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Table of Contents

Fiction

Kingly mughal

Downtown wanderings

A Scene from the Court of Akbar

No Way, No How!

Green Waters

Choose a Bride

An Essay on Ethics

Poetry

Mid-Century Days

Pome of the Week

The Unfortunate

Jude’s Orchard

Shakespearan Prosody

Life

1-minute apologetics

Future stories
 Kingly mughal

Akbar, the Mughal, looked on expectantly at the horizon, his face grim
and worn out from seven days of constant battle. He had had enough
already. Blood-soaked corpses lay everywhere, swords pierced
through their chests, along with a large number of horses and exactly
eleven elephants. His regret was that more of his men had been
killed due to religious bickering than at the enemy’s hand. His army
had divided itself into factions. Muslims against Hindus.
Mohammedans against Christians. So much so that he would have
been most certainly defeated had it not been for his court-counsellor-
and-Army-General’s advice to secure the help of the Greek traders,
who had the world’s largest and most experienced army.
However, it had proved to be a hard task to win over the loyalty of the
Greeks, Akbar once having made a joke about the quality of spices
they had brought in. Touchy people, those Greeks were.

The Army General was a wise and astute man, a person whose
logical and strategic mind made him a formidable enemy to anyone
who crossed his path, and, as such, Akbar had relegated most
wartime duties to him. He was also a diplomat. It was his job to
negotiate treaties and oversee trading affairs involving foreigners.

But, the General was not a typical modern commando. He had a face
like a puffed up polythene bag with an admirable length of
moustache. His stomach needed a heavy belt to rest comfortably on.
However, he had a demeanour which commanded the utmost respect
from one and all. In fact, he was once reprimanded by the king for
being more regal than himself. Not many people know this but the
General was an excellent cook also. He was partly responsible for the
rise in popularity of buffet lunches during Akbar’s rule. Aside from
this, the General had a multitude of other talents; he was a fine shot
at archery — rumour had it that he had killed five eagles in flight
without using any extra arrows.

The Army General was a man of method. He liked to think of his

profession as an art, and like every good artist, he crafted out his
plans with exquisite care.

He looked on at his army. The swordsmen were busy honing their

skills and many were training to achieve rhythm and agility, a cosmic
dance of sorts. The clang of metal hitting metal carried to the
General’s ears, bringing a satisfied smile to his face.
In the soundscape, Akbar recognized a horse’s gallop. As the sound
grew closer, a man’s voice boomed out, “He is dead! Akbar, he is
dead!” Ah! Akbar’s eyes lit up. The king of Mewaar had been killed.
He had won the war. He took out his horn and blew it, and smiled as
the blaring sound filled the air.

Meet the General and tell him to rest his men, he said to the
horseman.

Birbal sat with his parents and two sisters, Zopi and Rani, thoroughly
enjoying the family reunion. Zopi was telling everyone about her
return journey from the village.

“It was an easy trip. The roads were very good. I came sleeping all
the way.”

“Of course,” said Birbal, “Let me tell you about a strange thing our
local scientists recently discovered –

It is said that when a person sleeps, he sees imaginings which he

does certainly have no control over. I’m sure every one of you have
these imaginings? What if I were to tell you that you can be awake in
this world of imaginings? Yes, that is what our sciency folks tell us, we
can indeed be awake in a new world, the world of dreaming. It is a
strange material, this dreams, but it feels close to what we see now,
awake in the real world. You sometimes remind yourself in your mind,
while your eyes are open in the real world, that ‘I am dreaming’. After
a few times reminding or muttering this under your breath, one night,
while you are sleeping and seeing these imaginings, you will realize
you are dreaming, and you will become awake, still in this world of
imaginings. Simple as that.

To be sure, I’ve tried this myself. But I say a word of warning. Once I
became awake in a dream where I was being chased by a fire-
breathing, fiery she-dragon. My eyes became big, and I ran like there
was no tomorrow, and huffing, puffing, I did a few whole-body rolls on
the ground and almost shrunk from fear, all the while there were
yellings from the fat dragon, ‘Marry me!’”

Rani laughed loudly but Zopi seemed to have zoned out and wasn’t
listening.

“Why is she ignoring me?” Birbal asked Rani.

“Go speak in her ear,” said Rani.

“It will only come out of her other ear.”

“Close her other ear and then speak.”

“Then it will come out of some other place,” Birbal said, grinning.
They all shared a good hearty laugh.

Of those standing outside Birbal’s hut, there was present a man from
Akbar’s private court. He had overheard Birbal’s jokes and chuckled
to himself. He had found the perfect man for Akbar. A wonderful court
jester Birbal would make. He went inside the hut, and having offered
Birbal’s family expensive gifts, he took him and had him ordained as
Akbar’s official court jester, to take over duties immediately.

Birbal stood in the courtyard the next morning, gaping at the luxurious
palace, his mouth wide open with awe and disbelief. How did a
humble villager like him land at this huge, huge, gigantic goldmine!
He was surrounded by some of the king’s ministers, being questioned
about who he was and what he did. Birbal, being young, was taken
aback at this show of attention by such high-profile people. While he
tried his best to satiate the people’s curiosity, there soon blared a
horn, and the people scattered, shouting that the king was arriving.
Back to your duties, everyone.

Birbal was a man of method. Oh, sorry. Birbal was a white-faced,

curly-haired young man. Not very tall. Very thin in structure but not
without a fresh glow of his own. If someone were to fault him, it would
only be for the fact that he had the permanent expression of a boka
(or simpleton). But his facial expression belied his cleverness and
sharpness of mind.

The sounds of horses soon filled the vicinity, and the king arrived at
last. As he got down from his horse, Birbal glimpsed the king’s face
and was stricken at the lines of wisdom and age on it. He realized the
king was not someone whose path should be crossed. The king
walked silently towards the palace as his men gave him salutes. He
noticed Birbal and stopped walking.

“My good friend, how have you been liking the palace,” asked Akbar.

“Very nice, your majesty, very nice. I couldn’t be happier to serve the
most honoured king,” said Birbal, stammering.
“No need to worry, young man, we won’t be sending you out to war,”
said Akbar, with a smile, “You’ll be serving me in my private court.”

Birbal unsuccessfully tried to stretch his mouth into a smile.

Akbar patted him on the back and headed off towards the palace.

The next day Birbal prepared himself for his first speech. Standing
before His Majesty’s throne, he started.

“Dear courtiers, my pleasure to be here among such an exalted group

of people. I come from a very impoverished life and this is the first
time I’ve ever tasted cottage cheese and wine. Oh, so good. So good.
And I hope it won’t be the last; for I hope to serve the king till my last
breath. These royal clothes you kind gentlemen have adorned me
with… It is such an honour.” Birbal bowed.

“Now let us start off. First, I’ll speak some peaceful poetry:
The prospects were bleak
the roads were narrow
the war went on for a week
but the king survived, to see tomorrow.”

“Yea!” shouted the entire congregation in a chorus.

And so it was that Birbal gained the blessings and affections of the
court through his matter-of-fact poetry and uncoloured words, a type
of humour in themself.

One day, as Birbal was walking around the palace, he caught two
chapraasis (peons) fighting over the rights to newly obtained unripe
mangoes.

“ Chapraasiyon (My peons), why are you fighting over mangoes? Oh,
come on. Today it’s mangoes; tomorrow what will it be – Linux
distros? By Jove! Come, come, let’s have the king’s hall swept up and
cleaned for today’s celebration.”

“Very well, sir!” said both peons, in chorus.

A large meal was prepared in the evening for the king, and many
guests were present.

“Delightful meal it was,” said Akbar, finishing off the dessert.

A moment later, Akbar’s eyes went wide open and his expression
became that of a caged animal. Everyone panicked, seeing his face.
Just then, there was a booming sound and Akbar slightly rose from
his chair, as if by force, and momentarily settled down again.

“Too much! Too much!” said Akbar, sounding like a poorly performed
karaoke record.

“May the king be given herbs!” shouted the congregation.

Akbar dismissed the court quickly.

Five years later, a strange secret was brought to light. Birbal was 25
when he discovered the secret of the crown.

