Daisy in the rut and nature at all smiles

Wind swayed gently and a bee waddled among the bushes, fleetingly perched on the sweetness of rose and finally nestled on the smiling daisy. Another one came along and made a sinusoidal crescendo of humming sound and settled on neighboring inflorescence. It is daisy’s day I thought. For some reason it appeared that entire swarm of bees on the hive were ignoring calls of all the other flowers in garden and crowding towards her.  Feeling slighted, proud rose seemed to have become crestfallen and was looking sideways. Meanwhile jasmine as usual looked indifferent and lily upholding her wont appeared jealous. With ranging emotions in garden the colors ignited into vivacious semblance akin to those portrayed in English summer of Jane Austen’s novel.

Just a couple of months back a article was published in British science journal that said researchers at Queen Mary  and Royal Holloway university discovered that the tiny bee brain can actually traverse the Travelling Sales Man problem. This NP-hard problem which is often considered as the benchmark for studying optimization and has captured imagination of generation of computer scientist all over the world all of sudden became a child’s play for these tiny hymenopterans.  All the anguish of Mathematician like Hamilton and Kirkman when they discovered the problem  and entire chagrin of any  junior at computer science course for having to read theory of computation and delve into  seemingly much ado for nothing realm  of computational complexity, abruptly appeared puerile in front of mother nature’s play.

Nature is indeed a mathematician, painter, scientist and artist. Otherwise how would she know that the symmetry of dancing flowers should follow Fibonacci ratio, or radioactive element should decay with years corresponding to natural logarithm.  Who knows some day, some where we might read that researchers discovered that school of fish actually triumphed in solving the convoluted partial differential equation of Navier-Stokes Existence and Smoothness whose partial solutions manifests as a grim reaper to any engineering students studying fluid dynamics. Perhaps this will lead to discovery of better aviation engines that will reduce the turbulence and make your flight as smooth as silk as advertised by Thai air in days to come. And you no longer will have to be judgmental towards the veneer in airhostess face that is trying to hide the inherent fear of flying while portraying a phony smile.  And probably the Clay Mathematics Institute will bestow Mother Nature with prestigious Millennium prize with cool cash of 1 million dollar, which she will certainly spurn just like Mr. Grigori Perelman did after solving Poincar`e Conjecture.

All of sudden, the atmosphere changed and flowers appeared to gossip again. The topic of conversation might be that bees were going back to their hives leaving miss daisy lonesome again. Though chrysanthemum seemed to console her, queen rose appeared to be leading the rhetoric while jasmine was again indifferent. Though all the girls in the yard were cursing the impropriety of bees, no one can hide their true colors mingled with tinge of schadenfreude. Actually what usurped the joy of princess daisy was the portending rain.  And before they could shelter the rain poured abysmally, which instigated helter-skelter among all the creatures that were hitherto enjoying the sun. Mother Nature was at it again, wielding her magic wand to bring forth another episode of chaos which ironically is called butterfly effect in mathematics. Only this time its precursors were those unseemly bees.  And before the order was settled a wayward squirrel jumped over with a trajectory characterized by Lyapunov exponent that even fastest computer won’t be able to compute, and adding injury to insult landed on forlorn miss daisy. Unable to shield against that brute force she eventually succumbed to the rut.  As if teaching the lesson of ephemeral joy and ubiquity of transience cloud went a drift, sun came out and nature smiled again.

Sound of eyes

When the eyes meet

There is no sound

But only trembling of heart

Along with beating of pulse

That resonates

Resonates subliminally

In frequency where passion

Whirl in eddies

akin to  driftwoods spinning aimlessly

When the eyes meet

There is no sound

But music plays

Music with colors

Palpable and sharp with brightness

Contrasting with monotonous

drab of grey clouds

that tears down

 into rain dancing joyfully

When the eyes meet

There is no sound

But flame is still lit

Which in wind dances

The Dance of tango

To and fro in the dark

With burning anvil

Forging the bond of hope

That grows slowly but steadily.

