Holi- timeless message in testing times

The greys of winter make way for the riotous colours of spring. Holi, the festival of colours heralds this transition. Perhaps, this transition is more striking in the northern part of the country, making the festival more popular in the North.

These are testing times for the nation. Communities which lived in amity clashed and left behind a trail of destruction. An edgy feeling hangs in the air, fuelled by distrust and a sense of alienation between communities. What does Holi mean in these troubled times? Does it have a message for us? As we turn the pages of history, we rest upon Saint Kabir. It is as if he is living in our times and speaks to Hindus and Muslims once more...through the colours of Holi.

Of all the colours used in Holi, the predominant colour is red- the red of "gulaal". We colour each other’s body red during Holi. Saint Kabir's lines come to mind. He says we are born with a body that is like a piece of cloth- a "chadariya"- a cloth that is plain and drab. We take this cloth to the dyer for colouring, for embellishment. The dyer is none other than the teacher, the guru- the person who converts the animal-man in us to a man-man! The guru's teaching colours the body-fabric a full red- "laalo laal kar deeni chadariya". Red is the colour of love. Gone is our narrow, individualistic outlook. We expand our vision and exude that message of love for one and all. Holi symbolizes this attitude.
As we smear gulaal on each other during Holi, happiness is in the air and we literally paint the whole town red! Men and women, young and old...everyone is totally indistinguishable, their faces caked with gulaal. The differences vanish: near and dear ones and absolute strangers, everyone looks alike as seen through tinted-glass spectacles. The whole world is one splash of red!
Red is also the colour of fire- the colour of light and the colour of knowledge. It is as if the gulaal reminds us of that supreme knowledge, that ultimately, there is no "other"- both the self and the world outside are coloured much the same.
Such is the lofty message of Holi even as we playfully squirt water and take impish delight to chase down our next victim and douse him with a generous fistful of gulaal!

It is fitting that we remember Saint Kabir in these communally charged times. His poems are replete with the message of oneness. How did we forget Kabir?  It is ironical that almost 400 years after his time, we continue to be at each other’s throats. It is painful.
But there is hope. Every Holi brings with it that hope- that we will reach out to not just our neighbours and friends...but more so, with the colours of friendship cutting across
communities.

Holi has its favourite quote- "Don't be upset, it is after all Holi!" ("bura mat mano, Holi hai"). Behind this simplistic line is an apt message, more relevant in these strained times. Holi is a free-for-all festival. A stranger walking on the road, in his spotless, new shirt can be caught in a barrage of water-balloons from the building-terrace! He is naturally upset as he tries to recover from the sudden shock of finding himself dripping wet! He runs after the balloon-pelter and is on the verge of punching him, when the pelter blurts out- "bura mat mano, Holi hai!" That sentence works like magic. The hand that raised the taut fist falls limp. Both look at each other in the eye, smile and move on! That is Holi- the ability to forgive, forget and smile despite provocation.

We hope this Holi, if we pelt from the building top, it will be only water-balloons and that too on passers-by who share the same sense of fun. If we arm our self with a 'lathi', it will be a mock-beating- as wives do to husbands during "lathmar holi". If we have a finger on the trigger, it will be a water-gun with sufficient range to drench our friend in a playful flood of water.
If it appears we have blood on our hands, it is but the redness of "gulaal", the redness of a compassionate heart and the redness of universal love.
Into that heaven of Holi, my Father, let my country awake!

Strangulation by passwords

The concept of using passwords for security is not new. The Arabian Nights talk about them-  Alibaba and the forty thieves used a password to get entry into the cave filled with riches. Forgetting a password in the nick of time is just as old- after all, Kasim paid a mortal price for not recollecting the password. So did Karna- at the most critical juncture, he could not remember the password to activate his weapon.
In earlier times, we would have glossed over these stories. Not any more. Each time we stumble to recollect a password in today's IT age, we empathize more with Kasim and Karna and relive their last moments of helplessness and absolute desperation. No wonder, the Arabian Nights and the Mahabharata are immortal stories, relevant in every age!


