“Pandemic Panamo: I™ Am Oxygen”
By Jaya Dubey
India’s lament:
“As you gather these crowds here, never in my life have I seen so many people! But Lord, stationed between your two armies, I see nothing but smoke and ash rise from a million pyres here; dust and stones fly from the vista there.
Naked death buoyant in the holy river can please only an evil-minded, blind king.
When I see my family ready to sacrifice their all to find black-market sanjeevanis, my limbs quake, my mouth is parched. My skin burns and I falter. I reel.”
“I understand, dear one.” And the great Lord choked up. “When a puppy is run over by My chariot, even I can’t help but feel sorrowful.”
“Then you agree? You finally understand! What good can come of this killing O noble one? What rajya? At what cost, this rashtra? What glory will I achieve awash in the blood of my people? I don’t desire glory nor crave hollow victory.
It would be too wicked. With the destruction of our own, dharma is lost. The moral compass shatters …
Remember the days when castes were slowly intermingling, even annihilating as the great prophet Bhimrao had counselled? Old walls were slowly crumbling. A new order would have been possible. But now we do great evil if we kill our own for the greed of royal pleasures. We will go straight to hell.”
And the supreme Leader spoke:
“Where is your decorum? Do you not know about protocol and parampara? Your words smack of delusion and unworthiness; hell, not heaven. This is not compassion, it is cowardice. Stop talking the language of andolanjeevis. Focus on karmic Vikas.”
And said India:
“But my children! My family! I would rather a beggar be, sell pakoras, or even make tea from gutter gas than live with their blood on my hands!”
And the mighty Lord replied:
“Mitron, the wisest one grieves neither for the dead nor the living. You and I, and all of these people you wail for existed then, now, and will exist forever. The body perishes but the soul is ageless. It remains untouched by weapons, heat, cold, pleasure, pain; undetected by clouds, radars. You cannot destroy the indestructible. Therefore, fight Bharata! Achhe din never happened, but are always here. Greatness awaits! Shake it off.
Just as we shed old clothes to put on new, personally-monogrammed suits, the parasitic soul sheds used bodies to don new ones made by the finest tailors that foolish mortals cannot see. Even the clothes or the bodies you see mean nothing. Clothes matter only when “they” wear them.
Because the Atma is viral: unbirthed and undead. Eternal and infinite. Be atmanirbhar — see souls, not bodies which are merely soiled clothes. You cannot see what I see! Look over there, they burn soiled clothes in brand-new shamshans I foresaw.
Look at it My way and you will see that death is forever scripted. It happens. It is the circle of life all this birth, death, rebirth, redeath … See over there where they bury saffron seeds in shallow, unmarked beds? Aap chronology samajhiye: it is only death making room for rebirth.
We vanquished evil in the past with multiple masterstrokes and surgical strikes. We will do so again. Why do you fear death? I™ am Death. Certificates should say so.
Do not forget your mission. Stand firm in the name of righteousness. Look away from the dying gasps, the ashes, the decomp. See only the golden glory I see. Listen to My mann ki baat. Feel the vistas, the cyclical rhythm of Vikas.
And let there be no desire in you for the fruits of My actions. Look at the big picture. Do not get attached to My inaction or the non-performance of My duty.
Do your duty. Sacrifice it all.
India still wept, unconvinced, heart still sore:
“But my people! The blood … so much blood. All the perfumes of Arab — ”
And swiftly spake the Master:
“You grow too attached. Renounce all ties and attachments. See how I am serene and unscathed? Certain and unsecular. Be Me. Why grieve for the always known, the eternally written? Rejoice! For this is the moment of truth, your highest calling, the day you were born for. Do your duty. The gates of heaven stand open, look!
India whispered, hollow, broken:
“But the news! They will revile us. Human rights abuses … war crimes … History books will not be kind to us.”
And the great One thundered:
“Bookish knowledge is not true knowledge! Believe in karma and hard work, not Harvard. Stand firm. Our Positivity Drive will drive out all negativity from history. Karma is the only way. Even the greatest western spirit leaders have said: “ARBEIT MACHT FREI” — work makes you free. Liberate yourself from the bonds of birth and death. Death is birth. To be born is to die. Become a budhhijeevi and perform your highest duty. Be a stable genius.”
And India asked:
“How can I be this stable jeevi? How does a sorrowless being walk, sit and speak?”
The Lord laughed:
“To know the bliss of the Atman, abandon all hope. When the spirit is absorbed in oneself, in Myself, incitement flows naturally. Centre yourself in Me. In my godi. I am the centre. I am the state.
Once you become a true fakir you will see that dying and dead sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, nieces, uncles, nephews, aunts, in-laws, friends, grandparents, grandchildren do not exist. Love, hope, compassion, justice, joy, and peace do not exist for the turtle who pulls his body into its shell. I am a shell. You be the turtle. See the vision around you for the delusion that it is. Practice mercy. Be mercenary.”
And India moaned:
“You show me peace and serenity, you talk of mercy, but also ask me to be savage, to eat my own? I am lost. Your jumlas don’t make sense. Guide me to freedom, O statue of impunity.”
The Lord squashed his rising irritation and spoke gently:
“O Veer one, freedom comes only from inaction. Your freedom will come from duty and STREANAH. You duty is worship of Me. Give Me your huddled masses of human sacrifice.”
“But — ”
Didi, O Didi, why do you still wail so? I have nothing to gain in the three worlds, only the entire world. I perform no action and see, the world perishes around Me. I am responsible for the conflict between castes and religions and thereby the destruction of all people, and still I am. Still I will be.
O Bharata, the wise perform inaction without attachment. Be Me, be inspired by this viraat roop. See, I am not the doer. Hence, I am not accountable. I am only the seer, the sitter-on-my-asser, the sleepless peacock-feeder, the yoga-day creator, the fiddling faker.
That ancient yoga I taught Manu via email I shall teach you and reveal the grandest enigma: I manifest Myself by My own self-induced delusion. Whenever and wherever dharma ascends, I embody adharma. I am the very model of a modern major genocidaire. I weaponise casteism. I oxygenate bigotry. Surrender to Me. I am animus mundi.
Renounce everything. Tea. Wife. (Kar)Ma. History. Satyagraha. Nation. Humanity.
Remember O India, as flames torch wood into ashes, the flames of My ego incinerate everything. Become the unknower, the ever-deluded. Fix your mind in Me and only Me. As you reincarnate into a true Yogi, make Me your absolute goal, your only beginning, your only end.”
India stumbled and retched. A small hand reached out to steady her.
“Are you okay?” The child asks as she helps the elderly woman re-drape her sari. “Who do you talk to and weep so?
“Can you not see him, the Lord?”
“Amma, that is just a scarecrow in fancy dress.”
“Dress? He said this body is just a collection of burning clothes … I think that is what he — ”
“Baba was saying we have to change the stick figure. It’s useless. New clothes for mauni baba and a new jhola!” The child laughs as she starts to rip the tatters off the effigy.
The smog lifts. India breathes deep. And coughs.
“Wait!” she stays the eager hand. “Let us take this with us and light a bonfire tonight.”
“Like Vijayadashmi? Can I set it aflame?”
“Who else will do so?”
