Confined to the peripheries of my home, looking out the window at a mysteriously pink moon rising day after day, I have of late been forced to cogitate on the wonders of being alive, the hump in the lawn not unlike a camel’s back, and the quandary of not writing yet another webpage.
Looming, huge moons are known to have invoked latent streaks in bloggers. Shamans of doom are frothing at the lips. Soothsayers are having a field day. A lethal virus is raining maggots of death upon humanity across the continents. People are shying away from each other, afraid to touch, smile or speak. Their tracheas are clogged with mucus, their lungs have turned into lead. Death is in the very air.
There is a rock buried under that mound in the lawn, which the contractor tried to uproot but could not in spite of the robust earth moving apparatus at his disposal. So, he contoured it into a tiny hillock, the kind children love to climb and descend all day long. He also adorned it with decorative saplings, and it makes quite a sight when I look ahead at the budding day or a deepening dusk. It is almost as if a camel had died and an oasis had taken over the remains, minus the neck. It is a symbol of how an eyesore could be turned into a spot of elegance, too. Or, how a joyful occurrence could be hiding a craggy grief underneath. There can be so much filth under the glitter and Ritz of a Middle Kingdom.
Meanwhile, a congregation of clerics gathered in the capital of a populous Asian democracy. Even as the bewildered machinery of the state was scrambling to contain the contagion, having counselled a billion and a half citizens to retreat to the safety of their homes to escape the invisible fangs of the virus, the congregation swore to embrace the killer as the will of the Almighty. Platoons have been exiting the seminary with the gruesome agenda of disseminating both message and disease, and platoons have been walking back in, feeding and fattening the dans macabre. It all happened under the sore nose of the government, and duly exploded in its red face.
Segregated and quarantined, and hospitalised if found infected, the members of the congregation are not any less virulent. They have spat and spewed profanities on nurses and doctors, paraded themselves naked before petrified health workers, thrown around bottled urine and night soil. Elsewhere, coached by the malignant legion, teams of medical experts including women have been brutally assaulted by their cohorts.
Only time will tell the extent of their nefarious success, except the fact that the virus has been seized by them as a bewildering weapon to propagate their anti-evolutionary mission. Make no mistake, there is a method in the madness of these Covidiots. The confederacy of the fraternity is the worst kept secret of India. The faith in the Almighty must be spread till the last standing man on this land is a believer.
God’s in His Delhi — All’s right with the country!
I have been bobbing on the brinks of blogdom for a while now, and have gathered the proverbial moss about me. Unlike the shiny pebbles that others in the trade have turned out to be rolling down the rapid river, I have grown years of disuse that waves like seagrass in receding tide. Then the lump in the park makes me wonder how similar to riding a camel is the business of writing a blog. As you sit astride the hump of the grounded mammal, you are in immense danger of hurtling downwards as it unfolds itself to full stature. Once there though, you enjoy the gentle swing as your camel glides away, miles after miles. Descending the live tower could be another hazardous enterprise in absence of suitable caution. There is a story about a tourist who broke his neck at the end of a dream ride atop a camel, and all of it is true. So here I am, not sure I am going anywhere, nor ready to disembark yet, but the camel has grown weary and hungry. And the moss on my countenance is heavy.
Either way, camel, I tell my blog, it would be best if we move towards our oasis, even if it is a cruel mirage. You never know when you will fall prey to a virus and become a unit of data in a steep curve.
Exit the Ghost of Blogger