We get into the cool confines of the ATM booth and key-in the cash amount for withdrawal. It prompts us for a password. Something snaps at that Karna moment. The mind is a complete blank. It's as if we are back in time as that school student who forgets everything the moment he sees the exam question paper. We scratch our head, close our eyes and knit our eyebrows- but the password ain't coming back! He has simply flown away, leaving us high and dry. Seeing no progress, the next in line demonstrates his impatience by knocking on the booth door. It adds to the pressure forcing us to key-in some password which suddenly floats before us posing as the correct one. It is obviously wrong. Soon, all sorts of numbers muddle up our mind. We take a chance. Gamblers seldom win. Three strikes and we have lost both- access to cash this time as well as to a working bank account. Only Karna can understand our anguish, or may be another forlorn brother who has gone through this very crisis.


There are passwords all over the place- strewn indiscriminately like mines. All it requires is one false step to blow up. There are passwords to check your email, to book railway tickets, to access each of your 5 bank accounts, to logon to your workplace and for each "app" on your cellphone. Passwords cannot be the same because each one wants you to change the password periodically and that too, with a constraint that it cannot be a repeat of your previous ones! Plus, each password prompter has his unique criteria on how the password should be. Sometimes, they want us to use numbers, sometimes both upper case and lower case letters and sometimes, special characters too. Password prompters are finicky- even the spouse can be pleased, but not the password prompters. Whatever password we come up with, with all sorts of combination of letters and numbers is not good enough and it is deemed "weak".  We eventually feel like surrendering to the password-prompt and pleading- "If none of this is good enough for you, pray tell me what you want!" To our utter delight, sometimes, we inexplicably succeed in the password strength-test! But the delight is short-lived. The password is too complicated to remember even a second time. Now, we are back to square one.


For every login, below the password bar, is a helper-line "forgot your password?". It is as if the password is taunting us by assuming we are so forgetful. We agree we forget, but the reminder provokes us. Press the "forgot your password?" link and it takes us on another wild goose chase. Sometimes, it teases us with questions like "What was your mother's maiden name?" We feel like saying, it was "amma" even then, but that answer is not good enough to pass this test. It comes up with all sorts of irrelevant questions like "First car", "Favorite sportsperson", "favorite color" and what not. No answer is good enough- it's as if there are more and more password tests to retrieve the lost password and we slip deeper and deeper into the marsh till we are totally submerged in the muck. Otherwise, we go through another drill of OTPs sent to cellphones whose numbers no longer exist, which is another exercise in futility.


Sometimes, we throw caution to the winds and write down the password on the ATM card itself or in notebook pages, in full public glare. It may seem like absolute foolhardiness, but it is our way of thumbing the nose at the world. It is as if we want to scream- what is so secretive about my life that it cannot be worn proudly on the sleeve. It is like the streaker...who revolts against the norm, and watched by spectators in tens of thousands, suddenly runs into the Cricket ground leaving his clothes and all else! Anyway, the bank balance is too meagre compared to the hoops we have to jump through, to preserve passwords in memory.
An open password is like a breath of fresh air- the mind is light and we free ourself from the fetters of password victimization.

Skylab then, Chandrayaan now!

The last couple of weeks have not been easy. The entire nation felt the pain- the Chandrayaan mission that came so close to crowning glory and yet so far. Next time, we will surely make it. While losing contact with the Lander Vikram is extremely disheartening, the comforting point is that at least, it is not a life and death situation.
Many moons ago (no pun intended), it was almost a life and death situation! The year was 1979- the US lost contact with the Space Station Skylab. The spacecraft was now hurtling towards the earth, on a certain collision course! It was a harrowing time, which will be recalled by those who lived through it. The more I read about losing contact with the Lander Vikram, those childhood images of Bombay (as it was called then)...come floating by, images of a different time and age.


