A Father, A Son

Early to bed early to rise, was something he had never done before in his life. He still remembers when was young and doing schools. His father would return from night patrol duty at six in the morning and wake him up just to sleep on his bed. Though there were two more beds in other room but had been intentionally stripped off their mattresses so that the son couldn't sleep anywhere else after being roused from his bed. By this act, his father intended son to gear up for little jogging and exercise at Polo-ground that had been used for the game of Polo by royal family of the city they ones ruled pre- independence.

He knew his son was a lazy soul but smart too. After stepping into his jogging shoes and locking door from outside, he would walk languidly toward ground with half open eyes. Purposely he wouldn't wash his face and eyes at the running taps on his way. He just wished to sleep a little more and never turn his face toward east as the rising sun might upset his sleepy state. Stroll until the polo ground wasn't long at all and well in his sense he would cross the road and enter into the great polo ground through a huge channel gate that was always kept wide open enough for not more than two people to walk in simultaneously. There he would open his eyes in a way as if looking for something and yes he looked for something: looked for young men doing cricket practice at the only cricket club in the city. If they were not doing the net practice or something at the pitches then he would at once approach the dry grassy pitch and lie down with closed eyes just to open them again when sun would be high enough to upset his slumber. Sometimes he found those young men doing net practice on those well cared pitches with only intention to get into the national cricket team and bat like Sachin Tendulkar or bowl like Kapil Dev. However, he also loved cricket but never wished to be a part of national cricket team. Obviously, how could he, when his love for his slumber was more intense than for such a dream.

Some mornings when those pitches were occupied by the players he would approach the derelict stands and find a corner to lie down where sun wouldn't get to find him for an hour or two. Eventually when he woke up from those ‘LITTLE MORE SLEEP’ he would look at the sky and try to feel the environment just to make a guess – is it 8:00 AM or 8:30 AM or perhaps too late, 9:30 AM?

If certain that it’s not too late, he would approach a running tap at a corner in the ground and washed his face and eyes. Then, he went on to look for a place to sit and watch people who have been doing jogging, exercise and stretching. Sometimes, he found acquaintances and passed them a shameless good morning smile. Watching everyone playing games, doing exercises and all sort of physical activity gave him joy and occasionally he would smile at something or someone with no sensible reason. But he wouldn't sit for too long and after dusting his pants take his stroll back to the house.

There he would open the door and step inside, just to find his father sleeping on his bed. Sometimes, he would lie down on mattress-less beds and wait for his father to wake up. On alternate days, after returning he would check the tap, if running then he filled the empty water storage and sit inside it leisurely to cool the body from all the morning activities. He always hated his father for waking him up and making him go through this rigors morning – as he considered it.

Now several years later, he deliberately tries to wake up as early as possible and gets furious on himself for not being able to do so as often as possible. And, if he does, then he would ask for a nice cup of tea after freshen up and stand in the window to see people who are taking out for morning walk, jogging or exercising, and look back at his empty bed just to see his father sleeping there. But, now he sleeps somewhere far away from his bed, perhaps in a big wooden box, four feet under the surface with a big cross on his head saying, “It’s my time to sleep, you go and live the life at fullest, my son.”

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Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

What else will you do, when you really can’t do anything?

Monotonous days, loneliness is your companion and you watch sun rise and sunset from the only window in your room. No, I am not prisoner of any jail which is abide by law. However, I am the prisoner of myself, who has no desire left to walk out, who has no love to fulfill, who has no purpose to live for. Had I loved someone or something I would have thought about going for it, but now, where should I leave for, the whole world appears a granule to me. It is empty. It is hollow. It holds no value for me. Sometimes being human is a punishment in itself for the crime you must have committed mistakenly.

I know it must not be making any sense for who is reading it. However, there is a sense in it, a sense that only I can make out of it. I don’t wish for love, I don’t Crave for relationship, I don’t starve for aspiration. The only ambition which lies in me is to visit the end. There lies an urge in me that craves for an end, it needs to know the meaning of same end or is there any end which really exists or this whole concept of life is a lie, a hoax and I am made fool by this very fact.