One evening, after Birbal had finished his speech at the Royal
Jesters’ Club, he packed up and made his way into the court library.
As he sat in the light of an oil lamp, reading the Book of Cheap
Potions and Charms and tapping his fingers on the floor, he noticed
there was an echo in the wooden flooring. Curious, he quickly
brought in a dremel and cut up the relevant wood panel, and sure
enough, it was hollow on the inside and contained an aged, yellow
scroll. Birbal, being an adventurist, loved when such things happened
to him and this time he was even more delighted because there was
the question of valuable items to be discovered.

He read the scroll slowly and carefully.

“He who acquires the crown is king for the day
Whoever loses it a beggar for life
The crown sees your mind, the crown knows all
Fair play only, or you risk a terrible fall.”

Ah ha! thought Birbal. He had always wondered how the king

managed to stay in power year after year, dominating every rebellion
and neighbour with a click of his fingers.
“Chapraasiyon! Chapraasiyon!” shouted Birbal, the next morning,
“Get me a cup of coffee and meet me in my room, quickly.”

The two peons, now very close friends of Birbal, hurriedly went to his
room with a steaming cup of the good stuff. Freshly brewed coffee
beans, a novelty in those days.

“Like fresh dew on grass are faithful servants,” said Birbal.

“Your wish is our command, and your dish is our duty,” said the
chapraasis, smiling from ear-to-ear. The peons were aptly named
‘Ajab’ and ‘Ghazab’, Urdu-language iterations for oddity and wonder.

“Tell me, is the king’s daughter willing to marry a subordinate?”

“Sir, the king is willing to give her hand to any man whose luck is
proclaimed by the stars. We would have to see an astrologer. Who do
you have in mind?”

“Myself,” said Birbal, matter-of-factly.

The next day, Birbal and his gang went over to see the astrologer for
a pre-discussion about a possible marriage.

“Hello, young fellow,” said the astrologer to Birbal, “how do you do?”
He inspected Birbal’s palms, “Ai yo, beautiful beautiful.”

“What do you see?” asked Birbal.

“Not a darn thing, ai yo; you see – I have a cataract problem which
should be healed by the end of the year when the Pandit Association
finishes drafting the ‘standard’ for the new yoga. But your hands are
beautiful and soft. I can tell by common sense that you will have a
long healthy life, so healthy, ai yo,” finished the South Indie
astrologer.
Next up came the horoscope.

“Ah ha! Pluto in alignment with Sun – lots of prosperity! Oh, dear
dear… this looks bad.”

“What looks bad?” asked the gang in unison.

“Ai yo, Jupiter is having a bad hair day for the next forty years! Birbal
can never get married!”

“Listen up, you scamming turkey,” started Birbal, furiously, grabbing

the astrologer’s collars, “I will give you gold, but do pretend, in front of
the king, that the horoscope is not what it is.”

“HELP!” shouted the astrologer, and a giant of a man emerged from

hiding and tore Birbal off from the astrologer.

“I take no bribes.” chanted the astrologer. “Us ordinary people keep

strongmen too, especially when the royal family is in question.”

Fair play only, Birbal. Fair play only.

4

In the kingdom, a miracle occurred during that time. As many pandits

and saadhus (ascetics) roamed the land during Evangelization Day,
they discovered a child who seemed to be playing in the sand. Upon
closer inspection, it was found that he was actually making a god.
They marvelled as his hands moulded the figure into a many-legged
bull. The pandits all went Ooooooh! and Aaaaaah! A few minutes
later one of the muddy legs started sliding off the figure and fell onto
the ground. Nevermind, nevermind! They comforted the crying boy.
Practice makes perfect, they said. And he was taken into the temple
to serve as a junior saadhu.

The boy soon went up the ranks as he crafted more figures from
various materials – a whale with an oxygen tank, a gelatinous horse,
and when he completed a monkey fitted with gills, he was promoted
to Chief Saadhu with the rights to form or veto any doctrines of the
temple.

One evening, the boy went into society and found that all men were
bereft of sobriety, and what curses! What curses they yelled at each
other. Some even engaged in indecent acts which cannot be
mentioned.

The boy went back to his temple, disappointed.

He questioned his idols.

“Your people are devoid of morals. If you are gods, as the saadhus
say, then people would fear you.”
And the boy left the temple and went to society, in search of the true
God.

The boy, since he no longer had the privilege to free food and stay at
the temple, took up a day job as a portrait artist. His works soon grew
to a height of popularity not expected in those days, what with the
abundance of such painters. The boy was very skilled, indeed.

Quite a considerable number of famous people came to him for

portraits, including kings. But most of the people happened to be
strongmen. It was a tradition in those days for portraits of strongmen
to be hung outside their homes, so that people knew what to expect
beforehand if they came for a visit. No, seriously.

The boy was soon swimming in riches. He built himself a modest

dwelling. His wish was that it should have a circular dome in the style
of the Olden Ages. And with the kind of money he had gathered, he
could have had three dwellings, but he knew better not to squander
money in excess. After all, he had to help out the poor. Though he
had not yet found the true God, he was a believer in the Big Rule,
which later inspired Pascal’s Wager – if there is a God, you have won
because you followed his laws. If there isn’t, then nothing great is
lost. With regards to the poor, he was frustrated because no matter
how much money one gave, it didn’t enable them to earn themselves
and thus hindered society from becoming truly classless. So he went
about encouraging people to donate means of earning and not just
money and food which perishes and is spent in a day with no long-
term benefit.

Boy spent many days in his dwelling with a house-servant called

Politikos. It so happened that Politikos was the most annoying man in
the region. It was Boy’s grave mistake to commit him as a helpmate
for a month, as he soon discovered.

“Politikos, please send in some french fries to my room, please.”

“Of course, Master,” said Politikos, bringing in a huge amount of

severely burnt fries.

“What have you done, Politikos?”

“Why, is anything wrong, Master?”

“This food is burnt and inedible and you dare to ask me what’s
wrong?”

“Master, I did not realize that you liked your fries half-cooked.”

“Take four pounds and get me something from the bazaar.”

So Politikos went and bought some greasy meat and pocketed the
two-pound change for himself.

One day, Boy went out of his dwelling to spy out some birds and get a
breath of fresh air.
As he walked underneath the clear, blue sky, he spotted a smiling
chai-walla(a tea-maker). So he went and ordered one cup. However,
the chai he received tasted full of salt. Boy angrily asked the chai-
walla what his business was in giving out such tea. The obnoxious
chai-walla replied, “You want to fight with a working-class man? We’ll
see about this. You will be in grave trouble.” Boy said, “I take no
threats from anyone.”

The next day, Boy’s dwelling was broken into. Many goons came and
beat up Boy, leaving him in a pitiable state. Fortunately, they could
not break into the money chamber, due to lack of strongmen, many of
whom were fond of Boy by now and refused to do him harm. But Boy
did receive many blows with sticks and stones. A very sorry state of
affairs.
Boy was left within an inch of death.

The next day, Boy, accompanied by Politikos went to the Sheriff to

ask him to put the chai-walla to task.

“Who’s been bothering you?” asked the Sheriff.

“The chai-walla of 10th Street gathered many goons and assaulted

me and broke into my dwelling!” said Boy.

“Oh?” said the Sheriff, eyebrows raised. “Well, son, we can’t really do
anything about that. Those chai-wallas have a union.”

“What?” said Boy and Politikos in disbelief. “We’ll have you in for
neglect of duty and non-action in a criminal case.” Boy said, fist in the
air.
Boy tried the Community Hall. As he explained the happenings, many
threw stale vegetables at him and cursed his name and said many
obscene things about his parents.
Boy, through the midst of many vegetables and words being thrown
at him, said this – The people of this congregation have no fear of
hurting others and they can not claim to know God. My parents are
my deity, and if you say obscene things about them, the same shall
be said about your gods, whom you regard as your parents. Should I
now say obscene things about your beasts and grotesque idols?

The congregation was infuriated at this and tried to take Boy into
custody, but Boy escaped, due to swiftness of feet.

Boy and Politikos went into hiding in the mountains. They lived on a
ration of bread and wine for a few weeks.

Boy said one day, “Politikos, what will we do once the ration is over?
There is very little left now.”

“Do not worry at all, Master,” said Politikos, “I will disguise myself and
bring some food from the city bazaar.”

