DRIFTWOOD; ड्रिफ्टवुड ; हिंदी कहानी;Hindi Kahani;Short Story

 DRIFTWOOD; ड्रिफ्टवुड 

हिंदी कहानी;Hindi Kahani;Short Story

Kala Gulab;काला ग़ुलाब ; Hindi Kahani; हिंदी कहानी; Short Story.

Kala Gulab;काला ग़ुलाब 

 Hindi Kahani; हिंदी कहानी; Short Story

 

The Smile of Buddha: (English); Short Story; Author: Deepak Budki; Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

 The Smile of Buddha: (English)

 Short Story; Author: Deepak Budki

 Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

Yesterday I watched Siddhartha breathing his last once again. Though his death was not of any significance yet disturbed conditions of the valley made the death of an ordinary person hit the headlines of leading newspapers. His name was Siddhartha Kak but he was generally known by its shorter version Sedh Kak. He was a Brahmin by caste and of late was forced to live a solitary life. Of late Sedh Kak suffered from severe asthma attacks which made his life agonizing and miserable. He had preferred to bear such sufferings during this very life in order not to leave anything to remain unpaid for another life.

This Siddhartha was neither the prince of Kapil Vastu nor the loving son of Suddhodhana and Maya Devi both of whom had tried their best to keep their son insulated from the vicissitudes of ordinary mortal life. Still, however, things that were destined happened and he became a witness to human misery. As a result, in the deep darkness of night, Siddhartha abandoned his palace and all its comforts besides his wife Yashodhara and infant son Rahul to seek the truth about existence and life here as well as hereafter. During the moments of bidding adieu, he looked with deep intensity at them and then swiftly turned his face towards Channa, the coachman and Kanthaka, the horse, whereafter he never looked back.

Achieving salvation was not easy. He tried many well-trodden paths to achieve his goal and elevate himself from Siddhartha to Gautama but for a long time, he was unable to reconcile with the means adopted since the end looked unattainable. At last, he discovered a rationalist way of thought and action which did not bank upon the torture of self in order to attain ultimate bliss. And thus he succeeded in becoming an enlightened Gautama. He bypassed all the traditional practices of religion and stressed adopting a monotheistic concept of God who is worthy of human worship. It was his realization of the truest thought and deed in life. Gautama thought about human life as a journey without any barriers, only an illusion, a fantasy. He wanted to get rid of the cycle of recurrent birth and death because to him it was the root of eternal bondage in this illusory world. Ultimately, after a long struggle with his own self, he succeeded in realizing the truth of life by being one with the Supreme Lord. He got himself unchained from the never-ending cycle of life and death besides worldly cares and anxieties and the imprints of his existence got eternally inscribed on the tablet of time.

His devotees worshipped him. Sculptors carved his images out of stone some of them more than life-size. Gautam Buddha, also known as Shakyamuni Buddha, appeared in images, idols and narratives -- mysterious, calm and tranquil.

People worship God and his messengers but surprisingly do not follow their sayings. What a tragedy! How could Buddha, the messenger of peace, who had reformed Angulimala, the murderer, and Alavaka, the cannibal, and brought them back to civilized ways of life, smile on the atomic explosion conducted at Pokhran, Rajasthan? Isn't it an irony that we named the atomic explosion 'The Smile of Buddha'.  Couldn't we understand the immense suffering ingrained in this smile! What an anguish and what a misconceived idea!  We perhaps forgot that Buddha had since achieved Nirvana, the enlightenment, and he could not take rebirth on earth again and be part of our nefarious plan and then smile?

Up there in heaven, Gautama started conversing with Channa, “These mortals have injured my soul. They say I am smiling when my heart bleeds.”

“My Lord, I am a stupid fellow. How do you expect me to understand these intricate matters? These are beyond my comprehension.” replied humble Channa with his eyes glued to Buddha's radiant feet.

