Education

She stood only a few feet from the ground. He, towered over her. Her weapons were sharper but significantly smaller than his. His could easily go through her, spelling the end of her reign. He was better protected by nature than she was. Better armoured. She had mouths to feed. Her little ones were tucked away in the protection of their home before she ventured out. They would be left at the mercy of the wild if things were to go wrong here. All of them. Toddlers. Innocent. Unaware. And if all this was not enough, she and her friends were outnumbered by these beasts. They were a handful of them. Pitted against a whole herd. Each of them capable of causing serious harm to her. Mathematically, logically, analytically, it was insanity to proceed. But they lay in wait. Patient. And when the moment came, she led the barge. And triumphed! The lionesses ate. And the seemingly unbeatable bison had been slain. Those enormous horns thumped into the dirt. The tough skin was now in shreds.

But none of the above thoughts ran though her mind. She did not think about any of the above. I did. She was not educated. I am. She did not do the math or the calculations of risk and chance. I did. She did not let others determine what she could and what she could not do. What was within her and what was impossible. I have. I am educated. I have been tutored and taught. To think and reason. And I am grateful that I am no lioness. For if I were, I would have surely starved to death. Because logically, I would not be big enough to conquer anything. Scientifically, I would be outrun by others who have more stamina. Outnumbered by larger herds. And bullied by bigger herbivores. If I were a lion, lion’s would have never been crowned ‘The king of the jungle.’

I am educated. Thank godness, the lion is not!

Divide and destroy

I love this place. It never ceases to amuse me. Let me tell you a fact, on a lazy afternoon when you have broken your back from dawn, the best place for a butterfly to land her back side is the rooftop of a school. Look at them kids singing, “If I were a butterfly…”. Cute! Well, here is a little essay written by a butterfly. And I don’t have to tell you what it is titled now, do I?

Imagine a field of endless flowers lined up. Beckoning to be pollinated. Provided in abundance by mother nature herself. Me, or any of my kind have had nothing to do with their sowing, fertilizing or blossoming to such glory. And just as we ready ourselves to being what is naturally our right, a big ‘papa’ butterfly announces that not all of us are entitled to claim what we think belongs to no one. In order to make sure that everyone gets a fair share we are divided into groups on the basis of what our deceased and long gone ancestors did and where we have flow from. Then when we ready ourselves again, another ‘papa’ announces that it would only be fair if we are divided on the basis of how big our wings are and how much pollen we can process. So we are divided again in to overlapping unclear groups. And we ready ourselves. But just as we about to flap our wings, yet another ‘papa’ stood up and said that the butterflies who come from lesser fertile areas must get more access to these flowers. Even if that meant wastage of pollen as these butterflies did not know how to make the most of what was being provided to them. So we stood aside as these butterflies went about causing their share of destruction. And we had not yet finished sighing at the wastage than another ‘papa’ felt that the bees should not be robbed of their right to pollinate. So another portion was set aside for them. Suddenly we noticed that a many butterflies claimed to be bees and began helping themselves while we could only be mute spectators. When we objected, the papas replied, “They have papers that say they are bees.” And if all this was not enough there were a handful of butterflies that could have all they wanted, when they wanted as they had ‘GOLDEN WINGS’. Some of them merely had parents who had golden wings. And that entitled them to anything and everything. While all the butterflies squabbled, the field withered and the flowers perished. Years later, the butterflies were still squabbling. Pinning the blame on one another for the dearth of flowers to pollinate and what the four papas…(four fathers….forefathers) said. Here is what we have learnt works.

Laissez Faire!

Socially evolved beings indeed.

As I carried the crumb back home, my mind started playing philosopher again. "Look around" it said. I obeyed. And the following is what my mind made my eyes see. Standing at a distance were our “Kshatriyas”. Protectors whenever the need arose. They would lay down their lives without a moment’s hesitation so that others may live. Amongst us were the survivors of many left behind by the slain valiant. We made sure they never went wanting. There were many stories our history told that could be used as an excuse to never choose to fill the shoes of a kshatriya. Yet, there were many fools who still did not heed. I walked past many of the other “Kamgaar” brothers who toiled to ensure our passage back home was as streamlined as possible. Smoothening the many passages. Building new ones to accommodate our ever growing family. Following orders from those who led because they had done it all before. They dug where they were told to. They excavated. Transported the dirt. Cleaned. All for us. Nothing was ever too dirty for them and they were never too dirty for us to embrace as our own. Her? Well, I had never seen her in person. Since my birth I had been told that our duty was to serve the queen. “Our mother”. She was the reason we all came to existence. And she was what bound us as one. No. had never seen her. But always felt her presence. I always knew that she was amongst us. And any wrong I did, weather or not I was punished for, would put me at shame for having wronged her. I walked further still carrying the crumb. It would feed many of us. Even those whose duty was to but serve our mother. They would see to her every need. “The Pujaris”. Tend to her. Ensure she is kept as a queen should be. In return she ensures that we have enough hand to keep working.

My load was many times my size and many times my weight. Yet I walked on. I did this everyday. No. No. Not the philosophy. My work. I did it all. Everything that was asked of me. “Vishwakarma” you could call me. And I am but a part of a mighty colony. We are surrounded by giants. Giants called. ‘MAN’. Giants who spit on their very own who protect them. Protectors who abuse the hands that feed them. Devotees who disrespect their very reason for their existence. And they form a part of a society that thrives on idolizing the earthly and conniving and sodomising their earth. I am a part of a colony free of corruption. Of segregation. That does not thrive by thinking low of the person beside me. Who am I, you ask?

Well, I am but a tiny worker ant. A minute speck. Yet, I am bigger than you will ever be.