I don’t raise both hands in the sky and ask for blessing, I don’t stretch hand for companionship, I don’t see you because my vision is stuck in the horizon seeking a way out. I attempt things that are taboo not because they are taboo but to ascertain why are they considered so. Perhaps one day they will show me a way out. Instead of spreading fingers to feel you, I curl them in to save you from the disease of heart since my pain is my pleasure.

My prose and poems are lowest of the categories of art but they are destined to be written and only read by me.

It’s the fourth time I have heated water to clean myself from what I have been living with since ages but it dejects me as I attempt to touch it with curled fingers. It’s still as cold as I brought it from an unknown stream. They call it Holy River but I see it nowhere more than a stream of muddy water. The fire from the last night bonfire has turned into grey ash and I see someone standing there above me in white rob with a cross saying ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ as though in that ash they have buried a soul that was seeking to escape and loose itself into the airless space where only twinkling light shows the way like lighthouses in the middle of oceans.

I smudge face with that ash and walk like a ghost in the forlorn streets where I scare only myself with that new face. There, all hopeless beings laugh aloud at my cover up and spit at me for only one reason - to see me naked and crawl like wounded snake. Since they are thirsty they are cursing me for my dry eyes, wanting to quench that thirst with my tears. But behold I shall declare that tears have left me a long ago, you are living dead and you hold no right to drink the tears of a man who had died with wide open heart and open eyes.

A Kashmiri in Goa

While on vacations, meeting souls from different world is a kind of thing most of us appreciates, especially when those vacations are in Goa – the heaven for young people and artists from different spheres. It was a fine tropical sunny morning and I was having breakfast, at a restaurant not far from Baga beach, with my friends. I finished breakfast quickly and excused myself.  I needed to visit medical shop to get some antibiotics. While on my way to it I saw a man in his 40s sitting right outside his shop having glasses perched on his wrinkled nose performing art of sculpting on a very fine piece of wood. It was a long rectangular piece of wood as though an edge section of some furniture he might have been working on. I looked at the plank at the top of the shop – Walnut Wood Classic Furniture– without halting.  I had seen the shop already a couple times during my stay in that area and perceived it an antique shop.

While returning from the medical shop I stopped by and asked the man if I can take few photos while he was working. He smiled and generously invited me to click photos.  I ran to the restaurant, asked the friend who had camera in his hands and quickly returned to this artist looking man with camera. He welcomed me and I began clicking pictures. Though I never had much experience with camera I tried my best to click pictures of this woodcrafter while working.

In the process, I started talking to him. My main objective was to know about him and his work. I was very much intrigued by what he was doing with that piece of wood. His hands and chisel were touching that wood with a determination of artist. His name was Mansoor Chacko and he belonged to Kashmir. A Kashmiri Muslim wood crafter. A Kashmiri in Goa –the very thought struck in my head.  This raised my curiosity to know more about him. To him, I was a mere tourist, despite of it I told him a little about myself. He told me that this shop of his deals in classic Kashmiri wooden furniture and showpieces. They all were handmade and example of finest Kashmiri art of wood crafting.

Since, when you are working on that piece of wood?

‘8 days I have been working on it’.

And, how long would it take before it’s ready.

‘20 more days. Approximately’.

How a Kashmiri wood sculptor ends up working at a place which is famous for beaches, beer, babes, and party?

 He looked at my face as though seeking my intention behind this very question.

‘I came to Goa with the help of my uncle in 1989 when insurgency took Kashmir by storm.’

When did you first start working in this craft?

‘When I was 15 or 16, I learnt everything from ‘abba’ my father. I used to watch him giving shape to raw walnut wood. But I never wanted to work in this craft.’

Why? I was astounded by his revelation. He was so good in this art and though he never wanted to work in this craft.

 ‘I have done B.Sc. in Medicine in 1986 and had a seat secured for MBBS in medical college. I could be doctor today. However, father desired me to take this craft further.  I could be sculpting human body today, instead of banging piece of wood and loosing precious eye sight.’

When he spoke, I saw no regret in his eyes as though that sad story of not being able to follow ones ambition wasn’t his, it belonged to someone else. It left me with deep thoughts. He had been in this craft since almost 3 decades without any regret, perhaps he had learnt to love his work.

Since friends were waiting and we were on schedule, I needed to stop my conversation with him and I left him with a promise of paying visit in the evening. Whole day I spent on beaches or bars, however, thought of knowing more about the woodcrafter didn't allow me to have the mirth of Goa. I waited for us to return to our rented apartment and to have a sweet water shower.