The weeks leading to the touchdown of the Skylab were lively. Newspapers carried elaborate diagrams charting the course of the Skylab- where it would re-enter the earth's atmosphere, where it would break-up and where it would crash. Though every place on the planet was equally vulnerable, we were convinced it would strike our neighbourhood and no other! As school kids, we overheard adults involved in animated discussions and tried to piece it together. How could someone goof up and lose control to this extent- where the spacecraft would now crash over our head? It was like the tale of Bhasmasura or Frankenstein- a recipe for self-destruction! There were individual prayers, community gatherings, astrological predictions and astronomical calculations- nothing was left to chance! A sort of nervous excitement enveloped us, where anything in the sky, from a flying airplane to a dragonfly made us jump out of our skin!


A primary school kid's imagination runs riot. Science with its concepts like gravity was yet to pollute our flights of fantasy. We imagined Skylab's impact would resemble a game of marbles...a small marble striking a bigger one! Upon impact, the earth would be thrown into space, where it would do a few spins...before it came to rest at a different corner of the universe!  Alternatively, we liked to believe that it would compare to a stone flung into a full bucket of water. The collision in the ocean would spurt out a wall of water- so tall would be the waves at Juhu Beach!
Skylab took over our lives. If we constructed sentences in English class, it was all about doom, destruction and death. If we had to scare the life out of someone, we looked at the sky, screamed "Skylab" and pretended to run for cover! It worked a few times, until it became a standing joke, much like the boy who cried wolf! The film Sholay's iconic dialogue now had a new twist-"so ja bachcha nahi to Skylab aa jayega!" (“Baby, please sleep; if you don’t, Skylab will be here!”)
We pleaded with the Principal to declare a holiday until doomsday was over. Our fears were not unfounded. If we were to perish, it seemed reasonable that it should be at home, than at school. We wore the most sullen face, like inmates on a death roll. At the very least, we negotiated for a few more Games periods! The Principal was firm- it would be school as usual, regardless of doomsday. We felt gutted!


The fateful day was now close. Those were times when few homes had a TV. Our window to the world was a radio- hand-tuned to shortwave stations. One night, the news was out- the Skylab had finally crash-landed in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Australia. It was all over.
The sun rose the next morning with the same cheeriness. It was a day like any other. There was a stone-like silence in class- absolute disbelief it could be such an anti-climax. How we wished we could have established contact with Skylab and steered the crash to more familiar environs!
It would now be school as usual, the tedium of classes, homework, tests and exams. We sat in class solemnly, cupping our palms to the chin.
However, school kids do not take time to bounce back. At lunch break, it suddenly dawned upon us- life was not over yet! Now that Skylab had given us a new lease of life, we could look forward to many more games of marbles and 7-stones, football and Cricket! We flung the lunch-box away, let out a joyous yelp, picked up the Cricket bat and ran into the sun!
The Skylab then and the Chandrayaan now- they have filled our days with nail-biting excitement, regardless of whether they fully achieved their target. Who can complain now?

 

In search of happiness

Happiness is a slippery fellow! Give him the barest minimum, he readily accepts and comes home. But pamper him with a little excess of anything, he hesitates and runs away! It is a paradox, a conundrum that cannot be easily cracked.


Growing up, parents did not indulge the children as we do today. Spending was strict, both as a principle and the strain on the purse. Occasions to celebrate were marked and limited. Hence, it was with great fondness that we looked forward to incidents where the purse strings were loosened and indulgence was permitted. Sometimes, it was as simple as the purchase of an ice-cream cone. The rarity of the enjoyment created the magic. We savoured it, one lick at a time and competed with the sibling to prolong ones own cone for much longer than the other!  The impish delight to enjoy the last few licks, with extra zeal, while the other looked on, salivating silently, was a moment to cherish!
Contrast this with today's picture, where every weekend visit to the mall, is a time to binge. The refrigerator is stacked with ice-cream in buckets. Often, it goes unnoticed and has to be junked because it has remained much longer than the expiry date! It is a problem of plenty. We do enjoy the ice-cream even today. Except, that it has become common place and to that extent, the joy-quotient has plummeted by several notches.