Politikos went to the city, promptly called the police, betrayed Boy and
revealed his hiding place in exchange for no action against himself.

Boy was worriedly waiting for Politikos to come back. What if Politikos
had been discovered? Well, he wouldn’t really mind that much.
Politikos happened to be a very annoying idiot. Good riddance.
The policeman who was supposed to nab Boy disguised himself as
Politikos, and when he approached the cave, Boy was confused. Did
Politikos now disguise himself as himself?
Soon, the police caught Boy and took him into custody. Swift feet did
not help him this time. He was surrounded on all fours.

They tied Boy’s hands to a bamboo stick with rope and led him to jail.
After all this suffering, Boy was in tears and broke down completely.
They abused him with starvation and torture in jail. Boy lost the ability
to speak.

A young jail inspector came to visit the prison one day and looking at
Boy, he was shocked beyond belief. He quickly filed a complaint to
Akbar’s Lawyery and obtained sentences for Boy’s abusers and a fair
trial for Boy.

Boy was treated with natural aloe vera gel and various plants
recommended by the Healer, who was known as Aragorn bar
Arathon, or something. He soon started to recover from the trauma
and became healthy and full again. He also began to recover his
voice after a few days. He was not able to perfectly enunciate words
properly but gradually, that was also healed.

Judge Dombas was one of a kind. She would idly tap her desk with a
gavel even when some important proceedings were going on. Once,
a female plaintiff complained about this, “Your Honour, it seems you
are not interested in the case. Why do you keep tapping the desk with
the gavel?”

“Listen up,” said Dombas, “The church is a hospital for sinners, but
for witches like you, I doubt there is a cure! Hmpf!”

“But… but… this is court!” uttered the plaintiff.

“So? So what? One more word from you and I’ll have you in for
contempt of court. SILENCE!” yelled Dombas.

Dombas was not quite the jolly old judge, except when she wanted to
be. And that was rarely.

Today, a few cases were scheduled.

A man named Farooq was the accused. Allegedly, he had committed

the crime of polluting residential bungalows by walking his dogs near
them.

Judge: Mister Farooq. Swear on the Holy Writ that whatever you say
will be the truth, and the whole truth.

Farooq: Of course.

Plaintiff: This man walked his dogs near our bungalows and did not
clean up afterwards.
The jury roared in perfect sync.
Judge: Order, order! What is your defense, Mister Farooq?

Farooq: Your Honour, I accidently left the scooper at home! I swear I

thought I had it in my bag. If the people had given me enough time, I
would have fetched the scooper and cleaned up. But I was dragged
to the police. That is the truth.

Plaintiff: This man is a liar. Besides, truth is arbitrary.

Judge: Mister Farooq, such a large oversight on your part cannot be

counted as a negligible mistake.

Farooq was taken to the prosecution booth and was whipped, very
gently, but enough to turn his butt to a ghastly red. A slap on the
wrist. But Judge Dombas was in a good mood today.

The second case involved a man whose money had been stolen. The
defendant happened to be a magician.

Judge: Plaintiff, state your case.

Man: I called this magician to my nephew’s birthday celebrations.

This magician was to perform tricks. He asked to be given 100 dinars,
and he made them vanish! When we asked him to return the money,
he told us that this particular type of magic could not be undone.

Judge: Magician, state your defense.

Magician: I’m a poor, humble man. I tell you I do not know what
became of the money. I’m quite content with my life, even if it is
devoid of luxury.

Judge: Yeah?

The jury roared loudly.

Judge: Order, or- What? How… where did my gavel go?

Magician: I swear, Your Honour, I know nothing!

“GET OUT! GET OUT!” yelled Judge Dombas. And the magician ran
away. “Case dismissed.”

The next case was much more interesting. Judge Dombas was faced
by two men, both scientists.

Judge: State your case; and make it quick, I need to have lunch.

First Man: Your Honour, this man disputes the fact that this earth is
the center of creation.

Judge: Really? (Raising an eyebrow.) I have read something about it.

I think it was in the parish paper or something.
Second Man: Your Honour, I have read my Galileo and geocentrism
is out of the question.

Judge: You don’t say… I know that dog Galileo. That dog! I’d be
surprised if he ever uttered a sensible thing in his life. We had to jail
him up for robbery once. But you know what? You are both wrong!
Because neither the Earth or the Sun is the center of creation. You
know, Lievtiem told me his calculations are coming up, and he’s
certain that neither is the center. Now there’s a real scientist. Now let
me have my lunch. Shoo! Case dismissed.

While Judge Dombas was crunching on health bars and sipping

strands of ramen noodles, Boy was anxiously waiting outside the
court for his session. Judge Dombas was a very slow and miserly
eater. She would soak in every bit of food and let the taste dwell in
her mouth for long hours before eating the next piece. So Boy waited
and waited, observing time passing on the sundial outside the court.

Finally, when time came for Boy’s session to take place, he entered
the courtroom apprehensively. Boy’s insides wiggled with worry.

As the judge woefully turned her eyes up from her now-empty

lunchbox and spotted the newcomer, she let out a tiny yelp and said,
“Gosh! You have certainly taken a beating, haven’t you?”

“Your Honour,” started Boy, “I have done no harm to any man. But I
have been beaten and tortured by the chai-walla of 10th Street and
his goons. It all started when the chai-walla forced me to drink tea
containing salt. As I confronted him for this misbehaviour, he
threatened me with so many words and the next day he had goons
break into my house and try to damage my dwelling and rob me of
my money. I filed a complaint to the sheriff and was told that nothing
could be done about it as the chai-wallas have a union. I begged for
help at the Hall, and was turned away and had to face many curses.
As I told them in so many words that they were godless men, they
tried to take me into custody, and I had to go into hiding with my loyal
servant Politikos. But Politikos had to disguise himself and enter the
city to bring some food. All I know is that later I was surrounded by
police and taken to jail – where I was beaten and tortured.”

Judge Dombas felt empathy for this young man and said to the court
security, “Bring in the lawless men who did this.”

The security said, “Your Honour, all of them are absconding since the
news was spread that they were involved in an issue like this and
would have to face Judge Dombas. The servant Politikos claims he
was drugged and left on the streets after they forced him to reveal
Boy’s hiding place.”

So Dombas put a ten thousand dinar price on the evil men’s heads
and had Politikos suffer some in the prosecution booth just in case he
had told a lie. And Boy was awarded lots of gold, along with a
dwelling near to Akbar’s palace.

Judge Dombas, who was much moved by Boy’s sad story, began to
tell him a story of her own.

“Boy. Let me tell you a story. It’s a true story. There was once a king,
who was an alcoholic. And you know what? That miserly man would
not even do the 12-step even though it was absolutely free. That’s
how miserly he was. So, one day, his miserly soul was drunk and so
the people were sick of him. They started a rebellion, and gained
movement. Imagine, a large group of people, moving jerkily from side
to side. The agitation. The excitation. They didn’t have cannons. So
they took the time to build many cannons and weapons of war. Yeah,
they were the do-it-yourself types. All the metal work was tiring but
the end result was fruitful. The men started to move. They shot
cannons at the king’s palace, and waged war against his supporters;
and the king, before they could kill him, waved a tiny white flag and
requested mercy. It was a deed of honour at the time to not kill men
who voluntarily accepted defeat, so they let him live. But he lost his
palace, his throne, and everything meaningful, and morals he never
had, anyway.”

“But how does that relate to me?” asked Boy.

“The chai-wallas who have made themselves kings. I’ll crush them in
the same way the people did the king. Have faith in Judge Dombas.
Good day.”

The next day, he went to his new dwelling near the palace. He was
delighted to see that it had a dome! And a grassy lawn too. It was a
huge showcase of ultra-fine architectureship. He went inside and his
jaw dropped when he saw the lush woollen carpets and the addition
of a splendid verandah. A nice touch. The fit and finish of his new
home was up to the mark and very commendable. This was a home
suitable for rich people, he thought.

Politikos, who pretended like he hadn’t betrayed Boy, kept coming to

his dwelling and requesting Boy to let him be his house-servant. Boy
did not think that Politikos had betrayed him, but he refused Politikos
at first because of reasons of annoyance. But because of his
insistence, Boy gave in and let Politikos once again serve as his
house-servant.