Long ago in the valley of Bamiyan in Central Afghanistan, a sculptor's mind was illuminated by the teachings of this great soul. He made his life’s mission to sculpt a number of more than life-sized idols of Gautam Buddha about 35 to 53 meters high. Drenched in sweat, he continued day in and day out cutting huge rocks with his chisel and hammer and converting them into the stupendous images of Buddha that finally turned out to be his way to his exaltation and subsequent enlightenment.

Buddha, during his struggle to seek the truth, was also confronted by Devdatta who tried to kill him by shooting numerous arrows at him as also Ajatashatru who tried to stomp him under the hooves of inebriated elephants but none of them could kill the divine soul and ultimately had to bow before the smile of Buddha.

Man possesses strange attributes. At times he does not yield under the most trying circumstances while at other times just a smile does the job. The vicious man could not overpower the peace-loving Buddha during his lifetime so he tried to take revenge from his lifeless idols standing in the wilderness. Bullets and bombs were showered on the Buddha idols in Bamiyan in order to extirpate them totally.

Buddha had taken shelter in these towering idols at Bamiyan far from the madding crowd. These sculptures were witness to the imaginativeness, hard work, and dedication of the great sculptor who had carved them by dint of his devotion and adoration of his Lord. For many long years, lots of tourists came there to pay tribute to the great artist. These images neither meddled in anybody’s faith nor tried to change anybody’s religious beliefs. For centuries they kept standing there silently and gracefully braving the cold winds of high altitude and also reminding the world about the exertions of that immortal sculptor who had sculpted them.

Notwithstanding the artist's dedication, there have always been forces of destruction growing alongside the forces of construction. The iconoclast's obsession to destroy art has been there at different stages of the evolution of human civilization and such militants do not honour creative ideas and noble deeds. Conquering hordes didn’t spare the Pyramids and Sphinx of Egypt in ancient times. They probably visualized their way to salvation by demolishing these idols which they thought were the product of the Devil’s distraction. Silent and harmless though the idols stood, the militants considered them as symbols of Satanic manifestation. Sharp came the diktat to destroy them and action followed immediately. In no time these idols turned into a pile of dust. Instantly high pitch cachinnations rent the air and kept echoing for a long in the valley of Banyan. These mixed voices of rejoicing and pain journeyed through seven skies and merged with the laughter of the Gods in the Swarga Loka of Lord Indra. 

Gautam Buddha too was astounded and forced to think in his heavenly abode. He talked to himself, “I was quite unaware of this novel way of attaining salvation and reserving a berth for oneself in Paradise.” A brief smile appeared on his face and then vanished instantly.

It seems the doors of Heaven above open frequently for people to be admitted, be it peace-loving people or those who disturb the peace, be it those who create and construct or those who destroy and deconstruct, be it a sculptor or an iconoclast. Apparently, the doors of heaven never close to anyone.

Yesterday a death occurred. It was not of Gautama but of Siddhartha Kak. He was all alone. His wife passed away last year. His near and dear relatives were also not around because all of them had fled from the valley at the onset of terrorism. In order to inform his relatives, his Muslim neighbours got a notice published in a widely circulated Jammu newspaper the next day but nobody came forward nor was a phone call received from any quarter. But then who would call? He did not have a son or a daughter. Why would others bother? Sedh Kak did not possess any property. Had he some mobile or immobile property worth the name, even his distant relatives would have lined up.  There was nothing to attract anyone’s attention in this selfish world. Sedh Kak had lived a simple truthful life. He was a Brahmin, a Purohit to be exact, and had earned his living by performing formal religious rituals in the houses of Hindus in the town. Whatever little people gave him in return for his services, satisfied him and he spent his days in perfect contentment. Siddhartha Kak was well-versed in the Vedas and other Hindu scriptures. He had also acquired mastery over Astrology subject but he never used his knowledge for any monetary gain. For the last several years his condition had impoverished further because all Hindus in the area had moved out of the valley to plains across the Pirpanchal range where security was assured, so his source of living had further depleted.