There was a time when TV was black-and-white playing a single channel. Programs actually came to a close at night and it was only the next evening, you could watch TV again. Often, there was only one home with a TV and the entire neighbourhood gathered together to watch their favourite shows. The weekly round of "Chitrahaar",  soaps like "HumLog" and the mythlogical adaptations of 'Ramayan' were awaited with great excitement. The collective enjoyment made the happiness-index soar sky-high even if you watched only half the program because the power went off mid-way! Everyone watched the same programs and came fully prepared for lively and heated discussions at school the following day. Contrast this with today. We have lost track of the number of channels on TV. As far as movies, serials and Cricket go, everything is available simultaneously, just a twirl of the remote away. The endless choice and variety have spoilt us. We cannot recall that one film or that special Cricket innings, that left a mark for life! Discussions over TV programs cannot be conducted with the same gusto because everyone watches a different channel, a different program.  And the joy-score in all this?  It has taken a definite hit.


Today, it is easy to spot an eye-catching dress online and have it delivered home. Suddenly, you feel the urge to have a rasgulla, and in a few clicks of the mobile, it is on the dining table. It is all easy and affordable no doubt. We miss the point- the accessibility has made everything bland and ordinary. It has robbed us of that indescribable eagerness to look forward to a new dress, which was bought once a year during Diwali. Purchase of crackers was limited and just enough for everyone at home. But the happiness grew  many fold, when you  painstakingly separated the "100-wala" into individual elements so that you could prolong the enjoyment, one cracker at a time...the entire day.


Recall the excitement and trembling fingers with which you ripped open the envelope to read that fortnightly mail from home? Or hurrying to make that 5-minute trunk-call from a public phone booth, to a loved one, after 10 at night because it was cheaper? Often, even conversation was impossible, because the phone-line was poor; still, you longed to hear the ring of that distant voice! There was so much to say and so little time! And when someone returned home after a two-year "foreign trip", you scrutinized their face in total amazement, for their features had changed so unrecognizably, during the interim period! Now, social media has made it easy, in fact, too easy.  We can stalk someone on an hourly basis, regardless of where he is. The flip side is the loss; loss of that extra zing!


That said, what is the takeaway from this? We cannot go back to Stone Age in our quest for happiness. The older generation is also prone to exaggeration. The narration is often suspect, because with each retelling, they claim to have enjoyed even more! Conversation centered on "those days" leaves us feeling helpless since we can do nothing about it, stranded as we are, in today's time and age!
But one thing is clear- over indulgence sedates the mind so that it loses its keenness and its heightened ability to enjoy. The more we willingly limit our indulgence today, more the happiness, when such a special occasion automatically presents itself.
A mansion needs more than 2000 sq ft, multiple floors, a garden and a swimming pool. Happiness needs none of this; a 700 sq ft home is good enough. The choice is ours.

Rail sneham

"Rail sneham" is a term with a specific connotation. It refers to the spontaneous affection that two unrelated passengers experience on a long train journey. You knew nothing about the person seated in front of you in the train compartment. Back then, there was no internet. There was no facebook page to quickly verify a person's background or a twitter handle to peek into his political views. It was a blind-date, where you related to the person sitting on the opposite seat...as-is, totally, completely...with no baggage from his past. You also knew that the bond lasted till the journey ended and no more. It gave the luxury of anonymity that allowed you to bear your heart to an absolute stranger. It was often a cathartic experience, at the end of which, you felt lighter in the heart and totally energised.


Over the rattle of the rail, family trees were dissected, relatives and their motives were scrutinised openly and close-held secrets were spilt.  It was that easy. You volunteered to buy tea at the station and over each sip, more conversation flowed, and you got closer. At the next big railway junction, you often caught his hand and quarrelled to prevent him from paying for both meals! You exulted over his stories of success, shed tears when he spoke of a lost one...and agreed with him a hundred percent that corruption was the root cause of all evil! You stayed awake through the night...and spoke in bated breath, how he would get down the following day and would be gone forever. Such was rail-sneham- "manzil se behtar..yeh raahen"..that made journeys memorable, to the extent that even the destination did not matter! At times, addresses were exchanged, but rarely pursued. Rail-sneham was like a one-night stand, an emotional one at that, where you hugged the person close...for just that trip...and allowed him to move on...the moment he picked his luggage and stepped down from the train. It was also a proven template for life- that joy was in the journey, in extending that pleasantness to life's co-passengers who happen to share our coupe.
These train trips came with their share of stories, some more unusual than others.