A few days later, it was found that Politikos would not stop burning his
fries and Boy was forced to make his own food. Politikos was,
instead, put in charge of the cow; but Boy later found Politikos
feeding the cow the same binned fries that were wasted throughout
the days and the cow had fallen ill. Enough was enough. Politikos
was frankly told to leave the house, and despite lots of pretense of
sorrow and tears, Boy was firm and unyielding this time.

Boy would venture out everyday to the garden of the Royal Jester’s
Club, where he was an invitee thanks to the Judge.

There was an abundance of floral life thriving in the garden. The

flowers and plants present there were of these kinds:

1) The base of the garden was made of semi-sweet half-length

blades of grass, fresh dew and a big allotment of raindrops shining on
them, in accordance with the weather.
2) Falsedichid flowers, a mutation of the venerable orchid, were also
present in great quantities, yellow in colour, with exactly one petal too
many, interspersed throughout the garden.
3) The Moonrose flowers had a bed of their own. They were large,
blue, with a waxy feel to the petals, but not at all reminiscent of other
weak kinds of flowers. No, sir, they were sturdy and industrial
strength.
4) Other flowers and shrubs.
5) Tea leaves grew there.
6) The boundaries of the garden were lined with the much-disdained
and vilified families of the acacia trees and the palm trees.

Boy met and made friends with several people there. Not all were
appointed jesters, some were there just for fellowship, but usually, a
few jesters were present and often performed there.

One of the jesters, the special act of today morning, Oboe Sly – no
relation to Stallone – happened to be an excellent mimic and was
fluent in a large range of sounds and vocalizations. The audience all
wowed as he betook the bamboo stage with his fab-u-lous imitations
of propulsion rockets, the science fiction of the time. The people all
had a good, hearty time together and enjoyed the excellent breakfast
of scones and strawberry-topped pancakes provided by Akbar’s
personal cookery.

Boy was soon recognized among the crowd as a newbie, and

subsequently Oboe and other courtiers invited him to visit Akbar’s
palace, which he politely said no to at first, but after much haggling
from the people, he acquiesced.

Standing in the royal lawn, holding a cup of tea, and chatting with the
people about the experiences he had at such a young age, Boy heard
horses coming near – the king had arrived from a stint of pelican
hunting. Akbar flung himself off his horse’s back and walked towards
Boy. He said with a smile, “How do you like war, my good friend?”
The people silently groaned inside, knowing this was his usual routine
with newbies.

The courtiers led Boy to the palace. Boy had a good eye for
architecture. He observed the palace walls from top to bottom. At the
top was one large, bulbous, and numerous other small domes. The
palace roof seemed to lack symmetry, the large dome being at the far
left, but it did not feel disconcerting at all, strangely, and the people
thought of it as exquisite. The large dome was painted a champion
silver, and the smaller were painted in different shades of RGB (the
infamous primary colours red, green, and blue). The lower part of the
building had a pleasing, curved arcaded facade. The central block
housed the main palace door which the people went through. The
door was made of thick rosewood with detailed carvings, images of
demons and angels, made by whom Boy suspected to be a great
master skillsman. The door lever was made of pure gold, and the
heaviness did it no injustice. It took two strong heavyweights,
minimum, to open the door. Once inside, Boy was wowed over, a
million times, as he saw lights bouncing off the gold pillars and twenty
shining chandeliers powered by extra-safe oil lamps (all expenses
incurred were paid for out of the treasuries of the many cities
defeated by Akbar) in the main palace hall (called hollroomum
vaticum in the native language).

The Army-General. You know, he liked to keep it trim and call himself
just “A.G.”, being a strict minimalist (although you wouldn’t guess it
from his beer belly). But we won’t go down that route. We’ll just call
him Ergotamine Tartrate. So Ergo was making his fellow soldiers of
whom he was their superior practice guerilla warfare.

His main three champion pupils were Olivette, Popsicle, and Kompo
the Russian illusionary and stealth expert. Olivette dug the holes.
Popsicle piled the dug up dirt in front of the hole as a small hill to hide
behind. And Kompo handled the hand-grenades.
Today, they were practicing the ropes along with the usual herd of
soldier trainees. Ergo kept yelling – “Up the wall! Up the wall! None of
that backache nonsense. Up the wall you go!”

Olivette and Popsicle scored a great five seconds at the wall climb
and Kompo was edged out by just two seconds. The rest of the herd
was abysmal as usual, being beat by whole minutes. Ergo wasn’t
pleased. They showed absolutely no signs of improving. Slugs.

After that came time to dig. And with an evil glint in his eye, he drove
his men like dogs, making them dig ten trillion sand particles per
scoop.

Wrapping up, he made his way to meet Akbar at the royal palace.
Taking a Well-exercised-bull-cart, he smilingly enjoyed the journey to
the palace, taking care to bask in the respectful salutes of the men
who passed by.

As he reached the palace, he saw something unusual. There was

lamplight oozing out of one of the towers on the right side. The
General was shocked. This room was supposed to house some
grand royal secrets and was to be kept locked at all times. How come
it was open this evening, he had to investigate.

He ran through the palace door and overthrowing many things on his
way, he shouted, “Akbar, the secrets! There is someone in the room
of secrets.” Akbar got up from his chair where he was sitting,
alarmed, and ran with the General up the stairs to the tower. Boy was
a keen-eared one and wondered what secrets they were talking
about. A secret breeding of geese? Boy smiled to himself. As Akbar
and the General reached the tower, they saw Birbal observing the
nooks and crannies of the room and their faces swelled with anger
and indignation. They firmly took Birbal by the arm and led him to the
ball room.
“What the hell were you doing in there, Birbal,” asked the much-red-
eyed Akbar.

Birbal felt wholly squared and said, “Sirs, I was only looking for my
newly bought pet rat Konki who entered that room through the space
underneath the door. I could not do the same, however, so I had the
chapraasis bring me the keys.

“Ah, Birbal, Birbal,” said Akbar, letting out a mix of a sigh and a forced
laugh, “Please do not go into that room again, there is a malevolent
ghost in there who would be all too pleased to possess the whole
palace if he could. I’ll take the keys from you.”
Birbal, of course, was not one to readily believe simple tales.

The next day, Birbal took leave from jestoral duties for a purported
steam bath. In fact, he went over to Hockey Shalom.

Hockey Shalom was the world’s only consulting, caffeinated (no crack
involved, just water, hard coffee, sucralose, and fresh cream)
detective.

Hockey raised an eyebrow at Birbal as he entered his humble 1BHK

apartment.

“What service can I be of you?” asked Hockey.

“At the palace, we are missing a crown. It is essential to recover the

lost crown at all costs. It is the king’s crown, but he wears none.
There is a poem associated with it.” Birbal read out the poem.

“Confound me!” said Hockey. “Your case is solved.”

“This is no time for jokes, Mr Hockey.”

“No, really. It is good that the king wears no crown, a great sign of
humility before the Great One. The poem is a piece from the Abollate
, a Christian apostolic writing, and it talks not of a physical crown, but
a spiritual crown of hardship. As for Mughal kingship, that will always
be only for family heirship.”

Birbal sighed and left and let Akbar and his courtiers and guests take
care of the spiritual affairs, and the entire palace converted to the
Christian faith on the basis of one mysterious poem. State religion.

Ding. Ding. Ding Dong Ding.

Ding. Ding. Ding Dong Ding.

The soldiers marched along the vast land with a steady gait. Wartime
had come at last. Akbar had declared immediate war against the city
of Dole. His subjects were filled with fear; wouldn’t the new religion
weaken the resolve of their soldiers, they thought? But, no,
paradoxically, the soldiers were even more strengthened, determined
to wage war against evil – their own and that of the murderous
pagans of Dole.
The viewing room where Akbar sat had an exquisite wood panelling
of pure mahogany, polished with kingly veneer. There were four
pillars of pure gold holding the room up. Akbar himself was found to
be wrinkled and white as a ghost, quite a contrast to the liveliness of
the room which he occupied. Yet, age had only served to fortify his
will of iron, if not his skin.

Akbar watched from the viewing room of his palace as thousands of

cannonballs flew hither thither. Ah, he sighed satisfactorily, this was
sport. A sport to be watched. Chapraasis, he yelled, bring Birbal to
me quickly.

