Verses for the multiverse

I was never punctual for the prayer class. I would always be late, at least for one minute. I would do a last minute sprint and join the children with folded hands in front of our school. I would take a deep breath, close my eyes and wait for the pupils take a pause during prayer and then I would join the chorus mixing my words to the cacophony of the rhyme.

भवसागर तारण कारण हे |
रविनन्दन बन्धन खण्डन हे ||...

I salute the one Who is the (only) means of crossing the ocean of the world (samsara- Worldly Existence) |
Who is the only means of breaking the bondage of the son of Sun God (i.e. Dharmaraj/Yamadeva, the god of Death) ||...

I would imagine that the words uttered during morning hours inside the premise of a small school would fill the voids on the sky and it would require at least thousand ears to listen to all these prayers offered by so many children of this world. It might also happen that the ultimate one had ears as big as the sky and problem solved. What if I didn't want to leave this worldly existence and the one who listened to my prayers and summoned me to break the bond to this world. I would be a liar then ? But none could answer these queries to my satisfaction. I was even reluctant to ask such questions as I was afraid of getting laughed at. So I would choose my victims carefully. Old ones, with grey hair and beard preferably. A speck of sadness on their face and a spark of wisdom in their eyes. Such breeds were hard to find, but I would keep my eyes and ears open. I would start a conversation and drift it towards stories involving gods and demons and spirits and species. Then at some opportune moment, I would lash them with my doubts and look intently at their faces. If it radiated a kind of energy then I would know that I could rely on some of his/her words. If it effused a kind of disgust then, I knew I had lost another battle. 

But the search would continue. Mythology would be the periphery for all the hunting. My favorite one was: "Who will win" series of question. "Who will win if Krishna and Arjuna fought ?"But they never fought in any Puranas. But what if they fought, say in some different story or in some different plane. Some of the old men would tell me the stories about Krishna's fight with Kamsa and how he fled fearing tiring wars with Jarasandh (king of Magadh and father-in-law of Kamsa). But Jarasandh was killed by Bhima (the 2nd Pandava) and Bhima was inferior to Arjuna in battle skills (as assessed by their Guru Dronacharya) as Arjuna was the greatest of all Pandavas. Hence Arjuna would be a winner if he fought with Krishna, though deduced indirectly from different analogies. I would be enriched with stories but not satisfied. "Why didn't they fight. One on one. Simple and direct combat." My grand-father would say, "may be they fought during noon and saint Vyasa was taking a nap after a delightful meal prepared by Panchali. So he missed the encounter and we don't know who won." That would sound convincing, though it never answered my question. Another one was: "Who is the strongest Vishnu ? Out of the ten incarnations ?" After application of principle of discrimination, Ram and Krishna would remain. 

"Who will win if Ram and Krishna fight ?" 

I would dream about these epic battles and try to judge who won, recalling those spent dreams. But I would never get the conclusion. I would think that there must be universes where they would have fought and if I had access to those universes, I would read stories about their wars and know about the winners. One fine morning, disturbed with the accumulated questions in my mind, I asked my uncle, "where are the answers ?" He was in a hurry for his school and about to enter the bathroom, he said looking upward, "everything is there in the Vedas. It answers all." I stood there motionless. 

If the Vedas had all the answers why didn't he get excited to get them for me ? He would have purchased the book and looked for the answer pages at the back of it and told me the solutions. But no. He went inside the bathroom to get freshen up for his school teaching job. What else could be more ironical ? The book of all answers to life's dilemma is known and none was interested in it. I thought, "when I get bigger, I will buy that book and get rid of this cycle of bondage of the son of sun god." 