More than a dozen people from the neighbourhood gathered at the house of Sedh Kak once they heard about his death. None of them was a Hindu, so they were all confused as to how to dispose of the dead body. They were ignorant about Hindu rites performed to cremate a dead body. Everybody was, however, of the opinion that the dead body should not be kept too long and should be taken for cremation as soon as possible. Still, the funeral ceremony had to be performed before carrying the dead body to the cremation ground as had been witnessed in the case of many Hindus earlier.

Surprisingly human beings show a lot of concern as regards performing the last rites of the dead without which they believe the departed soul will be in trouble. How conveniently they forget that thousands of people die in wars and natural calamities such as floods and earthquakes and there is no one to perform any religious rites for them, neither a Pundit nor a priest! Does it mean they do not attain salvation?

The confusion about the last rites of the dead body of Siddhartha prevailed for quite some time outside his house. A good number of people who had gathered there were thinking about what to do. One of the neighbours asked another, “Rehman Bhai, what should be done about the dead body now?”

“Something has to be done. Let someone fetch the bier from the cremation ground. After giving the body a formal bath, we will carry it to the ground and hand it over to the cremator. He will do the rest. We’ll pay him the cost of wood and other materials required for the purpose. I think that’s the only available option for us.”

Everybody agreed to it. Within an hour or so the body was decently given a bath and neatly covered in a shroud and thereafter it was placed on the bier. Four young Muslims lifted the bier on their shoulders and carried it slowly and silently to the cremation ground followed by other neighbours. Muslims carrying a Hindu dead body on their shoulders for cremation --- Was it allowed by the canons of their religion? Nobody had an answer.

While the dead body was being embalmed, people talked about Sedh Kak and how he had attained spiritual awakening. He had liberated himself from all the material bondage of this world and lived a life free from ego, lust, greed, anger and pride. He was always absorbed in the devotion of his Lord, the Almighty. Besides, he lived a life of absolute contentment; whatever little he got he lived happily with it. I am sure Lord Indra himself must have come to receive such a noble soul in heaven. Ordinary rites and ceremonies do not matter for such awakened and exalted souls.

Up above in heaven, the Prince of Kapilvastu, Gautam Buddha was watching and he again addressed his coachman, “Channa, why are these people in such a state of mourning?”

“My Lord, the man called Sedh Kak has died and these people are carrying his dead body for cremation.”

“But they are not his kith or kin, then why are they mourning?”

“My Lord, they are his neighbours.”

“Channa, I find the human being an enigma. These people are neither related by blood to the deceased nor are his co-religionists, yet they grieve for him and pray for peace to his soul.”

“My Lord, I am a simple soul. I do not understand these complicated things. You are omniscient and know everything. That is why this wonderful smile is floating on your lips."

*****

RISHTON KA DARD: रिश्तों का दर्द;: Hindi Shortstory;हिंदी कहानी; Katha

RISHTON KA DARD: रिश्तों का दर्द;

Hindi Shortstory;हिंदी कहानी; Katha

 

Raven's Full Moon[Kaaw Punim]: (English); Short Story; Author: DeepakBudki; Translator; Jawahar Lal Bhat.

Raven's Full Moon: (English)

 Short Story; Author: DeepakBudki

 Translator; Jawahar Lal Bhat

Kailash Pandit was feeling deeply agitated and mentally anguished as a result of recalling an event of his childhood. He was eager to relate to his grandson. It is usual with an old man that he desires somebody to sit by his side, regard him as a member of the family, and listens to him attentively. Continuous isolation from near and dear ones at this age is most sickening to the old. It results in many ailments of the head and heart and drowns him in the abyss of depression.

He called his grandson Sunny.

The repository of experience in him was overflowing with eagerness to bring forth the tales of happiness and sorrow. More than a hundred tales of human barbarity, moral degradation, and human ruination were still in his psyche and hence ready to burst out.

Sunny came running and like a very obedient child sat cross-legged before him ready to listen!