The chapraasis summoned Birbal.

“What is it that you want, chapraasis?” said Birbal sharply, for he was
in a cranky mood this day.

“The king is calling for you, sir,” replied the morose chapraasis.

“King schming.”

“Sir?” uttered the chapraasis, flabbergasted.

“Got to obey the king… Got to obey the king…” Birbal muttered under
his breath. He articulated a noise of dissatisfaction and walked
towards the king’s chamber. On his way, he found his rat Konki in the
side of the corridor chewing on what looked like a crumpet, and he,
Birbal, aimed a square kick at the rat, and watched as the rat’s
senses came alive as it rose and hurried away quickly. As he reached
the king’s viewing room, he thought he would brush up on his
manners et appearance a little, so as not to lose his reputation before
the old king. Although Birbal was cranky, he decided being kicked out
would be worse still. So taking out a Rajasthani wooden comb, he did
his hair and took a few deep breaths to rid his bad mood.

Bribal found the king sitting in the room on his teak, black-polished
chair, and said in a hushed up voice, “May I come in, Your Majesty?”
and stepped in as the king hinted his assent. Akbar got up and
beckoned Birbal to come near the window, gave him a pair of bins,
and asked, “Tell me, Birbal, what do you see?” Do not worry, this
won’t be a Sherlock Holmes joke.

Birbal gazed at the ongoing wars, flying cannons, and numerous

arrows coming down from all directions and said, “Your kingship may
not approve of hearing this, but I fear that this is a war that we may
not be able to win, all things considered. Because the pagans of Dole
seem to have weird powers of magic that are being made known to
me by the palace newsmen. It is said that their soldiers’ armors
sometimes turn bright as the sun and sometimes grow powerful
thorns. And often the thorns shoot themselves on our soldiers,
rendering them injured gravely. Whatever their source of power is, it
doesn’t seem that we will be, however assiduous our soldiers be in
fighting, able to overcome it.”

“Birbal, Birbal, has the Abollate taught you nothing? It is

perseverance that wins, always. The devil, blasted angel, rules by
fear alone! I had a dream, oh, I had a dream that as the clock hits 5
prime meridian, our soldiers will win the battle, if they continue to be
faithul in the conqueror and keep their hearts open. And as the clock
hits 5 ante meridian, we will receive a secret.”
And so it happened that as the clock struck 5, the war stopped all on
it’s own, and Akbar’s soldiers won, and there was cheering of the kind
that hasn’t been heard before. And as later, the party was ongoing
through the night, they got to hear beautiful, heavenly music that had
been recently imported from Arabia and Egypt. Birbal, Akbar, Boy,
Ergo, even the chapraasis, walked through the palace, arm in arm,
humming, “I will sing you a song, and it won’t be very long…”

Then the subjects residing in the palace began roaring, “I’D LIKE A
BOTTLE OF WINE!” And they had a mighty nice time, till it was 5 o’
clock in the morning, when the chapraasis found a piece of scrap in
the palace with some writing on it. They brought it to the others, who
were still swinging their legs around in joyful dance, and they all read
it together –

“Tunnel here, Tunnel there

We reach by suction, but who knows where
For many are called, but few are chosen,
In this case, only one will be there to care”

And so I awoke, and getting up from my bed, I looked groggily at the

mirror, and was astonished at the dream I had had. Birbal, Boy,
Mughal, who? I, the author, awoke to the world.

End

Downtown wanderings

When I was a “Roman”, you see, I always had wanted an antique

French rosary of black metal, or even something like what they call
John the Evangelists’s teardrop rosary, but nowhere is such luxury
found in Kolkata. And I’m not that man. I’m not wont to spend money,
it makes me feel very guilty in my mind and extremely stressed and
anxious. And, besides, what suits me more is jewelly, spark, and
some nice colour, although the prayer is as embarrassing as
Catholics themselves. I prefer the strong, powerful, super hard hitting
songs like the one by St Nektarios, although agreeably Simonopetra
male choir took it a notch too far in the raspiness but still can serve as
a specimen to atheists in the neighbourhood who feel Christians are
down there. I still like possessing things like sacramentals, that are
somewhat different.

Back then, we hand-picked nice glass beads from downtown Kolkata

where the gullies are so small, the people so many, and cycle-vans
carrying luggage so speedily you are always in mortal danger. On a
good day, you might get to stroke a nice cat, but the dogs have so
taken over the world that that’s a rare chance. And nearby the
puchkas, or pani-puris which always upset your stomach and food-
poison you eaten elsewhere, here are made with the nicest chilli-and-
super-green-flavoured-spiced-mint water and tastily prepared
potatos. I could eat a hundred.

Besides, the glass bead hand-picked rosary we had made, we also

cooked rose petals to make one with real rose beads, which the first
trial we accidentally made beads so big, it could only be used as a
wall rosary, until some unwise lubrication with essential oil made the
beads shine, but the middle beads we had used were plastic and the
colour came off, and it had to be thrown away. Next time, we sized
well, though it’s a bit on the mini side.

With a couple packets of my favourite Little Hearts biscuits (I wonder

why they cannot shape it as something else instead, so that more
adults can enjoy them too), some packets of Lay’s India’s Magic
Masala chips in hand, and did I mention the opportunity to enjoy spicy
momos with fiery sauce and clear soup that is so hot it leaves your
tongue irreparable when you go to such places?

I hungry now. Dosas for dinner.

note the real rose petal black beads
My Panasonic G5 camera never seems to set correctly in terms of
focus and stabilization, manual or not. Hundreds of shaky pics. I don’t
want this shallow depth of field either, but it always dares me to lower
the aperture size because something else doesn’t come up correctly,
the metering tells me I’m correct for the lighting but I just don’t want
my photos to turn out so crappy, and why do there have to be three
things you have to mess with for exposure, if this is how artificial
intelligence is today, can we really say we are getting anywhere. And
more to the point, I don’t see why the shift towards tech like
“hololens”, “Google Glass”, and other such things, even the nerds on
Slashdot are opposed to the idea of such eroticism, privacy issues
putten aside. Maybe it’s a white people thing, colored Indians are
probably worse in a way, but then at least the salary might discourage
many people. I for one would be seriously creeped out by the blokes
who would even consider wearing such tech, I don’t think many
people would, out of respect for others, honest use cases or not.
To be good and truthful of heart, means to be a monast, there is no
goodness without sacrifice of the leaven that is the powers of
darkness we as Christians want to be against, sometimes even
despair of, it used to mean flee from the artifices and works of society,
here and now in such evil times, to flee society itself. Jail in the island
was just about an appropriate setting for saint John to predict the pain
of people living in end times. I also don’t power myself into
psychoticism of my own will, but I do, but in my heart I know for the
sake of Jesus Christ, even though I often despair of it, I want to be
someone greater, someone closer to him than even his beloved
disciple, someone who could some day in heaven live in his very own
chamber, people are called to sacrifice little things even if not
encounter the depths of psychotic strangeness and sacrifice integrity
of the mental psyche.

Often it’s joyless, and we go back to our ways of living, for we find no
joy in encountering something most everyone would despair of, Jesus
also wept. I find no joy in life but I will to still not give up this
joylessness, because it may one day make me true like our saviour.
When I was out boating, I liked the wind and the flow of water, but it
was not as joyful, because the day has not yet come when my
saviour will be on the boat with me.
A Scene from the Court of Akbar

King Akbar sat on his throne, his eyes closed and the fingers of his
hands joined together, meditatively listening to his court musicians
playing the tablas. About a hundred people were present in his court
that day; they were celebrating Akbar’s victory over the city of Chittor.

After the din of the music dissolved into silence, the court jester
presented himself in front of Akbar with his new script.
“Brothers, we have intoxicated ourselves with wine and music. Now
for some courtly humour!”

“Hear, hear!” cried the whole court.

“The king of Chittor has been defeated! The man had been bothering
our king Akbar like a fly bothering an elephant. But the bigger man
won at last.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Chittor, get ready to pay your taxes!”

The whole court burst out into raucous laughter; even Akbar’s mouth
twitched.

“It’s a well known truth that we have more taxes than we have tax-
collectors. Hail, Akbar.”

More laughter from the court.

