On Indian Rails – Wide Pacific Steam Locomotives And Reminisces Thereon

by Anamitra Arunabha Dasgupta

Prelude

Our country constitutes an early canvas upon which rail technology made significant advances, not only in usage, but also in spread. As consequence to these early advances, and well-considered policies to govern railways, we find, today, that we possess one of the largest railway networks of the world; one of the best run, considering its behemoth proportions; one of the most varied, even through efforts of standardization; unique in its operational precepts; glorious, in its chronicles, though interspersed with uncountable tragedies that we Indians, as sons and daughters of an ancient civilization, habitually ignore, for we have undergone many sorrows; and have learned, then, to look upon life and its vicissitudes with compassion without heartache; and partake thus, of many simple joys, in many degrees of detachment. So, Indian Rail remains India’s most beloved choice of transportation; the one upon whom Indians repose such dependence, that, even should our Gods fail us, our railways shall not.

An exhaustive history of the India Railways is not within the scope of this post; hence, I shall restrict myself to addressing the steam engines in the photographs that accompany this post. Ladies and gentlemen, what you observe constitutes the Indian Rail WP Class Locomotive. It remains India’s most iconic and most beloved class of steam locomotives; in days whence it attained fame and occupied a place of prominence, it was also known as “Canadian Steam”. It was the largest class of streamlined steam locomotive built anywhere in the world; one of the most powerful; could haul a 900 ton train at 70 miles per hour; occupies a central place as one of Indian Rail’s greatest success stories; was originally designed and built as “the train of tomorrow”; was technologically advanced; and yet, simple; and who does not recall that iconic, domed bullet nose? Let us then expand upon our story.

Wide Pacific, Indian Railways – The Engine

“WP” stands for “Wide Pacific”. The classification of “Wide” indicates that this was an engine for the Indian Broad Gauge, or, rails incorporating a width of 5 feet 6 inches; or 1676 millimetres. The letter “P” stands for “Pacific”. The prototype, built in 1947 by Baldwin Locomotive Works, United States, was type-rated as WP/P, or WP/Prototype; of these, 116 were produced. Onward, they were built by the Canadian Locomotive Company and by Montreal Locomotive Works, Canada, which together built 320; then Fabryka Lokomotyw, Poland, which built 30; and another 30 was built by Lokomivfabrik Florisdorf, Austria; and lastly, a prolific number produced by Chittaranjan Locomotive Works, India, which built 259 locomotives in all. The entire production cycle lasted through 20 years, between 1947 and 1967; the effectiveness of the design is attested by the sheer number of locomotives built – 755 in 20 years.

We cannot easily relate to numbers, unless told, that the total number of WP locomotives built by India alone, if coupled one behind the other, would constitute an unbroken train 6.1 kilometres long. If we conducted the same experiment with the entire number of WP locomotives built, we would have a train, unbroken, 17.8 kilometres in length. This however is arcane fascination; for the real magic remains in how these engines were run; a catalogue of sheer intuition conjoined with domain knowledge; of sheer, brute competence; of self-sacrificing and yet detached devotion unto duty; of hours of loneliness in exhaustion; also in exultation of knowledge that extraordinary lives were being lived; that nothing was mundane when a Driver was rendered as a natural extension of an awe-inspiring beast of legend which Providence had granted unto him to command.

This engine had a wheel configuration, also known as “Whyte Configuration”, of 4-6-2. This implies that if you saw it from one side, either side, the engine would show 2 regular wheels just aft of the fender and lifeguard; then, 3 large driving wheels underneath the boiler; and another regular wheel beneath the Driver’s cabin, just behind the firebox and grate. The engine, with tender, was 77.6 feet long; and exerted a total empty weight of 194.3 long tons upon rails, again with tender; engines made in India were weightier by 5 tons. Regular wheels were 3.7 feet in diameter; and driving wheels, 5.7, or 67 inches. Filled up, the engine-tender carried 15 long tons of coal and 25000 litres of water. Within the boiler, the total heating surface within superheaters contained an area of 271 square metres; boiler pressure was maintained, at its most optimum, of 251 pounds per square inch. Driving cylinders were 20.25 inches in diameter; 28 inches long; two on each side of the engine.

The WP Class Locomotive was especially suitable for Indian Coal, which is high calorific. When used in the production of metal, Indian coal is also known as “anthracite”; tends to be glossy, black in colour; burns with a fierce, white heat; has a high ash content.

The Principle

How is such a steam engine driven? I am afraid that this question may not be answered fully; not even if documented in thousands of pages; for an engine, when driven, other than in its essential principles of locomotion, depends entirely upon the individual perspectives and standpoints of each Driver trained to drive such an engine in varieties of different conditions. In short, every Driver had his own secrets as to how to extract the greatest effort from his engine. Thus every Driver had his own set of legends; and all claimed to be able to communicate with his engine as though by some mysterious, supernatural connection; and providential dispensation.

Let us try and consider driving fundamentals.

Fuel, or coal, is burned in a furnace; and the heat directed into a number of long pipes containing water through the length of the boiler; steam thus forms; and as it forms, increases in volume; is in turn firmly constrained in the limited spaces of these pipes, which are known as “superheaters”; thus increasing exponentially in pressure and temperature. In the meanwhile, it is incumbent to ensure that the furnace or firebox does not lose its efficiency; this is done through ingenious contrivances known as the “blower” and the “damper” along with the very specialised task of coaling the firebox; thus, is heat evenly spread through the entire superheating structure, pressuring the boiler as quickly as possible into its operating pressure, which, in the case of the WP locomotive, is 251 psi. The firebox is lined with bricks or with ceramic; a metal lining is entirely ill-suited, for it would melt in the incinerating heat.

Driving wheels, those large ones, are also known as “drivers”. They are driven by a set of levers, of which we are all familiar – indeed, these constitute one of the essential romances of steam engines along with the rush of hissing steam and bellowing smoke. These levers, also known as Connecting Rods and Coupling Rods, transforms the latent energy of high pressure steam into its potential; transferring this force unto the wheels. They are connected in an intricate co-arrangement between wheels and driving cylinders through another contrivance known as the “Walschaerts Valve Gear”; they are manipulated by the Driver through a mechanical device known as the “Reverser”, which manages the quantity of steam in the driving cylinders; this depends upon total train weight and speed. The optimum quantity of steam in the entire loop is controlled by the “Regulator”; or, in modern parlance, the Throttle. All of you are familiar with the Reverser; it appears as a large wheel in the Driver’s cabin; and we have often seen, in the days of our childhoods when steam engines were common, the Driver laboriously turning at the wheel. The Regulator was a large lever attached either to the engine firewall; or upon the floor of the engine. At more times than not, the Driver had to exert considerable physical force so to be able to move the Regulator in its desired direction and setting. Driving a steam locomotive was for the strong in body and the sound in mind.

The Reverser, operated by the Reversing Wheel in the Driver’s cabin, had three essential positions; 0-100% forward; 0-100% reverse; the zero setting indicated neutral; it all may be thought of as being parallel with the gear systems of a car. A heavy train, such as the Frontier Mail, started out from standstill at 75-100% forward Reverser; and at least 45% Regulator, opened incrementally. As the train accelerated, the Reverser was brought down, from 75-100%, depending upon line-speed, anywhere between 25-33% cut-off; and the steam Regulator reduced or sent up depending upon the engine’s design.

The WP locomotive operated in full efficiency at 60 miles per hour (96 Kmph); in effort to maintain this fast average, the engine was driven routinely at a speed of 68 (110 Kmph). The speedometer was marked up to 100 miles an hour; yet, the maximum safe speed for the engine was 74 miles per hour; no, it would not derail after this, but its running efficiency would drastically fall. The engine was at its most efficient in extended, uninterrupted runs, between 55 and 65 miles per hour, where, it is said, that it was a joy to operate. Its streamlined design, with that iconic, wide, fully oblate boiler with the extended bullet nose contributed to its efficiency. Who does not remember that evocative silver star that one saw from afar, as the engine approached?

WP engines were limited to mainline duty in the earlier years. Branch line duty fell upon lighter engines; or engines that incorporated the essential loading gauge and weight adherences. Some of the most famous trains that the WP Class traditionally hauled were the Bombay-Calcutta Mail, Vestibule Express, Taj Express and the Calcutta-Madras Mails. Of these, the Vestibule Express was fully air-conditioned; and also known as the “Air-Conditioned Express”. It served the trunk-route between Calcutta and Delhi. I am told that it had 12 coaches or bogies; 8 passenger cars composed of First and Second Class Chair Cars and First Class Sleepers; one Mail Car, Pantry and Dining Car; and at the end, one EOG, also known as the “End of Generator”, which additionally served as the Luggage and Brake Van. The Vestibule departed Calcutta I think at 8:15 in the morning, from Platform 9, Howrah; reached Delhi the next morning at 6:15 AM – a run of 22 hours with stops at Durgapur, Jhajha, Patna, Allahabad and Kanpur. The Vestibule was renamed as “Poorva Express” some years after the advent of the Rajdhani Express; it is now hauled by a WAP-7 electric engine; traverses the same old route in the same time. To watch it fly past was a unique experience in 1974. In winter mornings, if one were to stand upon the platform at Asansol Station, one would hear that distinctive whistle from afar; and then, the famed bullet nose surmounted by the silver star would emerge from the winter mists and fog of Bengal, like a mythical one-eyed monster; and in a moment of terror, fly by in a thunder of wheels, sparks and smoke.

Heroes & Superhumans

The task of maintaining steam pressure and water levels in the boiler fell upon the Fireman; along with maintaining the furnace with an optimum fire. This was one of the hardest and most skill-intensive tasks ever known in the relationship between man and machine; consequently, an endlessly intricate dance between man and the open forces of nature, extracted with care to serve humanly tangible ends. While the Driver occupied the responsibility of locomotion, the Fireman laboured at the furnace, or firebox; to the boiler and its water-levels; and steam pressure. Using a set of levers known as “Small Ejectors”, “Large Ejectors”; Dampers and Blower, he fanned the flames; and he learned the art of “reading the fire”.

The art of reading fire constitutes a primordial human ability; where the intuitive realms of the mind are so deployed, to visually measure and judge flames and translate their potential into humanely comprehensible terms; thus preserving such a fire at its optimum, and serving the given task on hand. Superficially speaking, then, a red fire was a cool fire; an orange fire flecked with yellow was hotter; and a golden flame glowing white the best flame; while a bluish fire presaged catastrophe. Yet, these conditions were always interchangeable, depending upon what was being called upon the engine to accomplish. Did the Driver require a large fire when running along at 65 miles per hour? Or did he require a mammoth fire when starting out from standstill? How much coal shall cause fire to burn brightly? Or how much coal shall smother fire into a smouldering mass of dead ash? Then, when does one open the firebox doors and keep it open? When must they be firmly shut? When must they be opened or shut in degrees? What is a catastrophic blow-back? What of the water? How is a natural and self-complementing balance between water and steam achieved in a boiler, so as to attain the greatest efficiency, and consequently, the greatest ease of running? And then, what of smoke? How does one read the smoke that emanates from the bowels of the engine, and judge as to how the engine performs? Yes, it was not enough to read fire alone; for one had to know of the mysteries of smoke to ultimately intuit the “mood” of the fire; and the pedigree of the fuels that fed it. Indeed, one had to learn of the way in which all the elements acted, so as to expand one’s humanity into an extension of a giant, living, breathing machine; a fiendish one-eyed colossus.

