A beginning in Datia District

 It seems, thousand years have passed since I wrote a blog. Spent time writing novel, script, stories for web-series, but missed on writing a blog. Thoughts appeared and disappeared, came and vanished, but I failed to express here. Blog writing has been cathartic to me. It is a medium where I express unhindered, unchained and unplanned. There is no reason why I should miss this enviable space of freedom. 

A new, challenging journey has commenced in my life. On 28th Feb, 2024, I was posted as Superintendent of Police of Datia, a district in Chambal region of Madhya Pradesh, once infamous for dacoits. I joined on 29th Feb evening. What a choice of the day, a leap year day, to return only after 4 years. 

In yesterdays, the stories of this Chambal area was favourite for the film makers. Horse riding dacoits were portrayed as barbaric, robinhood and what not. Today, there are no registered dacoits anymore. However, the mindset of people remains complaining and full of vengeance. The caste polarisation is perceptible. Registering counter criminal cases to settle scores, dragging people into conflict with law, and even planning self inflicted injuries to get case registered against the opponent, sometimes leading to deaths of own kith and kin in erred planning, remains order of the day. Getting a gun license is the most coveted life goal and showcasing it in public a status symbol. Women still are denied the space they rightfully deserve. Might of the gun and muscle power rules the roost, if not literally, at least mentally. Men do not prefer their women folk to venture out and decide on their desire, hence the conflict persists. 

As a natural fallout, women issues became my primary concern. On 2nd March, I instructed all police station in-charge to give a facelift to their premises and make it perceptibly less threatening. On 4th, I verbally ordered to start women tour to police stations, so that the image and perception changes. On 8th, celebrating the International Women's day, the instruction was formalised in black and white. This took off well and continues. On 10th, recognising women's day, a programme was organised where four successful ladies shared their journey and motivated the audience, which was around 300. It was all women on the stage, and Q&A format was adopted. This kept the session engaging and spirited. This was first of its kind in Datia, I was told. Nevertheless, will these small efforts bring the desired change in the society, that I look for?

What I have learnt after working with Bedia community is that perseverance, persistence and perpetuity are the key tools to bring change in a society. These big terms do not dampen my spirit, as there is a success story of Samvedna to emulate. But what is challenging is the team that I have in Datia i.e. police personnels. 99 percent of them hail from the same area, so they carry the same mindset that I have to fight against. There is imminent need to sensitise them first. Another challenge is do away with the tradition of police to deliberately keep the community at bay, as the practical financial and psychological benefits accrued due to the trust deficit is immense and no one intends to lose that gain. 

It is not what you look at; It is how you look at it. 

It is not what you think; it is how you present . 

It is not what they like; It is how you perceive. 

Eyes and ears are shallow for they are influenced and shadowed by past experience. To learn anything, one has to unlearn first, or at least be open minded to accept a different inflow.

When we talk of change, we try to challenge the existing equilibrium. Always what looks as harmonious ambience is not necessarily beautiful from inside. Normalisation of compromise of rights cannot be always ignored on the pretext of traditionally accepted norms for generations. Era alters the need, desire, perception and equations. Current era is advocating change at a bullet speed. A small lag gets translated into a huge gap between different societies. Digital space promises to bridge that gap virtually, but in reality this transition phase is causing debilitating effect on the mind of youth, leading to confusion and frustration. 

Datia is a place, which is struggling to catch up. Due to presence of Sidh peeth of Peetambara Mai (Goddess) and Dhumavati Mai (Goddess) in Datia there is a huge inflow of elite crowd from across country. Similarly, there is are plethora of Jain temples on a small hill at Sonagir, which again attracts rich and elite Jain community from all places. But hardly this crowd stays in Datia. Jhansi, Gwalior and Orcha being close, people move out to these places to stay. Hence, the floating population does not really impact the culture of Datia, the way they should. Ratangarh is another Goddess temple of high reverence, but is considered to be flocked by rural visitors from vicinity, perpetuating the traditional mindset. 

It is too early and to be honest a manifestation of arrogance for me to claim that my observation, calculation and analysis is perfectly right. I wanted to pen down my early experience, so that at later stage I can evaluate the change in perception and any impact of my efforts during my stint here. 