But when the hope has passed

Flame has died

Music has stopped

And hearth turned cold

The meeting of eye still

brings warmth

giving one more reason to smile.

Abandoment

Around a month ago, during the afternoon hours while tending flowers in my garden, when the sun was still at all his might, I noticed something unusual. Two crows were flying around with little twig on their beaks circling the canopy of the tall Rudrakshya Tree. They were building the nest. My first reaction was that of indifference but realizing that the sight of nest will probably look ugly from my living room I shooed them. Catching the cue Rocky too barked around frightening the birds away. For a while the tree was safe from the encroachers.  

Next day they arrived again and again like selfish neighborhood watcher I chased them away. The routine continued for next few days. Finally being intelligent creature with high avian IQ they perhaps learned my office schedule and started building the nest unbeknownst to me during my absence. Slowly I started to notice the nest taking the shape. Its size grew with every passing day and before I could make any further futile attempt to stop its progress both crow moved into their new home. I too made truce with them; as long as they don’t spoil the yard with droppings their dwelling was fine with me.

One morning few days after this silent pact I was rudely awaken by the sound of Kow Kow that reverberated around. Upon looking at the nest I saw flock of crows fighting with each other. It seemed that some outsider males were trying to steal the nest. Its well known fact that whoever owns the nest gets the girl. The age old struggle for mating and perpetuating your gene applies everywhere. The fight was brutal and involved lots of pecking. After a while the outsiders were chased away and the nest was restored to its rightful builder. After this incident few more days passed by without any incident and I too lost interest.  However while reading ridiculous news about Nepal bandha, from the terrace I noticed pearl shaped eggs on the Nest. The female was incubating her eggs while her partner was perched on the branch of nearby Avocado tree keeping watchful eye on trespassers.  

After a terribly hot day that ensued, Kathmandu witnessed a small windstorm around the evening. I was having siesta when sound of slamming windows made me disinterestedly scout the surrounding. The ferocious wind was indeed menacing and threatening to uproot any thing that comes its way. For no apparent reason my eyes turned towards the nest.  And what I saw was indeed poignant. The branch that nestled the nest was swaying dangerously and both the parents were holding to it with all their strength. Their grit and relentless effort against the sheer forces of nature to save the egg truly showcased their unconditional love for the unborn child. Finally even wind god yielded to their resolve and the weather calmed down leaving the nest and its habitant intact.

After few days that followed the storm, a joyous event in the nest grabbed my attention. The egg had hatched. Mother was busy tending new born while the proud father was foraging for worms in dry grass. The fledgling was pitch black and was raising its head tenderly. With new arrival even the environment seemed cheerful.   

This Monday however while watching extended final coverage of French Open between Nadal and Dojokovic all of sudden the sound of clamor filled the air. The unexpected noise filled fear in my mind. I rushed to the window and yes my surmise was right, the child had died. And both the parent were lamenting at top of their voice. And they were joined by their fellow crows. Finally they lifted the baby’s carcass and dropped it under the Cycas tree. And without even turning back they left, all of them.

Today as I watch over the abandoned nest, the entire thing seems wrong. The emptiness is stark. And though I never approved the crows building the nest in first place, I have to admit I really miss them. And only one thing that comes to mind is those haunting lines from Wordsworth’s poem: “She lived unknown and very few could know when Lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and oh, the difference to me”.

