Hania

As a proud citizen of this “world”, I said it loud, “Welcome Hania, welcome. Welcome to this new world, the world of splendid wonders and amazing creations. This new world where you would witness what you have never experienced in your previous world. Welcome Hania to this mesmerizing-ly wonderful world”.

I got a call in my mobile; it was Umma (Mother). The line was noisy, but still I could decipher she asking me to find a new name for the new born baby-girl. The line got cut. I was excited unlimited to know the good news. I tried many times to call her back, but in vain. I stretched out relaxing on my chair, staring at the plastered ceiling of my apartment-room. Memories rolled in my thoughts while my physical eyes gaped up, unconnected to my thoughts. It was then an year and a few months since their marriage, a new member had come to the family. It was more than some news for me, but a revelation of delight, a realization of days of prayers, and an answer from the eternal for the supplications of many. It was a new phase for the family, a fresh start for my elder brother and his wife. My eyes got filled; it was to pour down with few more of such thoughts.

I logged-in to the internet to search for a good name, for my new niece. I thought to myself for a name that should sound and mean different, something that would make her unique and different, something that would inspire her to stand to the true values with the name she has, against the odd waves of the times. I searched and tried to make some combinations with many single names, “Mishal Mehr”, the full moon light, was one of my thoughts. Yeah, to her virtue she should be the unique full moon, standing out to be a bright light for others. I called up my brother to convey my happiness and suggested "my name" to him. He told his wife's wish to name the newborn as “Hania”, the happiness, the bliss. I too thought that to be a great and a suiting name. My brother handled it to make it for, “Hania Mishal”, the light of happiness, which concluded both of our wishes.

The next day at office was very different for me than any before, I went staring the already read paragraphs for hours, went reading the same lines again and again, I was completely occupied with my family back home.  Realized that time cannot also be advanced, for the first time I wished if time could be fast-forwarded for few hours. Somehow when it was four in the evening, I took a leave from office, went running to catch the train at the station.

Throughout my whole travel, I was in thoughts for Hania. I thanked the Almighty for the gift, as always wished and prayed, a baby girl. As Umma always says, “a boy makes a family and a girl a home”. Home being the basis of a family, the foundation of a society, its vastness even counted with culture and civilization, always starts from a girl. My wish to have a girl child could also be from the reasons of me having just one sister among we four bothers. My thoughts were all naive for the reason of such thing to be very new to me. When I got up, it was morning already; the compartment in the train was all vacant. I stared outside through the glass pane, opened the window, the cool breeze showed its mark of November’s chill. I felt like, the wind too was enjoying and dancing for the good news I was bearing, for the happiness I was with. I stretched my hand outside; my hand went rhythmic to the blows of it. I got involved with its celebration.

I reached home to see so-many of my relatives. With a single “salaam”, I received lots of them in return. A get-together and a chance to meet so many relatives always makes me delighted, that day it was more than that because, it was not a planned function, but a surprise forum. We all then packed to make a visit to the hospital. Though it counted just three kilometers in the odometer, the distance seemed miles to the hospital. Saw my brother at the entrance of the hospital gate, he smiled, I hugged him. His usual innocent smile had a different touch that day, was that to the maturity of a father or the hangover of the sleepless night of the previous day? I smiled back and walked ahead to the room.

Hania, she was deep into her sleeps then, eyes closed, her tiny nose and ears sensing the new world in full swing. She was learning the new world with the tiny sensors switched-on for the first time. Everything happening in her was visible like a plane mirror. Inhales and exhales marked very loud in her small angel like body. She forced herself to respond her whole body for every stimulus she perceived. Was it to her openness that she reflected back for whatever happened within her, or the adaptations she was learning for the new world? Is this adaptation then later turns to get a new name, maturity? I thought, if so, can we not stop maturing, that makes us different from being innocent like a child? She was open to what she felt; she was frank to what she underwent; she didn't yet have the blanket of maturity to cover-up anything.