Kailash Pandit mentally traveled back into his past trying to reach his roots and recollect his distant childhood. Soon he was lost in the cool romantic ambience of the land of his birth which he had left regrettably about twenty-five years ago. Now after a while his oral communication seemed to restore and he commenced the story of his life.

Those were wintry days. I had crossed the fifteenth year of my life. One day I woke up in the morning to find a strange hustle and bustle in our house. Preparations were on for observing a fast on that day. I asked my father if it was any festival on that day. He replied, “Yes son, it is ‘Kaaw Punim’, the ‘Raven’s Full Moon’, today.”

I replied in astonishment, "‘Raven’s Full Moon’! What does it signify?"

“It is really interesting to know about ravens. Every year during this period thousands of migratory ravens come to Kashmir valley after flying thousands of miles from Siberia and other polar regions of the north. In order to welcome them we, the Pandits of Kashmir, celebrate 'Kaaw Punim' or what you call ‘Raven’s Full Moon’ in English. If you just lookout, you can see these jet-black birds everywhere in large numbers ---- on trees, walls, housetops, almost everywhere. "

My curiosity was stirred up enormously by my father’s revelation. Crows are ordinarily seen in Kashmir in all seasons including winter but their colour is greyish-black with a white ring around their neck. However, these ravens are different. They are big in size and as black as charcoal from beak to tail. The voice of local crows is slightly heavier and hoarser than the ravens. During the hot season, these migratory ravens make their habitats near and around the North Pole but in winter they fly out of the inhospitable area because of extreme cold and lack of food. They move out in large flocks to temperate areas far away from the polar region.

After hearing about this interesting festival of Kashmir Pandits I could understand how the demands of belly compel not only human beings but birds as well to migrate from places of scarcity to places of abundance. These birds fly thousands of kilometres over hills and deserts, oceans and forests seeking better conditions for their sustenance.

Probably we would not have paid heed to them if our ancestors had not observed these black-winged creatures flying into our valley from distant lands at this particular time of the year. Otherwise, crows are just crows, whether they are greyish-black with white rings around their necks or jet-black. The inquisitiveness of our ancestors has crowned them with success long ago in getting information about these migratory birds who are forced to travel exceptionally long distances on their tiny wings year after year in search of food. They probably kept waiting for them eagerly generation after generation till they decided to dedicate a festive day to the little winged migratory angels. It is the day celebrated with joy to mark the arrival of these ravens in the beautiful valley of Kashmir.  It is just like various other days that are celebrated now globally---- Valentine's Day, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Teacher’s Day and so on!

In spite of the severe cold, my mother got up early in the morning and busied herself in cleaning the house thoroughly. All pots and pans in the kitchen were cleaned once more. Looking at my parents, I too decided to observe fast for the first time in my life on this day and as a result, my mother was seriously worried about me throughout the day. She fed me frequently with various types of fruit and freshly fried fritters made of water chestnut floor permitted during such fasts.

Later in the afternoon just before lunch, Father ceremoniously spread out food for the ravens with the expectation they will relish it. Two sticks, one long and the other short were placed upon each other at right angles in such a way as to form a cross-like object and they were tied together with long stalks obtained from straw bundles leftover from paddy which are available in abundance in Kashmir. The straw was woven around the junction of two sticks in such a manner as to make a platter for placing boiled rice and cooked vegetables over it. After placing cooked food on the platter the long stick was fixed to one of the beams of the roof in such a way that it was visible to the birds hovering in the sky. Then my father, in order to call them out, began singing a song in Kashmiri with the purpose of inviting these migratory ravens to have their favourite dish spread out for them on the cross which now looked like a gnat plane.

“Oh, you crow, the Brahmin crow,

Crow that enjoys the medley,

Both of you, the male and the female,

Take a bath in the sacred Gangabal Lake,

Put a Tilak of clay on thy forehead,

And come to the house, newly built by us,

To partake rice and vegetables cooked in oil”

All of us stood watching the father. We also joined him in singing the song aloud. Instantly dozens of black ravens appeared from nowhere and flew over the platter on which was placed the cooked rice. They hovered over it, sometimes darted straight on it and fought amongst each other many a time.  Each of them wanted to replace the other in order to consume the food himself. It was really a treat to watch them and every one of us cherished it.