An ode from a daughter to her Mother

 

An ode from a daughter to her Mother

 

                                                                                                Dr. Veerendra Mishra, IPS  

     10-08-2022

 

 

 

Ma,

 

Today on my birthday,

I remembered you in silence for two minutes,

And I was overwhelmed with unbearable sadness;

Tears in my eyes, today I realise,

you were the most innocent soul in our family,

so unappreciated,

so taken for granted,

so beautiful and so delicate.

 

Ma,

 

When I remembered you for couple of minutes on my birthday,

I found your unbridled love and fragile existence,

which was overtaken by the grandeur of our pragmatism;

After your passing,  

you were forgotten,

because all you ever had to offer was pure love and affection,

not the worldly wisdom that is unfortunately valued the most.

 

Ma,

 

love of mother is forever assumed as a right,

You were the real beating heart of the family;
I miss that all,

the taste of your finger, which I licked as a kid when you fed,

that innocent walk which I followed in my childhood,

that turned into a limp as you grew;

But, alas! as you slowed we paced ahead,

but still your love never waned

and the spectrum of benevolence endlessly spread.

 

Ma,

 

How we had two contrasting personalities at home,

two persons, completely different,

You and papa;

Both had experiences and expressions galore,

but huge rift in worldview;

there were contradictions in manifestation of affection,

even the definition of meaning of life did not match;
However, you kept afloat the spirit,

that you were there, and meant for each;

Despite the differences in personality and character,

you nourished and kept the bond intact,

without glorifying the sense of sacrifice,

or ever saying that marriage is just a compromise.

 

 

Ma,

 

Didn’t you ever desire to fly, high?

You must have certainly been frustrated,

for your clipped wings, gagged voice,

shackled legs and for being handcuffed,

but we missed to take note of your wriggle,

we never believed you had a voice, wings, legs and arms,

perhaps because you never wanted it to make evident;

You were the most underrated, undermined and marginalised;

regrettably, I realise it now when I have stepped into your shoes,

the revelation is little late,

as you are settled in your heavenly abode;

I wonder if mothers find the safest haven in the clouds,

Or they still fail to live in peace looking from there at us.

 

 

Ma,

 

I want to cry soft, cry hard,

For I want it to make it reach and resonate in the skies

and be heard by you who cried all life for us,
I want to cry my heart out

and run my tears dry;

I want my soul to be drenched in love for you,

who soaked me with unconditional, relentless love,

all throughout your existence;

Give me one chance to tell you what you meant for me,

I lost the chance in the journey of making myself,

At least let me regret in person.

 

 

Oh Ma,

 

Come over for a while,

let me tell how precious you are,

how your innocence bred my wisdom,

how your silence gave me my voice,

how your tears made me brave,

how your soft voice made me forgiving,

how your touch made me loving,

how your presence created a sense of safety,

how your aura instilled confidence,

and how your tender look gave me the grace,

I am all what you made me,

Please come and see your creation.

 

Oh Ma,

 

Let us decide how I get the second chance I yearn,

Either you come back so that I can love you as you did,

or let me come to love you there,
I am not your mirror image but certainly your shadow,

I have now taken the shape that you were once,

which a shadow always does,

But, no doubt a dark, poor replica

I am proud that what I saw in you then is what I am now,

What I detested hitherto is what I love most now,

Oh Ma, please give me a second chance,

Please come back,

Let me once hug you tight and say,

Ma, I love you and miss you all-time.

 

 

 

I am a paragon of love

 

I am a paragon of love

 

 

I am a paragon of love

Fluttering my wings joyously

Hopping from a tree to another

Flying around carelessly

Spreading affection around

Perching on branches,

playing with leaves and flowers

 

 

Nectars flow ceaselessly

I burn my tongue picking food

Hurt my throat singing loud

When I wail for any loss

my tears wash away in rain

no regrets I have for my life

for I am a paragon of love

Fluttering my wings joyously

 

 

Suddenly, I find myself caged

the life is boring and stale

I am asked to speak when I am silent

and my songs are forcefully muted

not enough space to spread my wings

My woeful cry is mistaken for a song

I am smiled at when I am in sorrow

Turned to be a puppet, tied to a string

 