Though for me her reflexes seemed amplified, it was rather not. It was the responses of her fresh new senses, sharp and incomparable to grown-ups. With everything brand new, she could never go wrong with her perception, may be this is the reason for the saying, “child is the father of man”. My thoughts got interrupted when I saw her smiling in her sleep; her smiles took me into an untold eruption of zest. I really didn’t understand the trigger that threw me into smiles, I couldn’t make for a reason why my eyes filled-in with a deep feeling of affection, I couldn’t realize the link that connected my feelings to Hania's gestures. Her tiny hand; she kept her palm tightly closed with her fingers, as if she wasn’t yet ready to give-up the great virtues she held in her previous world. I touched her silken body, it was soft like a furry cat, even that very delicate touch of mine, made her wakeup from her sleep. Her eyes got open, those beautiful globules of vision, the glittering shine of freshness exhibited. Her eyes were big and illustrious in her. Eyes, the most matured one in her yet were the most notable one too. I always thought why only our eyes don't grow with our age, why is it always gifted to be fully matured with our birth? Is it because vision being the most important senses, to have most of our learnings? Or because it being the most vibrant sense nurturing all other senses and then to link with synesthesia?  Or the first lesson by the God to humans that the un-seen aren't really unreal, this new world was unseen for Hania as a fetus in her previous world.

She started crying of hunger, when her mother stroked her with gentle pampers, she got quiet again. I said to my sister-in-law, “God bless you”. I saw a magnificent grace in her, a blaze of a winner, a brightness of a glittering star. When she replied “thanks”, I could see those eyes filled. When she turned towards Hania, she smiled, the smile that covered all the pain that she underwent for the delight of having Hania in her. This relation was new, but very deep indeed. Considerate attachments of being a part of her own self. She, the mother, was the one who took all the pains holding Hania in her for months within her, the one who ate just to feed Hania, the one who smiled for the inner one, the one who patiently suffered all the sufferings for that part of her in the womb to have life, a version of her to be born anew. And then I recollected what prophet Muhammed (pbuh) replied to the man who came once asking, to whom among his parents should he show most kindness, prophet replied; “Your Mother, next your Mother, next your Mother, and then your Father”.

I reached home with a deep feeling of grief for the unfulfilled gratitude and tribute to my Umma, the one who suffered the most for me. For all the pains she took-in, I stood a big zero in giving back anything meaningful to her yet. For all the affection and care she has, for all those intangible morals she shares, for all the tacid know-how she taught, for all her sleepless nights for me when I was a kid, for all the smiles for the years when I gifted her just pains. And being a grown up, nothing made me different than before. I stood still a failure to repay her back for even the smallest pain she suffered for me.

I couldn't sleep that night, my eyes where all open. I couldn't understand myself, who lately had become very impatient to her. Maturity in me had changed me a lot, I had become more arguing, more detached, less considerate, and more temper-less. That night when I thought about it all, I felt belittled like no-one, felt ashamed to compare to none. I thought to myself, “when did I learn all these to go beyond her, when did I grow up to fly away from her wings to voice above her?” I remembered what prophet Mohammed (pbuh) said; “Being kind to one's mother is to; obey her orders, to give her priority, to treat her with gentle humility and mercy and not to raise your voice in front of her”. And I have been crossing all those limits since I have grown up.

I got a hic, I heard Umma calling my sister and brother for the Morning Prayer. I looked into the alarm clock near my bed, it was already 5. I got up from the bed and went to the bathroom. My face was already wet, but the cold water when splashed, made me feel better. When the prayer got over, I walked back home from the Mosque. The weather was cool, cold breeze was enveloping me from all around. The darkness in the sky was already disappearing. Red streaks in the dark background were signaling the coming of the bright Sun, the Sun that would destroy the darkness, the darkness of everyone on the earth. Seeing the sky, at the rise of a new light, I said it loud with an untold happiness from within, as a proud citizen of this “world”, “Welcome Hania, welcome. Welcome to this new world, the world of splendid wonders and amazing creations. This new world where you would witness what you have never experienced in your previous world. Welcome Hania to this mesmerizing-ly wonderful world”.

I took the newspaper from the veranda and headed to the Kitchen. Umma was preparing the morning tea; she asked me if I would eat something. I nodded my head. Though that question from her was very much heard one for me, that day but I could dis-integrate every strand of consideration and care my Umma portrayed. I asked Umma if I could read the newspaper for her, she smiled. I read it loud, “Six more children killed in Palestine”. When I was to the content of the news, she stopped me; she asked if I knew the motto behind the cruel oppression, oppression not even sparing innocent children. I stood answer-less to her, I quivered with a delayed response that the reason could be because of their parents being terrorists. I read her face dis-agreeing my views; she asked again, “How is it a justice to shoot someone's son or daughter for their crimes?” I didn't have an answer to her; stood mum with complete clueless-ness. I knew that the response from her was not from any political view point, but from the deep pain of a mother. The pain of a mothers for the loss of their children that she shares with her-likes across the world. She proved me that mothers all over the world are the same, upholding all the same values of care and consideration; I understood her outburst of botheration for the brutally killed children of Palestine. 