Time marched on and winter was about to come to an end. In the middle of March, when Shivratri, the cherished festival of Kashmiri Pandits, was around the corner, the cold was almost over and the spring was beginning to set in the valley of Kashmir. Daffodils and Narcissi had bloomed everywhere. Even willow inflorescences could be seen. But no ravens were seen anywhere. They had returned to their icy abodes covering thousands of kilometres yet again. I often thought to myself, "Nature has played very cruelly on them. They have to travel such long distances every year in search of food and survival. Why do they not stay at a place like other crows? Has migration become their destiny?" I pitied them and perhaps our ancestors too had shown empathy towards these black little creatures, so they had started this custom of feeding them once every year on this particular day.

When Kailash Pandit finished his story, the grandson asked him a question, “Grandpa, why don't human beings also change their residence like these ravens to escape extremes of heat or cold?”

“Human beings are homeothermic. Warm-blooded animals usually maintain their body temperatures slightly above the environment, so they need not shift places with the change of seasons. However, due to lack of fur, they take help of other things like warm clothing or heating appliances.”

“Then why do politicians, bureaucrats and the rich shift to Jammu in winters and return to Kashmir in summers?” The grandson poked the question.

“These are aristocratic idiosyncrasies. The British and the Indian Rulers had developed places like Kashmir, Shimla, Mussoorie, Nainital and Darjeeling for their pleasure and enjoyment in the hills. They shifted to these places to save themselves from the heat of the plains and returned to their homes in winter. The poor couldn't afford such luxury, so had to remain contented with a single place all the year-round.”

“It means human beings need not migrate from one place to another?” Sunny asked with an air of innocence and curiosity in his tone.

“That’s not the case, my son. He too is compelled to change places for filling his stomach, earn his livelihood, the safety of himself and his family, fear of belonging to a particular race, religion or caste and many more such things. It is in his blood. Thousands of people shift residences and flock to cities and metros from their villages in order to earn a living. A large number of poor farmers are seasonal migrants, who go to cities to work, and return to their farms only during the seasons of sowing and harvesting. Natural calamities like floods, earthquakes, droughts and wars also compel people to move out from their places of residence temporarily or permanently. Many a time they settle down at their new places and do not return. Armed conflicts, intrigues, desire to take control of enemy territories, religious extremism and greed for natural resources also become a cause for the displacement of people from one place to another. At times some people engage themselves in criminal activities never thought of before and those who get affected run away to safety.”

“My dear, twenty-five years ago, we too had to leave our home and hearth in Kashmir because some religious fanatics created an atmosphere of hatred and insecurity for us. Many members of our community were killed in cold blood. Since we were a minuscule minority and unable to face the brunt of the onslaught so we had no choice but to seek refuge outside the valley in safer areas. In a matter of days almost the total population of Kashmiri Pandits comprising some three to four lakh souls, who were dispersed in the valley, ran away and settled in plains wherever they could find shelter to lay their heads down. It was totally a new world for us. No cold winters here, no snow-clad mountains, no mighty chinars and no flocks of ravens to feed on the ‘raven’s full moon’. But we kept our traditions alive. Like other festivals, we continued with this festival here too by spreading out cooked rice topped with vegetables in quarter plates on the roofs of our houses.” 

In a moment Kailash Pandit plunged deeply into the reminiscences of his past and remained immersed in a fit of emotion for long. Subsequently, he recovered and continued to deliver his speech.