Roorkee to Bombay (as it was known then) was a long train journey. Thirty-six hours if the stars lined up and the train was on time. Often, it took well over forty hours...spread over two nights. I recall that trip vividly. Settling down in the coach, I took an instant liking to the elderly gentleman on the opposite seat. "I am Arvind. You can call me Arvind kaka!" he introduced himself. "What do you do?" he asked me. "I am an Art Student," I said quickly. "Why are you at Roorkee?" he asked me, totally puzzled. "I was here to attend an Art Workshop by Vitankar." Kaka's eyes lit up. "You mean Vitankar saheb, that comic-book artist?" "Yes, he conducts a one month workshop where we learn to draw from nature," I explained.
That evening, as we shared "rewdi" at Meerut station, it was my turn to quiz Kaka. "I am a theatre artiste. I am part of a drama troupe. We stage one-act plays, social dramas and mythological adaptations all over Maharashtra,"  Kaka announced grandly. As the train meandered its way through Delhi and Kota, Ratlam and Vadodara, we took turns to buy the specialty at each station- a "gajak" here, a "petha" there, a handful of "chivda" and cups and cups of steaming "matka-chai"! "Unlike the cine-star, the theatre artiste has no fixed script. He has to improvise on the spot...instantly...to strike that chord with the audience. I have learnt that art over the years," Kaka reminisced sagely. I made Kaka recite his favorite  lines in Marathi and giggled as he became overly dramatic and disturbed passengers in the adjoining coupe. Kaka wanted me to draw a caricature for him. I dodged his request but agreed to paint his portrait once I qualified as a complete artist.


Kaka and I were on adjoining top-berths at night. Rocked by the rhythm of the rail, in the dim light of the coach, I lay on my side and faced kaka.  Kaka suddenly broke the silence, "Tomorrow, you will be on your way and I...mine. I know you will grow up to be a great artist, like Vitankar saheb!" I smiled gently, "I hope so. I will remember you Kaka." I did not sleep a wink.


The following morning, the train limped to a halt at Bombay Central. The journey was over. As we got down, my heart was heavy. It was not the usual lump in the throat that rail sneham brings in its wake. This was different. "I have a confession to make...Kaka. I hope you will forgive me. I am not an art student. I lied. I am just a first year engineering student!" I looked at Kaka straight in the eye. I knew I had broken his trust. If he lashed out at me, I was ready for it. After all, I had violated the cardinal rule of rail sneham- honesty. For a split second, Kaka's expression was inscrutable. The next instant, he threw his head back and laughed heartily. Placing his hand on my shoulder, and between spasms of uncontrollable laughter, Kaka managed to say,  "I knew that from the beginning! Of course, I knew you were not an Art Student! And now, let me tell you this.  It will make you feel better. Neither am I...a theatre artiste! I am also just another insurance agent!" With that, Kaka turned around..and walked away into the crowd.
I stood on the platform transfixed- dazed and deceived.

The Nakula-Sahadeva syndrome

Nakula and Sahadeva would not have had an easy life. Imagine...being born in a family of over-achievers where they have no special identity of their own. To be always compared with an Arjuna or a Bheema or a Yudhishthira and living under their shadow an entire life- how frustrating it would have been! Nakula and Sahadeva are your proverbial also-rans. They are those nameless and voiceless extras who stay in the background in every song-n-dance Bollywood sequence...while the hero hogs the limelight! A little, like the 12th man in Cricket who carries drinks and the towel onto the field so that the Master Blaster batsman can cool himself and wipe his sweat off! It is a life of ignominy where you never get your place in the sun!