Umma's words taunted me back and again from inside. I just recollected what my elder brother once told me about such brutalities and its impact:

 “Majority of the children who witnesses terror filled savagery in their early life, would never have a chance to come-out of the blanket of revenge, making them more aggressive and more terrifying ‘terrorists’ of the future. The horrendous incidents with their siblings, their parents killed at gun points, houses bombed by tankers, sisters raped, and all other similar atrocities, would remain as “freezed block of time” in their consciousness through-out their life, tantalizing them to retaliate and avenge in all ways. The oppressors of Palestine in-fact are responsible not only for their cruelty towards the current generation, but also for creating a new hysteric generation, who would fail to think logical with any rationality, but understand only the primitive thinking of flight and fight.”

I was disturbed, totally moved with all such thoughts. I walked down to the front courtyard. The sky was already with the bright Sun, brighter than the dark-red of the morning. With deep thought of grief, I fell on my knees, shouldering the responsibility of the whole sane humanity, I shouted loud, while my eyes rained. “Welcome Hania, welcome. Welcome to this new world where your kinds are brutally killed and massacred. Where not the laws and humanity, but bombs and tanks reply your protests. Where not morals and values, but cruelty and aggression moulds legends. And pardon us for being responsible for presenting you such a barbaric world, by standing mum the instill of such reigns of terror”.

The Baton

I walked down the hill, it lead me to a beautiful lush green meadow, such a surprise was never to me before. Grasses were all with the morning dews, I could feel the wet mat all over, I could feel each of my steps welcomed and comforted by every grass blade below. The non-agitated and fondling cold breeze had a feel of a comforting embrace for its every stroke. I was unsated for the fresh air that it brought in me for every swig I inhaled. I was lead, don’t know where to, but was guided without my consciousness. I don’t know who, but some unknown mesmerise was seizing me to somewhere unknown to me.

I saw a shallow lake nearby, the lake was calm and serene, it plated beautifully the inner blue of it to its outer porch, its purity showed the bluntness of its kind. It pictured everything beneath to it without a cover up; its intention was all diffused to its nature with a solacing charm. I stepped into it, the tranquillity of the system got shattered in a moment, I could see the curves of agitation spreading all over. I was worried of its dislike, I felt to retreat, but the consoling puff of the water layers made me not to. After a few while, I realised the slow diminish in the protest, I became a part of it. The water ran around and soothed my feet; I felt no less to anything I knew.

I could see a big community of flora and fauna happily enjoying the travel with the stream. I could hear their sing and hum tuned to the flow of the current. I admired of the wonderful service the stream was offering, the carrier for everyone, by not differentiating any on any grounds. I wished if I was such a stream. A stream that carries everyone to their happiness irrespective any differences they possessed, to inculcate everyone for a journey to the eternal destiny. I saw a small boat nearby; it virtually invited me for a service in it. I hurriedly jumped in to it out of excitement; I knew I would be boarded to nowhere, but still couldn’t resist the invitation. Nobody was there to row, but I boat moved on.

It was early the morning in the village with a full moon lighted up. I could see wonderful streaks of red stripes in the sky. The fresh and the cool breeze of the morning gave me a new beginning with every inhale. The lush green meadow, the dark red sky and the blue stream down there made the whole scene very picturesque with strokes of splendid colours and blends of unmatched shades. It was like a great artist’s masterpiece, an art that he just finished the previous night; he has just put it outside to dry it off with the sun yet to rise. The village was blessed by all the heavenly blessings of the nature, as if it was specially moulded for its uniqueness by Him. For every blink, I saw images that nourished my eyes. The murmurs and hums of birds there never equalled any music I heard before. The air around was so soothingly hugging me that I could feel it from within. In that ecstasy of being blessed, I wished if I was to stay there for a while, but no, I found myself walking ahead.