“I believe firmly that even now those ravens may be coming flying to the Valley during winters with hope and expectation. They may be perching on the roofs of our abandoned houses looking for their hosts. I feel they might be hopping from house to house in search of those traditionally prepared crosses with platters embellished with cooked rice and vegetables and looking like gnat planes on housetops. Who would inform them that we too keep waiting and looking for them with hearts full of emotions and eyes full of tears, especially on this ‘Raven’s Full Moon’ day, not there but here far away from the valley in our new dwellings? Who knows if those little birds still visit the valley with the same anticipation and enthusiasm or not? 

Kailash Pandit overwhelmed with emotion, filled his eyes with tears of desperation, and Sunny, his grandson, looking at him, slowly slipped out of the room knowing well that his grandfather didn’t like anybody’s presence on such occasions and it was always preferable to leave him alone.

For the last few years, Kailash Pandit and his family regularly visited Kashmir for a couple of weeks during summer to have a respite from the scorching heat of Delhi exactly like those ravens who in order to escape the chilling cold of the North Pole visited Kashmir. While in Srinagar, the local people at the airport, Tourist Reception Centre, Dal Lake, different Hotels and other tourist spots received them warmly and showered their affection and love without any hesitation. Sometimes they came across some elderly people who reminisced about their past when Kailash Pandit was a part and parcel of their cultural heritage. On both sides, eyes welled up with emotions and tears and said a lot in the language of silence about the days of peace that prevailed in Kashmir before the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits.

Last year, Kailash Pandit, surprisingly, insisted on visiting his ancestral house where he had spent a major part of his life before moving out of Kashmir. Perhaps the thought that his days were numbered now teased him and he wanted to have a look at his ancestral house where he was born and had spent almost his whole life before his final journey. It was here he had heard lullabies of his mother in childhood, played Gilli-danda and cricket with his friends in youth and cycled the distance from home to office and vice versa after marriage but destiny played its part and he was forced to live his last days in exile far away from his land of birth. 

On reaching there he found his house had changed its look altogether though structurally it remained the same. For him, the time had frozen from the moment he had left his house in the early nineties. Possibly he did not remember that time does not wait for anyone and such was the case with his old dwelling too. Twenty-five years ago he had left with the hope of an early return to his home but the conditions showed no improvement thereafter. Time passed by, days turned into months and months into years and he lost the count. The house passed into the hands of his neighbor who had made some additions and alterations to suit his requirement.

The new owner welcomed him and his family. After sitting for a while and exchanging pleasantries he got up and examined each and every corner of the house that had buried in it the fond memories of his childhood and youth. The time machine once again seemed to travel back for him and his recollections came alive for a while.

“It was here in this room I studied during school and college days. Sometimes I used to look out the window and sing my favourite film songs. Instantly, across the lane in the window opposite that mine, Roopa would show her serene moon-like face and respond with a smile. God knows where she may be now! Nobody knows about the other! Our kitchen was exactly under this room. The sound of striking of pots and pans came alive early in the morning and soon there used to be a call for morning tea–the salt tea with baker's flatbread.

Our parent’s room was exactly above that room on the other side. The winter days would pass celebrating festivals one after the other. In the month of Magha by the Hindu calendar, we used to celebrate 'Raven’s Full Moon' by welcoming the migratory ravens and used to feed them boiled rice and cooked vegetables. We observed fast for them and called them by singing a song after keeping food on the thatched roof.”

Suddenly Kailash Pandit woke up from his daydream and desired to see that part of the roof where his father used to fix the cross made out of two sticks bound together with straw which took the shape of a platter. He used to put boiled rice with cooked vegetables on it to feed those black ravens. Soon Kailash Pandit realized his mistake and began to laugh at his foolery.

The owner thought that Kailash Pandit was looking for something precious which he now wanted to find. So after a while, the owner asked him politely what was he searching for? Kailash Pandit replied immediately, “I’m searching for my childhood. I lost it here in these four walls. But I am aware that I can’t find it now.” He had a good feigned laugh after saying these words and his eyes continued to be reeking. 

After a while, he tried to get up from his seat but could not until his grandson held his hand and helped him to stand and walk up to the car which was parked outside the house.

*****