 

Can’t dive to eat anything that I like

The blossom is not visible anymore

Fake life surrounds my captors

Nature is lost and unnaturally they live

Who never watched me on their balcony

Display me to the world as a trophy

I smile only when I pity them

Am sorry, now I pity them so often

 

I can see the sky once again

A pious soul bailed me out

It came in the shape of small fingers

Giggling with affection set me free

My tears rolled out with his beam

When I tried to kiss, he ran away

Pretending he did not owe me anything

 

 

Even I noticed it for the first time

That the colour of clouds changed with time

Morning and evenings are orange

Sometimes they turn grey, black and white

My love for all grew manifold

Because life is not just me but we

I want to play the role of my liberator

Create around me many more

paragons of joy and paragons of love

Why do we take life seriously?

 

Why do we take life seriously?

 

 

 

Why do we take life so seriously?

Do I have to be so serious?

That I forget the first time,

when my child enfolded his small fingers around my pinky,

It was all muscles and ligaments and no bone had shaped;

His smile churned my stomach;

His eyes met my eyes and they twitched in glory;

His baby step covered miles in distance, in life and in memory;

He threw his hands in air believing in security I never promised;

I laughed so hard when I bled with the prick from his first tooth;

Now I strain to live those days in my head.

 

 

Memories fade or get replaced,

Then he grew to be a toddler,

It was all sermon and lessons;

I was the superman and Godly for him;

He could be on top of the world, flying high on my feet;

A kiss could heal the worst of pain;

Lullaby and bedtime stories were concocted to convenience,

But they brought merry and exuberance all around;

He could sleep on my shoulder all evening,

And it never ached;

The giggle over the pranks still reverberates.

 

How did I forget?

The teenage was rebellious;

Generation gap was counted and resounded;

For him my techno skill always wanted an update;

Questions asked by me were offshoot of conservatism;

To sound liberal and up to the mark,

Compromises I made were in hundreds;

I lost my originality to showoff being original;

His teenage was my forties,

Forty was naughty or teenage more tense,

I kept guessing all the while though it made no sense.

 

Gradually life became more and more serious,

And the life became more and more forgetful;

It Intrigues me time and again,

When is it that I am living life for myself?

I have lost the smile on my face,

Easily overlook the smile on others,

and have become the reason to destroy smile of many;

Work sucked everything that was personal,

profession was to dance to the tune of bosses’ music,

passion took a backseat and instructions drove actions;

A cost that I have to pay for taking life seriously.

 

I Walk on the street mindlessly;

Fail to greet people crossing by;

Miss out on the excitement of kids playing in the vicinity,

and rallying of the pets in the park;

Never remember how many steps I walk,

as life is governed by different gadgets;

Relations are built and survived on screen;

That touch and warmth is difficult for me to recall,

For everything is played in the mind,

reality has been taken over by virtual world;

How do I undo all the misses I am experiencing?

Perhaps a cost for taking life seriously.

 

I so often miss now the fragrance of the flower in the park,

and buzzing of the bees, during my morning and evening stroll;

I have turned deaf to chirping of the birds,

and blind to their hop from one branch to another;

I forget to enjoy the vision of the embracing of clouds,

taking all shapes of imagination;

The budding of new leaves in different plants,

with a bucket full of hues of green;

Butterflies and dragon fly hovering over,

and the wasp hives clinging on the corner of the wall;

How each year I let everything pass unnoticed,

a cost for taking life seriously.

 

All time is consumed planning for future,

and ruminating about the past,

neglecting the present moment,

and living in a land of unknown,

mercilessly brutal to bliss and love,

Where togetherness is synonymous to loneliness,

Solitude is a word for depression,

Where in a crowd I find myself alone,

For none care for me but for themselves,

An ecosphere alien to one and all,

For that is the cost paid for taking life seriously.

 

Suddenly it triggered a thought process,

If life had been equally serious with me,

then my wishes would ride over the wings,

take my dreams to culmination,

aspirations would blossom into petals of red rose,

and become envy of every other flower;

ambition would be a cakewalk,

and spite of others blow away as dust in the storm;

I would love and be loved meaningfully;

When I would laugh tears would meander on the cheeks;

No expression would be shackled,

under the burden of who would think what;

It would be freedom all around,

As life would be just life,

A beautiful life as it is,

A gifted time to everyone,

Packed in surprises, all worthy to explore,

right from the childhood.