While driving, the hardest task was pulling out of standstill, especially if the train was a heavy one; and if on a rising gradient. Not only was this hard upon the Driver; but a task bordering upon the intolerable for the Fireman. Start-out was accompanied by a pestilential phenomenon known as “wheel-slip”; because pressurised steam generates immense force, the driving wheels of a steam engine produced torque far more than necessary; so the driving wheels would suddenly rotate alarmingly, or “slip”, even when when the train was at a standstill, generating furious sparks and a smell of red hot metal. The Driver was required to immediately spray sand upon the tracks through jets placed in front of the driving wheels, so as to increase friction, and thus restore traction unto wheels. Spectators standing upon the platform and observing the Driver and the Fireman would see soot-blackened faces tight with concentration; in effort that only excellence demands, especially when crowned by responsibility that tolerated neither failure; nor fools. Wheel-slips took place more often during rains, when rails were slippery; or when the train was heavy, and the gradient – upward.

An engine running at line speed required constant effort from the Fireman; or, as the case was in India, from “Fire Men” – for every engine assigned long distance express duties carried two Firemen so as to spread responsibility, effort, and relief. The Fireman had to ensure that the smoke from the smokestack remain light grey in colour; for black smoke indicated inefficient burning of coal in the firebox; black smoke mottled with red sparks is not smoke, for it is a foul effluence composed of unburned coal dust and gasses that had failed at combustion. Therefore, he had to know, by the look of the firebox flames, and by the colour and volume of smoke, as to how much coal was too little; how much was just enough; and how much was too much.

So, the superficial rule of thumb in a well running engine was “a little coal, but often; some water, just enough, never all”. How much is a little coal? Well, it is about 8 even shovelfuls of fist sized coal, administered every 150 seconds or so into yellow flames; the flame had to be preserved yellow, glowing white; and the smoke from the stacks, grey, wispy, and not much. Water in the boiler was indicated by a large water-level-gauge in the centre of the engine firewall where all could see it clearly; essentially a large tube of squarish cross-section, with a prominent yellow and black refraction-level-marker running down the back. The water level remained at about three-quarters; the remaining empty space indicated the level of steam above the waters in the superheaters. This ratio was crucial; transgressing it would cause over-priming the boiler, leading to catastrophic boiler explosions; and if the fire was permitted to get out of hand in low water conditions, could lead to a total meltdown; a complete and unmitigated calamity; an inferno reminiscent of Nebuchadnezzar’s furnaces.

In cold countries of the northern hemisphere, live steam from the engine was directed by pipes through the entire train, so to preserve a delicious warmth within coaches. It could be -9°C on icy nights along the Warsaw-Vienna line. But within, as travellers slept, the temperature was +24°C; waters in all taps were warm. Steam heating made this miracle possible. India never had this need; moreover, our steam-engines did not produce ice to preserve travellers from the hellish heat of Indian summers. The age of air-conditioned coaches would take many years to manifest in India; for our civilization appears to live by the ethos that discomfort is the natural state of things; to struggle is noble; suffering, our fate; luxury, a sin; and essential human dignity, a damnable indulgence.

Two Firemen took turns to feed the fire. Which meant five minutes of physical rest from backbreaking labour, yet never to be expended in watching the scenery, but gainfully employed observing the smoke; paying unbroken attention to water-levels and steam-gauges ; taking action in re-filling the boiler in exactitude with the Large Ejector and preserving continuous pressure. Then in operating Small Ejectors, re-pressurising brakes using spent steam; and thus employed, never failing to monitor rail lines; and signal state. To my knowledge, Indian Rail never utilised mechanical stokers to feed coal from the tender into the firebox, relieving Firemen from the insanity of their duty. But other countries did. A mechanical-stoker was a heavy metal tube running between the coal tender straight to the furnace from beneath the engine footplate. This tube contained something akin to an Archimedes screw, which scooped up coal from the bottom of the coal tender, and transported it straight into the firebox. However, it was noted that “human stokers” – in short Firemen – did an immensely better job than any mechanical stoker ever possibly could. In the meanwhile, the Driver’s task was not limited to merely driving the train; for when he drove, he had to preserve a delicate balance between steam-demand and the speed of his train, so as never to overwhelm either Firemen; or the engine; and never, ever, fall below his running schedule.

All Drivers commenced their careers training as Firemen; graduated to Drivers at the end of a number of years, toiling away, thus, in the throes of inhuman labour, under conditions entirely grim. Then there were specialised Firemen who remained in their specialised responsibility throughout the course of their working lives; yet, they were, more often than not, crack drivers too. They assisted with very heavy trains that were hauled by multiple engines. They worked extensively in the Bombay-Nasik and Bombay-Pune Sectors, where they piloted Bankers up and down the Bhor, Thal and Kasara Ghats. Such was their ability, that they did not look at the speedometer even once during an eight hour run; for they knew, by the sound of the engine and the vibrations of the Reverser and Regulator, as to how fast they travelled; and they arrived at their way stations and destination upon the dot of the minute hand. In what they achieved, Drivers and Firemen habitually and routinely transgressed ever human functional limit; where bodies fail, minds take over; where the primacy of the mind remains supreme, very little remains in the realms of the impossible. These timeless heroes drawn from our unlovely land and its myriad peoples did not flinch from their duty, or treat their work as unwelcome impositions to which they were enchained; indeed, they looked forward to their work; they made scant complaint upon the nature of their tasks. Clad in soiled vestments, in overalls stained with sweat and blood, coal-dust and grease, they traversed the land through interminable hours, in rain and in shine; in the Stygian fogs of winter and the blazing purgatory of Indian summers, delivering their charges intact, and upon time. It is to our greatest and undying tragedy that there appears to be no everlasting recognition which remains visible in our country for Firemen and Drivers; no statue is known to stand in any city’s square; or in any railway yard or office in a land that worships idols by their millions. Postage stamps and thousand other impressions upon page after page of Indian annals exist that solely commemorate political figures or events; extinct traditions and religious inanities: but nothing firm or noble exists in recognition of the self-sacrifice, self-effacing devotion to duty and the sheer ability that Drivers and Firemen habitually exhibited in course of their labour; their labours of life, hope and love. Our country owes them a debt that it can never repay; moreover it strikes none in our country to embark upon such a venture, in which our railwaymen are granted posthumous recognition as the first amongst heroes upon whose deeds industrial India stands. As Indians, we tend to treat our history with scant regard; in sanctimonious neglect; in fatalist detachment that serves only to perpetuate our civilization’s wounds.

The Romance; the Journey

When I was very young, just about older than a toddler, my late father took us on holidays, often far away from Calcutta, usually toward the north of realm. We travelled express routes; all trains therein were hauled by WP Class Locomotives. My parents were positively organised; everything was packed before time in strapped leather suitcases; and the ubiquitous “Holdall”. My maternal grandmother, without whom my father was disinclined to travel, had my dinner made in her kitchen; this was carried in a round stainless steel container; and she carried flasks filled with water and hot milk for the baby, which was I, although two and a half years old. Not for me the delights of railway food, not yet. Bottled mineral water was unheard of in 1971; my parents and grandmother would make do with the water that was offered by the Railways in jugs and carafes. We would reach Howrah Station rather early; we were not obliged to travel afar in search of our platform, for all long distance express and mail trains of the day toward Delhi, Bombay and Madras were routed out of Platforms 8 and 9. These were special platforms, for betwixt these, the British had built an entire roadway for their lengths, that exited upon a car over-bridge at the engine end, thereby enabling travellers take their vehicles literally up to their coach. I recall my anxious excitement as our Ambassador entered Howrah station; and yes, the car, too, was assigned its own platform ticket. The air would be redolent of steam; broken by the occasional loud chuffing whoosh of a steam shunter as it departed some platform or the other close by, making its ponderous way back into Howrah’s voluminous yard; its sonorous whistle never failed to make me violently start, and fling my arms around the nearest adult. Coolies would be hurrying along; in my young eyes, they carried impossible weights; nothing has changed, for in my old eyes of today, they still bear crushing weights upon their backs and heads; how they accomplish their deeds constitutes yet another everlasting and unsung Indian art. There were many beggars upon the platform; they had gentle eyes as though the cruelty of poverty opened unto them an unbearable longing for compassion; and a heaven at the end of all tribulations upon which only the very poor are ordained to gaze. They approached with great hesitation; and upon the usual, cruel, wordless look, quickly retreated, forlorn; hurt beyond hurt; numbed beyond pain. As a baby, I watched stone-faced; and yet, my heart throbbed in irredeemable agony. Then, I was distracted by my grandmother’s gentle murmurings of prayer, as she sat back in the car, in its voluminous warmth, while we waited for our train to enter; my grandmother would have not missed her evening prayers even if she were going down in the Titanic. A whistle announced that something was approaching; a whoosh increasingly close; and our platform would be illuminated by the golden light of a powerful headlamp; for yet another steam-shunter would arrive; and trailing behind it, a precious burden, our train.

We travelled First Class. Though meagre of means, my parents remained aristocrats. Our ancient and royal heritage had long dissipated; but the call of heredity prevailed intact, leaving names and the stigmata of a forgotten pride; and a pride-fullness of elevated tastes. So it was away from the crowds that we travelled, isolated, but supremely warm and comforted, only as closely knit families are, that live lovingly in the most benevolent of proximities. The First Class Compartment was reddish; like a gleaming swathe of tastefully applied rust; but so was the rest of the train. The traditional British word for coach or compartment was “Bogie”. The cabins within were called “coupé”. Each bogie had up to eight coupés. The common one-sided passageway through the length of the compartment that we relate with today was totally absent; consequently, every coupé opened directly out unto the platform through its own door. Youngsters today are surprised to learn that railway coaches were often made of wood; as also of heavy metal; they they possessed eight to ten doors on one side, one for each coupé, broken by single large, grilled and curtained windows between doors. The train was so arranged and then so routed, that it would always travel with every stop arriving at its right side, for that is how every coach was arranged – doors to the right. Only on a journey between Puri and Bhubaneshwar have I travelled in a train that was decidedly strange; for its doors were to the left. Each coupé was built with its attached bathroom. This spanned the full breadth of each coupé; contained a porcelain commode; a shower and a basin; white or black painted wrought iron bathroom fittings loaded with towels and napkin; before my time, these were made of polished brass; considering what we are now used to, a luxurious bathroom unthinkable at present. Eight coupés per bogie meant eight bathrooms; and all of this resulted in a fairly heavy coach; or bogie. The quality of ride was excellent; yet, upon uneven, undulating country that entailed many turns, a pronounced rolling became evident. Most were unaffected by it. However, those prone to travel-sickness dreaded these occasions and the distress they brought. Light aluminium compartments dressed in tinsel plastic were still decades away. In the early 1970s, rail compartments of India were made of iron and steel; and some of wood.

