The Dead Squirrel

It was 12 August 2006, my birthday. The day was Saturday, the second Saturday of the month, the day of the parent-teacher meet. I always used to skip this meet because, I, quite frankly, considered it pointless. But on that day, I was in my school practising for the zonal badminton tournament which was less than four weeks away.

I had to come back home in the middle to fetch something — shuttlecock or money, I can't remember. A squirrel came under the front wheel of the rickshaw on my way to the home. It suddenly came out of nowhere and rickshaw puller couldn't apply the brakes in time. The squirrel died in a few seconds spewing a lot of blood. That's probably the first time I saw a living object dying.

Every single time I see a squirrel, I find myself reliving that harrowing moment. Every 12 August, I remember that squirrel.

I have a very muted response to death. Death makes you philosophical, momentarily. Death reminds me of something which I read in my seventh standard English literature textbook by Oxford University Press.

“Man's dearest possession is life. It is given to him but once, and he must live it so as to feel no torturing regrets for wasted years, never know the burning shame of a mean and petty past; so live that, dying, he might say: all my life, all my strength were given to the finest cause in all the world──the fight for the Liberation of Mankind”

— Nikolai Ostrovsky

क्या कभी सोचा है

हर पाँच सुबह सप्ताह में उठकर 

जब तुम काम पर जाते हो 

सड़क के ऊपर चलते हो 

क्या कभी सोचा है ?

जब तुम ऊपर चलते हो सड़क के 

मैं अंदर तैरता हूँ गटर में 

जब तुम बाहर सांस लेते हो 

मैं दम घोंटकर हाथ मैले करता हूँ 

तुम्हारे घरों के मैल से 

तुम्हारे मल से 

क्या कभी सोचा है ?

कौन हूँ मैं ?

तुम जब अपनी तरक्की पर फ़क्र करते हो 

वंदे मातरम् का उद्घोष करते हो 

भारत माता की जय बोलते हो 

तब उस माँ की इस संतान को याद करते हो ?

जो तुम्हारे सामने से गुज़रता है 

तो हवा की तरह देख नहीं पाते उसे

लेकिन उसी हवा में जब किसी बंद नाले की 

दुर्गन्ध तैरती हुई तुम्हारी नाक को परेशान करती है 

तब ढूंढ़ने लगते हो मुझे 

मुझे गंदगी में उतार कर 

स्वच्छ भारत बनाते हो 

फिर भी मुझे ख़ुद से दूर रखते हो 

अलग गिलास में पानी देते हो 

आईने में बिना शर्मिंदा हुए बाल संवारते हो 

और सुबह काम पर  निकल जाते हो | 

वतन की सर-ज़मीं से इश्क़ ओ उल्फ़त हम भी रखते हैं 

खटकती जो रहे दिल में वो हसरत हम भी रखते हैं

—  जोश मलसियानी

Juvenilia

On the night of 14 December 2018, between 00:005 and 00:15, I was rummaging through my teenage memorabilia —  mostly books and notes. I stumbled upon an old envelope with perfect creases. It probably had remained unopened for ten years.

When I opened the envelope, I found newspaper clippings and a few printouts on the history of physics. The printouts were from 2005 and I couldn't remember anything about the clippings. The United Nations had declared 2005, The International Year of Physics, and I was being forced, by my class teacher, to participate in some in inter-school competition on the same theme. As I was extremely shy during my school days, I managed to excuse myself from the event. I still dislike occasions where strangers behold me. This has slowly changed over time. With acting in a few plays and skits during my undergraduate days and hosting quizzes regularly during my master's, I feel much more confident on the stage now.

The clippings and printouts threw me back in a time about which I had almost no recollection. Nevertheless, these little pieces of paper did their job. A mirror which has accumulated dust over the years, still shows us our own reflection when it is cleaned.

I am in the dark about the date !

This must be from 2005 as that year was the 100th anniversary of the birth of 'Special Theory of Relativity'.

Certainly from 2005.

28 September 2005

2005 was a very important year in my life. It cemented my interest in physics.  That was the first time I read about Special Theory of Relativity in a magazine called Vigyan Pragati. It had that famous definition of STR form the man himself - " Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That's relativity". I bought the  biography of Einstein from the World Book Fair of 2006. Sadly, that remains the only book about him I have read till date. 

I don't want to annotate any further on 'my past'. My words won't do any justice. Ralph Waldo Emerson's poem — The Past, captures the extent of my desiderium.

The debt is paid,

The verdict said,

The Furies laid,

The plague is stayed,

All fortunes made;

Turn the key and bolt the door,

Sweet is death forevermore.

Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,

Nor murdering hate, can enter in.