 

But, alas!

I don’t know how to not take life seriously;

For seriousness is what I have been taught,

Since I was born in this beautifully distorted world;

For what I see is what I have not to see,

And what I don’t see is what I have to believe;

For the eyes are mine, but the vision is someone else’s,

For I paint but the colours are decided by others;

Every drop of blood running in the veins,

Is directed and controlled remotely,

They get confused and lose the purpose,

And the body starts harbouring inexplicable ailments;

A cost so dearly paid for taking life seriously;

It would end with the smoke emanating,

from burning of skin and flesh,

with evaporation of blood and cracking of bones,

to be honest it would go now only with me;

I still yearn to find a learned to guide,

who can make me realize,

to take this beautiful life the way it is,

A gifted time to everyone,

Packed in surprises, all worthy to explore;

Amen!

Celebrate life in true sense

 

Celebrate life in true sense

 

Whole night I burnt like a charcoal

In the wee hours’ amber is still alive

The loose ashes glided all around

Letting everyone know that the fire is on

 

How do I douse that fire in me

Icewater seemed to be the best option

I wanted to soak as fast as possible

And also see that no blisters remain

For scars are scary

But here people had come to see me burn

So, my wish is no one’s wish

I had to burn

 

 

People moaned when I burnt

But none tried to stop the fire

I was of no use as soul had exited my body

Now I was a piece of earth ready to mingle

But, throughout life I had nourished this body

Not the Soul

For we go behind visible and neglect the invisible

Though the strength comes from invisible source

 

I took a long leap and carried myself little far

My family who wailed the most would understand, I thought

I dropped as a flake of ash at my son’s feet unnoticed

And he continued to wail on the shoulder of his sibling

A drop of tear soaked me finally and put me to rest

I kept mingling with mother earth all the while

Don’t know why playing with mud is called as,

you are soiled

And not projected as you are rooted or grounded

Is soil not our place of origin?

 

 

I wondered why was I fighting to be revived

Whom I loved had come to terms the moment my pyre was lit

They had arranged everything about my last rites

Oh, Yes, I recall that we as family had sat together and planned for everyone

I was to retire early to celebrate life in true sense

And for others, the path to future was so vivid and beautiful

So, I wanted to live to celebrate life in true sense

And here I let myself down and that is what I regret

 

Course correction is now no more an option

I can’t even tell people what I should have done

My bucket list kept piling up at a faster pace than deletion

Now everything burnt with me,

Every chip of ash being my items in the bucket list

Floating around begging to be fulfilled

But, alas, no one could hear me nor they could read it

I was happy though, as that drop from my son had quenched me

Finally, I mingled, dissolved into a world,

where aspirations and ambitions,

envy and prejudices have no space

All get equal opportunity to grow and flourish with mother earth

I am sure now I am going to celebrate life in true sense.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What if White had been black, and black had been white

 

What if white had been black

And black had been white

Would it be same on left, and right?

Or would same things be wrong and right

What if white had been black

And black had been white

 

 

Would crows become prettier

And ducks become strange

Would wicked heart be black

and young get aged

would the printed books look different?

and the cloud mean the same

 

What if white had been black

And black had been white

Would it be same on left, and right?

Or would same things be wrong and right

What if white had been black

And black had been white

 

Would the glamour of white skin going to die?

Would black become a symbol of celebration

And white to mourn

Would everything fair and fairy be white

Can sunlight give darkness

And nights be bright

Does this change everything whatever is in sight

 

 

What if white had been black

And black had been white

Would it be same on left, and right?

Or, would same things be wrong and right

What if white had been black

And black had been white

 

Would Angels still wear white

And the demons black

Would white be still the symbol of purity

And still would heart bleed white

whitewash may actually mean a black wash

has convincing lie to be white

and gory tales dark

Does this change everything whatever is in sight

 

What if white had been black

And black had been white

Would it be same on left, and right?