We were ushered into our coupé by the Ticket Checker, attired in white; this courtesy was extended to all travelling higher classes. The skies above would be darkening; but tinged in red; a distant, low flash would presage another Bengal northwester; an even more distant redolence of rain permeated the air. After making sure that my mother and grandmother were installed comfortably on their lower-berth beds – upon crackling, starched white railway bedsheets – my father would hold me up in is arms and out we would go. An anxious look toward the sky, and a few polite words spoken with the Ticket Checker, father, clutching me to his heart, would walk toward the front of the train with rapid, measured steps; he thought it unkind to spare me the sights and sounds of our engine as it made its way from the yard, so to attach itself unto our train; a giant iron ingot breathing fire; enveloped in steam; and I recall, still, the heart that goes thump within a child’s breast upon that sight. The engine was a WP Locomotive. It arrived; it was not loud, for it was ear-splitting – its hiss. The phallic hood of a demonic snake breathing in with fathomless passion; breathing out nameless terrors. Forty nine years have passed, but these images wreathed with sounds remain fresh as though it were all just yesterday. The Driver’s cabin would glow spectrally yellow; the combined effusions of weak light-bulbs and an open firebox. A Fireman would glance our way; and when eyes met, white teeth bared in a smile through a face blackened with coal-dust. Another Fireman would be shovelling coal; or wiping his hands upon an old, worn cloth covered in greasy dust. Another anxious look at the sky; and a surreptitious look at his watch; and father would walk toward the front of that engine with its giant frontal dome – that bullet nose in the centre of which gleamed that headlamp; a single Cyclopean eye of a fallen-angel intent upon war; invoked from a realm of terrors; seen through smoke and the mists of falling eventide. Then, all of a sudden, the magic dwindled; for my father, with a few caressing words of tenderness whispered into my little ear, carried me back to our coach; our coupé. He climbed in; shut the door with a muted clang and locked it behind him; it had three sets of locks. He delivered me, a bundle, unto my mother; and brushed his shirt delicately, for he would be covered in a fine patina of coal dust; he would then vanish into the bathroom and emerge vested in white kurta-pyjama. Mother would clean my little face with a wet cloth; a crocheted handkerchief. Silence stealthily descended, for mankind had finished boarding the train. Then, that awe-inspiring whistle which never failed to startle me; and with nameless hisses and squeaks and the sound of metal rubbing against metal, the train began to move. I waited, with bated breath, to hear the first “clack” of a wheel as it traversed the cusp of the first rail joint of an everlasting journey that would last 14 hours.

Darkness falls; ditch-lamps glow mistily, for rain has begun to descend. There is thunder; far above our roof; crackling and angry. Father lowers glass panes; still, a cold wind blows in from somewhere, some chink, and with it, that unforgettable redolence of vapours of steam; and hot ash; and coal. We pick up speed slowly; the wheels begin their hypnotic song, their mesmerising cadenza. After the mammoth Calcutta yard was traversed, the train turned toward the north, and embarked upon attaining its line speed. This entailed a variety of operations carried out by the Driver and Firemen; 5-6, miles, or, between 8 and 10 kilometres would pass before line speed was achieved; yes, acceleration was gradual, almost imperceptible in a heavy train drawn by a steam engine. During the initial phases of acceleration, the locomotive would roar out an unearthly anthem; songs of a War-God as It rode into battle; that indescribably loud, chugging symphony, more rhythmic than any orchestra. It would envelope ones consciousness – it was impossible to escape; a passion-dance of sounds of wheels and engine. Out of rain-wet window panes, one would be mesmerised by flying steam and smoke, like ethereal wraiths and Valkyrie; tendrils of cloud flecked with red sparks. Then, as line speed was gained, sounds would diminish; smoke and sparks would recede, all replaced by a faraway hiss broken by the occasional roar. The first stop or way station was gained by eight in the evening; this was invariably Durgapur. As soon as the train stopped, turbaned bearers, clad in pristine white, would knock upon our coupé door bearing large pewter trays faded with old silver, upon which rested porcelain bowls containing dinner; and jugs of water; spoons and forks. In the realms of my memory, there remains uncorrupted by the rites of passage of time, the evocative memory of hot, hot curried mutton or chicken, or egg; lentils, salads and fry; and pudding – a bottle of Coca Cola was an additional treat, of which I was given a sip to imbibe. My food was served me; it composed a still warm medley made from home-made potatoes; and phulka, made of white flour; my grandmother invariably cooked so all could have some; therefore dinner was a mishmash of the ample. Dining over, all empty trays and their bowls and jugs and carafes were placed neatly upon the sideboard by the door; they were withdrawn, usually, at an operational stop which arrived just before it was time for bed. This operation, of serving dinner and cleaning up, during stops, by wordless individuals wearing white, still haunts me with unanswerable questions; and its seamless efficiency continues to cause wonder unto me – a wonder that I shall bear till the time arrives for a greater journey that I must undertake, as must all.

There were longer stops in the dead of the night; when all was silent, and all was still in the coaling and watering yard of a station seemingly deserted, till told that it was actually a large city. This was a substantially longer stop; watering took time and coaling the engine, an intricate operation that tended to be noisy. Engine lubrication was checked and reapplied – another crucially important task also known as “oiling”. Then the driving crew relieved and replaced by a new one; at times, even the engine was changed, replaced by another WP Locomotive.

Otherwise, the night was spent in deep slumber, broken by a visit to the bathroom; I slept the sleep of children, ensconced by my mother’s side upon a wide berth. The cold of winter nights left trails of condensate upon glass panes; the coupé was unheated, and though much warmer than the outside, still shivery. Yet, it was heaven under our quilts; that all encompassing sense of protective love and physical well-being palpable in degrees that we, as adults no longer know. I would lay still in that far country, now in the impossibly distant realms of recollection, looking up at the ghostly blue light that illuminated our coupé; the distant sounds of the engine and the nearer rumble and clatter of wheels – hypnotised by a waking dream for which there exists no parallel in the present age.

And there have been times when I have visited members of my family at Asansol; a coal town in Bengal, founded by the British. There, in winter nights, in that cold stillness, I would lay in a stone bedroom of an ancient British bungalow; and somewhere in the far distance, along the Asansol mainline, would pass a WP engine bearing a night train; chugging as it struggled to gain line speed quickly; that lone eye glaring into the dark. As its resonating throbs receded in the distance, there remained that whistle, which rode upon the inkiness of night, a primordial and plaintive cry that traverses the rim of darkness and shadows, a forgotten dream, the loneliest and most far away sound created by God to remind mankind of its own insignificance; and its irredeemably lost humanity.

Darkness

Driving a steam engine was achieved through intuition; the WP engine was no exception to this essential rule. Those times, those days were days when the human brain was expected to function at enhanced levels, unaided by computers, calculators or other electronic instruments. In such a bygone age, the human was pre-eminent; fate had charged him with his machines; it was he that commanded his steed. If strength of the elements were endowed unto his machine, then, the strength of intuitive knowledge was vouchsafed unto the man. For it was he who thought; thinking was the preserves of his brain; hence, he decided upon the best course of action. The machine then responded as man commanded it to; and Man and Machine became One. In the annals of human sojourns, untold billions of miles were thus travelled; and an infinity of discoveries made – for, then, that which travelled the Universe were not machines, but the Human Mind, which delved into every possible mystery that Providence has thought fit to place upon its way. So was humanity illuminated; and that constitutes our glory. Yet, after the glories of our voyages, we appear tired, for in our present Age, we have taught machines how to think. Consequently, we have not much left to do. Our own accountability reposes in circuit boards of plastic; we have absolved ourselves from the burden of responsibility; so we stare vacuously at cold electronic displays for comfort; our ancient morality lost; we no more are living beings, but shadows of life that repose in dark, dark shades.

A journey has ended forever. Nothing remains, now, for the destination is mundane. One looks at darkening skies again, and one wonders, that, what silver lining awaits, when even clouds go missing?

The End

Sources:

https://www.wikipedia.com, https://web.archive.org/web/20061113132424/http://www5.brinkster.com/sundar/WP.htm, http://www.irfca.org

Disclaimer:

The written content is claimed by Anamitra Dasgupta as his copyright. The Photographs used in the post are found freely on Public Domain. Anamitra Dasgupta does not claim any ownership of such photographs in said post. Said copyright is retained by their original owners as indicated in the sources. In the usage of such pictures, no copyright infringement is contemplated or intended.

Copyright@AnamitraDasgupta 2020

The Right of Conscience

Conscience

The Right of Conscience is constituent of the single greatest right that humans bear. It cannot be bequeathed by external sources, be the source as powerful or as all pervasive as it may be. Conscience is representative of Man’s inner spirit. It is the only intangibly tangible proof of Soul that we bear; it is the only evidence of the Higher spark that animates our existences as man and beyond Man; the Right of Conscience is greater than the Right of Life – for the Original Man will give his life to preserve his Conscience.

The Right of Conscience and it’s adherence empowers Man beyond Himself. Just as the mind animates the Brain, so does Conscience animate Man’s Heart. The Heart is Man’s Cross which he must bear; and upon this Cross is nailed Mankind, nailed by the Conscience without which It would fall off It’s Cross and be rendered mortal, while Man, as I know, is immortal. If there wasn’t Conscience, there wouldn’t be the Right of Life or the Need of Living. In these nails repose freedom. In their injury, lies immortality. Conscience is Man’s experience of Himself. Without His Conscience, Man wouldn’t be.

Conscience, as given it’s primordial form, is constituent in nascent, unknowable, inexpressible Faith. Faith, converted by Man to serve socially designed and approved tenets of expression is constituent as Religion. In short, Him, who is composed of Conscience, and yet taken physical incarnation, must bear a physical crutch which bequeaths form unto His Faith and His Belief. Man, beyond Birth, is Light. Man, taken Birth is Form; Form, taken root is a Tree. Vines, strong and green; or hard, dry, intertwine that tree in love, faith and belief. Upon branches of this Primordial Tree hangs red fruits that beckon – alluring fruits formed by Cause and Effect; Fruits that beckon Man in all His longing and His thirst for His unknowable Eden, from whence he was cast out. Karma is our fruit. It is our subsistence. It is what we live for, and die to serve. Yet – all that is manifested here in this time bound world is illusory – for here, even Conscience must serve Karma; and serve those unique perspectives of Consciousness, which we have further divided and formed into Good and into Evil.

Yes, Conscience is that primordial Form – Man’s primary Expression. It is the most potent Force in Man’s Universe. Man’s Dominance reposes in His Experience of Conscience. And yet, Man has created so many Dogmas, that serve to seek Dominance over Conscience. As Man does so, he kills his Conscience; and His spirit takes leave, sentencing man to a living, lifeless death. Man uses Religion to tame His Conscience. Conscience dies not, but Mankind ceases; choked by it’s own Dogma, with which it once set out to place the noose of death upon Conscience.