Sooner, my feet grew longer and mind shrunk (I think) and I came up with this verse "Hymn of creation in Rig Veda (10th Mandala 129 sukta)" whose hindi song form was shown in the beginning of Bharat ek Khoj (a series based on Discovery of India by Nehru). However it didn't answer my questions but presented a story in the form of a song which felt convincing. I feel there must be different universes, where either the questions are not existent or the answers or both. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoiEJQUCxxs

(image of a hypothetical multiverse taken from http://guardianlv.com/2014/03/theory-of-inflation-gives-weight-to-multiverse-hypothesis/)

  

The one-eyed ascetic who used to carry a wormhole on his shoulder

It was during the time of our half yearly examination in school when the days used to close their shutter too early and the nights stretched like a warm blanket, covering us completely from head to toe. During morning, I would sit on a cot in the veranda with my back to the sun and read black ink lines on white pages under the shadow of my face. I was occupied with solving the greatest common factor between three big numbers while the marigold flowers shed white drops of dew collected on its pores from previous night. The numbers were too large for my head and I had written down all possible prime numbers to be a factor of those huge numbers and was thinking that one of the big number might itself be a prime number making the answer to be 1 and none other than the one as the greatest common factor of these large numbers.

At that moment, a distinct voice came from the street
"rupa rekha nahin hey sunya dehi
accha ude hoi"
(can be loosely translated as Oh empty one, you have neither shape nor size
but you are present here like the sun).

I raised my chin and looked outside our compound through the thorns of babool tree placed to restrict the visits of unwanted street dogs and animals. As the song amplified, I was drawn towards the door and I saw him entering our house. He stopped singing and kept the palm leaf umbrella on the ground and sat against the wall. A saffron dhoti wrapped around his body bore the color of his excessive travelling. But he didn't look tired, rather he had a serene and gentle aura which emanated peace and well being. He had a kind of mongolian beard, a rough triangular face, a long but flat nose and knots in his hair. His left eye was closed and the right one was so small and the effort he made to look at me made me think for a moment that he could be completely blind. But he proved me wrong. "You are the smallest one in this house ?"He asked. At that instance, my grand mother came rushing in. "So what ?What to you, if he is the smallest ?Here take this and you go on your way." She was furious looking at the strange behavior of the ascetic who had started a conversation with me. She wanted to end it all and she offered him a leaf plate full of uncooked rice. The one-eyed ascetic smiled and closed the lid of a peculiar sack which was protruding from his shoulder. "No mother, I am not here to beg. I am here to stay. So that you can feed me with whatever you cook. I will walk around the village and sleep on the floor and stay just for a day. The next day, I will go to some other village. I don't take butter or spices. I only eat simple food on an earthen pot that I already have. I eat once, or at some kind devotee's twice. I don't eat in the dark and don't sleep in the light. Mother, feed me before the sun sets." My grand mother was not prepared for this self appointed guest. She was about to say something, but she paused. Nobody could deny food and shelter to an ascetic, who takes the name of the supreme being and preaches his glory in bhajans (spiritual songs). So she went again inside the house and brought a plate of puffed rice (murmura), a jug of water and a glass of tea. The ascetic smiled and put his hands inside the sack he was carrying on the shoulder. He could have placed the sack on the floor but he didn't. I felt that he was very protective about the sack, however it seemed quite empty from the exterior looks. Then he brought the earthen pot out and poured water on it. He looked at the sun and said something in whispers. Then he mixed puffed rice and tea and started eating. I was intrigued by his presence.

