There is a puddle of water outside my room. My father engineered it so that I have plenty of workout in the rainy season as my grandmother as well as siblings are crippled. I’m not complaining as it gives me time to daydream and write. My parents were government employee. They were right wing. I was in the standard twelfth on voting day when they whispered in my ears about having voted for BJP. I mumbled a cacophony of lies so that they didn’t know I voted for congress. I never voted but once. I was working as runaway priest in Vrindavan, Mathura in Gyaan Gudri Jagannath temple. I voted for Hema Malini because unless I did that the head of the temple would have been at loggerheads with me. The temple was in an area that was in the grip of a small warlord who had a nexus with the rebels that were causing havoc in the area.
I am not political. I have heard my grandfather was given a ticket to fight an election for state assembly. He declined the offer because he had no money. Gandhi wanted to walk on the middle path. Middle is neither left nor right. And it’s a razor’s edge because those in the left immediately have their ears up in the air they hear : Yoga or Karma. And rightist are searching your forehead for Tilak, your wrists for bands and your dress for saffron. Your attendance in temples also matters. The middle man is considered leftist by the rightist and a right wing by liberals. He is not a politician, not an artist, not even a man. And yet: he can’t take the first flight out of the pyramid. Euthanasia is not available. Is not near the end. End is not near. And in the middle-he’s not dying. Nigh high on your face. On your wrist on your ankles.
Dancing light of grace 