All is now secure and fast;

Not the gods can shake the Past;

Flies-to the adamantine door

Bolted down forevermore.

None can reenter there, -

No thief so politic,

No Satan with a royal trick

Steal in by window, chink or hole,

To bind or unbind, add what lacked

Insert a leaf, or forge a name,

New-face or finish what is packed,

Alter or mend eternal Fact.

ज़िंदगी रोक के अक्सर यही कहती है मुझे 

तुझ को जाना था किधर और किधर आ गया है 

— ज़िया ज़मीर

PS: Happy 140th Birthday Herr Einstein !

Correction: New map pins down 'dark matter' is from 9 January 2007. The Old Man And The E is from 24 June 2007. Google helped me !

Friends, Friendship & Divorce

Years ago, someone told me that our successes and failures are not entirely our own. Society is equally responsible for both, and we should always keep this in mind. I first understood this when I went to Banaras Hindu University to begin my undergraduate studies in 2009. During the first two physics lectures, our professor enlightened us about the history of our university and the efforts of several individuals, working both in isolation and in cooperation, to erect this edifice. That narration impressed upon me the immensity of Pandit Malaviya's initiative and his efforts to bring his vision to life.

We are humans only in relation to society. Our existence has no value in isolation. Society influences us in both subtle and coarse ways, and in turn, we too leave our mark, however insignificant. In my case, the influences of society were most prominently manifested through individuals whom I like to call 'friends.'

I consider myself extremely lucky to have a wonderful set of friends. My closest friends are from my BHU days, and it had to be that way. That was a time when we were transitioning into adulthood from teenage, and the phenomenon of coming of age collectively leaves an indelible mark on the rest of our lives. Surely, a few years down the line, we might laugh at our naivety and ignorance from that time, but we had an amazing time back then. I have always considered friendship to be the most sacred of all human relations, even a notch above the most intimate familial bonds. It is something for which we make a conscious choice, and if we don't seriously respect our choice, that says something about our own character. Friendship shouldn't have an ideological basis. If that is the case, that bond will break apart at the very first sign of divergence. I have a colorful set of friends. There has to be certain similarities to sustain a friendship. That could be anything, ranging from a shared liking for a particular thing to appreciating the movie Four Lions.

I have always deeply cared about the well-being of my friends, and their successes—according to the parameters they set for themselves—have made me immensely happy.

I have four sets of mutually exclusive friends—early childhood, school, BHU, and IISER Mohali—with a few fleeting overlaps among the sets because of physics. I have always been fiercely loyal to my friends, and in turn, I expect their loyalty. I can't let go of even a minor contravention in the unwritten tenets of friendship. Whenever any breach has occurred, I have subtly distanced myself from that friend. It has become fairly easy for me to walk away from people. I don't like that, but I have come to identify it as my strength. Maybe it aids in self-preservation.

It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. 

- William Blake

मैं बुझ गया तो हमेशा को बुझ ही जाऊँगा 

कोई चराग़ नहीं हूँ कि फिर जला लेगा 

— वसीम बरेलवी

The Darkness Under The Sun

Today, I was sitting on a bench in the park behind my school, soaking in the late afternoon sun. I heard a chink. I couldn't care less and didn't bother to turn around. A dog had just gone around the bench, and I presumed it must have been that dog kicking things around.

Within 10–15 seconds, I heard another chink and turned around to shoo away the dog. I hate dogs.

As I turned, I didn't see any dog. Instead, I saw a kid, about four years old, picking up a crushed beer can from beneath the bench. His little hands were already holding one can, and with much difficulty, he picked up the other and held them close to his chest.

Our eyes met, and he looked scared. I smiled at him. He came to the front and picked up another can lying in front of me. After a couple of seconds, he managed to hold all three cans with the support of his chest. He walked away, smiling, toward his mother, who was a few yards ahead. She had just put down the heap of trash she was carrying on her head to rest for a bit.

I got lost in my own futile existence.

धूप में निकलो घटाओं में नहा कर देखो 

ज़िंदगी क्या है किताबों को हटा कर देखो 

— निदा फ़ाज़ली

Skirmish

A pain so daunting

Not willing to subside

Memories are haunting

Refusing to be cast aside

The vision of a corpse

My failures and lapse

The twisting of the self

Evident through the lineaments

Lingering in noesis

With a void so mickle

With a void so mickle

हालात

शहर जल गया बस राख बाकी है
मिट गयी हर आस फिर भी ये सांस बाकी है
चाहता तो मैं भी था एक मुकम्मल जहाँ
खत्म हो गयी हैं ख्वाहिशें क्यूँ ही ये इंतिहा बाकी है