Again, when I arrived at his shop he wasn't there, went to see his daughter who was little sick. I waited in front of his shop, gazing at articles placed inside. Every item was distinctive in its own way. And then, I saw him coming in my direction. I was ready with camera to capture as much as I could. We sat down outside his shop and began talking.

He was disappointed by the fact that use of machinery had taken out the uniqueness of this craft. There had been times when crafters would craft every piece of wood with their hand and the finished articles were in itself the signature of that artist. But, now this signature was disappeared you can create many articles and all would look alike, without any distinctiveness. It all happens because they want to achieve the work of 30 days to be done in 7 days. Now it is more like production in factory then a creative process. And, this subverted the appreciation which people used to shower on us because of handwork and distinctiveness, doesn't matter if they buy it or not. Many customers see the articles and say, ‘What is the difference, all lookalike in terms of design.’ though they understand the difference. Everyone is looking for cheap deal over an artists work.

Since now, it is all about ostentation, not appreciation and all about the cheap deal; we also have to make things in that way. This way the fun in sculpting and excellence of art diminishes but we can’t help it. Money is the way to survival. No one pays us the way European artists and sculptors have been paid. We produce the excellent artwork but no one pays us what we deserve for that kind of work.

What first thing you have made out of walnut wood, I asked.

It was a magazine rack and unique in itself. I created it from my imagination. Then I made tables, boxes and other articles. I sculpted stands for Quran and Gita. My created stands are completely different from what you find in the market.  In Kashmir, we mostly use the Mughal arch design. It has a place to keep the holy book when not reading and can use the stand which is a part of box itself when reading. 

Most of my inspiration I drew from my father. Due to interest I used to sit with him and that’s how I learnt this craft.

In Kashmir, we have four basic designs Chinaar, Grapes, Lotus and Rose. These depicts four seasons in Kashmir. However, other designs are mostly taken from different places and cultures and then they were mingled with our basic design. Like, Mughal arch is not a Kashmiri design but when you see it closely you will find the difference.

Let me show you I have written something. When I was writing I didn't know if I would be able to complete it or not, he said.

I thought, he would show me a piece of paper where something had been written. But when he brought me inside his shop and showed a plank of wood, upon which some wonderful art work had been done, I was left astound. Then, I knew what he meant by ‘Written’. He had sculpted his thought on the wood plank. By looking at it from naked eyes no one could say that it was something from already established design. It was the thought in his heart which he had written on wood plank in the form of sculpting.

He had been crafting it since 6 months and doesn't want to sale it since according to him it’s not yet complete.

I asked him, if he would wish to have his son take this art further. He denied it, straightforward. The reasons were obvious, this particular art is dying and people with resources are not willing to save it. Had Kashmir been independent or peaceful this art would have been flourishing. Insurgency had taken away the ways of development and swallowed future of maximum Kashmiris and their coming generations. To him, Kashmiri Pandits left Kashmir due to militancy and started their life all again but for the left behind Kashmiri Muslims it’s an unending effort, they had to start their life all again after every shoot out, after every bomb blast, after every encounter, after every evening, after every night. To them, it’s a never ending torment.

You can take a Kashmiri out of Kashmir but you can’t take Kashmir out of a Khashmiri.

It took me a little while before I understood this fact completely. Even a little more than 2 decades later he wanted to go back to Kashmir. He wanted to live his old age there in peaceful valleys. We all wish for the peace in Kashmir, but his wish is little more than that, It was a craving. Though he had been earning his livelihood in Goa since 2 decades but he had bought no property there to live. He still lives in rented place. His most customers are non Indians who come to Goa and leave with Classic Kashmiri wooden furniture. He had learnt Russian so that he could comfortably deal with them. He recounted the brutal days of insurgency when curfew loomed over misty valleys in Kashmir for many days and in those days to find a pinch of salt for food was a sort of struggle. He gave accounts of ruined Kashmiri generations due to closed schools, colleges and revolution.

He said, Kashmiri can be compared only with Palestinians because the way they crave for their land, similarly a Kashmiri crave for Kashmir. No one in India or Pakistan can understand what it means to be a Kashmiri. We are different people with different sort of things and culture.