Sin

Man is not a Sinner. Man commits no crime other than what he is guided to commit. To Man, a keeper of life, the act of killing an ant is crime. Yet, Mankind lives by Sin, for It’s Religions keep It’s Conscience; Religion dominates Conscience and points Man to acts that belie his Conscience and betray His Soul; Man surrender His COnscience to Religion for safekeeping – and this, the primary Sin. Man is not a Sinner. But he lives by Religion – which is Man’s Machine for constructing Sins – sins in unending streams; sins manufactured coldly on order of Religion, so man may kill the Sons of Man, destroying the very incarnate Conscience that Manifests as a Mark of Divine upon Manifested Realms – physical, mental, emotional and etheric worlds.

We live by sin, yes. For sin is what we are taught from our earliest childhood. Sin is what we are told to grasp, because sin is marked for us as forbidden temptation. Sin is what we are told to commit by every injunction against sin, for man, in seeking the Higher, will sin, when He tears asunder those chains of that bind him; those chains that bind his thought. Sin is what we think, for it is taught unto us, on what to think. We think that which is deeply sinful, for all we think is bound by the original sin of the imposition of guilt – for is all we do, as we are told, are we sinners. We will remain sinners till He comes unto us and lifts the pall of Sin, by lifting the very idea of Sin that is engraved so deeply in our minds and our modes of living; in our beliefs, in our values and within the deepest recesses of our ethics. We sin, for we uphold tenets that declare us sinners, and points us towards way of sin. Our ways make sinners of us that need redemption. This is how Conscience is degraded by Dogma. This is why we need Religion – for Religion perpetuates this unending cycle of Sin unto which man yields without question, for Religion sanctions it. It is time to rip to shred all religious stipulations that turns us into sinners. It is time to break out of the fabric of such intricate sins that forms the basis for our ethics, morals and our religions; our rituals, our dogma; all our lower material guidelines, which, in guise of spiritualism, degrade Man’s Spirit. Man is Holy. Man is Conscience. That which claims to guide individual and collective conscience is by itself the foundation upon which sins of horror are committed; upon which is born every act, thought, temptation, experience and dogma of terror. Let us rid ourselves of Sin. Let us reclaim our conscience. Let us be free. Let us be free!

Religion

Religion has hijacked Man’s primordial connection with Spirit. The Spirit is Holy. Man’s need for realising His own holiness is constrained by His Consciousness. Where the lower, physical consciousness perceives Boundaries composed of Conscience, it declares such boundaries to be unholy. Boundaries exist not in Supreme Consciousness. All Boundaries are made by Man in his experience of the lower; for where there is Belief, therein is subjugation of Consciousness. That which is Conscious, when given shape, form, identity and Dogma, is limited; is merely a formed shadow of itself; yes, it is a shadow, but of Light. Realise that shadow. Realise the Self. The Self is beyond Religion or Religious truth – truth, that is bound in shape and form, and crystallised into Dogma is not truth at all, but an opinion evolved to enforce Mankind’s subjugation of It’s own Consciousness; it’s own Conscience.

Man is victim to his own need for Religion. Look not for Satan without, for Satan is within. Satan rules in the name of all that is purportedly Holy. Satan rules in the name of Religion. Religion is a demonic imposition upon pristine particles of light; Religion binds that which cannot be bound. It corrupts that which is incorruptible. It debases Love. It destroys Compassion. It diminishes Mercy. Religion comforts our deepest pains which it first inflicts; and thereby, it holds followers in thrall. See beyond Religion, and you will find that pain is perception; it exists not, for it is an illusion. The worst pains have no meaning, when Conscience is freed; when Consciousness is permitted to expand. When All is One and One is All. Warriors rise who fight religion in the name of their Faith, for their faith lays in what is Just, Rational and rooted in Knowledge. Yet, Man, in His self affected liberation, embraces the snake in Eden, and declares warriors of knowledge heretics or bigots.

And Man upholds Religion with fervour. And in such fervour does Man Sin. In that passion of fervour, gripped with righteousness justified by Religion and Dogma, does Man exterminate Life – for it is said in Religion, that he who exterminates in Religion’s defense, is guaranteed the Kingdom of Heaven. But there is no Heaven. Nor is there Hell. There is only Supreme Consciousness. And we are It, in all our myriad forms; from all our unending perspectives. Let us unify. Let there be Light. Let love flow. Let us cease walking the rim of chaos. Let us learn to love again. Love knows no form. Love is not resident in Dogma. All Dogma vanishes where there is Love.

War

Once there was peace. But that time is so long past that even science recognises it not; science cannot find any trace of that ancient and peaceful world, upon which Man grazed his cattle; travelled the Heavens; embraced Light. Lived in timelessness. In action. In deed. That time is past, for it is now known as mythology. Then came a great flood. Planets collided; and earth’s face was covered in darkness. When the sun shone again, everything had changed. Assurance was denuded of its certainty. Fear replaced knowledge. want replaced contentment. Need replaced happiness. Spirit was replaced by desire. The nobility of living was denuded by the politics of survival. And thus was laid primordial foundations of total war. The world is today at war. Many wars have been fought in the past; Man’s history is of warfare, siege and suffering. Yet, this war is different, for this is a war of extinction, for this war is a war of Faith, versus Religion. Faith is the anchor which holds firm our greatest need for Hope. Religion denies Man hope, for it enjoins man to kill Faith and embrace Dogma. The war has begun. The war will be fought in all aspects of Man’s life; within his home and by his fireside; in utterly desolate battlefields covered in snow, upon which shines not even starlight. Desert sands will be reddened by blood. Cities will crumble. Places of worship will tumble; for such is worship, in which Man suffers God and seeks absolution in Money. The greed for temporal power is all pervasive. This is war is one in which perversions of matter will proliferate. It is a total war of murder, mayhem, destruction. It is the war of heart and soul, whence all waters of the Universe will not quench Man’s thirst for the only fluid upon which Man thrives; for Man thrives on Blood.

In this thirst, in terror of It’s own need, Man has created Religions which serve Death. Sacrifice has been replaced by the want of Greed; for every Man-Made Religion covets followers. Without an iota of spirit, Man-Made Religions desire form. Without realisation of the ethers, they seek matter. They seek followers, for avaricious religion understands the importance of numbers for it’s own survival. Man is victim in His own journey of Choices. Man tolerates Religion, for He has lost His spirit. If he rediscovers His Spirit, Religions will fall. Religions must fight wars then, to survive – and in doing so, Religions will feed upon man without an iota of compassion or kindness which it purports to preach; without an iota of recognition of that Conscience which Religion claims to represent.

There is no war of the righteous. There is only war of extinction. Religion claims righteous power over Man – for religion in truth is nefarious, for it seeks to Own that which cannot be owned – which is Man’s Conscience – the only evidence of Soul.

None of us spoke up. None of us resisted our capture. None of us raised a finger of protest when, sitting in warm drawing rooms, people that wield power, conducted and concluded our total slavery to material. W protected the most degraded, morally corrupt specimens of Mankind, for in our effort to show our respect of Human Right, we tolerated the most unrighteous acts upon innocents – all conducted peacefully and with full moral sanction – by bearers of Religion. Our parents taught us to pray in temples and feed emaciated cows to propitiate Divinity, while the hungry and thirsty were turned away from our doorsteps – we recognised not the Divine which cane to us, seeking redress; seeking answers. Streets flow with blood; we revel in blood sacrifices. We slaughter animals in commemoration of Gods, Prophets, Saints, Seers and Swamis. Our worship is steeped in blood of centuries. In our blood thirst, we bear sin which we can never redeem. We worship the earth by marinating its soil with flesh and blood and urine and feces; our own, mingled with terror stricken animals, which we slaughtered not for our own consumption, but to make happy our inception and ideas of Divinity.

So has Conscience died. We live on – vampire like, awaiting our own nemesis. Yet, there are many things of beauty which we may reclaim. Let us start by reclaiming ourselves. Let us begin by pausing. Let us stop this extinction. Let us stop genocide and mass murder; let us halt justifying it all, as though we were validating the inhuman rights of slaughter. Let us be educated in Humanity. Let us not draw the line at being literate. Education is a state of the highest mind. In it resides the gates to knowledge and higher rationality. We are but literate now, nothing more. we recognise sharp letters of the alphabet – and we use these to stab others.

Let us reclaim our own Right of Conscience. Let us live again. Born free. As free as the wind blows.

Adonai. Oh Ahura.

ܐܠܗܝ ܐܠܗܝ ܠܡܢܐ ܫܒܩܬܢܝ

 

For my Classmate from Another Century

I share my thoughts as a fellow journeyman. These are thoughts only and not dogma.

My father is dead. In being dead, he now lives forever. He lives beyond time. He lives beyond perceivable space. He lives beyond all physical yardsticks of measure. Realities that once formed the physical framework of his existence have ceased; none of those realities may now apply to him. My father is merged with the Universe. So is your father, who has concluded his experience in this illusion, whence he was incarnate as form; whence he was bound in illusion. Form is illusion. The formed illusion which we hold on to, so fervently and with such passion, is but illusion. It is transitory. It has a beginning and an end. The internal, real universe that is veiled from us is unending, and infinite; it is real. The formed, physical mind and reposes within a brain looks upon this reality as an illusion till the vile weight of everything falls upon the physical mind; drives it out; redeems it in one instance, and renders immortal forever.

As I bless my father and in turn seek his blessings, this I know that your father walks with you closer than he ever could while incarnate here, in this physical existence, within our definition of life. Our definitions are fashioned out of our mind; it is painfully constructed out of our experiences here. Yet, in the greater universe in which our fathers do now reside, there are no definitions. There is no life has we define physical life. There is no death as we fear physical death. For in the greater, unformed Universe, life and death are mere, irrelevant definitions; a veiled memory of a process long conquered and overcome; but preserved as a valuable experience, a dream within a dream; a life that was not life, but a transitory experience bound in a sensation of time, space and material. Matter and time are manifested aspects of the unending, infinite and eternal universe that reposes beyond good, and evil; far beyond the reach of physical thought, word or deed. Your father and mine now repose in perfect balance and perfectly as universal beings; they live within us and besides us at all moments; but we know it not, for we are entrapped by our minds. To our minds, only that which may be perceived by the senses of touch, sight, smell and emotional perception are considered real with the rest unreal and illogical. Once freed from mental limitations by the process of death, we embrace, again, and with immense relief, our true home. Be assured, my dear friend, that we are not “parted physically” from our loved ones; we live with them at all times, but perceive them not as long as we are obliged to carry our mind, brain and our physical existences as defined and charted by these. Death is not rest. Death is the process by which a being regains It’s absolute need and right to action without hindrance; without limitations and without structures that wall away each mandate of light within physical, social, ethical, moral and so-called spiritual law.