If we think about Arjuna, we can easily reel out accomplishments by the dozen. He was a master archer who could pierce a revolving target by glancing at the water below; he was Drona's favourite student and Krishna too doted on him. Besides archery, he was skilled in dance and music. When it came to women, his conquests were many- Draupadi, Uloopi, Chitrangada and Subhadra to name a few!
Think about Bheema and we imagine a hunk- all muscle and who had the appetite of a wolf. We recall his mind-blowing escapades with Bakasura, Jarasandha and Keechaka.
Yudhishthira- and an idealist comes to mind...a Gandhian figure of sorts...who walked his way to heaven riding on his spotless character.
Now, let us think of Nakula and Sahadeva. What do we know about them? The mind is a complete blank. No single incident can we recall about them! We do not know what their skills were, how they looked or whom they married...apart from of course Draupadi who was anyway bequeathed to all the brothers. They appear to have spent an entire life...staying in the background without making any monumental contribution...while the likes of Arjuna painted the town red. Mythological dramas and screenplays make it worse. The superstar hero obviously bags Arjuna's role, and all we have is a nondescript actor who doubles up as the twins.

Over-achieving siblings are a nuisance. Achievements come easy for them- as if they are born with a mole in a special part of the anatomy! However, they make life uncomfortable for the rest of us. Sometimes, we wish they were born in the neighbour's house and would not collide with us so much! Left to ourselves, we would have been a star; it is just that the over-achieving sibling is like the sun...in whose glare, the stars are not visible to anyone! They have taken over the entire showcase...stacked it up with all their trophies and shields and cups. No, we are not jealous of their success. The problem is with those folks who come home and size up the Nakulas and Sahadevas with the same yardstick as Arjuna! The judgmental society is to blame; trying to paint us all with the same brush, and in the process, making us feel small and sheepish.

Nakula and Sahadeva did not suffer from any complex. We do not know any day when they sulked because their lives were ordinary. The irony is...it was Arjuna, the over-achiever, who required psychiatric treatment from Lord Krishna. At least the twins had each other for company to pour their heart out. We feel more for Shatrughna, that lonesome character in the Ramayana. Compared to his illustrious brothers, his was a very quiet life, bereft of significant achievement. Still, he shared the space...heroically with all of them.

These great epics have a lot to teach. It is with intent that they included these characters; silent characters who charm us through their sheer simplicity and ordinariness. The Mahabharata was also called "Jaya"- victory. The victory was not just for the good against the evil. It was also a victory for those silent sentinels, those nameless Nakulas and Sahadevas who provided their shoulders as a prop, so that the likes of Arjuna would appear even taller!

It is nice to be successful. However, it is more important to be nice. There is a place for everyone under the sun. Life is as much for the noisy river, which hurtles its way to the ocean, as for the pebble in the riverbed; the pebble which simply "is" and allows the river to wash itself over! An also-ran is not a pushover; he runs an honest race; it is just that he did not win. That is fine.
As they say, the squirrel and the mountain had a quarrel. The squirrel said, "Talents differ; all is well and wisely put. If I cannot carry forests on my back, neither can you crack a nut!"
I stand at the mountaintop and proclaim wholeheartedly, "I am Nakula and I am proud of it!" The mountains resound with the echo...and agree with me!

Life is a breadboard!

The Electronics Laboratory sessions at Engineering College were eventful. A motley set of equipment lay scattered on the table- a breadboard, a display-screen, a clump of wires and colourful beads comprising resistors, transistors and capacitors. The objective was simple- follow a set of instructions, create an electronic circuit on the breadboard and read the resultant output waveform on the display-screen. The breadboard had tiny holes into which you inserted  the resistors and capacitors and connected them up with wires. It was unnerving especially if you were doing it for the first time. You had to contend with multiple challenges- instructions which were unclear, the pressure of time and the overbearing presence of the professor who looked for the slightest error to give you a earful! It was often an exercise in futility, and there were days where the experiment completely failed despite your best effort. But you soldiered on.  If you managed to get the desired output waveform and successfully complete the lab...it was deemed nothing short of a miracle.