“Our king is quite stern on taxes. No one gets away without paying
his tax. They say he even taxes the queen, in more ways than one!”

There was a pin-drop silence.

Akbar got up from his throne, walked towards the jester, unsheathed
his sword, and pointed it at the jester’s face. There was a swishing
noise, and the jester lay dead on the floor, his head cut off.
No Way, No How!

I’m not sure about this, she said. Oh dear, I said to myself in my
head, sighing. I should have expected something like this. A
commitment-phobe. Why do they have to do this? Especially when
everything has been done and money has been spent on invitation-
cards, cameramen, expensive lights, gifts of golds, church rent, et
cetera. Not to mention the fact that I’ll lose the humour of most of the
congregation who will go home grumpy and disappointed at not being
able to break open the bottles of vintage wine.

WHAT a thing to happen.

What a very unfortunate thing to happen.

On the very day of the wedding, too. On the very minute of saying the
final “I do”.

“What the devil are you talking about?” I said to her, rather testily.

“Just that I don’t want to go to Europe. Cold weather doesn’t suit me.
Can we go to Australia, maybe?”

“That’s it?” I said, with a livid look.

“Well . . .” she uttered.

Well? Well? All love gone, I had an over-driving urge to jinx this
obnoxious woman with a stun-gun.
Soon after, I started to wake up from this awful nightmare, confused
and distressed, with the waking world and subconscious ethereality
enmeshed together. I somehow managed to get up and make coffee,
still drowsy. After downing two large cups, my head cleared up
significantly.

Sometime around noontime I received a call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart. It’s Theresa. How is my wonderful soon-to-be

husband doing this fine, export-quality morning?”

“Do I know you?”

“Excuse me? Did you run out of coffee or are you trying to be cute,
dear?” I heard some giggling through the phone and perceived in my
mind eyes being rolled.

“On the contrary –“

“Stop playing, honeycakes!” (I cringed as I heard those words.) “We

are engaged now and should seriously start planning for the big day.
Engaged, oh yes.”
“We are?”
Green Waters

Battered by woes and grief, full of scars and wounds, with a face
burnt by the fires of hell, he sailed his boat away from the world. He
would die in peace, in the middle of nowhere. He had sailed miles
and miles without a care. For many days, he carried on until he could
no more. He had no food to keep his hefty body alive. He lay on the
boat looking heaven-ward. The boat went where it would. He closed
his eyes and prepared to die.

He saw darkness behind his eyes, but the darkness of the world
penetrated even his closed eyelids, engulfing his very soul. There
were roars of thunder as the world was caught in an incessant
tempest. The waves of the sea crashed against his boat, shaking his
body. But despite all this, there lingered in his ears the melody of
violins being played in the vast open sky by heaven’s angels, it
seemed.

He waited for the end, but he soon heard a beautiful womanly voice
singing a song that called out to him. It was as angelic as glowing
amber. He opened his eyes and saw a beautiful face near him. She
had a dainty figure and the tail of a fish. A mermaid. She looked with
pity on him and begged him to live. He poured out his heart to her,
and her eyes welled up with tears as she heard his pitiful tale. She
poured in his mouth living wine from a bottle of gold and, in her arms,
he found a reason to live again.

She took him under the green waters, to a secret kingdom. Where the
people were renewed with second lives. Ruled by the waters, there
was no trouble, but only peace. There the new couple lived till the
end of time.
Choose a Bride

“Welcome,” said the proprietor as I entered Brides R Us.

“Uhm,” I said, twiddling my thumbs, “I’m looking for a bride.”

“Of course, sir,” he said, with an understanding smile; “Let us get right
down to business; I’ll take you up to where we keep them, and you
decide for yourself.”

We went up in the elevator to the second, or maybe it was third floor.

The proprietor led me into a large, luxuriously carpeted room where I
saw five women standing. They all had on colourful clothes and long
hair dangling behind them. A generous splash of make-up was on all
of their faces, and their nails were coloured in vibrant rainbow-esque
shades. The proprietor introduced me to them one by one.

The first one, he told me, was a Hindu girl from India. Five feet six
inches in height. IQ 79. Multi-lingual; fluent in Hindi, Sanskrit, and
English. Graduated in Business Administration and working a six-
figure job. Her profile looked good. Sign this form if you would like to
take her, the proprietor said. Not so fast, I told myself. I took out my
magnifying glass and scanned the fine print. I saw the words
‘Worships demons,’ ‘Repulsed by beef,’ and ‘Litters like hell’ written
on it. No, I told the proprietor.

The next one, he told me, was a Christian lady who had left her faith.
I didn’t have to think twice. If she can’t be faithful to her faith, how can
she be faithful to her husband? Who’s the next one, I asked the
proprietor.

After that, he showed me a Greek woman, then a Chinese woman

who believed in Buddha, and last, a divorced American woman who
didn’t believe in any religion. I rejected them all.

“They are all superficial,” I said, “I want a woman whose heart aches
for me – who can love me so much as to be perfectly faithful to me.
She should be a kind, gentle woman who is filled with virtues, of love
and charity, of humility and meekness, of modesty and reverence.
God-fearing; a nurturing and caring person. I’ve always wanted a
baby daughter. She should be someone who can be a good mother
and raise my children up to be decent, strong men and women.”

“Sir,” said the proprietor, “you’ve come to the wrong place.”

An Essay on Ethics

I was driving my car to my office, breezing down the road, when

suddenly there was a figure in the middle of the road. I had just
moments to stop the car to avoid killing the person. I pressed the
brakes hard and the car jerked to a halt. I opened the door and came
out. I saw that the figure was a woman, dressed in scarlet clothes. I
angrily shouted at her what the devil she was doing in the middle of
the road and did she want to die? She looked directly towards me
and giving me a sad look, she turned and ran away into a gully. I
fumed for a while and then got back into the car and drove to work.

Today was the day I had planned to ask the boss for a raise, but I
was so unnerved and distracted by the incident that I forgot all about
it. Who exactly was that woman? Was she suicidal? Probably
mentally disturbed. I thought all these things in my mind but resolved
then to just forget about the whole incident. After work, I headed
home with some relish thinking I would relax with a cuppa and a
football match.

As I was driving back, I saw the same woman standing on the

pavement beside the road. I pressed the accelerator hard and hurried
away from the scene. At home, I couldn’t relax, the memory of that
woman was bothering me too much. Yet, there was something
distinctly familiar about her, but I couldn’t quite place it. I asked the
good Lord not to let me see her again.

Next morning, I saw the woman again. She was standing on the
pavement. I composed myself and meditated for a few seconds. Then
I got out of the car and walked towards her. I gave her an amiable
smile and said to her, “Small world, isn’t it? How are you?” She did
not speak but stared into my eyes. I looked at her and saw with horror
that one of her arms was severely broken. I was so creeped out that I
ran for life.

I resolved never to use that road again. It was my nephew’s birthday

that day and my brother had called me and asked me to arrange for a
cake. So I headed out in the early evening and went to the cake
shop. I saw her again. She was standing beside the cake shop. Her
arm was broken and this time I saw that her skin was white as a
ghost’s. I ran home as fast as my legs would carry me and I had a
nervous breakdown.

My doctor asked me to stay at home and rest for a few days, and
reassured me that I probably wouldn’t see her again. The few days
went by slowly. So slowly that the memory of that woman almost
faded away from my mind. After the few days were over, I resumed
my normal lifestyle telling myself that the woman was probably a
practical joke.

It was a week before I saw her again. I saw her at the office grounds,
in the parking lot. Her arm was broken, her skin as a leper’s, and this
time, there was what looked like a bullet wound on her forehead. I
was utterly distressed and ran to a nearby church, and begged the
Lord to stop the devil from persecuting me.

The day after, I saw her again. She was standing in the neighbour’s
garden. Both her arms were broken, her skin white as a leper’s, a
wound on her forehead, and this time there was a stream of deep red
blood flowing down from both her eyes. I approached her and
kneeling down before the horrifying image, I begged her to stop
haunting me.

“Please leave me alone. I’m an evil man. If I have ever injured you in
my life, then I beg your forgiveness. But please leave me.”

Then she spoke in a haunting voice: “These are the wounds you gave
me all the years I was with you, with your infidelities and sins.”

