The Wild Rose - Part III

The Wild Rose - Part I

The Wild Rose - Part II

She held her head high.

Was a mere free life worth all this pain? It is said, the final moments are filled with memories of forgotten past, some of which are hidden deep inside!

Born a Rose, wilderness was her choice, for freedom is what she valued the most.

“Freedom comes with a price”, said her mother once.

“Everything and anything in this world come with a price Mother. Why single out freedom?” thundered the rebellious daughter.

“True my child! Yet freedom seeks the steepest price.”

“I don’t mind paying any price Mother, for nothing in this world can be more gruelling than the construes of conventional commitments, that binds the mind to play an age-old rehearsed ballet”

“Seekers of freedom are bend to be vulnerable my child! For some, you may be an indulgence, for some you are a scapegoat. Those who desist conventional roles are easy target dear. Wilderness may sound liberating. Was there ever a comfortable forest? Tricky shrubs, dangerous swamps, poisonous animals and trees that refuse to let the sunlight come in - everything you depend may become an obstacle. Seekers of freedom are demanded a price and the price is steep. The price can be hurtful. The journey can be lonely.” Mother did not plead. Her job was to state facts as they were.

Mother continued, “Freedom is a choice, not a choice for the feeble mind. Freedom is embarking on a journey to find your true potential, impervious to the judgements and taunts of the polished. Freedom is the willingness to explore beyond the obvious, unapologetically, uninhibitedly and unafraid. A terribly lonely journey that makes you question your path at every junction, where everything around may fall apart at the split of a second and gathering yourself is your only chance for survival. The fruits can be horizons, oblivious to the common, but the path can be treacherous”.

Mother finished with the satisfaction that she has warned her child of the perils. The decision is hers, but the early lessons had to be stout. Thou trepidation ran deep, she was proud of her daughter.

 

Her mother warned her well. As the last of the water washed her leafless stem, the Wild Rose remembered.

She remembered the day she sprouted in this Village of Sun amidst a sea of well tamed, well organized, bountiful Rice. Her roots weren’t welcome. Yet she persisted, refraining from cutting the barrage of roots that shoot her way.

Then one day, while she stood her ground and fought the battle alone, a farmer came as an ally. She was annoyed by his imprudence to shift her elsewhere, but the brashness was forgiven for the tenderness showered. The constant companionship he offered was an element of stability in her vagabond life. She shuddered at such unwanted attention, but fears were dispelled, in the day-long waits and evenings filled with conversations.

He laughed, he agonized, his endless future plans for harvest and festivals irked her. The farmer ran with time, does he understand the vicious circle of human misery he is being gulped into – wondered the Wild Rose many a times.

Then came the moment of reckoning – the Great Floods.

Just like that, the choice of abandonment was made.

Just like that, all those laughter and confessions turned to mere indulgences.

Just like that, she was left, for she was Wild and free.

 

Yes, wilderness is a lonely journey. Her mother had prepared her well. Seekers of freedom gather themselves, when everything around them has fallen apart.

Men have fled.

Cattles have scattered.

Trees were uprooted.

Remnants of a once prosperous human settlement was being swept away by the gushing ruthless water.

Havoc everywhere.

The Wild Rose shed her leaves and flowers – stripped to her bare minimum, embracing her deep roots. She didn’t close her eyes. She had to see what was coming, for the path to freedom can be seen, only by those, who kept their eyes open.

“I’m exhausted but strong. I may be lost, but I'm free”, Murmured the Wild Rose, a seeker of freedom.

Tragedy of a Literate Society

It needs gruesome incidents and loss of precious lives, for people to acknowledge, that even the most literate State in India, is capable of living in dark ages when it comes to familial dealings.

What does this show? Literacy, validated through certificates is no guarantee to enlightenment of society.

An individual is a by-product of nature and nurture, with latter playing a major role in the holistic development. Literacy is just a small part of that nurture program. What the individual decides to benefit out of their ability to read and comprehend, is dependent on what environment they are eventually exposed to.

We educated and modernized our society. We empowered our women. We encouraged them to speak their mind. Unfortunately, we forgot to teach educated and opinionated men and women to co-exist peacefully and prosper organically.

Often opinionated women are caricatured as aggressive, man-bashing and obnoxious, who is not capable of reasoning rationally. This negative presumption coupled with tendency of well-meaning men to mansplain ignorantly, has necessitated women to be volubly vocal in order to be heard. The result – aggressive exchanges that escalate to arguments in no time.

To reason rationally, whether it is a man or woman, requires a certain amount of patience to listen without prejudice, comprehend with an open mind and think beyond the conventional gender roles. Does our high literacy rate enable such a temperament?

The current barrage of incidents in a highly literate and socially developed society like Kerala should be a warning sign. These unfortunate events are not only about the Manasas, Vismayas and Uttaras whose life was horrifically cut short. It is equally about the Rakhils, Kirans and Soorajs whose mental growth was stunted in a literate society.