At the Barbers

The chill was unbearable but the place was warm inside. With one old fashioned electric heater below the chair, emanating enough heat providing comfortable refuge from the frigid weather. The heater was made of a red mud, and a dingy looking solenoid coil probably made of tungsten or some other high heat resistant filament seemed to have been ineptly inserted into it. Besides, it’s all cracked up edges suggested that it had been tossed around for a quite a while and the fact was further accentuated by its hexagonal shape.  A trash bin stood next to it and manifested as if it too was trying to wade off the brutal cold. The lid was lying aslant with the mould of hair creeping out of it. The squalid bin certainly provided fine dwelling for the bacteria that as I speak were probably in their merriment and multiplying like rabbits.  Scattered leafs from the newspapers which dated few days back were strewn all over the floor and some on the table as if it had been subjected to great twister. But despite all that, familiar aroma of alum had palpable and familiar effect on olfactory senses.

Aslam bhai’s barber shop is a place to be. If you ever happen to have an opportunity to walk from Milan chowk to Sangam chowk you will notice a ragged metallic plate with a symbol of scissor beckoning you to have a haircut. Meanwhile in the door you’ll invariably find two old men squatting or sitting in the stool and intently regarding every passerby with their hawk sharp pair of eyes always focusing towards each head with uncanny capacity to recognize the potential customer at stone’s throw without any shred of insinuation. Aslam bhai and one of his cousins had built this establishment nearly two decades ago, the time when Baneshwor area was still lush green in vegetation and according to the popular legend a playing ground for foxes, which during the most opportune time would fled with rooster from nearby dwellings. It is really philosophical to ponder what mind set the two middle aged men had when they embarked on their endeavors twenty years back or what hopes and aspiration did they harbored when they set out to this alien place where both their language and religion were foreign.  

One can imagine that when Aslam bhai set out from his home, an un-trodden and unnamed village in some rural part of Bihar, to seek fortune and wealth he might have encountered many questionable glances from his peers and families. Some might have showered him with the encouragement while other may have festered him with ridicules. His father might have objected it disapprovingly while his mother must have cried during the farewell. I wonder what unforeseen power persuaded him to come to this part of Kathmandu and try out his luck. And to start a barber shop with a shoe string budget in part of town with thin population must have dumbfounded many. But there is no telling about human spirit. It is capable of reaching the moon as well as scouring the depth of sea despite any odds. As Hemingway put it poignantly “A man can be defeated but not destroyed”.  Now gray and old, it’s hard to discern in his face pervaded with wrinkled lines whether the dreams he once fostered came true or not.  But one thing is for sure the vitality and spirit still pervades in his dexterous hands.

Being a usual Saturday afternoon the place was bit crowded and Aslam bhai and his son Tarbez were having hard time persuading all the customers to remain seated. Everyone seemed to be in hurry. Funny thing is once the customer seats on the barber’s chair and starts getting pampered no matter how much time elapses he won’t complain at all. Perhaps seated chair turns into non-inertial frame of reference and time dilation as explained in General Theory of Relativity kicks in. But whatever was the reason waiting is always the pain and patience is indeed a virtue. Watching two barbers one at his sear and other in his early spring and  both projecting agility despite their demanding schedule made me lamp blast the “Sleeping Barber “ Algorithm in standard operating system text book. Who says barber sleeps in busy hour?

It is said that barber knows secret of everyone in the community and Aslam bhai was no exception. He too knew every nitty-gritty detail of everyone in the room. He especially took pride in cutting hair of his old customers and liked to tell stories of many distinguished customer he had throughout his career spanning from minister to police chief. He seldom allowed his old customers to get hair cut from his son, only during times when he is already handful and the customer was in hurry.  It reminded me of that old Seinfeld Episode of Barber where to jerry’s upmost exasperation his old barber insisted on cutting his hair that transpires some of the funniest moments that network TV has ever presented.   

All of sudden a car stopped in front of the door and a tall, stout fellow entered the shop. Aslam Bhai’s face lit up and menially he cleaned the bench and implored the customer to take a seat assuring him that he won’t take long with his present client.  He really seemed to be in hurry and the fact was further accentuated by fast paced scissor chops totally indifferent to state of the customer’s hair. In offhand fashion he dismissed the current customer and began weaving magic in his new clients head. Perhaps some VIP I guessed.