Then the image cleared, the wounds disappeared and I saw, standing
before me, my wife who had died twenty years ago.

I wept before her for what seemed like an eternity. Then she put her
hand on my head.

“I forgive you. That’s what I came here to tell you. I forgive you.”
I tried to utter a million apologies, but none came out of my mouth. I
trembled with despair. Then she bent down and put her arms around
me.

“I forgive you. And Jesus forgives you. I came to you, not to frighten
you, but to comfort you and bring you back to the Lord. To tell you to
be firm in the faith and not defile yourself with iniquities. The Lord
wants to save you, and to give you a happy home in heaven when
you die. How many times have you been to church to see the Lord all
these years. Yesterday was the first time in the past forty years. And
before that you came, but only out of compulsion. I came to you to
open your eyes. I am proof that the Lord is. The Lord loves you, with
an infinite love that surpasses all understanding. Come. Let us go to
meet the Lord.”

She kissed me, and taking my hand, she pulled me up. We walked
together towards the church. Every step brought with it the realization
of things to come. My life was about to change. Happiness and
fulfilment were ahead. We walked slowly till we reached the church. I
looked at my wife, and she smiled at me, bringing true joy to my
heart. We stood outside gazing at the church together for a while.
Then looking ahead, I entered the gates, walked through the aisle,
entered the sanctuary, towards the tabernacle. I stood there, and
realized that I was alone with the Lord.
Poetry

Mid-Century Days

Waking in mid-century days

a pleasant sunset glowing oranges
I keep a tiny journal to myself
to the tune of emotional avalanches
That person’s goodness has besotted me
but evermore does she disturb me
It rains in the night of darkness
and to sleep again, I take a pill of Serenace
Wither do you go, joyless darkness?
Leave me not alone from the rough comfort like a sheep’s woolliness
I begged for an inkling of purity
In return I found someone well socialized
Popularity has it’s flaws,
but leave me for the more beautiful flaws of disability
divinized as someone may be, I yet
find myself hurting with a jealous heart
for darkness has taken over the world,
the brightness of Popularity has many who dwell in it’s dark
For me, I’m a loner who is suckered and liking it into the darkness of
brokenness
a lightlessness even preferred by the Lord, whose self is broken
in fragments of leavened holy communion bread
yet retaining supermagically wholeness in bits and pieces
and that is how I wish to be, to be sanctified
by someone, even a sinner, yet one who lacks something considered
essential
(to humanity,) but is the dark of Popularity, a nature made from
attraction
In 5-6 years, maybe one can gain some proceeds and traction
 Pome of the Week
I’ve been thrown out
Upsettedness has filled my mind
This is the judgment of God
for his own beloved children have carried it out

How can I afford to break down

when there are still those who cry* for me
How can I break down, when my tears
Would sting them like an unforgiven failure of their own

I cannot see the wrong of what I did

Yet I have abused the innocence of others
I await my end, in the midst of an ocean
a millstone around my neck, salt in my lungs

*A strange word, an embarrassing word,

a word that I have not found in the world
Hath I found even in the Universe, the Heavens, or God this,
I would not have found it in the depths of my soul
How can I afford to break down . . .
The Unfortunate

They would try his patience

and secretly mess with him
Mixed and stirred in his coffee cups
neuroleptics given on a whim

Where the mind is without integrity

he would bottle it all inside
He was caught in a looping web
his madness known far and wide

He developed spasmodic torticollis

his head jerked left and right
A negative emotional reaction
things would never be upside

A stereoscopic vision of the cliff

broken sentiments left to wither
Lights in the pyrocumulus clouds
reminiscent of an unfinished letter
Jude’s Orchard

The splendour of Jude’s orchard

brought a whole lot of visiting escapists
Hard to describe by word
the orchard was rated for it’s apple trees

All fauna came to eat, the plentiful bounty

rich, red apples, delicious and juicy
fulfilling, red apples, luscious and fruity
heart-warming, apples, wonderfully tasty

One day, the marvellous orchard burnt down

from fire great as the one that struck London
the apples were all destroyed, every single one
What an unhappy ending, wasn’t it fun?
Shakespearan Prosody

It was a wild and tempestuous night

Diffused shone the silver moonlight
A hundred large umbrellas flew like hay
As people rushed from there to get away
Some broken trees flew hither thither there
The pattering of feet was everywhere
A man lay trampled in a glorious daze
Beside him was a woman’s crying gaze
Her eyes were swollen and her fair face gave
Her countenance was marred with sorrow grave
The hosts of heaven looked with pity then
And they restored their lives to them again
Life

1-minute apologetics
Society

As christians, it is not right at all to say that we are victims of the

society we live in. We are rather called to be victors, for no one has
the freedom given from above to utter that I committed this sin for this
reason, or that reason, I’m not wholly responsible and there was
some compulsion involved, no one escapes wrath if he has
associated with or beheld the naked flesh of men, for anyone who is
wholly innocent or innocent enough to escape guilt, has not the eyes
to behold what is sinful, and neither is their form or countenance
beheld by wrong, because their innocence makes them shrouded in
darkness from the power of God. They are found as desolation and
darkness to wrongdoers, and untouchable light to those with
repentance and any inkling of mercy in their hearts.

Intellectuals

In the vein of a famous meme from the movie, The Lord of the Rings,
involving a great man of Middle Earth, I write, “One does not,
merely… associate with intellectuals.”

It often occurs, with most christian denominations, especially likely

seen with Roman Catholics, that a brutal simplistic struggle against
sin, to illustrate – take for instance the words of the Lord, “Anyone
who looks at a person with lust, has already committed adultery in
their heart.” – is turned and perverted into an intellectualistic struggle.
They say, rather, that if I have looked without entertaining lustful
thoughts, I have not sinned. Their own great Pope, Gregory the
Great, has expounded that “It is not lawful [even] to behold what is
not lawful to covet.” But so much as his preaching leaves no room for
caveats and complications, intellectualists still perform great feats of
nuancing every such issue like this, saying I have not sinned if I have
ventured to look without desire, or I have not sinned if I have even
entertained a great many thoughts, even visual, without “lust”
because so do many doctors in training and moral theologians like
my beloved Aquinas and the author of the Catholic Guide to a Fruitful
Marriage. It goes on and on, world without end. For if the words of
Christ are found true, they are only found true in a simplistic struggle
of the heart and never in an intellectualistic struggle of the mind and
intellect, because the rational intellect of Aquinas, Catholic Answers,
and Oxchesterton is folly when facing any, and iterating again – ANY
– demon.

Peter

It figures, in Catholic and Orthodox apologetics, that the Catholic side

claims with great pomp and character, that we have Peter, and
therefore we are The Church.

However if one looks at the situation with a critical eye, it is said, even
in the Holy Scriptures, which is often what is most used by Romans to
demonstrate their viewpoint on the issue, that upon this Rock, I will
build my Church. Not upon this Rock, I will build the Latin chair, and
the Latin chair alone is given the keys to the kingdom. But upon this
Rock, I will build my Church[and this Rock is given the keys to the
kingdom]. So the issue becomes another one altogether, the Romans
are intent on concentrating Peter’s leadership solely to the Latin see,
which is not conclusive from Scripture; so by succession, somehow
the Pope becomes Peter himself and therefore has the keys, and
furthermore the Latins have to invent things like papal infallibility and
supreme leadership in order to protect their Church from
disintegrating, because they have split from all other pentarchial sees
and now have become a church under one meager see.
However it seems a bit of a stretch to take the verses that the Church
is built on Peter and has the keys, and going to the Latin Chair alone
is built on Peter and therefore they alone possess the keys.

I personally believe when the Romans split from the Orthodox, that
because the Bride can only be one and one whole, Peter being it’s
guardian, and as demonstrated from Scripture, head of the whole
Church with no apparent caveat that there is a default to the Latin
seat, was also forced to latch to one side, and we know that that one
side is the Orthodox Church, from where no new doctrines of
universality and infallibility to protect vested interests were
proclaimed, so for many, unless it can be decided that Peter’s
leadership was concentrated on the Latin seat alone, it is much
easier and innocent to believe that Peter’s leadership was dissolved
in the seats of the remaining sees, so that we still have apostolic
harmony, and furthermore no novel doctrines of papal buzz hats
required to believe in.