Or would same things be wrong and right

What if white had been black

And black had been white

 

Who decided on what is white?

And what is black

If whoever christened it changes it

Would the world be better, peaceful and harmonious?

Can racism, hatred vanish from the earth

Let us try once and change white into black

And black into white

And forget about what is wrong and what is right.

The burden of being a good Samaritan

It is not easy to be a good Samaritan, is what COVID teaches you. The burden is heavy, and there is fair chance that you may break your back, neck, lose your sanity and fall depressed.

Two stories run parallel during this tough time. One, of the devils, evils who try to make maximum of others vulnerability and exploit them to the hilt. There is black marketing of the drugs, the beds in the hospitals are being sold at exorbitant prices, in fact surreptitiously auctioned, oxygen cylinders wasted and sold to the highest bidder, ambulances charging a fortune, shortages concocted and falsely created to give desirable hike to service charges, hoardings of necessary items- medicinal and of provisions etc. etc. There is never ending saga of exploitation putting shame to humanity and civilization.

The second story is that of people who are risking their lives to help others. They are running pillar to post to serve the needy. Help is coming from sources who do not know personally those to whom they are catering their services, the persons who are benefiting from their help. Services has a full menu, consisting of all those services which have become a rarity now, and persons are falling dead due to heavy shortage of them. They include right from serving of food, putting to use all available resources to get a ill person bed, oxygen, ambulance and medicines; arrangement of transportation to carry the patients to the hospital and making available possible counseling; providing of hearse vans to carry the bodies of the lost ones and even planning help for the orphans or widows of the dead, who are left unattended. All this plethora of work, services sounds fantastic, very exhilarating and as if God's angels have descended to undo the worst. But is it that easy? Is providing these services as simple as they sound?

Good Samaritans are heavily paying a price for everything. They are losing mental peace, getting frustrated, depressed, losing confidence in themselves and getting sucked into cynicism. Why? This is a million dollar question. And the answer is very simple. Because it is unprecedented time. The resources are exhausted. Every small help requires using and approaching of all known resources, material and mankind, for they are not only scarce but sometimes not available. Even the human resources, on whom, through network, the Samaritans bank on have already spread themselves so thin that they sometimes do not respond. It may take ten to fifteen calls to get one response, and sometimes it turns out to be too little or too late. Even if five lives are saved in a day, one loss siphons off all the inner pleasure achieved and drains out morally, physically and psychologically at the end of the day. So, everyday, despite having served many, the person hits the bed with a sense of failure. It turns out to be a never ending and never winning match. 

Unfortunately, I have chosen to be in the team of good Samaritans. The fatigue of loss becomes so heavy that my bout of cough get profound. I owe my recuperation from COVID to my friends who helped me unconditionally. They were there not because who I am, but perhaps for what I am, or should I say some didn't even mind even if it was 'I', for they did not know me. 

I remember, one of my friend asking, 'Why are you taking pain when it takes toll on you?'. Another one said, 'It is your choice. Quit if it is so taxing and precarious'. Both are so relevant. I ruminated and found that the habit of giving service is not literally by choice. It is in your DNA. One jumps into the fray not because they tend to earn something out of it, but just because they have to, for they cannot survive without it. Perhaps, there is a breed who have to do it for their own sake. It is for them catharsis. Even little action is required for sanity or the sense of helplessness for doing nothing would kill them. So, it is not by choice but by compulsion. Certainly a selfish motive to survive by being into action. I too must have been born with this DNA. But, in this pandemic time, the sense of letdown is eclipsing the sense of relief. The burden gets piling. Pray that these good Samaritans do not fall prey and become a victim to these relentless pressure, and in turn call for help.

Reflection (6th May)- 

I got beautiful feedback from an intellectual, spiritual close friend, though on personal email. I think it reflects the teachings of Geeta. I am trying to put it verbatim

Take 1. Goodness is not a burden ...It is the inevitable and inseparable essence of Soul or Consciousness....

Nor it is part of DNA. DNA is part of our gross body...goodness is beyond it...it is part of Soul, not part of gross body..

Take 2. Doing good deeds and 'leaving' fruits to Almighty is not in our control...whether you want to drive your car yourself or you want to 'leave' it to your driver can be your control and thus can be your choice and decision...but 'leaving' fruits to Almighty is neither under your control nor your choice or decision...