The physical universe does not exist in Infinity; rather, it is the perceived outer covering of it. This is to say that the created and thereby physical Universe exists because we perceive it to be so. Further, the universe is not a “special region” created by dispensation of a capricious, physical God shaped by Mankind’s needs. Au contrair, the physical universe is merely a transitory state of in the lowermost rungs of creation; It is a shifting environment in which everything changes at the blink of an eye. Nothing here is permanent; and this implies that “life” itself, here, is impermanent since it must transcend into itself. All beings that incarnate here to experience this level of the universe must be relieved from it after concluding a set of experiences, for the pains, trails and tribulations of illusory experiences were never meant to last forever. If we accepted this as true, we would discard the very “idea’ of spiritualism, in which mankind experiences such divisions and such agonies. Indeed, the eternal nature of life is what we do not understand; and this ignorance is expressed as faith, religion, worship, ritual and dogma – all tied up is that ritual known as “precedence”. Precedent is set with unique spiritual experiences, which are then given “form” by the attachment of interpretation, ritual, dogma, laws, rules and emotional attachment. In short, an experience which was once indefinite, is formalised and solidified as “truth” upon which hinges the religious reality. The precedent is the foundation for action. The nature of action is centered in choice. The resolution of choice is through Free Will. Free Will is the nature of universe that moves only forward.  This forward movement is perceived as time, events, lifetimes of perception is what is to be free versus what is to be enchained; and this we know as good and evil. We do not understand any of this; and yet the lack of understanding is a legitimate path we have chosen to experience in our dawning consciousness of the eternal. This is not a human fault, but a “spiritual” process; for one may know of what is infinite only if one longs and agonises within limitations, by struggling in a finite, limiting and time bound experience. Every struggle is mortal; for the end to struggle is victory and peace; struggle must end. In this process, we give shape to infinity and God by our own expectations; and this is the expectation which we express as religion.

Mankind’s deepest search for justification of his social morals is reflected in the Invention of God. No God exists that can be measured by man’s image; and yet, man strives in torment to define that indefinite Father and Mother of Everything, Who exists not in any way with which we may measure, judge, rule and strive to conquer our defined existence. However, God is reflected in the Inner Self; and yet, this “self”, when realised, transcends the very idea and need for God in all It’s limitations and forms; and brings forth that God Who is incarnate in that very State of Being and Life as we know it not. This we do not understand as Truth; for the mind seeks palpable realities; and in this painful search, we bequeath unto God those shapes, rituals and godly personalities formed by our need for comfort. But we all know, deep within, that if God is, then God is Not. That which is “not” cannot be defined; it has no beginning and no end. It is everywhere and nowhere. It is the End of Everything, and yet that infinitely tiny seed out of Which springs All. God is all. God cannot truncated. There is no end to God, just as there is no beginning. God is a point whose centre is nowhere, but whose circumference – everywhere. God is You and I; just as I am the mountain, and I am the stream; as you are the waters, minerals, ethers and spirit that is the sum total to everything. God cannot be measured. God cannot be approached by any external means – for how will you ever approach Yourself? You are you; you are God; God is not separated from your existence as a primordial particle; and even this “formed” existence, is but a perception for you, who, by the very act of perception, limits herself to definition. This implies that if infinity is your very nature by the reality of your existence beyond time and space, then relations defined by father, mother, family, friends, creatures, beings, realities – indeed everything – vanishes; all that remains is you, and those myriad forms in which you gave Yourself Perception, form and identity. I am you. You are me. We are None for we are All. All is One. All is Unity. All is “Advaitya”. Duality will exist where there is external perception. Duality is a singularity rendered dual by the very dual word “singularity” attached unto it.

When we realise the “self” that is revealed by loss of Ego, we transcend the need for belief itself, for you realise that you are an existent state of absolute belief and knowledge, without further need for assurances rooted in precedence, religion and empirical proof. This is the journey to “singularity”. To know God, abjure belief in God. Let all Gods crash from their pedestals; and you will know the God of Nothing and All; unknowable; infinite and the source of absolute love beyond definition or attachment; beyond expression; beyond any need; but in a State of Oneness and Bliss – forever. Your father and mine journey into this realisation just as we all do. But even as we are time bound “now”, Time, for our father is concluded; cause an effect is narrowed into that which is meaningless; pain is ended; bliss and happiness is regained. Therefore, rest easy, and be in peace; beyond grief, grieve not, for that which happens, must happen, for the universe never stays still.

When Consciousness transcends Itself there follows simultaneous ends to Ego and Identity. What are you without Identity? Permit me to say that you are that drop extracted of an ocean; and drop, which, when removed from this eternal ocean is programmed to believe in itself as the drop, because it is physically defined as that drop, and which consequently searches longingly for its apparently lost Source and Genesis. And yet, when you, the drop, is reclaimed back by that unending ocean, you lose your identity as a drop, but, yet, retain within you, as the sum of your experiences, only that undefined definition of your illusion of your time as a mere drop, but now infinitely grown, for you, who was the ocean, know what it was to have been a drop of salt water; unified, removed, grown and merged with that ocean of which you arose. Such is the nature of your father now; such is my father. They live in that Ocean of unending, eternal and unbelievable love; they are just as we knew them in their limited forms; but now, without limited identity, they compose the very Body of the Ocean out of which they chose to take form. As ego, you remain a drop. Without Ego, you are the Ocean. The drop is contained by the very definition to itself as understood by the word “drop”; this is “identity” as we understand it. And in this illusion, whence the ocean is obligated to look upon itself as a “drop”, it behaviour, perceptions and realisations, too, are limited opinions in their limited shapes and forms, all bound in time, space, matter and identity that have gone on to create the drop in the first place. The ocean is unending. It cannot be contained. But it can experience it’s own infinity only when it measures itself against the unreality of finite containment. This is the crux of the journey, always upward, always outward, into the realisation of the Self; and of Life.

The lowest rungs of Creation is composed of the “Formed Universe” and numberless Dimensions therein. These Dimensions are not rooted in hocus-pocus, metaphysics, supernatural or the philosophical; rather, all of this are legitimate attributes in our attempts at understanding that which surrounds us without, and questions us within. These dimensions are measurable through sciences; and yet, these do not exist other than as mental perceptions that repose in hidden and revealed recesses of the brain. Every single dimension is knowable through our mental faculties that reside in our brain. But the universe is not “Brain”. The “Brain” is the centre of “Identity” in which it recognises only Itself; and proclaims itself to be the only arbitrator of truth. The universe, on the other hand, is “consciousness”. The brain may feel conscious; but the brain can never decode, categorise and quantify consciousness. The brain, as you know, is merely an instrument created to help you relate to a lower, physical, time and space based reality. Other than that, the brain has no importance or function; the brain merely experiences “consciousness” through categorisation, relation and quantification; and forever labours to get to grips with these. When we die, the brain and all its allied organs of body are pecked at by birds, decomposed by bacteria, burnt by fire and reclaimed as the dust and ash that it really is. Transcend the brain, and you will encounter those numbers as the beginning of true mathematics in the quest of understanding the Universe. To provide you with a single example amongst countless others, Numerology is often looked upon as an indulgence for coffee-table-philosophers at best, and the preserve of charlatans at worst. Yet, Numerology, in reality, is that effort to understand the very formation and logic of Universal progression, when inner reality is translated into Events, their Reasons, their Core Nature and Higher Logic, that reposes as very real structures within the universal reality.

Our mathematics, mental is nature, and rooted in Ego, makes much of the Physical Universe and its structure; in short, it contributes only to the understanding and consolidation of what is created and formed. But is the spirit formed by universal algebra and quantum mechanics? No. For all of these are just finite processes of attaining that which is beyond form, space, time, matter and definition. Numerology attempts to approach consciousness from a higher mathematical perspective. This very root mandate makes numerology suspicious, for the sum total of numerology can never conform to scientific reduction – into “methodology, empirical proof or evidence”. Science is about binding reducibility. Numerology is non-binding, and flows as quickly as circumstances flow. In science nothing flows; the very act of flowing is anathema to science; science abhors chaos and uncertainty. Numerology attempts to predict chaos, uncertainty and the unknown – for, in reality, isn’t chaos a definition of that which is beyond science’s control? And isn’t science an attribute of the mind? Numerology will always be rejected by mainstream science, for it attempts to deal in ideas immeasurable by existing scientific methodology. And yet, for all volumes of scientific calculations, if we merely come down to a few set of divisions and additions, we find insight into some of the greatest truths which numerology treats as incidental; but which often astonish scientists. The physical universe is convoluted. It follows then, naturally, that its decoding mathematics must be as convoluted as the physical universe. But take away distance, time, mass and shape, and you are left with nothing that can be measured; but with everything that can be “realised”. Knowledge, however large, is infinitely tiny; a minuscule particle of the arcane. Take away that very identity from knowledge that give’s it its mass; and you would render irrelevant that very machine which gives the universe its basis for time bound progression. You would destroy the basis for cause and effect; there would be no “karma” and “karmic progression”. Raise knowledge above dogma; and the physical universe ceases to be. Time ends; and so does quantified experience. This is where your father is; and mine. “Formed Reality” for them is ended. So has the agony of time; the weight of material; the sting of mass; and the decrepitude of that shape in which they once were; a shape that degraded with age, illness, suffering disease. All of that is ended. All that is left is contentment, happiness; that bliss of “Being”.

Your father and mine were here by agreement to experience this dimension, enchained to experiences in the part of growth. In turn, we agreed to incarnate and manifest here through them as their children. In truth, our association with them is older than time; in truth, we are never apart – we were, are and always will together be. This is a simple and mundane truth. Yet, so much is made of death. But we live in our minds; as it is said “I think and so I am”. In the face of death “I think that he isn’t any more”, and thereby I grieve; I grieve because of that inherent identity crisis of the statement “that I am”. But when you know that there is no “I”, you would “Be” more than you ever could, enchained by the “I”. This is why we must think not but surrender unto action; the action of life. We must act without fear – for fear is reflection of our expectation of consequence. Act for the sake of the event to transcend eventuality. Let us not act in fear, or attachment to the “unknown”.

What is incarnation? Is it a journey? No, it is not. It is merely the process in which some are “covered” by the sensation of physical reality, even though that Being reposes in comfort in the eternal Universe. This implies that while your father and mine stand by you and me, holding our hands forever in love as very real presences, we know them not, for we are enchained in the physicality of this illusion, out of which they are broken. Their consciousness indeed is relieved from the sensation of the physical. This translates as death and bereavement here. But to them, there has been no parting, for they look upon you, and me, often with concern and with incredible love, as we struggle to penetrate the veil that apparently separates this life, and its greater source. Therefore, grieve not for having lost; you have lost nothing. Yet, the mind will grieve, for the brain understands only physical presences and the logic of time; it cannot deal with the process of simple “Translation”, which we misname as death. Therefore arise from your grief; be happy; for love ends not and nothing passes except the illusion of “having”.