With Mr. Cynosure ensconced in the barber’s chair all we mere mortals had to wait. But no one seemed to be bothered. I enquired another customer regarding the proceedings and he explained to me that the seated customer was no other than Mr. Nikhil Upreti , a leading actor in Nepali movie. Not being a fan of Kollywood movies I forgave myself for not recognizing him. But it indeed was flattering to know that the place where you cut the hair is actually frequented by leading men form Nepali tinsel town. To much of our relief Mr. Upreti didn’t take long and left as early as possible. My turn was next but we all (five of us) rushed to the chair and Alsam bhai was nearly squashed like a pancake.  After having his faculty restored he yelled at all of us reminding that conscientious people do not jump in front of buffet line.  But being in queue characterized by Poison distribution with prolonged waiting time, none of us were in mood to yield. Finally we settled and I received the coveted chair as I was their first. I called for it. I was feeling high when my eyes all of sudden fell on poster above of holy Mecca that had words “God is conscience that whisper in your ear” inscribed in it. I felt guilty.

Vanished into Speck

Silver bird in all her grandeur
stood silently beaming in delight
As you came, sauntered in and
ensconced gracefully inside

The engines roared and plane lifted up
with feathery light
You smiled through window in an infinite
happiness oblivion to my plight

Time stood still as I watched
you lost into a singular dot
leaving nothing but solitude by my side

Editorial Roundups

Bedraggled sheaf of newspaper welcomed me. Right under the frond, the unkempt pages were floating on the little puddle made by the morning rain. It indeed was exasperating to know that despite my several earnest pleading the delivery boy recidivated to his ineluctable wont and threw the newspaper with total disregard of where it might land. Just like the Mars Polar Lander my newspaper was also air borne without any proper telemetric guidance and ended with inevitable splash. Comparing the morning paper with Mars Lander may be too farfetched, but the consolation is at least I knew it isn’t lost.

Stooping down, I put the morning groceries into the side and proceeded to salvage the copy. The front page was lying prone to the surface which itself was reflecting the soothing sunlight in the form of variegated spectrum. I remembered the wave-optics lecture of the high-school where we were told Interference due to Reflection was cause for this. In simpler words wavelength emanating from one point source is nullified by another coherent point source with 180 degree phase shift in effect accentuating one of the seven colors that falls under visible spectrum. Tilting my head side by side the color itself came to life showing disparity among their distribution, reinforcing the idea of the ubiquity of transience. Under their motley spell perceptibility of my cones on the retina too fluctuated. And this discrepant information channeled through my optic nerve, stimulated the cerebral cortex in producing sense of vertigo. Gentle sway of the wind brought me back and assuaged my irritation.

Torpidly I picked up the paper. The front page was completely wallowed in the mud. Like thick glue the pages were sticking together. Carefully I tried to purge the silt way. Despite my scrupulous endeavor I could not help but watch it abrade. Like cookie that crumbles because of moisture, it also made a rent and finally yielded into plethora of parings. The front page and few following pages with daily tidings were lost. There was no way to dovetail them back it was a foregone conclusion. Any attempt to do so would violate second law of thermodynamics.

Grabbing the dross of editorial page I headed to my room. Nobody was up yet. I reclined on the couch and triggered the clicker. The TV screen, because of the latency required for the instigation of Thermionic emission inside the picture tube, remained blank for few seconds. Apparently violating the notion light travels fastest, the sound came first followed by vision. The sound was very incoherent and slowly the blurring screen explained the reason behind it. The ESPN after broadcasting Masters was now playing the clips of Extreme Sports. One guy on rollerblade was trying to mimic Evil Knievel and was performing katabatic leap from sloping inclined planes. The shear thrill of adventure flashed on his face. Without caring whether he made perfect 10 or splash like my newspaper did, I flicked the channel.