I could hear the sweet “Suprabhaatham” (a bajan) from a nearby Temple. I walked ahead, I was not alone then. Some passerby villager’s accompanied me. They were uttering some bajans and were all heading to the Temple. The pathway was a narrow stripe of earth cut out from the grassy meadows for walkers. I felt the fresh dew drops on my feet for every advance I made stroking the sideway grasses. The smell of so many new born flowers and leaves were intoxicating my sensation, the fresh air around were dragging me to haunt on, but I had to walk, for a mission unknown.

Every step I made had a different imprint in me; every step I made was a new record and never a continuation of the prior. Just then the Bajan’s from the Temple got paused, heard a “Thakbeer” of “Azaan” from a nearby Mosque, when it got over, the Bajan continued. I walked ahead and then I reached the Temple pond. I saw the sun yet hiding beneath that vast pond, it’s yet to come out. The Sky was yet to paint it with bright red. Birds were all awake, the hums and murmurs were heard from miles. In that cold and fresh water I saw villagers taking their morning bath. I too was lead, I stepped down the stairs, when into that cold water, reflective stimulus took me back with a hick. It was hard for my body to stand that icy water, but my inner self dragged me ahead. Slowly I went on down and beneath; I could feel every hair in me feeling it, every sensory pore in me accepting it. I got fully immersed. When I came up, I was rejuvenated to a complete newness, felt as if I was new to the time, with a new birth, with a new life to live the day.

As others, I followed the path were worshippers to the temple were moving. I walked further and reached the Mosque there. Inside the Mosque I could see so many there with fresh faces greeting and praying for each other for peace from the Almighty. I felt myself too welcomed by the caring villagers, I replied back, Walaikkumussalam. I had my morning prayer there with the villagers and moved on. I got out of the mosque for my journey ahead.

The sun was out then, the pale red was getting transformed to brighter shades, the moon and the stars were going for their usual nap after their tedious job of torching the villagers the previous night. I stood outside the mosque and wondered about the beautiful world I saw there, the amazing people I met, the dazzling nature I witnessed. I asked the Almighty if that was the heaven He promised, or was heaven any better than that? I never saw any better place than that, I wished if I could be immortal there.

Villager’s got ready for their day; everyone got spread into their own world. They all knew their role and responsibilities. I was happily digesting the sweet honey of the peace and harmony they lived with; with each other, with the nature and with the Almighty. I was stunned to witness the stunning alchemy they practised with the rest of the world. But to my sad plight, I was not to stay anymore there but had to move on to unknowns. I walked on, lakes, hills, mountains all passed, astonishing me every time with its innate impressive qualities.

I then saw a small procession advancing my way. Their faces were unclear from that distance, so I walked nearer to them. The haziness slowly disappeared as I advanced, I saw the man leading the procession. I was taken aback to see him face, I always adored to see. I couldn’t stand the blaze of his bright face. The abundance of bright rays fell on me that I stood blinded-off for a while, as if I opened the door of a dark room on a sunny day. There stood my beloved Dad, my Uppa. He looked young, determined and stubborn. The magnitude of outburst in his slogans revealed the strength he had within, the perseverance he practised, the commitment he professed. I tuned my ears to hear what they were uttering. “No to Globalization, Yes to Humanisation”. I followed the troop, when we reached a nearby bazaar; he stood on a small platform and gave a speech addressing the public, the villagers around. My memory didn’t register many of his lines, but few;

.......The blood cloned looting hands of the capitalists have re-reached us. Years back they had to send their army for capturing and colonising countries and continents, but now they are matured for a much easier and cheaper strategy. The role of soldiers and tanks are now done by the marketing and sales department of some big shot private companies. The hegemony of their rule is on the go with hand in hand with our elected representatives. To squeeze even the last drop of blood from you and your resources, they have again boarded their flight to loot you, they bring unto you their desire arousing packed branded products and uncensored filthy culture to enslave you.

.....It’s a free India, its people’s democracy, then why not a rule for us? Why not a tomorrow planned by us? Why are there economic plans designed by the capitalists, why should any stranger plan our tomorrow?

My dear people, the answer is simple and plain. It is because none can make a tomorrow of their interest without their funds, none can make the social progress they suggests without their technology, none can make a stronger country what they advise without their machinery and arms, and none can uplift the standard of living to equal their culture without their products. In short, in the struggle to be a developed country with their “mighty help” they would flourish to be mightier and we perish down below the poverty line of the huge debts we would owe to IMF and WB. I warn you of a day to come, not very long ahead, when you would pay to these private giants for the water of yours, for the soil of yours, for the roads and pathways of yours, the air you breath and what not, for the very space you occupy.