Take 3. At a spiritual level we are not 'instrument' of goodness but we 'are' goodness itself...

Take 4. In spiritual goodness there is no 'I'. 'I' come when spiritual goodness has to be put into action...and then our body become an instrument and give rise to ego..

Ahamkar comes when I believe that I have capacity to deliver...to spread goodness...and when i act out of Ahankar...the ego of capacity or strength, samarthya, fuels the ego of doer, karta.. 

But when the person believes that he has no strength or capability to think or do anything but the requisite capacity to think and act is given by Almighty...there will be no ego...

My take

There seems to be no argument on what has been said. Certainly spiritual approach would give answer to all questions or concerns raised in my write up. I find this piece of advice very enriching and a way out. It so beautifully talks about 'Detachment in attachment'. As in my earlier posts, quoting great philosophers, I have mentioned about 'I' and how it is detrimental, as that 'I' restricts a person to focus on oneself, rather than on complete submission to divine and go with the flow. The understanding of difference between the mortal body and immortal soul is the essence of spirituality, which gets missed every now and then. 

I appreciate such enriching feedback and path correction. Thank you!

I am numb

 

I am numb

 

I am numb, dumb and all my senses have gone blunt. Out of 24 hours, I find myself sleeping, totally blackout, for more than 18 hours. Opening eyes is like having a spooking look through a tunnel, struggling to find something which makes sense, and by the time I realize that there is something known in visibility, I close it again. Total blackout again. For few glorious moments when I am in senses, what bothers is my Son’s struggle to settle in London. How do I facilitate him is the only sensible target left to meet out?

 

A person is very selfish. It is never ‘me’ in life. I was reading Sadguru’s ‘Inner Engineering’. He says- be responsible for your responses. I try to focus on my inner element, know my surroundings and think within. But alas the external issues are overwhelming. They do not let me sleep in peace. How do you undo what you have done for half a century in your life? Can a line of wisdom relieve me off the baggage which I have been carrying all my life? Even when life is threatening with shallow breath, half consciousness, mindless presence, still there are couple of factors bothering me, beyond my own self, my Son and father-in-law…  Maya is what weaves life’s activities. Sadguru advocated to come out of maya, and here I was thinking of two generations, one above and one below, and the current that is me is relegated to backburner, though physically struggle was on current. The power of mind put to use in traditional way, to solve literally where I had no say, is what we had been taught whole life. Worry for what you don’t have and worry for what you can do nothing. Worry has become a way of life for us.

 

My struggle is serious, with my lung infection due to COVID calling for medical emergency of sort. I am on high dose of steroids, and my numbness is perhaps attributed to those medicines. Sugar level has gone haywire because steroids don’t let them settle. I had got hospitalized on 15^th with sugar level shooting up to 550, and every day in the hospital it would read close to 350 odds, at least once a day. Rest of the time it would fluctuate less than 200. ‘Don’t you bother for sugar parameters, as we are managing through insulin’, doctor had reassured. Four insulin shots in all, one each before meal and one before bed, and twice blood thinner shots, all on my belly. I wondered if the small bulge on the abdomen is due to these 6 shots I was enduring. In the hospital at least six to seven times I was dripped with medicine. Israeli’s were the best in drip irrigation, to survive the plants in arid zone. My body was surviving through the same drip feed.

 