The screen then beamed with gorgeous, blue eyed blonde Daria Werbowi. With her sultry looks she was strutting around the ramp of some designer along with passel of super models. As old Seinfeld joke goes, thanks to FTV even fashion unconscious person like me have become able appreciate the talent of conjuring up all these beautiful girls in one single place. Many have certain misgivings regarding the broadcasting of this particular channel. They say it is too scurrilous for our tradition. They say it is destroying the very foundation of our culture. Like termites it is eating away every thing that we hold dear. Watching it amounts to reprobation of highest degree. But in today’s postmodernist world who can resist the temptation of deconstructing the moral premises in the name of progress. This is the debate with no clear winner and my own personal attempt to syncretize both views have fallen hard and fallen flat. I personally think that like every thing nothing is immutable. We have to adapt with changing times and if we don’t the stream of river that we called time may dump us to some unmarked shore and we may be lost too oblivion. So there is no room for intransigence, somehow our culture and tradition has to be resilient enough to subsume modern progress and the excess baggage that comes along. “Reconciliation is the key”. The idea came as epiphany to my head.

My eyes shifted from TV to the vestige of pages that were once part of great morning paper. Involuntarily my fingers kept pressing on the remote and thus bringing wide array of sound bites and flickers on the screen. The sound bites varied from usual kitsch of Hindi movie songs, screeches of Meerkats, solemnity of Yoga, Led Zepplines lead guitar, Anderson Cooper’s reporting, Indian Cricket team’s analysis, Pedantic news from Nepal TV and of course Teletubbies saying oh-oh. Everything together brought forth the amalgam of pastiche and cultivated into intermittent “Boum” like sound something like which had echoed inside Mrs. Moores head in Passage to India. Well sounds bites were trying to reconcile but before they could I turn down the volume.

Cursory glance on the editorial page skimmed through articles pertaining the politics and economic upheaval of Nepal. There were few articles on Nepali tinsel town and Friday night parties in the capital. Disinterestedly, I descried the article by new and upcoming Nepali novelist Snajeeb Uprety. His new novel “Ghanchakar” is in vogue right now though I haven’t read it yet. He was continuing his series of articles on “Post-Modernism” and its impact on Nepal. Postmodernism has recently been buzz word among erudite in Kathmandu. In every few days there are essays and testimonials propping up in every newspapers and magazines regarding the subject. Scholars are arguing whether we should embrace Postmodernism or not. For me this discussion seems extremely irrelevant, as in 21st century we are still arguing on some ridiculous topic. We human beings have fascination of categorizing every thing and this penchant is the cause for dividing human epoch into various parts. Post-modernism means anything goes isn’t it so why do we have to categorize? Can’t we let things as they are and appreciate the beauty of it? But this assertion of nonchalance towards categorization is of course Ipse Dixitism. It cannot be achieved.

Personally, having been living in the country with resources of pre-modern world and ideology of post modern world I myself have been vacillating to reconcile where I stand. From dawn to dusk I am being bombarded with images of outside world from MTV to Aljazeera , Facebook to Instant Messaging and hapless condition of my own country, like long queues for fuel, street protest and portending unrest. I feel like the modern day Theseus in Vector Pelvin’s Helmet of Horror, lost in labyrinth of modern preoccupation, trying to figure out where Minotaur dwells, slay him and make out some meaning. Alas it seems I am turning into the ‘victimary thinking’ of Post Modernism and no meaning but nihilism appears in sight. Only if there is God to guide my way. But what if God is dead like spoken by Zarathustra. But my own spiritual healing contradicts that. What if god is not dead what if he doesn’t want to be discovered? Another bolt of epiphany and reconciliation again appeared in the offing. Realizing something cannot be answered makes you humble and essence beauty lies within it. Again isn’t that called Performatism which is progeny of post-modernism itself? I have had it with these new schools of thoughts. Without prolonging further disquisitions on my mind I threw the paper away didn’t even bothered to read the whole article.