.........Dear people, these capitalists are controlling not only our economy but our consciousness too. They are tuning us to be a sect who doesn’t respond to their massacres, who doesn’t question their injustice, who doesn’t protest their carnage, who doesn’t shout against their cruel oppressions. A numb and an insensitive society wandering behind the maiden formula they created for all of us; women, wine and worship. They are opening centres in whole sale across the country promoting these W’s. When I say worship, I am not here against any divine religion, but against the demigods and the social cult they advertise. These human gods are not with any pennyworth values, not with any new teachings. They preach the same slanderous and superfluous words across the world with same hymns, with the same essence, just that they have different names.

They jail you, your thoughts, your feelings, and your very self existence. Once into such Gurujis and Mathas, you become devoid of any energy to fight back any atrocities you face, you become easily slave-able, because you mortgage your brain and your thoughts for some fallible peace you get promised off. Such institutions make you nil happy in real, but rotten slaves of the oppressors.....

......My dears, its time that we realise our roots, its time to go back to our divine teachings, to our original revelations and prophetic way of life. The teachings which rants none, rather respects all. Which accepts no injustice, no cruelty and oppressions, rather which attaches the morality of considering every creature on earth with the eternal sensory of universal justice. Dear people, its time to realise for the change, the revolution is on; we invite you too for the same. Inquilab zindabad.

I was benumbed with a stalled consciousness after the speech. Like many in the public, I too didn’t realise many of his lines. I couldn’t imagine a tomorrow like that to come in for that beautiful village, where some strangers would rule and loot, where human gods would be replaced with the original one. Just keeping aside the undigested topic, I ran near to him, he and his small group was hurrying for the next town. I called him softly with greatest of emotions from my within. When I uttered that magical word referring him, I felt the huge gush of happy-hormones throughout my body. The word which was never so familiar to my tongue, but the one very popular in my heart made such a tremendous sensation that I was trembling with the outbreak of the warm air my throat pushed out with the word. I called my Uppa again. He didn’t hear me; I called him the third time, still in vain. I ran and stood in front of him. He passed over me as if I was a hollow, as if I was of air. I ran behind the procession, town to town, but couldn’t reach unto him. Fully tired and exhausted, I took a break and had a deep nap under a banyan tree nearby, the shade pampered me to the deepest of sleeps I ever experienced.

I got up with hick of a blaring honk, to my surprise I found myself on a cemented footpath. I saw buses and cars zooming on the road. I hurriedly stood up with astonishment. The hazy air around me was making things unclear and misty. I was sneezing; I was unstable and unsound with the dust and stench from around. I could see concrete buildings all around, immodest posters and ads touching the skies, asphalt roads all the way, unattended and overloaded waste drums over which street dogs were storming. It was early morning, but the stale and dusty polluted air was undiluted for me, I had to breathe it with no other choice. I walked on, no. ran to nowhere.

I saw a sign board, “drinking water”; I went inside, there were no taps, no operators, just a vending machine inside. The machine displayed to insert two ten rupee coins. I searched in my pocket, could only find a five rupee coin. I had never seen a ten rupee coin yet. I inserted in what I had, but in vain for any water. I had to quit from there by quenching my thirst with the bitter feeling of the pity plight I was with.  I proceeded to the street, the streets were all coloured with grabbing shades and nude posters of women. Every street had many outlets of bars and prostitution camps. Supermarkets, branded showrooms and cosmetic shops ruled the street. I was shocked of the drift and such a drastic difference between the village and the new city I was with; it was hard for me to make things digested.

I walked on. I didn’t see any humans on the street yet. Everything below my feet was cemented and metalled; the earth was fully covered and sealed. Every step I made on the floor made me feel of my presence in a sealed chamber. Sensors on my feet made me feel of a kind of helplessness of a jailed, of an oppressed. I saw from a distance a board of a Reading room. I went running to read some news. I was more than happy to see so many newspapers and reading materials there. I took a newspaper and started reading, but it barely allowed me to read any rather it showed me many. Every page was numbered to be Page three, sex and lust gulped in a huge chunk in every page. I switched newspapers, just the name at the top header changed but the contents all were of the same kind, as if those were all from the same press and from the same reporters. Had no option but to pity the people for helplessness to watch such news everyday. With an unresolved agony within, I got out to the street biting my teeth hard.