Day before, on 22^nd April, 2021, a lightning had stuck. Morning around 630 am I had received a call from Amitabh, my co-brother, that our father-in-law suffered severe cardiac arrest. He was in Chirayu hospital, Bhopal, for almost 14 days now. After 8/9 days of hospitalization, he had shown signs of improvement and suddenly things deteriorated. He was put on oxygen and on 20^th evening he moved to ventilator. In the family group he would text a short message about his wellbeing and anxiety. But the message papa sent in the family group ‘The Twelve’ on 20^th at 1135 pm read as ‘Aaj aahk… gf anr, nb FB’ and at 1149 pm ‘Kg ji Y aaz n. Abs sakas sbd az’. At 1144 pm he had texted on 'har har narmade' mandla family whattsapp group, 'Sjdbn nv2#$#$%%^*(=:-?.?' It made no sense and that shook us from inside. It was disjointed, disoriented but conveyed in volumes. Something terrible was wrong. Those were the last words perhaps he tried to communicate and they were incoherent to our sensible minds. We needed some esoteric talent to decipher them, which none of us had. It threw us into panic. Was it not surprising that he had managed to get into both the family group to communicate. He was sending his last words, in the form of blessings, bidding adieu and perhaps informing that he is connected to two worlds now. He had reached out to all family members he loved. To be honest he had not betrayed us, not left us without any signal. He had been loud and clear. The journey had started. With the strike of the midnight or may be in the wee hours, Hindu's 'Brahma Muhurta', he had embarked on his journey, but Maya didn't let us give up.  

21^st was wait and watch, and 22^nd morning the impossible happened. He couldn’t be revived from the cardiac arrest. ‘He was supposed to live forever’, is what Udhav/Anhad had written to me from London when he had heard about the loss in the morning. So, did we think. Certainly, I had sometime long back thought of spending some retirement time with him, discussing books, his favourite pass time. I have almost nine years to retire still. Plans which is not worth planning. What is in store tomorrow we don’t know but we tend to plan for decades. Yes, management teaches you that, plan meticulously. What is meticulous in life? Taking a cue from Sadguru’s book, I had texted him personally on Tuesday, 20^th April at 738 am, ‘Papa Pranam. You have to fight it out please. Talk to your organs, it helps. Please take charge. Work on inner healing. I pray. Look inwards, see your organs and tell them you have long wat to go (folded hands emoji)’. He responded at 1034 am with two blushing smileys. Those smileys were not smiley to me but his face with that permanently etched smile.

On Thursday, 22^nd, at 616 am I had written in the har har narmade whattsapp group of Mandla family, ‘Each one of you have loved papa unconditionally. Unki taqat ka source aap logon ka prem, pyaar, sneh aur dulaar raha hai. Sabhi apne mandir mein, isht devi/devta se prarthna karen. Samuhik aur vaqtigat prarthna karen please… I believe in miracles and let us together pray for miracle to happen (two folded hands emoj)’. And within half an hour the news had shattered my belief in miracles.

 

All these days, Amitabh and Rinki (Pragya) had been with him, traveling daily with food to feed and daring through COVID hospital to meet him. They would connect with Doctors, nurses and everyone to ensure that papa was well attended to. From Delhi, Didi (Manisha) and Bhaisahab (Shyam) pulled all the strings in the State Government to ensure that he was well attended to. No stone was left unturned to facilitate all help possible. Nanu (Priyanka) was coordinating with the security incharge of the hospital to ensure presence of person to take care. I lay in the bed struggling my own battle, being a mute spectator, praying with Durga naam path and other possible ways, trying to send some healing through reiki and just helplessly grieving in loneliness.

 

Papa was a mentor to me. A saintly person who did not hold anything against even his adversaries. Who had inspired me to a great extent to pen down my thoughts? Who would be happy hearing me speak in forums? Who would be happy that I am taking his lineage forward as a writer? He expressed less, when it came to family matters. Did not interfere in anybody’s personal matter, and found peace and solace in his writings, books and support system he created for others. He would always say to issues in family, ‘everyone is matured enough. They will find a way out’. He was sometimes too silent to create ripples. The noise that his silence made was disturbing. Silence has been his weapon, with Mummy and others. His strongest communication was through his silence. Going mum was a potent weapon to avoid or to communicate for him. How silently he communicated his opposition or wish. He had gone silent now, forever…

 

To him his brothers and their family meant everything. After years of detachment during his children’s growth, he had found this new love for Mandla (his place of birth) too spirited. When Mummy was there it had to be his three daughters and their family. But since she passed away in 2014, it was his family. Going back to roots, perhaps was the calling. His last celebration was with them at Tikamgarh and last grief at Mandla for his brother. His laugh and sorrow had mingled in the sand and water of Ma Narmada, a deity river at the shores of which he had grown.