I was getting late for the school and I needed to hurry. When I went passing him, I saw a few grains of murmura sticking on his beard and he was uncoiling the lid of the sack to get a bow like musical instrument. After school, when I came back, the ascetic was gone. I asked my mother. "Has he left ?". She said, "He who ?" I said, "one-eyed one". She said, "Oh, the boy thief". I was angry now. "He is no boy-thief. He is a sadhu (saint/ascetic)." She said,"listen boy, don't go near him. Didn't you see his sack and how big it is ? He can very well put a 11 years old and carry him away to his land. If you don't believe me, ask your grand maa." I went to grand maa. She asked me to sit down. "That man has gone to the village. He will come any time soon. He carries away boys like you and make a sage out of him. Sometimes, he transports them to his planet." I stopped her."Wait, are you saying, he is not from our area ? or you are saying he is not from this earth?" She said, "I know, god created this world for us to live. but there are other worlds too. Worlds of demons, pisachas, gandharvas, kinnaras; even world of small nameless creatures. That man knows their route. He has communication with them through his bow. He can send one from another world. None in the village know from where he came". I laughed at the vulnerability of grand mother. I said, "that bow is a musical instrument he carries to sing bhajans. He is not from anywhere else, he is a human being like us. You don't worry. I will eat a lot tonight and be heavy like a bull so that he won't be able to carry me in his sack and run away."
The one-eyed one came in the evening. I paid no attention as I was busy preparing for next day's examination. I decided to go early to bed and wake up at dawn to revise for the last time. When I got up from bed, it was very dark and cold. The crickets and frogs were making noises outside in a moonless night. To bring myself out of sleep completely, I went towards veranda and I noticed some movement. When I went near, my eyes got accustomed to the light and I saw the ascetic getting ready to move. He had made a bed out of haystacks of paddy (which was used as food for the cattle and we had a huge stock of it at home). He was cleaning the area and he sensed my presence and asked me, "Oh, someone in this house gets up this early. Can you show me the way to the pond so that I will freshen up and leave your village ?" I said, "Yes. It is this way (pointing my index finger towards north)." He kept silent for a second and then he asked again, "so I will take right once I leave your house." I said, "Yes and then you have to take a small road near the big banyan tree." He was perplexed and when he started to move, I saw him heading towards the thorns of babool. I realized his eyesight was poor and offered myself to go along with him to the pond. He didn't want to trouble me but I insisted saying that a brisk walk at dawn would help me concentrate for the study. When we hit the road, he told me about his childhood and how he became an ascetic and how much he loved to travel. Soon, we reached the big banyan tree and he needed to take a small trail towards the pond. A cloud of mist had formed over the water. Day was about to start and eastern sky had a tinge of red and orange. The stars were shining. I could faintly make out the saptarishis (seven stars of the constellation Ursa Major) and clearly locate the Dhruva tara (north pole star). "Aren't they beautiful ? There are billions like them. You need to close your eyes to see them or you need to get closer", he remarked. He noticed my enthusiasm and smiled and started searching for something in his sack. Suddenly, I remembered my grand mother's word and panicked. "No, no. I don't take anything from strangers", I said. His hands stopped inside and I could see a diamond shaped object, more like a star, glittering in white light, lying inside that enigmatic sack. For a moment, I felt the north pole star was no longer in the sky and it had come to rest a while inside. Bigger in size, brighter in appearance. I was baffled and started to retreat.

I thought that was an illusion, might be because of my restlessness or lack of sleep. But one part of me felt it was real. The pole star was inside the sack or the sack led to a smaller route to the star. The ascetic was descending towards the water body.

"Rupa rekha nahin hey sunya dehi
accha ude hoi...

Barasuchi jala na thai pabana
anachasa bayu bahe ghana ghana...

Badhuachhi jala nahi nadi kula
ulaka pata dhara bahi he sunya dehi
achha ude hoi...

Chaka chaka oda sukhila hoichhi
Kabata na phitun netra re disuchhi..

Sethare ashrama agadhi ta brahma
ude asta nahi tahin hai sunya dehi
achha ude hoi...

X     X      X     X        X     X         X     X

(Oh empty one, you have neither shape nor size
but you are present here like the sun...

Water is pouring in without a breeze
the forty nine winds flow intermittently..

Water level is rising whereas there is no river or a shore
Oh empty one, you are carrying a shower of meteors
but you are present here like the sun...

Clear wet surface has been dried
it is visible though the door is locked...

There lies the hermitage even though we know that the spirit is unfathomable 
Oh empty one, there is neither sunrise nor sunset
but you are present here like the sun...)

X     X      X     X        X     X         X     X         X     X         X     X


(Image of a model of folded space-time resulting in a wormhole. Taken from www.space.com)

Family Goddess and the story of missing matter

I was playing in the veranda and they started lifting me. I was shouting, "don't take me there. I will never do it again. I will buy another ball. " But they didn't listen. They made a roof out of me and marched towards the room with an ancient lock marked with red vermilion. I screamed, yelled, struggled to get out of their grip. Their hands were like iron chains and the more I fought, the stronger the force became and I started crying, helpless, frightened, numbness on my limbs, unable to do anything. Suddenly, I was on the ground. I felt the wet earth on my mouth and I was so happy that I started laughing. Then I opened my eyes. The cousins were not there. But everyone in the family was looking at me. Apparently, I was dreaming and fighting with my internal demons once again and like other encounters, this time too, I fell from the bed with my face down.