Beyond all high sounding prose and seemingly insightful poetry, beyond every philosophy, theosophy and learned nonsense that is composed as our knowledge, only love is real. Everything else is is laughable balderdash; for only love is true as truth is love; love permeates all; to decode love through emotion surely is a lesser experience – for love, seen with eyes of emotion, serves not to free, but to attach, own and eventually dissipate. Divine Love attaches to nothing. It is that core within All, out of which springs Each. That love burns with a dark heat; it caresses with pain, and terrorises the very act of thought; it torments us in our expectations of it; it plays with us as a hungry cat plays with a mouse before breaking it’s neck. Divine Love breaks assunder everything; rips to shreds what is created, for that which is solidified must be made to again flow; and take on new forms and realities. Upward Bound – that is the Nature of Love. In the Divine perspective, I would think that every act of cruelty is inbuilt with simultaneous redemption. Every pains is an aspect of pleasure. A fire that burns, merely beckons that cleansing rain that must awaken the ashes, out of which must spring life, anew, renewed; perfect. A volcano that erupts will clothe everything in flames. It will destroy life – life as we know it. It causes damage, for we are puny in the face of a volcano; and we were in the way. Yet, the lava that flattens our dwellings and kills off so many, provides the basis and foundation for new tenements many years hence; it provides minerals to fertilise future soil; and sustain so many lives. Gasses that erupt are reclaimed hungrily by the atmosphere, which is tainted by man, but purified by nature. Vast sheets of flame liquidate and vaporise everything by its passage. But that which is vapourised must fall back again, in the form of rain; and rain must hydrate that which is dead and parched – so it might live again. Such is the nature of eternity. Therefore grieve not. What what comes to pass is ordained by the very act of its passage; and it must also depart its formed reality.

I say that we exist since God is Existential beyond intellectual, mental, scientific dissertation. If God did not manifest as you, you wouldn’t be. Your life, perceptions, and your very physical reality wouldn’t be; and you would not be to experience even the lack of Being. Grieve not for your father, passed; for he is not anywhere but by your side in every moment of your life. Contemplate upon him and you will know that you have not lost; for that which you love is living and bright; and is not an illusion. The only illusion is the sensation of loss. The sum total of this universe is Zero. Nothing dissipates; but only transcends to a higher, more subtle experience. All manifested Gods are attributes of the unknown. Travel further and hug the unknown; and all you will have is a friend and boon companion – a partner in every mischief and a soldier with you in every effort – the lover of all lovers and the only Beloved that ages not, dies not; and in whose bosom reposes bliss and quiet beyond every swiftly passing pleasure. Be one with God.

Grieve not. Live again. Love again. And forgive me for intruding with my prose and hotch-potch of insights, contained within my repetitive outpourings. I must repeat myself, for I utilise a physical language. Language is uni-dimensional; it cannot cover all aspects of the same idea at the same time. That is why this document is long and would be boring if I were obliged to look through it. Do not believe my insights; let these not affect your own, unique perspective and standpoint. Discover yourself, and find that simple truth, that paths however different, begin at the same ocean, and having traversing forests, deserts, mountains, cities, plains and rivers, return to the same sea as ice, rain, steam, ash, smoke, dust and wind. All these may differ in their own. But then, God’s forms are myriad; you and I are facets of the same Source. Lastly, forgive me even more for making your father central in this document. I did so without your permission; but I do believe that within these pages are insights which are inalienable portions of your being; I merely have the pleasure of putting these into words.

Live more. Grow more. Be blessed. Be whole.

To My Father

You were a good man. Your legacy will remain as that of a good man’s. Today is your birthday. I wish I could wish you. I can only wish your photograph that adorns our wall. The reality of your birth will forever remain in our hearts till that day we meet you again. But your birthday, here, has no further relevance, for once, that you were born, you now are reclaimed by death. You are no more our physical, living, breathing father. You now live beyond – beyond the trials, tribulations, joys, sorrows; beyond all those rules that define a talented,worldly man, or even that man defined by successes and failures. But you know, don’t you, dearest baba, that there is no success and no failure; for you came here to do what had to be done; you did it all bravely and with a single minded determination. If we were to remove our own judgement of your life and legacy, we know that you lived bravely, passionately and with nobility. You did not permit lower morals to impede you in your way. Your mandate was to live large and to live it big; and so did you. In your life, we often felt as casualties to your energy and your dominant presence. We wished you to change; we wished you to cease. Now that you are no more a part of this reality so full of myriad weights and unbreakable chains, our love for you overflows like those saplings that burst forth from parched earth, when sprinkled with the comfort of water. Our water is our forgiveness with which we heal ourselves; and lo, and behold, we see you back, again, as our beloved, lovely, noble father. You are the author of our existence. The love of our lives. The center of our realities which begun once, but which expand within each unchangeable moment through those inner spaces to touch only love, compassion and mercy beyond belief and beyond measure. We love you father. We always have. We always will for evermore.

Forgive me. I was not a good son.

I am returned though, into your embrace. I am a prodigal son. Give me just a tiny portion of your peace. I know this world doesn’t permit me such a luxury. But hug me again as you used to, so so many years back; when your eyes brimmed with affection; when my world ended and begun in your embrace. When your touch healed every sorrow. When your immense compassion caressed me with love greater than I could ever imagine.

You are now reclaimed by the Universe. The universe is only knowledge; and in that knowledge, you must know how much we have loved you; and how eagerly we have looked to your return through our time when we had you, but had you not. Now we have you forevermore, and in this end, it is only the beginning.

Happy Birthday baba. I await the day we see you again. We await that time when we make up for a few wearisome years by being at your service, for an eternity.

I love you father. Be whole. Be blessed. Be forever. Thank you for my life. Without you and Ma, I wouldn’t be. Be my father again. In some distant future, let us find God in each other’s presence.

Goodbye forever. But adieu till we meet again.

Goodbye Sir

It is so easy sir, to speak with you, now that you have transcended this incarnation. It seems so effortless, sir, to open my heart and my mind to you, and converse just as I would have wished to, so many years back, in school. Life did grant me opportunities for such interactions in subsequent eras of our respective lives. I did not avail of those chances. I know you will forgive me this, just as you have forgiven me so many other transgressions. I was never a good student. But your calm understanding made my lot easier to bear. Memories of your strictness, which I once feared, caresses me with tenderness that is heartbreaking to contemplate; for I have left indulgent childhood and grasped the nettles of that forest revealed only unto adults; I thirst, I crave; I long for those days when I could learn, again.

Rest you, teacher, in your realm of bliss after so many events lived; after such herculean tasks accomplished, after such immense burdens borne and carried distances so great. Rest, dear sir, after concluding an incarnate experience in this world; this, an illusion of cruelty mired in an ocean of turgid, swirling black waters, befouled by our sins. Yet, it is not such a bad world after all, for those such as you deign to visit, and bequeath upon us so many lessons, the beauty of which makes living here so much more tolerable. Your tasks are done, sir; the darkness deepened in the concluding hands of your time in this transient existence through which the living yet struggle, convinced as we are, that it is we who are alive; yet, we are those that are dead bound by unreal time upon which we mark our weary passage, knowing not that we live, dead, so to die, and to gain greater life. You have now gained infinity; that greater, shining life. God has opened the doors to eternity for you, sir; rest then, in that Eden that claims those of greatest worth. Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and Dreadful.

I remember the day I heard of you. I saw you first, though I knew you not: a portly gentleman with a philosopher’s brow; alert eyes; off white pantaloons and white shirt; a green twig in your hand, the offering of the jackfruit tree; you, on Assembly Duty. It was only in the bus, going back home, that I was told of you; and it was with quiet dread that I remembered calling your pretty daughter “Hema Malini”. I wonder if Fareez ever complained; I think not. I saw you so many times then, off and on. I saw you from afar, laughing and joking with your students; you were always the beloved of your class. Strict, fair, conservative but forward thinking; with laughter ready just behind your eyes; and yet, such terror did mathematics inspire in us! When one is a student, a day is as long as a year; and years pass as quickly as the wind; and so, one rainy morning, when the sun made its febrile appearance behind black clouds, on a Sunday as I remember, I was introduced to you in a special class that you conducted with such élan, in Hill Grange’s laboratory. There, surrounded by cupboards overflowing with mysteries, in that atmosphere redolent of chemicals, you introduced us to the world of Venn Diagrams. I remember that morning; it is etched firmly in my inner spaces. Your calm voice that carried forth; the scratch of chalk on black, wooden boards, creating spaces contained within many circles; equations of proportion, percentage and quantity, all explained so emphatically; so clearly.

I started out well. It was a pleasure being your student. I don’t remember the moment when I begun fearing you. Why did I fear you so? I know not. You never raised a hand upon me. You never blazed at me; you never humiliated me; in fact you were known to make funny statements at my errors. Yet, my errors grew; so did your impatience; but so did your effort to ease my way. Often, glancing through my workbooks, you would take your spectacles off to wipe off chalk; and in doing so, you would reveal eyes penetrating, kindly as well as understanding, all at the same time. So I knew not sir, why I feared you. In being frightened of you, I have been unjust to your legacy, for I had nothing to fear. As I look back, through the rain, shine, snow, shower, night, mist and haze of so many years, I know I could have had a friend in you. But an unknown gulf divided us. Yet, now, that which unites us is Life. Your life is eternal; mine is yet an experience; I too shall to cross that impenetrable wall called death, for I am consoled that such is the nature of life. And I am consoled again, for I know, that one day, when time ends for me, I shall meet you and receive that same warm hug that greeted me in that chance meeting, so many, many years after I ceased being your student.

Take a look at me now, sir; I am renouncing this world; its trials, tribulations, failures and transient successes. I am embracing truths that can repose only in the beyond and be revealed only through the magic mathematics of energies; embraced am I of this mandate, whence I must tear asunder the veil that conceals the mysteries of the universe, and lose all that is composed of myself, in the infinite dust of this Creation. You would be so proud of me, for I renounce material, even as I embrace the Spirit.

Mr. Bhan, you will remain forever in me and with me as I walk the rim of my eternity. Goodbye forever, but fare thee well, till we meet again. We love you sir.

A Gentle Reminder

A gentle reminder to all my friends who are debating religion and nationalism, and trying to make sense of it all.

Hindu bashing is not secularism by any long shot. However provocative the questions that may face us, measured and rational Hindu responses must not be dismissed offhand as being “full or hatred” or “historically false”.

The Hindu view of history is a crucial one and many elements within it ring true. Just because such truths are inconvenient to many, conditioned as they are by a leftist-secularist education, does not mean that there must evolve a collective social reactionary effect to disparage and belittle any effort that Hindus make, of whatever background, in finding answers to their questions in coming to terms with a worldview that has often excluded them. Hinduism is old. It’s core is humanist. Neither India and nor its unique culture is threat to the world at large. Beyond every intellectual hairsplitting on how to define this culture, the simple fact is that India’s culture is rooted in Hinduism and expanded, into accepting, readily, other faiths. But I do not need to make such an apology, do I?