I leapt up from couch and repaired to window, the sun was shinning, it was around 8:30 in the morning. The water droplets were disappearing by attaining enough enthalpy for vaporization. And line from Pippa Passes came to me -“God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world”. This positive line was really reconciliatory.

Spiritual Healing

Jingling of bells, chants of mantras, fluttering of doves the entire semblance in the temple was exquisitely spiritual. Few scattered beggars were roaming here and there begging few pennies from the visitors. I say visitors not pilgrims as their face just showed that their visit to temple was mere perfunctory. Some women were dragging there disinterested children along with them, some were flogging them to bow down and pray. Children with boredom and fear seemed to obey everything. Their looks reminded me of famous Letterman kid during the American election 2004 campaign who had attended the President Bush’s speech during the wee hours and couldn’t help himself from not yawning in front of TV. I had later seen his interview in Hannity and Colmes and the kid was saying he was just tired. Who could blame him and who could blame the others? This is how children are made acquainted with god.

My first experience with God was also similar. I used to accompany my mother to temples she visited. Instead of anticipation of meeting with God, my reason for visiting temple was driven more by the temptation of all the sweets that were to be given to me as a Prasad. I remember holding to the cord of her purse and scurrying around the temple trying to keep up with her pace. Temples were strewn with the meditating Jogis whose long beard and dark eyes made me afraid. Despite the fear I was willing to take their blessing which they whole heartedly gave after I put few pennies in their palm. It is amazing these god men who have left Sansara for the spiritual wakening; all of sudden with the weight of few coins yielded to the gravity of the temptation. I remember once seeing a Jogi, around the Durbar Square area, who actually used to take pictures with the tourist in return of few dollars. His exotic mystic look must be fascinating to the western world.

In fact the occidental realm always seems to be at awe with the eastern mythology. Best instance is the so called Hippies of Flower Generation which according to my father flocked Kathmandu Valley during the disenchantment age of Vietnam War. He used to tell me the deluge of motley harlequin that used stroll around chanting Hare Krishna Hare Ram and smoking pot in the name of spiritual healing. Though they claim their action to be driven as a rebellion outburst I personally consider it to be childish proclivity towards unknown. With the advantage of 20/20 hindsight I think they were less driven by spirituality and more by Imp of Perverse. Their genteel spirituality was escapism rather than act of rebellion.

As I was pondering, my entrance was broken with flocks of pigeons that rained over my head and suddenly levitated towards the roof of temple. Like sinusoidal wave they rose and fell making series of crest and trough. The usual suspect behind their action was a bird feeder. He was an old man who appeared to dwell inside the temple premise and as usual he was throwing the rice grain into the courtyard. Movement of his hands and wave made by birds very much resembled an orchestra. He was maestro and birds were music of Philharmonic. As birds began to feed on the grains, the image vividly reminded me of news few days back regarding global food crisis. It was shown on CNN that few kids in South India were trying to collect grains of rice spilled from silo. So poignant. As more and more lands are being cleared for growing sugarcanes for producing ethanol as bio-fuels, rice has become rare commodity. Besides drought in Australia and rising middle class in China and India whose demand for protein supplement has caused cereals to be fed to livestock instead to people has made matter even worst. Robert Zoellick, chief of World Bank has already said global food crisis can push 100 million or so population towards the poverty. Rush Limbaugh has already blamed Al Gore and his harem for their high handed answer towards the fight against Global Warming as an entire cause. Being an outsider of the debate, for me both Global Warming and Global Food Crisis looms like Scylla and Charybdis. I just hope mankind has wit of Ulysses to fight this insidious danger. If we cannot come up with answer sooner then it will be a cogent cause for another act of rebellion which ironically unlike the popular cliché -“Rebel without cause” will have legitimacy.

