Oh Fit! Is it That Easy?

A flash it is, just a flash. Such is the way we die. Such is the way we are born. In a flash. Alive one moment, dead another. Unborn one moment, born another. Born, and at once and inevitably set on the path to death, as of a piece of luggage on a carousel; it will whirl and whirl around and then be picked up and be gone. Taken. Claimed. This is the way it happens. A birth. A death. And all of the time betwixt is a flash, no more, in timeless time. Of course, in our time, it is also another flash that matters, the camera flash. Just born. Just died. Pictures flashed and instantly posted on the Gram or on the Face. Done. Recorded. Announced. Amplified. Boosted, on the offering of a few extra bucks. Then they are clapped or cried over. Liked or lamented. Humanity's a coming rush, there's always more on the way. Make way. Move on. Look around, what a churn and a cascade it is, from life and from life unto the end of it. There's no stopping, carry on.

By LAZY EYE-Sankarshan Thakur
  • Published 3.06.18
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A flash it is, just a flash. Such is the way we die. Such is the way we are born. In a flash. Alive one moment, dead another. Unborn one moment, born another. Born, and at once and inevitably set on the path to death, as of a piece of luggage on a carousel; it will whirl and whirl around and then be picked up and be gone. Taken. Claimed. This is the way it happens. A birth. A death. And all of the time betwixt is a flash, no more, in timeless time. Of course, in our time, it is also another flash that matters, the camera flash. Just born. Just died. Pictures flashed and instantly posted on the Gram or on the Face. Done. Recorded. Announced. Amplified. Boosted, on the offering of a few extra bucks. Then they are clapped or cried over. Liked or lamented. Humanity's a coming rush, there's always more on the way. Make way. Move on. Look around, what a churn and a cascade it is, from life and from life unto the end of it. There's no stopping, carry on.

This drama isn't over, not yet. A broom and a brandish. Then a click. Or a burst of clicks. Bharat has turned Swachchh. A beti and a baap. Then a click. Or a... no, just one click will do, this picture doesn't have Him. Just one will do, no need for more. So just that one click and all betis have been rendered safe and educated. A dip and a darshan. And then a click. Or a burst of clicks. And the Ganga has been cleaned. A satellite image downloaded and MeraDesh suddenly looks like Diwali 365x24x7 from the heavens, or hell or wherever it is that those satellites circle about. One day, we are promised, if they behave well and are as well led as we are by the BossOfAllThings, England too can aspire to shine like MeraDesh. Miracles have happened to us, in the meantime. Each one in a trice. A jhappi, and Bakistan has been dealt with. A jhoola, and Cheen has been sweetened. Chhappan inches of jhappi and a chhappan inch jhoola, after all. A whole paisa slashed and control has been established over prices. Celebrate, it's only all crude. Flex a bicep at work, take a selfie, post it. You're fit. We're fit. The nation's fit. It's how we turn fit, moving selfie muscles. But really?

Ask Mahadeb. He never took a selfie. He never knew what is nation. He can't care what it is, or takes, to be fit. But this is what he does. And you will not see this in a selfie, or a video post on Gram or Face. You will hear of it here. You arise. You pump water with your hands and you fill your bucketfuls. You douse your body and you scrub it. Then you wash your clothes and hang them to dry and don the set dried from the previous day. Then you light a stove, a coal stove. Which means often you shovel coals. Then you fan the coals until they turn to fire. Then you slice your onion and potato and chillies. Then you knead your dough. Then you roll your rotis. Then, by turns, you work the wok and you bake your daily bread. And then, having partaken, you get down to your haunches before the bigger stove. The one that will consume a maund of coals and take an hour to get going. You blow it and you fan it, until you have gotten the fire going. Then you assume your seat. The one atop the stove, across from the fire, looking into it, over it. Then you haul the milk. Then you sift the tea leaves. Then you shuffle the coffee seeds, for those that might want a variation. Then you set the pan on the fire, and set it to boil. Then, upon the boil, you pour and stir and mix into it what you've been busy at meantime - shredding ginger, setting aside the sugar, folding anew the shreds of cloth that will work as sieves. Then you pour the boiling pan into the sieve, and press it down with pincers until the last drop has been drawn. Then you pick out the glasses. Then you pour into them. Each one. Individually. Then you serve them out. Individually. And you do this all day. All day. Clients to the left of you. Clients to the right of you. Clients in front. Clients aft. Clients clamouring to be served. Clients that don't have change, clients that want a credit, clients that will require you to keep a record. All of this, all day. Sitting atop the fire. In this hot country. On your haunches. That's fitness. That's fit. That's Mahadeb. But you won't get to see him on the Gram or the Face. Mahadeb's been gone, you know. Though he may yet come back.

Those with hope go

They may yet return

It's for those that just go

That nothing we may unturn.