I can debate Hinduism all I want, and drag it through the mud that exists by and large in my own social and political persuasions; and I can do so with all the freedom and safety I wish, because, after all, this is a democracy; and its proponents, however seemingly ridiculous by our own definition, after all, are largely Hindu.

Hindus are secular and democratic. Your efforts at negating these simple and historical precepts will give rise to a reactionary Hindu backlash that is political; which is neither democratic and nor humanist. Moreover, if such a constituency is eventually empowered to lead India’s ethical, moral and civilisational priorities, many “good” Hindus such as you and I stand to lose more than our living. I understand that some of you have difficulty in understanding this truth, uneducated as you are in human proclivities and human history.

Therefore, in simple words, do not leave good meat lying about; and when it rots, condemn the poor slaughtered animal and its formerly alive flesh.

And no, my post is not “full of hatred and regressive”; nor am I looking to debate the above hypotheses. This is a simple post without hidden “Hindu” agenda.

I am a Hindu that celebrates Christmas and revels in the joys of Eid. I utter Buddhist formulae to bring forth understanding from within my own self; Zarathustra is my Guru and Sai within All. This I do as I am Indian. It is in my genetic makeup. I uphold an old, wise civilisation. English, Avesta, Sanskrit, Latin, Arabic, Persian, Bengali and Hindi are language I know in my quest to understand religion. On the other hand, there are many of you here, who bear views that concern the most pernicious religious untruths; and yet who have no knowledge in the religions they uphold or denigrate. Views built upon within genteel drawing room discussions, debates and notions are fine in social media to build a self image; or to remain in the news to ensure a continuing supply of bread tickets. Views built with learning and knowledge are rare. But again, I do not need to make such an observation, do I? It is all very “provocative”.

Hindus need your patience. They do not need your contemptuous dismissal. The ancient land constituted into India along with its people and hoary traditions need cleansing. If you cannot add to their value, do not dismiss these as valueless.

Ending this, I know that many of you with intellectual pretensions would profit greatly in reading of something known as the “Stockholm Syndrome”.

Thoughts on Zoroastrianism

Introduction

Zoroastrianism today is one of the noblest religions in existence; and the deeds of its bearers bequeathed not only to the world, but upon this country, India, as we all know. But it was not always a religion as it is today; and if we believe that the Path of the Noble Son of Spitama bears significance today, it must boggle the imagination to construct how immensely great it was once; when its written traditions were intact; at a time when the Greeks did not exist as Nation States; when Judaism was but waiting in the wings; when Christianity and Islam were but dreams; when Hinduism was not Hinduism. Indeed, Zoroastrianism is older than the term “Zoroastrianism”.

Revealed & Non-Revealed Religion

There are two great streams of religion. One is known as the “revealed” stream, in which the core religious identity and perceived truth is rooted in purported historical events which were either so traumatic, or so heroic, that large sections of mankind have subscribe to these either as foundations to their own spiritual experiences or beliefs, or, the very existence of God. In short, “so and so has happened, and such happenings have been so significant/miraculous/unbelievable, etc, that these prove the existence of God, His Saints or His Prophet”. Revealed religions claim first place in all matter of things since their core events are historical, and find mention in historical chronicles; and are thereby utilised in providing historically unshakable support for the religion’s validity and claim. The second stream, you will agree, conform to the “non-revealed” stream, in which religion is not “revealed” on the outer, but an “illumination” within the conscious, alive self. The content matter of illumination cannot fully be expressed in words, thoughts or feelings. These exist beyond the realm of tangible idea. The more we try to contain “illumination” within intellectual or academic structures, the more we suffer consequences of linear assimilation and communication; or all the disadvantages that arises out of attempting to make tangible what is intangible, merely for the sake lower human, “logical” understanding. Revealed faiths are mounted upon solid structures. The solidity of these structures is non-negotiable. These are apparently logical structures within the subsets they serve. Non-revealed religions find transient structure through individual belief, and do not possess non-negotiable common denominators. Yet when these common denominators do exist, they tend to be of highly empirical natures that do not conform to outer, emotional or historical belief, but rational experiments that utilise higher logic to discover hidden and inert human super-capabilities. Revealed religions impart non-binding data to create solid belief. Unrevealed religions induce changeable and ever flowing data, to create a multifaceted perspective. Zoroastrianism, Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism, Buddhism, Shintoism, Taoism and their offshoots, along with Native American and Norse Religions are non-revealed religions. Judaism, Christianity and Islam are revealed religions, though Jewish tenets are always open for understanding at individual intellectual levels; and rational thought is deeply encouraged therein. In Islam, “thought” itself is forbidden, if it does not conform to the Islamic theosophical, moral and ethical framework. Revealed religions are exclusive. Non-revealed religions are inclusive.

A Comment on Academia

Academia and scholarship will always succeed in decoding revealed religions since these are contained within a formed and visible structure. Scholarship will go on making the error of applying the same yardsticks of reference to non-revealed religions and faiths, with increasing misunderstanding and bewilderment.  Nowhere is this better illustrated than in Max Mueller’s purported comment made upon first studying the Bhagvat Gita, in which he categorised contents as “intellectual hair splitting”; or in disputation in the matter of Zarathustra’s date of birth. All hair splitting and disputations, undoubtedly, are made because of core theories which were constructed with the active mandate of proving Christianity’s relevance during colonial days. A European subscription to Christian worldviews, intermeshed with a decidedly Semitic understanding of Ethics and Morals will create a brand of scholarship that is ill-equipped in the understanding of the reality of that which is intangible. Creationists’ argument to disprove Evolution is the result of such scholarship. Transposition of such academia and its tenets upon Zoroastrianism and Hinduism will create case studies in comparative religion, where Eastern and Aryan illumination can never favourably compare with their Semitic sisters in religion. The much vaunted “Aryan Invasion Theory of India” is a figment of colonial academia’s imagination which many still embrace as their gospel truth. No such invasion has ever taken place. Another herculean monstrosity has been created by science in its misunderstanding of the Evolution and Ages of Mankind upon the world; it seems that while we all agree upon Evolution, there are many who also conform to Biblical views on Creation, and occupy positions of authority and influence. While academia is free to propagate its power and privileges for itself by passing off theories as fact, it might be worthwhile to note that new discoveries being made away from conservative centres of learning and scholarship have a startlingly different story to tell; a story that is indeed terrifying especially to those that conform to conservative scholarship and its staple offerings; and to its socio-political rewards. Established academia and scholarship is a rock that is stultified by assumptions forced through as fact, all by way of power, position and simply, bullying. Let us remove remnants of colonial academia; for it stands between us and our understanding of our own priceless heritage. It would also be interesting to note that much respected Egyptology, known once for its probity, is actually so riddled with inconsistencies, that many have begun to wonder as to what is being hidden and why. Yet, scholarship fends off every attempt at re-examination, and it does so using character assassination and academic boycott; social isolation and discredit, both personal and professional. Try to question anything today that is academic; and the one who attempts it, will at best be dismissed as a “conspiracy theorist” and at worst, ruined forever. But I digress.

Non-Revealed Zoroastrianism

Zoroastrianism is strictly a “non-revealed realisation”. It is not a revealed faith. Religion may be revealed, but faith constitutes the core yearning in man for the higher and the more meaningful. Through the last century and the one before it, when scholarship has attempted to study Zoroastrianism, it has endeavoured to categorise this “expression” of the eternal into scholastic limits set by external yardsticks of established, incomplete ideas, and has dismissed Zoroastrianism as a “revealed religion” which conforms to the Judeo-Christian framework. This is a great disservice to the understanding of Zarathustra or the realisation that He chose to share with this world. What He has shared does not constitute of a new “tangible” reality, that is – just like the reality of a brand new soap introduced into the market with great fanfare after having been “revealed” through experiments in a chemical laboratory specialising in soap research and development. Zarathustra did not engineer a religion; he did not invent that hypothetical soap if I am permitted that analogy; nor did he invent faith. He did not dream of noble concepts and theorise these as His Gathas; the Ashem Vohu and the Ahunavar. On the contrary, what he shared are extant and non-binding laws that govern all aspects of the Universe, and which remain removed from the general consciousness that life contains. He realised these and mastered their conceptual depths which are beyond intellectual assimilation. In His contemplation of Divinity, He walked the rim of creation, and touched the inner, core realities of the very fabric of existence. This fabric is older and deeper than all religious terms and terminology; all will forever be beyond human attempts of understanding it or categorising it. It is older than all the names we attach unto it in our various languages, or the images that we bequeath upon it through our individual perspectives and opinion. This reality, as arrange within an outer shell of trillions of unending facets, is to “find simplicity”. We also call it “finding the spirit’.

Humata, Hukhta, Hvarashta

The reader will appreciate that “higher thought” is a thought that is bereft of material or egocentric considerations; it is a thought that emanates not from the humdrum process of lower, material life composed of material priorities, cause and effect, but emanates as a result of the higher mind’s synergy with Godhead; it is a simple, noble and uncluttered thought, suffused with non-binding knowledge, out of which springs compassion and mercy. The “higher word” that springs out of “higher thought” is not the word that looks like flowers and lilies; nor smells of Chanel No. 15; neither punishes and nor rewards. It is that expression that utters neither the understood truth and nor the deconstructed lie, but speaks of what is “appropriate”. It is completely attuned to universal and creative reality. It is a word that may even set loose armies of warriors, but always upon a righteous war. It is divested of what is considered good or what is bad, for both good and bad are illusory perspectives rooted in social contexts and individual ethics. The “higher deed” is the deed that is removed from sense satisfaction and sensation judgements. It is undertaken for the sake of the deed and not for its fruits. It is to do what seems the appropriate thing to do; a deed removed from self interest and ego-preservation. In short, “good thought, word and deed” are very real and empirical mandates that remove man from his assumed identity and bequests an incarnate Being its Soul Realisation. Zarathustra comprehended the core realities of existence, universe and creation; he shared them with us to remind us that the ultimate capability of these were inborn within every life. It is up to us to contemplate upon these and raise life above material, and embrace the eternal. Humata, Hukta and Hvarashta – what delightful simplicity!