Now, to him it doesn't matter who gets Kashmir - India or Pakistan – What he is wishing for, is peace. Grant peace to Kashmir and that’s their only wish. He said something which clearly states the plea of Kashmiri people ‘Ek Taraf Naqab-posh Hai, Dusari Taraf Wardi-posh Hai aur Beech me Safaid-posh, Matlab Kashmiri.’ (At one end we have mask clad terrorists or separatist, at another end we have uniform clad army and in between we are, the white clad Kashmiris)

In the end, he introduced me with his kids, elder daughter ‘Filza’ younger daughter ‘Maliha’ and an infant son ‘Murtuza’. Both his daughters were in school in Kashmir. Their holidays were going on and hence they were with their father in Goa. Despite all what he had seen and felt in life he was looking hopeful for the future of his next generation.

To India or Pakistan, Kashmir is nothing but a strategic location to have control over but to Kashmiris it's their homeland, it’s their motherland. It is everything they have. 

Supreme Court, I Disregard Your Decision

Supreme Court of India has upheld a law which is more than 150 years old. And the Justice who actually upholds the law is, if not 65 then 60 years old. It’s such an irony that LGBT community which have started getting properly recognized and seeking their rights since 3 decades were slapped by a justice who is double the age of this fight. In the great Indian epic ‘Mahabharata’ Bhism Pitamaah had refused to use weapon against a transgender out of respect and moral code, and was also as old as the justice of Supreme Court. However, in present times the justice Bhism Pitamaah has unleashed a force against these people by upholding that decayed law.

I have read somewhere that Law can’t be absolute. It subject to time and circumstance and as soon as the time and conditions change the law becomes obsolete. So either 150 years have not passed or the conditions have not changed a bit. Nevertheless, I don’t agree with both, since in those times Indian society was a conservative society, but today, after 150 years even the law claims or I must say proclaims that Indian society is a liberal society and if it stands as true as the moral of Bhism Pitamaah then why the rights of LGBT have not been given to them. They are not asking for any favor, what they are asking is their birth right: Pursuit to Happiness and Acceptance like any other human being on earth.

In my hometown, when a transgender comes parents try to get blessings, for their children, from them. Parents say their blessings have a real effect. There is a transgender who is a good friend of my father. At my elder brother’s marriage they have been invited to bless the bride and groom. So gracefully they blessed both and put a good show. This friendship goes almost 15 years back in time. And, I am sure there are others like my father who have friendship with these people and have respect too. So, the society wants to leverage their divine power, if they really have one, but not ready to give them their rights. This is an unfair deal and on top of it we have criminalized their sexual urge.

There are not just transgender but Lesbian, Gay and Bisexuals. Every living being on this earth is born with a right to have sex according to its orientation. When God itself has not discriminated this world based on sexual orientation then who are these religious conservatives to challenge the will of Almighty.

I am straight so I can have sex but a Gay can’t, this is like imprisoning the ultimate desire of a human. This is far worse than the death penalty. If Gay sex is penalized by life imprisonment then be it because even by inhibiting that ultimate desire is far worse than that imprisonment. No one chooses to be gay, lesbian, transgender or bisexual, it is an inner desire like Love where logics and arguments don’t work. And, a LAW against it is obviously an atrocity.

People have forgotten the fact that sex is not just a mechanism of reproduction. It’s more than that; it’s a way to relieve ones soul. Had it just been a way of reproduction, and not the ultimate pleasure, ‘Kama sutra’ the ancient guide of love would have not been written. When straight people can take pleasure from sex and relieve their souls and mind then why can’t a Lesbian, a Gay, a Bisexual, and a Transgender.

I am a straight man and support LGBT cause from my conscience and disregard the decision of Supreme Court. 

Novel - Destined Lives

At last unveiling the Book Cover of 'Destined Lives - Journey till the Start'

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Destined Lives Story of Sassi

Blurb

Sassi, a 9 years old girl from Darjeeling, land of extensive tea plantations finds solace and love in the company of lollipop giver Mohanty Babu more than her parents. When she was sent to hostel and Mohanty ascertains, he vanishes from there... never to return. Sassi takes an oath to forget the past yet tries to sketch his face multitudinously, but in vain.

