From cows to crows

Even shock is relative. What shocks me, doesn’t necessarily have to shock you. And vice versa. For instance, when I walk or ride the scooty, I always duck when a crow is flying low. I get incredulous looks from passers by. I even screech to a halt sometimes. That particular action has provoked swear words as well a couple of times. But that doesn’t mean that I am crazy. For, to be hit by a flying crow is a very real threat in my life. When I was a student (not that I am not one, now) in Manipal, crows were the biggest problem beyond all possible imagination. If you had to go out, you had to keep some spare time in mind, in the unlucky, but likely event that the crow decided to dump the remnants of the ‘gourmet’ lunch on you. In which case you would have to go back and shower again. I know a girl on whom this lucky ‘event’ occurred twice on the very same day. It also happened to be her first day at Manipal. I have also had the luck of having samosas snatched away from my hands, which led me to believe the story I once heard my grandmother say. She told my little brother and sister when they were 4 years old, about how the crow flew into the house and snatched away their feeding bottles, which was why they couldn’t have them. My brother and sister believed her, didn’t shed a single tear, and went on with their life undisturbed, albeit feeding bottle-less. I, on the other hand, being six years older, and considerably much wiser, as I so preposterously presumed, laughed at their innocence and continued to look on crows as part of the harmless fauna. 15 years later, humbled by my experiences with the said species, I now look on them with grudging respect, and a bit of dislike. For after all, they are scavenger birds, and they did soil my clothes many a time. However I do admire the crow’s resilience, exemplified by this one instance where in the crow attacked a girl who had a sandwich in her hand. The crow hit her on the head with its beak. Now in more than 99% of cases, the natural instinct of any human being, would be to drop the eatable and jump away. This girl, being a girl, with heightened startle response, jumped, and screamed, in the characteristic high pitched voice, but for some unknown reason refused to let go of her sandwich. This action must have exasperated the crow so much, that it multitasked. It flew up, and then dived down again, this time attacking the girl’s head, sat on it, and cackled. All this may seem impossible, because in an attempt to describe completely what happened, I’m using a lot of words, and making it sound like a step by step event. But all this happened in a matter of seconds. This time, the girl was defeated, she dropped the sandwich, and legged it. The lucky crow got what it wanted. The first thing that came to my mind when I witnessed this spectacular incident, was a mental picture of 2 crows lugging my brother’s feeding bottle. 15 years back. I can so believe that it may have happened. I also believe that crows are very greedy. They seem to think that any object in person’s hand, which appears to be of a particular size is eatable. Whether it is pure gluttony, or a genetic defect that involves the visual pathway, I refrain from comment as I am not well aware of crow physiology or anatomy. And I have no interest in learning about it, either. I say this because I spent a lot of time pacing the garden studying, with papers in my hand. I have been the victim of numerous attacks, which always led me running back to my room. There were times when I ran seeing a pigeon as well. All said and done, if you see me ducking the next time on the road, you know why. And I request you not to brand me crazy. For I am threatened by crows. And so should you be, infact. And you remember the story of the crow and the pebbles? That tale that was told to us in kindergarten? Don’t underestimate the crow, and put it down to just a figment of someone’s imagination. I believe it is true.

Emote

I feel like a cow. Or what I assume a cow feels like. Evidently I wouldn’t know for sure. For if I was a cow, I wouldn’t be me. And since I am me, I am definitely not a cow. All said, all explained, I still think I feel like a cow. I guess its analogous to the inability to make a ruling on whether labor pains are greater on the pain scale compared to getting kicked in the balls. For if you had balls, you will not go into labour, and if you’re in labour, obviously you don’t have the balls. Whatever. That’s the beauty of it all. Mutually exclusive.
But coming back to the cow, its inability to move, its ability to move rather slowly and with no grace, whatsoever, oodles of saliva dripping from its mouth unhygienically, and rather unsightfully as it chews on grass crudely, it still gives a picture of being sort of intellectual. Ruminating. That slow rhythmic movements of its mandibles up and down, sort of equates with the brain waves it possibly could have. Even if we attached electrodes to the portion on its head between its distastefully red painted horns, we still wouldn’t know what the cow is thinking or feeling. For all we know, it could be reflecting on how it feels like a human. I haven’t examined or inspected closely on a live cow in situ, but its eyes are probably glassy, the glass part of it misting and hiding away what could be emotions lying underneath.
Timid creatures, they are, who else would let a different species touch them and milk them? Have you ever seen them run? Probably not, because they don’t. Atleast they don’t, unless its an absolute necessity. I don’t see any reason why they should either. We don’t see that many tigers or lions on the streets these days, anyway. What will they run from? Cows are color blind, with a limited vocabulary. Life becomes so simple then. Its either black or white, moo, or moomoo. Its all about maintaining the right pitch, and at the right time. Lesser association between the two cerebral hemispheres.
Cows don’t have to worry about becoming fat. Fat becomes them. Cows are universally fat, and fat is cow. Mutually inclusive. When you have all the ugly characteristics already, that kind of becomes you, defines you, and is you, you don’t have to worry about anything. Because it cannot get worse. It can only get better, and in this case, better moves both up and down, eventually cancelling out, leaving a neutral state, square one, the place you started at. Which is anyway fugly. So why bother? Be a cow, fat and fugly, inert, and immobile, timid and flat, eat your grass, smoke it, step on it, try and dance for all that anyone cares. And silently meditate, as the bitter taste of raw, dirty grass gets to you, with all the salivary glands rising up to the challenge, overworking in fact, on why the sun rises in the east. And suddenly life seems much simpler.
All said and done, the cow is a sacred animal. Pray to it, and maybe the sun will rise again tomorrow.