One late afternoon, a miracle did happen. The display-screen suddenly sprang to life...and registered this most beautiful waveform! It was a sight to behold- a rainbow of sorts for our thirsty eyes!
We were a team of three and had struggled the entire afternoon putting the pieces of the circuit together...till the breadboard resembled a wild jungle...with wires hanging all over!
We impatiently waited till the professor was at the table to evaluate our art-work. It was our crowning glory moment. The professor's expression was inscrutable- he looked at the waveform with interest and then looked at each of us with equal interest. He carefully removed one of the resistors from the breadboard, reaching out for it between the wild undergrowth of wires. "Watch my dears, the waveform output is still intact!" Our response was muted. "Yes, sir", we mumbled. In such a complicated circuitry, there could be some scope for redundancy, where loss of a body-part, needn't affect the overall health...or so we thought. What happened from this point onwards was nothing short of dramatic. The professor did quick work- removed a capacitor here, a resistor there and uprooted wires by the handful. Like dead pieces outside a chessboard, there was a now a growing heap of deadwood piling up outside the breadboard. "My dears, your waveform is still intact!" We knew something was wrong. Soon, the professor plunged his entire fist into the breadboard and exhumed whatever came in his grasp and exclaimed "My dears, your waveform has still not changed!". Eventually, in a manic rage, he had emptied the entire breadboard...of all its components. The waveform still smiled back at us...unaffected. The rest of the afternoon was not pleasant. The professor asked for the lab record-books and scrawled "Repeat the experiment" in red across the entire page. He was evidently angry.


The above incident, described in graphic detail is actually several decades old. To this day, I am baffled how the waveform output could be so precise especially when the breadboard was emptied out. There are plausible explanations no doubt, of the circuit being "shorted" or the display wires possibly connected back-to-back. I do not know. But I do know that this incident has taught some valuable lessons for life.
Often, we wonder about our contribution to this world, our role in the scheme of things and how it will shape the future. As the years roll by, these larger than life questions nag us. We worry, if by a quirk of fate, we move on today, would we have done enough for the future, for the family, for the society...so that they are better off...just that little bit, because we lived.
There are no easy answers.


It is here that the breadboard and the waveform come to our rescue. The waveform did not require the elaborate circuitry on the breadboard at all. So too with life. The cosmic laws will take care of the future on their own. In front of these mighty laws of time, space and causation, my puny existence and contribution amounts to nothing. Hence, I need not worry about the future. The future will unfold on its own, regardless of me. The flower will bloom of its own accord, given the right conditions and time. It does not need my effort to pry the petals open! This attitude frees me from unnecessarily carrying a load, a load about the future, which I needn't!


Ok! I agree! But if that is the case, do I need to struggle with the breadboard at all? Do I need to wire those elaborate connections? Can I simply eject out of the whole framework if anyway my contribution amounts to nothing?
No, I do need to wrestle with the breadboard and arrange those resistors and wires to the best of my ability. If I look back, those Electronic laboratory sessions were important. We experienced a whole gamut of emotion- of elation and dejection, of fear and futility....(often on the same day). The tapestry of emotion made our lives richer. Without them, our lives would have been meaningless and hollow. The diligence, the team-work, the common goal and the shared emotion...everything was essential and helped us emerge stronger and wiser. In the process, we had a whole lot of fun.
So too with life. I am placed today in a particular role, to wire up some circuit on some breadboard. The outcome just does not matter. I only have to be busy in the *process* of wiring the breadboard as diligently as I can.  It will give a structure to each day and make it that much more manageable. That alone is my lot. Ours is not to question why. Ours is but to do and die! So...let us be up and doing, with a heart for any fate. Still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labour and to wait!


P.S.
The reader may recall the last two lines: One from the poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred, Lord  Tennyson and the other from the poem "A Psalm of Life" by H.W Longfellow.