She goes to Sikkim on a student exchange program where she meets Veer, a tall handsome guy with a husky voice and charismatic eyes and above all an Army Officer who was never destined to be a part of her life.

Delhi embraces the wounded Sassi with open arms, where Raj enters her life as a flatmate only to soon discover that this was no coincidence. It was a well planned script by fate which began in 1965 and had its roots laid down in the failed mission where nuclear device was lost in Nanda Devi Peaks.

Destined Lives

‪#‎Novel‬ Destined Lives is soon going to be released.
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Destined Lives

Journey till the Start…

Rajveer Singh Prajapati

Sex, an act by organs or an emotion or an expression?

This Saturday, a flat-mate of mine has called me on my cell-phone, “Hey, is the bedroom occupied today?” I knew his purpose behind the enquiry still I asked, “Why do you want the bedroom free?”

“For the same reason a man live for. Please have it unoccupied for a couple of hours.” He requested and kept the call.

He hadn’t come home that night, I understood he must have met someone somewhere and this generally takes place when weekend is around the corner. When he had arrived with his girl, he found my laptop and me along with music system in the hall. His girl and he both entered bedroom and quickly but softly shut the door behind. I followed both of them entering bedroom with grounded heads and inflicted smiles which carried a tinge of shy or perhaps guilt – not sure. Why sex is a taboo, I thought, when it seemed to everyone as though a basic human need. Well, intercourse bring pleasure to both Adam and Eve, however, despite of it lot of other strings are tied to it and without those threads no Adam or Eva can indeed reach the pleasure of intercourse.

I generally find two kind of sex in the world – one which is love induced and other, which is body induced. Love induced sex is accepted and seen with respect in the society given social terms & conditions carried out in advance. However, the body induced sex is forbidden in so called civilized society. But to keep the balance in societal globe body induced sex which is commonly known by the names of extra-marital affairs, prostitution, and gigolos are essential. Though, body induced sex is interdicted, it existed in the most civilized corners of every civilization, known by the name of Red-Light-Area which had been formed and maintained to quench the sexual thirst of body.

If sex as a whole is really that important then why is it seemed as taboo, why is it not accepted as love – after all love induced sex is a byproduct of love and it’s essential ingredient of love. When mind loves someone it indicates that love by pouring out emotions and feelings. But, what about body – how body indicates its love for some other body? I believe it’s the touch by which body indicates its love for another body and to confirm the same love it has to have sex with that body. Well, body doesn’t think or make radical decisions, it needs whatever it needs, after all body has got some needs which has to be fulfilled such like brain which needs love and it achieves it by finding love, once, twice, thrice…depending on person to person.

Let’s paint sex on a larger canvas and what we find is that it is a bodily act of love where it doesn’t single out anyone on any lines. I am not talking in line with the great love stories of Romeo-Juliet or Heer-Ranjha or Sohni-Mahiwaal. What I am saying is if sex by love-need is justifiable then why not sex by bodily-need. Nevertheless, it’s the body that does it and brings all pleasure to brain and logics of love. If satisfaction is a mere state of mind then in sex it is achieved by body, doesn’t matter if it was love induced sex or body induced, because sex is sex and it has its own sovereign importance.

Many times sex is seen as an act of expression. Sometimes to know the passion of love one has to go through the act of sex, not by the chit-chatting. Sometimes real, unaltered emotion can only be experienced in the act of sex. Most people hide their emotion in daily life but this act of hiding doesn’t work for them when they indulge in sex. If the bodily act of sex brings so much truth about oneself in the light from darkness then considering it as taboo is an act of hiding, lying and deceit.

I don’t know on what terms our societal threads have been woven but there is a thread of sex which sometimes, I believe is wronging placed in the fabric of civilization. People don’t generally deceit for love but for sex. I guess that need of having bedroom available for couple of hours by my friend was to achieve that truth about his own love, passion and oneself. He must have lied a couple of things to that girl and the girl must have lied a couple of things to him based on the fact that sex in civilized corner of world is a taboo. If it wasn’t a taboo then they must have not lied about a single thing to each other. Doesn’t matter if they hide some truth or not but they achieved their momentarily truth by indulging in the act of sex. There, they were true to each other, no matter if it stayed like that only a quarter of an hour.