Slice of Life

My uncles and their friends despised the Congress government, cursed Nehru and the Gandhis, cheered the Ram Janmabhoomi movement.

Nagesh, they said, had once placed a stone snake god beside an eagle god in the village temple—a blind act of faith, if he’d done it at all.

“How much do you earn?” one asked. “What if you worked elsewhere?” the other breathed, soft as a secret.

Ear piercing struck me as a holdover from ancient tribes—maybe a way to tell Hindu kids from non-Hindu ones, or just a custom that stuck.

We live in a world where I can ask an AI like Grok to unravel life’s mysteries, where satellites hum above and cards sometimes fail below. Yet we still look for signs in the first sale or the shoes by the door. Maybe that’s not a flaw, but a charm—a reminder we’re human, searching for patterns in a universe that’s too big to care.

Then, at noon, a sergeant dumped a pile of registries on me—tedious verification work, page by page. My heart sank.

First off, what even is Gurubala? It’s this belief in my community that you need to consult a priest or astrologer to pinpoint the perfect moment for anything important—marriages, housewarmings, you name it. They claim it’s about the planets aligning, the stars whispering, or some cosmic vibe check. But let’s cut through the incense smoke, who decides what’s a “good time” versus a “bad time”? On what basis?

It’s not just an observation—it’s a call. Space isn’t just a privilege to envy; it’s a principle to chase. We can’t all move to mansions, but we can fight for room in our lives and societies. In cities, it’s green parks, wider streets, and housing that doesn’t stack people like boxes—things India’s urban planners are starting to rethink with projects like Delhi’s “green lungs” initiative. In our minds, it’s carving out time to unclutter, to let thoughts stretch and settle.

I stood guard with a .303 rifle slung over my shoulder, boots polished, posture rigid, watching over officers’ quarters, the stadium, even a burial ground.

Growing up Brahmin, purity was a silent rule—holy water, sacred spaces. Dumping gutter fish into our washing tank? That was heresy, unintentional but real. Yet my parents’ reactions—Mom’s fury, Dad’s calm—taught me that religion isn’t just rituals; it’s the humanity beneath them. Mom cared more about my safety than caste taboos, and Dad saw innocence over impurity.

When he retired in 1997, the classroom—his battlefield—fell silent. Teaching wasn’t just his job; it was his purpose, his way of shaping young minds. Losing that left a void no pension could fill. He didn’t crave status, but the quiet ache of feeling “less than” gnawed at him. Yet, even now, the government’s pension fuels his generosity. Milk, curd, newspapers, fruits, snacks for the kids, cooking gas, medicines, travel, rent—his money still holds the family together.