Summers were like this. I would sleep under the sky on a charpai (jute rope cot) along with others in my maternal grand father's house. I would dream of a Goddess inside a closed room and how forcefully she would pull me towards the room and I would struggle to my last sweat to be free from that fatal force. Everyone knew who was behind that force. The children knew and felt more. We would never go near that room, not even during daytime, or during time of festival or wedding ceremony. That room stood at the far end of the veranda, stayed desolate, inviting but alarmingly fearsome, not to be looked into. We had heard lots of stories about the room. Mintu said, family Goddess "Kalsu" of my grand father's ancestors resided there. She was a very beautiful nymph, short and dark. You could see the glow of her eyes, the radiation of her teeth and vermilion on her body. Rest of her, you couldn't see but only imagine. They said, she had snow like hair, some said, she had her hair made from the darkest of coal tar, some said, she was bald. None knew. None saw. But we remembered the descriptions. We made a visual picture, the most dreadful image and placed her inside the closed room.

The problem with summer was that it never passed. The days were longer and we were many cousins. We would play and run and plan adventures. But the room remained closed. Closed from all sides. Except for a small gap on it's roof, from where sunlight filtered in. Some light went inside at the junction where the wooden door frame met the brick wall. I would stand at a safe distance and would lurk inside. I would see dust particles, white and innocent, going inside the room, sometimes a wandering fly, a moth, loosing it's way. I would strain my eyes to locate things we had lost to the room. Chintu's glass ball, our cricket balls, Pinku's parrot, Joshi's pigeon, my ink pen. I believed that once you leave something near the room, the room pulled it and took inside. Once something went inside, it was gone. Never ever to be seen again. Desperate to get our things back, or curious enough to know what lies inside, we once approached, Bali. He used to be a brave kid among us and was not afraid of anything. We collected fifty paisa each and bought a pair of colorful glass and presented it to Bali. He was a happy go lucky child and was ready to climb to the roof top and look inside the closed room. We all prayed that Bali with the magic glass would find the things inside the room and tell us exactly what he saw. Bali removed his shirt and shoes, He took hold of the protruding bricks and started going up. Once he reached the top, he opened his mouth to present us with a dramatic laugh and looked down from the gap of the roof. He went near to the gap and slightly inserted his head and then he screamed. He came running down and jumped from the roof top. We gave him some water and sat beside him. What he said was nothing we had imagined. He said that the room was tidy and clean. Not a speck of dust or cobweb or our missing things. Even he dropped his magic glass and at the next moment the glass disappeared and a strange force started attracting his face and at that moment, he screamed.

None could sleep that night. Next morning, We agreed to confront grand father. He was the person in control of the house and he must tell us the mystery behind the closed room. He started with " Is she troubling you ? Once she started hurting the children. So my father packed her bags and took her to the nearest river and thrown her away along with her stuffs. However a packet of vermilion and a red cloth left behind and he put the two things inside a room at the far end and closed it for good." I asked, "So you are not taking care of the room now ?" Grandfather said, "No. Why should I ? That room is closed since then." We were puzzled. How could this happen ? There must be answers. We asked where our stuff went. Grandfather said, "they are there. Just not visible." Mintu was angry now. "Why on earth you keep that room then ? Why don't you destroy that room ?" Grandfather was as usual at his normal self. "where else she would go ? Just don't bother her. She won't bother you and she takes thing for good, for the future."

"What good is to have a space that take things from us ? What good can come out from it in the future ? Why there is a room which lures and hides matter ?" Summers passed eventually. I don't go there anymore. None of my cousins visit there now. I don't know whether that closed room with an ancient lock marked with red is still there. But I remember that inside the room, there was something dark. Something invisible, dark matter or dark space... space that eats matter or matter that eats matter, mysterious but beautiful.