Serendipity! A rebel’s face flashed in front of my eye. Just like the description of Big Brother in ‘1984’, a face donning a heavy black mustache and masculine ruggedness in background of red with dark deep eye stared at me. The stare that can take you to the abyss of Hades was of none other than legendary communist guerrilla Che Guevara. The T-shirts that was being manufactured in China which depicted his image was in vogue in the capital city of late. And one of the visitors in the temple was wearing it which is an irony in itself as the entire communist doctrine is dead against the merchandising, fashion and religion. Che Guevara must be turning in his grave right now as it is the blatant example of tu quoque. For me personally it is disgrace. Not because I have any sympathy for the Che Guevara or his likes but the fact that in today’s context rebellion has been misguided. Before act for rebellion was for some profound cause and being labeled a rebel was hard thing. Now it is so easy to be rebel, say anything against neo-conservatism, Bush doctrine, capitalism and feudalism and you are rebel. Just like that line from Coldplay’s song- “I will buy a gun and start a war if you say something worth fighting for.” But being a rebel doesn’t always mean killing people and destroying property. Gautam Buddha was a rebel. Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, Dr. King all were bona fide rebel. But when talk shifts to rebellion the popular image is shaped by that of Col. Aurelliano of ‘100 years in solitude”. Roster of rebellion is bedecked with likes of Che Guevara, Fidel Castro and worst Osama Bin Laden whom many like to lionize some even deify. Some how the advocates of peace don’t seem to have right qualification to be in folk lore of rebellion instead it is filled with criminals.

The guy in red stooped his head and bowed to the god seated in the middle. Che Guevara was plastered in back of the shirt and therefore his face was in leeway from that of god. Incense was burning and worshiping people with vermillion in their hand hummed like bees. I myself bowed to feet of lord and prayed. Being the believer I always visited the temple in the morning. It has become a part of my morning walk routine. However, I have become kind of dying breed of late as God is being displaced from our everyday life. People are questioning God and his existence. Rebels like Richard Dawkins and other influential thinkers of our time has constantly attacked god in recent days. Besides, because of the bad examples set by Church with their inquisition; Mosques with their subdued voice against Jihadist who wants to hold great religion of Islam in hostage; Temples with their insistence of cast system; non-believer has enough fuel to make god crest fallen.
For me the argument for and against God has always been fascinating one and I have always taken the safer side that is God’s side. Non-believer pose the theory of evolution as the greatest evidence against god, but with vantage point of being Hindu that teaches universe being created and recreated several times over many Manbantarams, I don’t have any dilemma in embracing both. Being student of science, I agree that evolution and Neo-Darwinism best explains how we came to this god forsaken planet. But only doubt I have on evolution is why does it contradicts Law of Entropy- the most fundamental law of Physics which says universe ambles towards disorderliness. But evolution is about orderliness isn’t it? I have always asked this question to my friends who consider themselves as a disciple of Science and they haven’t yet come up with cogent answer. Besides, recently a new research on crustacean planktons – Facetotectans has brought some tremors in the evolutionary science. These planktons in larval form are more developed than in adult form where they are just a blob of little mass. So who says science has been settled.

Therefore nowadays whenever an argument props up regarding the god and his existence I have stopped saying he resides in my heart. I have also stopped taking refuge to statement made by Khalil Gibran in his masterpiece Prophet that say- “instead of god dwelling in my heart , it is I who dwell in heart of god”. In lieu I say I believe in God because Science doesn’t have all the answer and the day science is settled perhaps may be I will change my mind. But till then let’s give God a chance. This ratiocination has become a spiritual healing to my ambivalent and contradictory brain.

As I was musing I put on my shoe turned back, tolled the bell and came out of the door. God Bless me! The milk being sold in front of the temple door just ran out. Again like yesterday I won’t be having any milk tea. This fact just frazzled my nerve and with fray look I made my return back from morning walk that began with alacrity of muscles. Now the celerity in my legs disappeared and with portend of my sisters plausible wrath I headed home. I needed all the spiritual healing available.