Streets got filled with people by then; all were in great hurry. My eyes fell on to a bus stop nearby where people were waiting for their office buses. They looked very peculiar; they were all dressed like humans, but looked mechanical with a bar code over their bald head, were that a tattoo or their empirical value fixed by their employer? Were they androids or trained humanoids? I just went near to them, they all walked the same busy life, talked the same topic of their interests; sports, movies, women and work. They all looked to be from the same mould. Or were they moulded later by a common interest in exchange to the salary they draw?

I walked along; I saw a familiar face from far of a distance, who was talking to a small group. I ran unto them. My eyes rained down of excitement when I saw him, I hugged him warmly, but he didn’t notice my presence. My elder brother; He was giving a class to the public on the untold exploitation of the water resources of the Perumazha village. A village nearby where a new ultra large scale factory for bottled water had its run. He was warning the public of the future of Perumazha and nearby villages with nil water and dry land devoid of any cultivation, and the poor farmers there who makes their living only by cultivation. “Androids” around never gave an ear, they were rather trained not to gulp in such subjects. He was in fact hoisting a rally against the water bottling company that day. I pledged solidarity for their selfless service, with the top of my voice I utter the slogan for their revolution to succeed, but my shouts gave no extra loudness. Was I autistic?

I walked on; I was in front of an educational institution. The hub were from the future gets churned and nourished. I saw two youngsters in front of the gate with placards, the writings on it were denouncing the educational system of the country. I was for sure, it to be my beloved brothers, Fazil and Jouhar. I knew I can’t hug them, because I was a hollow. Just wished them all success in their way too. I joined them protesting against the brutal practice of the pre-college surgeries the authorities do to remove out the rational brain of the students before their admission. I really didn’t understand if such a practise existed or if it was sarcastically addressed to refer the ineffective educational system which makes its products inefficient and impotent, a system which produces only androids and no rational humans. I showed my solidarity to them and walked down, as I was to walk ways unknown to me.

 

I saw no un-plastered walls in the street; all were filled with posters and advertisements. Many of them were about Aashramas and retreat centres. It was to me for the first time that I saw advertisements of “Gods” and “Goddesses”. With an expectation of no sane being to be present inside, I stepped into one such retreat centres. To my surprise, it was packed to its fullest, completely occupied. To the hiss of a human Devi, I saw the pathetic plight of these “human-likes” dancing and singing in groups. I could do nothing, felt the most for their pity plight, tears flowed my eyes of my helplessness. I walked away; quit the site calmly with a heavy heart. Outside this building, a boy was distributing some leaflets of some Sri Sri, claiming of some breath exercise for ultimate peace. I neglected and walked away, a while down the street, on the wall I saw a torn poster. It read;

There is no peace for a human when his brothers are killed, his neighbours starved, his sisters raped, his resources looted, when there are injustice everywhere. Peace is not any tablet the demigods manufacture. Nobody can attain any peace from any retreat centres, not from the blessings of any Devis or Sri Sris, not from any uni-sexual dancing and singing, not from any physical exhales and inhales; unless one pawns his rationality for such idiocies.

The one looted, the raped and the exploited tomorrow could be you and your family, when you are deeply unconscious with the hope for such futile peace to happen. Open your eyes and see the world beyond the veil. For real peace, abide to the divine teachings – Solidarity.

The Alarm blew off, I got up. It was then time for my morning prayer. Went to the basin and had my ablution. The cold water when splashed over my face triggered me to remember the wonderful journey I had in the village, I got big smile within me to start my day. I saw my mother in the prayer room. I went and hugged her, this time I was not a hollow, I could feel her. Oh, was that a dream? It was hard for me to realise that it was one. How can that be a dream when I experienced every bit of it that underwent?

After the prayer Umma (mother) served me a cup of tea in the kitchen. I was in the peak of narrating my experiences about the village and the city of the previous night. Meanwhile Jowhar came into the kitchen. He was looking for Fazil, I enquired the reason for. He told that, that day they had actually planned to paste posters about the campaign of their social organisation SIO against the miserably adulterated educational reform plans by the Government.

