in nature contains all the power of nature. Everything is made of one hidden stuff." (Unknown)

Nature? Yes, that very nature. The one that was beautiful but is becoming ugly. How much and what kind of nature, and why nature? Positive or negative? Artificial or real? Within every nature's breast — romantic and materialist humans — and again, nature at the mercy of humans? In the pupils of watching eyes, living maps of various kinds and unforgettable art — what was and still is. The forest-grove where the poet sways blooming. The vast empire containing all the scales, notes, rhythm, and melody of music. Gazing into the vast dominion of consciousness, thirsty glimpses that never fully satisfy — the delicious meal that is nature. Even eaten continuously, no indigestion. The warm lap of a mother's love — even when sat upon, jostled, or troubled, it gives warmth. Yes, in the warm nest of that very lap is my humble home.

Calling me, wiping my tears, bewildering me — this mother. Sometimes blooming into flowers, sometimes speaking as song, then flying away. In Chaitra-Baishakh, as the silk-cotton fluff. Tireless dance as birds on branches — yet the beat hasn't missed. No rest — nights don't see eyelids close. Neither laughing freely with joy, nor weeping with sobbing in sorrow. In every cuckoo-throat rise the sweet mountain-style tunes. The bamboo bows its head in shyness — the wind's anklet and the jingle of foot-ornaments in the thickets. How magnificently beautiful and how very calm you are, O mother.

What shall I adorn you with? What do I have to give? I disturbed you for so many days without understanding the feeling or meaning. Like an unlit hearth is your lap, mother. I am delighted with your fragrance. You have kept me so very happy — what repayment of your goodness can I ever make? How much can I fit into written words? You fall with waterfalls and flow as waves in rushing streams. My pen's verbal sparks are scattering, gasping, unable to find enough words. Intoxicated, the feelings keep nagging at me. My desires devour shamelessly, relishing whatever you serve.

Are you magic or mother? Enchanting spells overcoming and leading me somewhere. I am a powerful elephant not knowing my own mind. As a mahout with a charming rope, you drag my neck and take my disorderly behaviors into some solitary peaceful house and explain. You have taught me to dance with anklet bells tied to my feet — but the beat keeps slipping. Hundreds of eyes of spectators watch from in front of the stage in this great theater. I walk with unsteady steps, descending toward a precipice — sometimes going as a boatman, seeking a shore while grinding stones — only at your signal, like a navigator in the night looking at the North Star.

If a tide doesn't come to the sea and the storm doesn't toss me, I set out having spoken auspicious words at an auspicious moment. I am turning myself to ash and asking to bloom again from a bud. I will be a true son of the country and fight again. Even if I lose this time, I will win in the next life. When their laps are empty, mothers grieve — but why do you not worry, why do you not feel the pain? You have become tattered and scattered, O Nature. Will you not become a great flood, bearing all this? Like a bride circling in the wedding pavilion — circling and circling — you are beautiful after all. Your own adornment is being undone and remade, yet a garland of words is just one offering. "Perfect beauty is its own sole end." (Unknown)

The words were not enough for me — so I will scatter all my pen's ink across the page and call it modern art. Let the critics be astonished. Let them pick from ink-drops and write your incomparable glory, and let those yet to be born take care. You are fire gathered of sparks, still burning. From each evaporated particle, becoming a droplet and raining again — you are age, ornament, and medicine. As far as I can see you, I will press you inside me and sleep the eternal sleep.

I dream from the surface of clouds: from the shores of ponds you were flying as steam. In a sunset's red glow you were all sweat, angry, like Durga with a sword — roaring in wrath. You thundered and made our souls flee. The human settlements panicked. Landslides wracked your body; inside them, screaming humans writhed. Volunteers rescued the old, the children, the women. Even small streams were raging. And O mother — again every morning with that same smile, peeking from the horizon, arriving plump on the treetop. Washing the gunpowder-smelling dirty air, blowing the fresh breeze of morning vigor at me. May you never become ugly — and finally, one sentence: Mother Nature is the priceless prasad of life, and anyone can partake of it.