                                          (*photo taken from Wikipedia about Dark matter)

Spookiness of scooter rides

It was during the times of growing up when holidays meant happiness and holidays came twice in a year. Once during Dussehra and again during summer. We used to live in our parental house in a small village in western part of Odisha. The village had it's boundary defined by a river that flowed like a dancing girl from west to east and spread herself below a hundred meter long bridge built during the end of 60's. The other side of the bridge was occupied by shrubs, neighboring villagers and a notorious wine house which sold desi alcohol in polythene packets and much to the dread of us, children, a forbidden place even to think about. Small houses of clay, bricks and cement mushroomed on both sides of the road that came bouncing and jumping from a town south to the village and passed across the bridge to the north. The town was close by, just half an hour cycle ride from the village, or may be a fifteen minute ride, depending on your calf muscle strength and the direction of the wind. For us, the southern end of the village was the high school with a huge playground where cricket and football tournaments were organized and occasionally we used to go and sit for hours watching the big boys play and curse each other.

Each year, holidays were spent at my grand father's house where my mother, her sisters and her brothers were born and the sisters were married off and sent to their new homes, new villages. One of my uncle, used to come to our village to take us all in a sky blue scooter. The scooter could fairly accommodate me, my elder brother and my mother. I would be waiting for the moment when the others will hop on the scooter and I will stand in the front in between the handle and the rider, my uncle, who will be driving us towards his village, away, far far away from the river, the playground and the near by town. My height was optimum. Enough to stand and stare, without blocking my uncle's view. Sometimes, I would stand a little slanted towards left and would bend my neck slightly so that my hair while ruffling in the wind would not come near uncle's eyes. I would place my hands carefully on the handle so that they were at least a finger length away from the scooter's gears. I used to look at each and every thing that passed by us. First we used to cross the town and new villages would pop up every now and then. Trees would run in opposite direction. The bus conductor would shout for more people and people would come and engulf the brown-tattered bus. A dog would wander and wait for an opportune, auspicious moment to pee on the wheels. A shopkeeper would throw a pakoda at the peeing dog and it would forget the previous action completely to take part in new adventure. A cycle would stop at a tea shop and the fly inside a closed glass jar of sweets would struggle to go out. Then the green fields used to show up and the smell of rice paddy would fill my nostrils. Birds would wander up in the sky and the random pattern of clouds would filter the sun rays and I would stop looking up and concentrate on the road at length. The dust of the road would be divided by the intruding wheels and fresh cow dung would separate bearing the mark of the tire. I would remember the geography lessons in our primary school which used to start with the sentence that earth is round like a lemon, flattened on the sides and think about the scooter to cover the length of the lemon to reach my uncle's village.

Those days were dreamy days. My perception of the world hovered around the notion that the written words, geometrical drawings on text books and the real dusty-brown world are linked through my thoughts. What I think manifests on the world I live in. The only real world with real people and things were the ones known to me directly. Hence my village and my uncle's village were the two geographical locations which were real. Other scenes, stuffs, space in between were just an illusion. A collage of reality stitched with one end at my village and the other at uncle's. The events actually occurred in between because I happened to pass through them. They were not there before. What occupied was empty space. The two lands were surrounded by empty spaces where matter popped up when I wanted to see them. I used to wonder when I am asleep, would there be the tea shop under a banyan tree. No. It would not be. The bus conductor would not be there, neither the dog.
 When I reached my uncle's house, I used to think that the village I came from, the river and the playground and the people in there would be present there, loitering or doing things just like me, eating a sugar-apple or reading a story from Chandamama. But the places I left on the way, would not be left there. They would have disappeared, vaporized into thin air, from where they came into being. However I would never know, where they went when I did not see for them. I would strain my eyes, while coming back, try to discover the space that took them in while I was away, looking below the abyss of a well or locating a plough and a farmer on the constellation above in a sleepy night.

                   (* Photo taken from Google image - Schrodinger's Cat (Spookiness of quantum mechanics)

Introduction

This blog is an attempt to capture some of my latest interests about nostalgia, memory, cosmology and evolution.