Silence

The stillness of the lake
The lazy lull of the wind
The first flames of fire
The picture perfect moon
The eternal wait
For the first rain drop
The language of the trees
The agitation of the sun
The mind numbing standstill
Seconds before childbirth
Amidst the deepest sharpest cry
The beating of the heart
The calm before the storm
The turbulence of the ocean
The sharp bite of the cold
The turmoils of love
In the heart of war


At the peak of it all
Lays cuddled, and sweet
Innocent and pure
A beautiful lone lady
Mute, and dumb
But with the sharpest eyes
An immortal spectator
The language she speaks
Reeks of reassurance
In her arms lies comfort
She maybe an illusion
She maybe a savior
She maybe the question
She maybe be the answer
She is everywhere
She is timeless
Silence is her name

That lady in black
She is mysterious
Obscure and cryptic
She talks of nothing but
A million things
A thousand unspoken words
A hundred others
Scary in her moods
Carefree otherwise
Ephermeral and immortal
Lonliness her best friend
Her invisible face
Cloaked in black veil
She who has no shadow
With a deafening roar
Does she tell us
Silence is her name

Evanescence

The train picked up speed, as it settled into the periodic tickety
tack of its wheels. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, picked up his
bag and walked his way into the compartment trying to find the perfect
spot. He was tall, and well built, with a heavily toned body. He did
his bit on keeping shape, what else did he have in life anyway? He
wasn’t what you could call life’s favourite son. Obstacles and ill
luck cursed his path. As an evidence to his troubles, his face wore a
weary look, tired and haggard. Scars lined his arms, his hands rough
and coarse, reflecting his struggles. A day’s journey, he would soon be
home, and he couldn’t wait to be back. Back where he belonged.A place he
could call home.

He walked into a compartment that was relatively empty, but for a
young girl who sat by the window absorbed in her own thoughts. He was
glad, he wouldn’t have to make inane forced conversations with nosy
people, he would have his silence. Carelessly throwing his bag up on
the shelf,he seated himself beside the window opposite her. And that
was when he actually saw her.She was looking out the window.
She appeared to be in her early twenties, roundish face, very pleasant
looking.Her hair was pulled up in a casual knot, strands flying
carelessly across hercheeks, as she let herself be caressed by the
gentle breeze through the window.Her eyes were what struck him,
made him look closer and more intently at her.

Light brown eyes, bright and intelligent. They had a pensive
distant look, she had given herself up to her thoughts, and
memories. Red rimmed though they were, punctuated with the black debris
of mascara that she must have so painstakingly applied on her long curvy
eyelashes, she looked beautiful. As she wiped a tear off her face, he
longed to reach out to console her. But she seemed to be lost in her
own world, and he was but a complete stranger . He imagined her to be
in a bubble, deaf to all the noises except that of the wind, blind to
everyone else except the unrelenting expanse of green fields that
passed by her, mute to the world except her own thoughts. She looked
so vulnerable, like a butterfly with its wings cut off, struggling to
make sense of its predicament.He was torn between reaching out,
embracing her,wiping the tears off her face, consoling her, and his
hesitancy at destroying her bubble. Waking her up from her trance,
halting her memories, bringing her back to a reality which would
probably hurt even more. Wherever she was, at whatever time her
thoughts had frozen her, it was hers to keep.

He pondered over the reason for her melancholy. Had she lost someone
near and dear? Was it death that drove them apart? Or was it one of
those ridiculously insane moments of anger that often separate people?
Or was it mere distance? Was it loneliness, anger, separation, or even
love that made her so sad?

He had no knowledge of her past, he had never ever participated in her
moments of joy or sorrow. But yet, here he was, an inert spectator to
her obvious despair, at something, or someone, and he knew not how to
console her, or even if he should.

He wondered how she would have looked in better times, in her million
moments of abandon and happiness that were all now lost to time,
everything reduced to but an entry in the memory keeper’s book.
He smiled to himself at the vision of her bursting into spontaneous
laughter, of her waving excitedly at someone, her face lighting up
with joy as she saw her someone, whose face would always be invisible to
him, her bouncy spirited chatter. He imagined all this just by looking
at her, gave her a name, a voice and a personality. He may have been
totally wrong, he may have been eerily correct, he may have been
neither. But to him, she somehow wasnt just another nameless face in
the train, who would be lost in the misty background of all else that
were insignificant, things that didnt matter to him. She meant more.
He did not know her. But in her vulnerabilty, he saw something
beautiful. He connected with her mysterious pain and anguish. And he
wanted more, he needed to touch her, feel her, to convince himself
that she was real, her pain and his too, were real.

He cleared his throat, and reached out to bring her to his attention.
She turned, and looked hard at him. For a few seconds, their eyes met,
and locked hard. It felt like she saw right into him, and he into the
very depths of her heart. He lost his voice in those magical moments,
all he could do was look at her. And then, as abruptly as it had
began, she broke the gaze, wiped the tears off her face, said one
word- 'sorry' and she was gone. She disappeared.He stood there mute,numb
with a feeling he couldnt describe.Empty. But relieved. Like life had
just apologised to him for all the sorrows, the pain, the anger, the
disappointment that she had bestowed on him.Somehow he felt lighter
and happier. He wished he could go after her, but he knew it wasnt
meant to be. In that single moment, he had loved, and had been loved,
and that was enough for him.