Also, it does not seem that Catholic-Orthodox unity is an appropriate

step until recognition of the power-grabbing false doctrines of the
Romans are, like as Peter’s denial of Christ was forgiven through
repentance and renewal of faith, also left behind in the past and there
is a recognition of untruths and false intentions with an appropriate
renewal of the apostolic faith, nothing detracted, nothing novel added.

Faith

It seems that growth of knowledge is beyond folly, as humans make

themselves arbiters of what is true and what is to be believed or not.
It is quite suggestible from a Christian viewpoint that if one were
trusting and believing enough to accept whatever in the world
happens or is said by any man and even through the devil’s mouth as
truth, then that trust is never overcome with sin. Considering the faith
of men who visited the desert Fathers, saying Abba, give me a word.
And even as one never lets a youngster wander in the streets without
guidance, when we do not seek to trust in our own surety, but have
the trust of believing everything, even Satan’s words, as godly truth,
we are youngsters that the heavenly Father never lets go in any path
without his guidance and his hand over our heads, for we are yet his
children. But if we seek to trust in our own surety, his guidance is not
with us of our rejection, and the blindness of our wills unsubdued to
God’s without the trust as mentioned, leads us blindly into a ditch.

Abraham’s servant who sought a miracle from God was untrusting

enough to ask for confirmation, but yet Rebecca’s trust shined
through from innocent accepting trust.

Christ himself, having a human will, said that Why callest thou me
good, only the Father in heaven is good. This is to illustrate that as he
also possessed a human will, he ventured to speak of perfect
subdued will that the human will must be to God’s will, and yet
without sin, he did not make himself good, that which is subdued is
one, the will of the heavenly Father and triune Godhood to whom the
will should and is subdued is greater and therefore spiritually good.

I have a vague idea of the mind of the Theotokos as to why her

holiness was chosen of God. She was so perfectly trusting and
believing, that she did not doubt any man, even the devil and
demons, for she trusted every word and happening in the world as
godly truth. For how could she be the Mother of all if she so doubted
any man’s intentions or words. Her heart was open to all at all times,
and this is why we can pray to her without fear for she makes our
prayers her own. This makes her the perfect child of the Father, able
to be the queen of all and the prime example of the Way all her
children should seek to be, trusting and believing everything as godly
truth for nothing can harm such innocence that compels the Father to
put his hand on and be with at all times, and if she was without sin, so
also no man could doubt her either or sin against her, as no man
doubts the love of his mother. As the trust of everything is what
makes our will completely subdued to God’s own, we may still have
avoidance of sin should we choose this path.

Seemingly, so does God Jesus Christ speak, in favour of youngsters,

that any man who purports to harm them, deserves to be thrown in
the depths of the seas with millstone tied to his neck, acknowledging
the better will, trusting and believing, that all men should seek. Eve,
even yet, chose to give up the trusting and believing, when evil was
first permitted to man, by trusting in the serpent instead, which is a
signifier for surety in our own will, imperfectly and not subdued to
God. This is the point where innocence is lost and one becomes a
creature instead of a child of the Heavenly Father, our birthright, and
now is seeking to dispel grace by arousal of the Flesh and conceiving
similar progeny, for the will, isolated in it’s surety of itself, seeks to
lessen this isolation by more progeny, a fruitless task of the chaff and
fig tree, for unless we accept the will of the Father, we are alone and
alone, as infinity is greater than anything, even we existing, as much
as we purport to grow and grow, we remain even and even smaller.
Our will is nothing, a trillion zillion progeny is nothing, for we even
make ourselves as much lesser as we want to make greater, when
we have lost the trust and belief with no doubt in our hearts that truly
makes us what is our birthright, the children of God.
Future stories

Forestful of Portuguese
Kadhaprasad had a knotty, thin neck like a potted hibiscus. His ears
were quite prominent, resembling two halves of a silhouette of a pear.
His hair and face were quite ordinary, such as were common among
Indian villagers from the Southern coastal regions of the
subcontinent. As far as his virtues go, he had bodily strength equaling
three fit men. But that will not be the prime focus of this story. In fact,
he had another virtue which made him very popular among his peers
and impressive in the minds of the aristocrats and the poor alike – he
was a devout follower of Amma. It is this virtue which will be the seed
of this story that you have started reading.

The moon glimmered like a silver lamp in the open sky. An eerie
silence flooded the muted green fields, occasionally punctuated by
the screeching of barn owls. The wind swept through the grass with
an energetic flutter. The dominant colour was yet describably
purplish; and the mood was certainly imbued with a sense of
violence. And violence there was; for in a night, the village was
seized upon by an army of exacting foreign soldiers and the village
leaders were taken captive. The Portuguese had arrived, and stealthy
operation had earned them a new land.

As the day broke, there was helter-skelter in the village as it’s

inhabitants tried to come to terms with the fact that they had new
bosses to reckon with. Some of the village men, without a flinch,
applied for yesmanship as soon as they heard the news. The
smirking that went on among the Portuguese leaders was quite
apparent. But the Portuguese were not people with a cruel heart. In
fact, they did not want to ruin the lives of the villagers by taking their
land. But they also had some compulsions – higher orders from a
very vicious Queen.

The Queen of Portugal was a very unhappy lady. She was the result
of two broken marriages. She had married a wealthy bachelor at a
very young age. The bachelor had hair which fell to his shoulders and
a long face with a straight, thin nose. The elongation of his face
reminded people of Franz Liszt and other effeminate sorts. When the
look fell out of fashion, the Queen grew colder towards him every day
and her frustrations led to a very highly publicized divorce. Her
second marriage was with a turbulent drinker, a king, who had the
spirit of a comet. The king would often-stance indulge in a bottle or
two and end up raging at the already much soured Queen. She
thought the king had class – after all, he was a home-brewer; but she
would in no way stand silent and let the king curse her to hell. She
slapped a case of divorce on the king and managed to snatch away
the royal throne and supreme rulership from him. The Queen, after
such woes, turned her mind to savagely conquering lands. And
conquer she did.

The Portuguese people who arrived in India had a tripartite army. The
lowest of these were the guerilla soldiers, in the middle were the
choirboys, who, with their angelic singing and harp playing
encouraged the soldiers to fight better. The top order were officials
and princes. The three orders had their own top leaders. The army a
man named Kompo, the choirboys Ghostus, and the officials Prince
Eulo. We will look into these three people in the next few paragraphs,
starting with Ghostus.

1. Ghostus was also called Manvoice, because his vocal aesthetics

represented the resplendent glory of mankind’s talent. He would
always use a megaphone to sing to the people. In this era, before
megaphones were invented, antique megaphones were used. His
voice could be described as nasally proficient, with a silk-toned
warble. In appearance, Manvoice was a white-skinned, spiky haired
young man with a stomach the girth of which measured twelve yards,
albeit that’s a slight comical exaggeration. He had an upturned nose
which was the mirth of his peers, although he himself thought it a rare
gem. In virtue, he was an upstanding man, although he had a bad
habit of falling in love with every Beth, Jane, and Robyn. This was his
Achilles’ heel.

2. Prince Eulo was a characteristic joker. To the people below him,

that was a very considerate and polite way of putting it. They thought
him an idiot and an absolute scoundrel. Eulo was also known as
Fitzpatrick. He liked to do all his work methodically, including putting a
chain of successive taxes on the heads of people. His wife, who was
known as Porpor, had tried to convince him often enough not to put
such a burden on the people, else he would be despised, but did he
listen? No! Eulo, a pathetic excuse of a man, had a similar heel to
Ghostus – yes, he had a bad habit of falling in love with every
Rebecca, Jude, and Martha.

3. Kompo, a Nigerian man who had immigrated to Portugal long ago

and made his name as an Army General there, a sharp contrast heel-
wise to the other leaders, was a very reserved man who never
wavered in fidelity to his beautiful wife. He had said to himself after
seeing all the white people in his society – better not to fall for a white
person, for he had a wife who was greater than them, not white, but
transparent – he could see her beautiful heart all the time. As they
say, the streets of New Jerusalem are pure gold, yet transparent. As
you can see, Kompo was quite the religious nut. Kompo, as we will
soon come to know, has a prominent role to play in this story.

… to be continued.

Some Art for You