The Way of Zarathustra

This is the Path of Godhood, in which we abjure every outer ritual and take up instead, the non-ritual of action. This is the path of knowledge that springs not in temples or churches; nor in Mecca, Medina, Rome; or in Houses of God, but springs within incipient life on its way to merging with Godhead. This is not the path in which we bow our heads in religious fervour to dictates of an exclusive Divinity, and then arise to murder Life that dares to include. This is not a path in which we elevate God into a mighty Being to whom we must owe political allegiance. To worship Ahura Mazda is to treat Godhead as your friend, partner and boon companion; lover, guide, mentor; mischief-maker, moral-supporter in whatever the deed may be; the one who will watch by the door when you hide and indulge yourself to a rare cigarette or a glass of wine; the one who will love you regardless of how short your skirt is, or how long your burhka; the one who is your mother and your father; the one who will weep inconsolably at your pain, and comfort you, but will refuse to intervene, for it is keen that you learn for yourself, how to embrace happiness instead. Ahura Mazda is the loving One to whom you remain the purest and most loveable child, even after committing the most degraded acts. Look around, within and without; and you will find the incarnate Ahura Mazda. This is not the path of the priest, padré or mullah – for these represent non-life. This is the path of life, for it embraces all. Zarathustra realised Ahura Mazda; and the truth, that by whatever name we may call Godhead, compassion and freedom is the nature of the apparently unknown and unknowable God that suffuses every aspect of the Universe however large or small. The path that Zarathustra gave the world is in the same tradition of ancient Aryan seers; it fell to Zarathustra to remind Mankind that its basic nature is one of innate goodness, for within it shines divinity, and it is free to practice that good upon everything it touches. This is the noblest expression of universal truth, and is beyond both revelation and religion; is resident in every particle of conscious or unconscious life, of whatever outer religious persuasion, belief or mandate. Zoroastrianism, though today constructed as a rich tradition with its own history and ritual, reflects this in heart, and passes this unto its conformers, even though some may have abjured the spiritual and embraced ritual. When you introduce a practicing Hindu to Zoroastrianism, you remind him of his own noble, humane tradition woven in the Vedas – beyond idol, ritual and worship. And when you teach me of Zarathustra, you teach me too, that Masters who walk the Earth are Materializations of Godhead regardless or era, age, year or reality; civilisation, manner, faith, religion or belief; and that while we might parcel their teachings into religion, their mandate was for life without boundary, and not for mankind within land, nation, race or creed.

Ushta no-Zato Athrava; yo Spitamo-Zarathustro ||

Epilogue

In its history, those Peoples that have conformed to Zarathustra’s path have lost much. They lost first to their own Empire under its own weight of historical and spiritual tradition; this Alexander finally destroyed not by acts of bravery, but in a drunken orgy. The second Empire followed and attempted to contain its humanism by codifying its humanist tradition into religion, and suffered the consequences that religion brings. Religious warriors enshrined as Kings created a vast empire; and rarely do we find in world history chronicles of such virile Kings and such a fecund kingdom. Over time, religious laws gained precedence; fought rival religions and yet assimilated some of their traditions as every humanist path does. Yet what once was a flowing stream turned into hardened rock; attitudes that once needed not identity assumed racial and religious forms. Worship hardened from choice into compulsion; the law of the book replaced the right of the spirit; and we find a kingdom again fertile for change. The change was brought forth by inhabitants of the southern desert wielding a new religion; and change was wrought by an unremitting application of fire and sword; of murder, rapine and homicide justified by the intolerant new religion and a new, jealous God, eager to prove His superiority by His ability to inflict pain. Yet, as fate usually plays jokes, the intolerant new religion, austere and self-possessed, unlearned of scorpions and desert demons and became adept in the ways of softer beauty of civilisation; learnt of beauty from those that it had set out to kill; but this was to be later. Yazdgird Sheriyar died and the dust of the land was scattered into various horizons. Temples to Fire that had burnt through innumerable centuries were extinguished in blood. An age of darkness descended. Amongst survivors, a tiny minority found it intolerable to remain amongst the rubble of past glory, and embarked upon a perilous journey to the Home of the Vedas. They embraced their new land with fervent loyalty and devotion to deeds aimed at its well-being. They watered its soil with their toil and the sweat of their brow. They sweetened its milk, forever, with a handful of sugar. They wrought world travelling vessels of wood, upon which India’s new masters fought old wars; traded old treasures into new lands. They wrought iron and steel; they wove cotton and wool; they merged into the land’s fabric and made bequest of such treasures as we will never ever be able to return; they hold India in a debt of duty and love as the nation never ever can repay.  Many waves of the Children of Zarathustra have stepped, through unceasing centuries, unto India to find new lives and living. Neither has India and nor have Persian Zoroastrians ever disappointed each other.

Yet, it is time for another new journey. Who knows what tomorrow brings?

For Mr. Nawaz Sharif

“Indo-Pak talks not at the cost of self respect and dignity” – Nawaz Sharif.

Yes, Mr. Sharif, we are entirely in agreement. Indo-Pak talks cannot be at the cost of India’s self respect or dignity. The present political dispensation, Mr. Sharif, is Indian, and nationalist. It is not colonial, British or Italian. Its priorities are Indian and will by and by reflect the inclusion that is India. It is not given to making dishonourable peace by selling the nation to murderers across the border and gain approbation of human rights watchers or the Nobel Prize Committee. Indian is not a client nation, Mr. Sharif. The Ancient Indian Heritage encapsulates “pietas, gravitas and simplicitas” by its genetic propensity to righteousness and freedom. Your nation, on the other hand, has no such reality, but every such pretension. “Pakistan” implies “Pure”, or pure-nation. But the world, in its repulsed disgust, calls you “Paki”; and yet illustrates its civilisation and generosity when it refuses, for simple and life embracing reasons, to call you “Fuckistan”. It is the same core freedom and generosity that dignifies even your unspeakable country’s existence with human rights, that you have embarked upon destroying. Yes, Mr. Sharif, your nation is indeed “Pak”. But this “pak” is one composed of pure evil. Your nation is a pit, Mr. Sharif. Take your pick, for there are many words: “snake-pit”, “bear-pit” or “cess-pit”; I think the last suits you best.

And yes, by the way, as to self respect and dignity, we are not on the same page. For all of India’s misaligned priorities and apparent lack of pride, we know that we are the bearers of a great civilisation and containers of an immense, unique heritage; when push comes to shove, we shed that cow dung which sticks between our toes, and behave like the bearers of positive power. You have no heritage and do not represent any civilisation, other than that miasma of anus’ torn by dried scrub bushes for the lack of toilets; you have no self-respect or dignity. You are a murderous bunch of have-not pack-thieves armed to the teeth, who, believing that it has power of the bullet and the bomb, does nothing really, except defecate endlessly on all its surroundings. Like the story of the pimp, which, without employees, whores itself, and then blows out its own brains to prove its “Pak” – well, that is the story of your nation and its national existence.

This is not personal, Mr. Sharif. You might be, in person, the pean of all civilisation. But the dispensation and that poison that you represent, bound by borders into Pakistan, spatters you too, and spares you not from the offering of its blood-red feces. It is a pity to find humans reduced to such, by the acts of their own demonic nation.

To all those who have lost and who hurt for ever after 26/11, we offer you our silence; and a commitment to be at your disposal should you ever need us to hold your hand. And to those of you who believe that peace is the only way forward, do remember, that war is the primary instrument of peace. Do not take my word for it, and do not, for a moment, be lulled into an intellectual security by drawing room discussions surrounded by artefacts of high living, such as expensive books that lie unread and whose only function is to embellish a centre table; look, on the contrary, into history, though that is a tall order, since this is the age of widespread literacy that makes up for a singular and shocking lack of education. No nation endures in peace; no nation has ever averted war through appeasement. A nation’s priorities are not limited to influential opinion holders who reflect their own interests at the cost of nation, state and people. History is greater than individuals and groups. History ultimately derides the “intellectual”. History belongs to him or her who abjures short-term intelligences to embrace long term wisdom. Look to a tiny nation that holds its own, for it is educated and holds its cohesion dear – look to the Children of Israel and their nation-state. Look not for strength and fortitude in blame; or in friendships alone that other powerful nations may bring. Look within yourself and find the strength to understand and accept those threads of life and universal law that either bind, or scatter those that live and die; which converts dust into stars and planets; inflicts life and death at the same time, with evenhanded detachment. Rise, India. Rise, my people.

Upon the Recent Excitement on a Nobel Prize

Upon the Recent Excitement on a Nobel Prize.

Upon the Recent Excitement on a Nobel Prize

I should like to remind Indians that Indian relevance is not reflected in the Nobel Prize. Indians, through centuries, have partaken, at individual levels, in herculean endeavours that are beyond ability of human understanding; and thus we have lived for untold centuries. The Nobel Prize Committee (God Bless its Collective Notions), in its warm, gilded, tail-coated splendour lives in an era whence it must equate Hinduism and Islam by the way of example in Divergent India and little criminal Pakistan; as if the bestowal of the Nobel Prize to a brave Pakistani girl does favour to Islam, or the other half of the prize, to a Hindu Indian, means anything at all to anyone, except the Indian Media. In all the basking glory and the learned dissertations, the coffee table bullshit and the outpourings from drawing room encyclopediae, has anyone pondered upon and asked as to what manner of monumentally irrelevant arrogance makes the Nobel Committee connect the Indian mandate and Pakistani reality in one breath?

Children are the future. We hold our world in trust for our children who are inheritors of tomorrow. Those that believe in this proposition will work by any means possible in preserving the glories of this world for our children, who will be men and women of tomorrow. They will do so without and in spite of Nobel Committees or the Nobel Prize; or Presidential Medals, Bharat Ratnas and Padma Bhushans of the world; without Freedom of Cities and inane interviews by a media which seems to have supplanted the advertising agency as a repository for the largest collection of deranged drunken morons that society would otherwise chuck out as impenetrable refuse. To those such as you of such persuasions, then, I raise a toast; I mean, a well toasted turd for all your efforts and effusions.

India is a nation. India’s only mandate has been in living in peace; as a land for all – of divergent religious persuasions and passions; of myriad languages, speeches, thoughts, dreams and aspirations. The Indian nation is rooted in that noble and eternal philosophy which grants equality to all as a natural state of being, and not as a charter dressed up with expensive signatures and bond paper – all preserved in a museum – an artefact which exists, in itself, as nothing more than a signature of man’s monumental social, moral and political ego. The world does not fear India’s rise. The world fears China’s advent and the world hates even the mention of Pakistan. Unity in the world is not achieved by yoking a horse together with a feral hyena; and this wisdom is obviously lost in a social club that finds continued relevance in the world by making a brand of a prize funded by the invention of the dynamite, and bestowed upon the so called “deserving”, just like Barak Obama, so as to remain oh, so, fucking relevant.

Let us awaken? Please? Let us not behave like emancipated niggers? Pretty-please? For where there is third party drawing room emancipation, the African or the Indian will never be known by their achievements, but merely as Niggers. Does the media and the intelligentsia understand this hypothesis? Is it understood by the so called pillars of our increasingly corporatised society, whose so called leaders hold positions that indicate no positive value, but solely the reflection of their corporation’s social-climb-calendars; and a sordid career line of “I-lick-yours-and-you-chew-mine”?

To be free is to be something so as to turn our environment into a heaven of equity. Freedom does not entail the right to do whatever the hell you want; in other words, freedom is not to be free without, but to be free to touch skies within. Yet, we persist in dredging depths as though treasure is to be found in the meanest and basest lowest common denominator; and such is the tragedy. The climb towards excellence is present in every individual human, whatever be his or her station. Yet, human institutions live not by excellence, but by the base, mean, and prejudiced perpetuation of the idea of excellence. The time for change is past. It is now the hour of action. And one would be grateful for tiny, tender mercies, if such actions also took seed in the core of such institutes like the Nobel Committee.

I am bloody done.