 

He was bhishmpitamah of the family. Everyone was welcome to stay with him, talk to him, share their woes and happiness. Not necessarily he would talk in the language one wanted but still his voice was respected, because everyone knew that he had ‘malice for none’ in his life. This spirit came reflecting in the pieces written in the newspapers and other places by his acquaintances in these last two days. Everyone has a story to tell, and all are unique. He touched people’s life as a saint, without letting them know what changes he would bring in them. He was a giver, a generous contributor. For him what he had was for the community. None of his children can claim rights on what he had, as they were for all.

 

As of now, I am plastic, as my own senses do not support me. My voice is meek and feeble. I cannot sometimes recognize my own sound. Whoever talks to me thinks I have to take care of myself. I had to get discharged in urgency after I got the news of Papa, to be with my wife, Priyanka. I knew she cannot take it. All the way from Noida it took me more than an hour to reach. The doctors were magnanimous as they had discharged me without settling my bills. A goodwill coming from common acquaintances. All through the drive, I kept my eyes closed, as mind and body were not in sync. On reaching home when I entered, madhav was desperately waiting for me. He had already called four-five times as handling his mother was getting difficult for him. Priyanka entered the scene with disheveled hairs, colour totally drained out and asked me to take bath. I robotically went to the bathroom as directed and came to sitting lounge. She was sitting there thumping her foot down on floor hysterically, waving like a dry leaf and shouting that she doesn’t want to speak to anyone and no one should touch her. I tried to approach her and she ran away, walked briskly all around saying no talk and no touch. She was in denial. Whom to console, myself or her? For two three hours it continued. I switched off her mobile. For seven days I had been waiting desperately to return back home from hospital. Caged in four walls, lying unconscious most of the time, nurses pumping in fluids through all means, gulping food for the sake of it, was getting on my nerves. It was the love and concern of loved ones that was healing me and helping me go on. But this return to home was not what I had expected. Neither my mind, body or soul were in order. It was so plastic and unnatural. The red flowers had blossomed in this last week but the colours did not excite me. Neither the jamun branches which had moved inside our balcony, accepting my request, which I had been making for more than a year now, made me smile. Everything seemed so meaningless and unnatural.

 

Amitabh and Rinki said that they were doing the last rites, ‘Would Nanu like to talk?’ Rinki asked. She was not ready. I was positive and so was our whole family. Bhaisahab was positive at his place and Didi was with all symptoms. One flight to catch at 1125 am to make it to funeral, but neither the time permitted, as I got discharged finally at 1020 am and with all positive reports none was allowed to travel. ‘Papa, are you not taking too much of precaution?’ I would ask him when he wouldn’t let anyone at home for almost 8 months as precaution to COVID. ‘I know, but I do not want to get ill and you guys take leave to serve me,’ he would smilingly say. ‘my precautions are for you guys,’ he would reiterate. I was warned by a wise person sometime back that mind what you say, as once in a daytime Saraswati gets on your tongue, and whatever you wish becomes nature's command. Once, when my mother had disagreed to come to  my posting place Narsinghgarh, I had irritatingly said that you will come to die in my arms. And that is what happened, two years later. I had taken her to the hospital in my arms, last time when she had spoken in senses. Papa had said that he did not want anyone to come to serve him. He lived his wish. He had stayed there in the COVID section in the hospital so minimum personal help could be extended to him, and when he left us physically, for heavenly abode, even then we could not afford to take pain to join for his formal last rites. He had left without asking for any service. Amitabh, Rinki, Kanu and Kanishka, who had been support for years now had the privilege and honour to be at his side, in breath and without. In one of my blog, I have written that I don’t want anyone to worry for my last rituals after my physical death, as that is a mystery, and without resolving it there is no point in following rituals mechanically. I always wonder what is life after death, if I will be able to interact with beloved ones some way. In my book ‘Treatise from a Deathbed’ I have aspired to connect, and still my aspiration lives. Someday, maybe I will be able to connect with my parents, in-laws and others and tell them that life is not easy for those who are left wailing. There should be a way to connect and settle unsettled communication.

 

I am still numb and dumb. I know my state will remain for a week or so, before, as always, I will be back struggling for my daily bread. I have moved on when I lost my father at 18, my mother in 2009 and others so loving. I will carry on, move on….(24th April, 2021)