I was taken aback for the maturity he professed in understanding his social responsibilities. I leaned unto him and asked for the reason and trigger for such a realization. He boldly replied, “My existence”. I really didn’t understand his answer, but to ask him a counter question would be too low for my stature. I smiled and thanked him. His answer taunted me back and forth. I connected his ideas to be similar to that of my Uppa’s and my elder brother’s in my dream. I decided to visit my Uppa’s library in our family house, Haleema Manzil.

I was not visiting that library then for the first time, but never had realised its vast collection of books before. I stood with nil gumption when I stared the shelves packed with treasures of knowledge and cognizance. I gaped with unconsciousness with nil idea, where to start from, which book to begin from, to understand what “My existence” really meant. I found a big red book in the left rack, the holy Bible; I turned a few pages, read a paragraph in random;

Leviticus (26:3-6): “If ye walk in My statutes, and keep My commandments, and do them; then I will give you rains in their season, and the land shall yield her produce, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit.... And I will give peace in the land.”

I sat back, refreshing my dream of the previous night and relating it with what I read. I realised that the naturally blessed village I saw was the “yesterdays”; the physically and intellectually polluted city I witnessed could be the “tomorrows”. I stand marking the “todays”. It’s the call of the time and the rule of day that the “todays” are from the “yesterdays” and the “tomorrows” to be from “todays”. Today would metamorphose to tomorrow with the passage of time. Being part of “today” I become morally responsible than any others for the “tomorrow” to happen, because I witness and live the time that makes them two different “days”. I volunteered to accept the baton of rationality from my leaders of yesterdays to strive for a tomorrow not any worse than today. I decided to tread the path of my leaders who conceived their ideologies with their sweat and wealth to gift us a liveable today. I decided to succeed their understanding with the books they digested, words they preached and the struggles they undertook. I decided to begin, begin a new beginning with the baton I received.

Forward

I first thought to name this blog as My Space, but it sounded much heard and boring for me. It’s to everyone’s commonsense that everything that exists in the universe occupies a physical space and one over internet a virtual space. I wanted to name it something meaningful, something that would reflect my outlook and my perception to what I would be blogging here. So thought for a while and decided to name it Length and Breadth.


We generally relate ‘length and breadth’ with measurement, something that spans two-dimension on a plane. Anyone understands that one with only length has a single dimension and that with both length and breadth is two dimensional. Though we read and boast life to be with many facets, we seldom live a life of that kind; rarely any try to even add the second dimension to life. Colloquially we say life to be lived over its life line; it’s the course over which life would be lead by the so called fate. Though fate is more to one’s belief system, but still through a common man’s angle, life is to live over some already defined or definable track. Over this track while living, we add and disintegrate things, materials, relations, luxury etc, etc. All these are part of life’s length for me.

What is then the breadth all about? Human beings on this face of earth are the only rational being who can think logical for most of his life’s decisions. For the same reason, he converges to feel to be rationally dutiful for the naturally gifted rights he enjoys. For a non-atheist the first door he opens would be of the creator of the universe. Then on he would realize other of his duties, viz; towards his co-creations, towards the nature that fondles his existence and so on. Realization of these obligations and the constructive efforts that promotes a harmony of co-existence of all these under the shade of an ethical adherence could be the second dimension to life; the breadth of life.

We often measure life’s success by material attainments, earthly possessions and worldly power, but these all clings to the length of one' life, that which starts with his birth and ends by his death. Unlike length, breadth is the intellectual side of life; starting with a sane understanding and cognitive realization of the context of his very existence, which in turn triggers for selfless services and efforts one undertakes for the good of all. It’s more of a logical elaboration where one understands his ability and talent and then diverts his energy into the very cause of the breadth dimension of life. In short, length is the default part of life and breadth the optional part.

You follow the stream's current like the dry and the rotten, you live the X-axis of life, but when you row against the stream's current, you make the zigzags broadcasting your existence over the XY- plane; here you make for the breadth of your life. Great leaders, philosophers, scientists, prophets etc are all wonderful examples where new horizons of breadths are exemplified; for the cause of the creator, the co-creations, and the nature.

I would want to blog here not to add to the length, but bit to the breadth of my life. If I could spread something constructive by my writings, I would feel contented. Thanks for your patience for being with me throughout.