It is high time we take stock of what literacy has given us.

Certificates, Statistic or mere negotiation chip in dowry market? Until literacy pave way to create a society of enlightened individuals young and old, irrespective of gender, the ROI of literacy shall hover around zero.

The Wild Rose - Part II

 

Many a summer passed. The Village of Sun was dusted long back, its former settlers now reside in the Village of Moon.

The great floods are a thing of past. The young even believe, the whole thing was a hogwash.

The Farmer is a changed man now. Seldom has a man regained his glory after a total wipe-out! Hard-work and diligence were inherent to him – mother luck never left his side. If he was the wealthy Farmer in the Village of Sun, in the Village of Moon, he was Imperial himself.

His passion for Rice never dwindled. In familial commitment, no one could surpass him. His progeny lived up to their father’s name. Yet he rarely smiled. His laughs were memories of a forgotten past.

Every night the Farmer brooded. A piece of me lies in the Village of Sun. What fate it met; courage fails me to even think.

Imprisoned in his social standing, the Farmer failed to find a reason, to steal a visit to Sun, just to see whether his Wild Rose survived.

What was abandoned was not just a beautiful Plant. In that small window of choice, valour was abandoned, promises were abandoned, his own true fragile self was abandoned. When the purest piece of your heart is burned at the altar of social standing, misery becomes a natural companion.

The Farmer languished in agony, for a reason, only he was privy to.

The Rice watched the Farmer wither in throes. But she didn’t have time for such emotional baggage. She was entrusted with a larger purpose – to feed and sustain the Nation. Off late, the Farmer’s passion in tending her was burdening. New hands would be welcome, thought the Rice one day, for the larger purpose cannot be sacrificed for the weariness of one man.  

Then came a windy monsoon night. The Farmer thought it was time to hand over and confront judgement in Sun. He called his family and handed them handful of his cherished Rice.

“Hand us the legacy with a smile Father”, said his beloved daughter.

“My smile was lost in the great Floods dear.”, the Father wanted to confess. But he kept his silence.

“Hand us the legacy with a smile Father. If it means going back somewhere, so be it. But come back to us with that Smile”, pleaded the young girl.

How can a Father confess to his daughter, that that incessant rain years ago, stripped him of his true honour, exposing his meek self? How can a man of his standing, admit that he is nothing but an imposter, living under the mercy of a Wild Rose’s silence?  

But he was touched by her yearning. What fault was hers to be denied a Father’s smile, all these years.  He justified himself and abandoned any thought of leaving. 

The Farmer hugged the daughter. He handed her the Rice with a tearful smile, “Prosper my child. For this Rice gives bountiful to the committed ones and I shall stand by your guiding side.”

The Farmer watched from a distance how his daughter skilfully tended to the Rice. She bent down, weeded a Wild Rose and carefully Planted it by the sides of the field.

“Isn’t it beautiful Father?” said the daughter joyfully. That familiar sense of abandonment engulfed the Farmer again.

The Wild Rose - Part I

Once upon a time, in the village of Sun, there lived a farmer who was revered and adored for his hard-work. He exemplified an ideal citizen and the village council never missed an opportunity wherein his name and deeds were not quoted, to present and future generations.

The farmer cultivated Rice, the staple food of the nation, to which Village Sun belonged. His breed of Rice had the best known yield. Inherited from his mother, he was entrusted with safeguarding this breed of Rice for eternity.

The farmer flourished with this cherished breed of Rice. He prospered multifold with every passing year and he never failed to count his blessings.

Years went by. 

Many a bountiful harvest later, a Wild Rose sprouted amidst his Rice. The farmer was astonished to find a Rose amongst his cherished high yield Rice. There was no way a Rose could catch its roots in such a field. Yet it did. 

The skillful farmer he was, he carefully weeded the Rose. One look at the Rose, the farmer’s heart was filled with a rare warmth – he couldn’t kill such an innocent and pure flower, he told himself. He carefully planted the Rose elsewhere in his field, away from prying strays and predators, where his watch and scrutiny were always present.

Years rolled by – as they don’t wait for anyone or anything. 

The Rice was nurtured and cultivated as per the harvest plan that was followed for years together. It never disappointed the farmer. The Rose also grew and blossomed, giving flowers that mesmerized every passing soul. Her sharp thorns kept predators at bay, for she was wild and knew how to survive without losing her flowers. 

Through the day, the farmer, watched from a distance how she blossomed. By evening, when the commitments wound up, he would sit beside the Rose sharing his deepest fears and joy. An unlikely companionship nurtured their growth – for the farmer shed the heaviness of his heart. And the Rose encouraged by his words spread her roots; for wild she was and surviving the odds were inherent to her nature.

Then, there came a time when the village was battered with incessant rains. The boughs fell, the burrows filled. The village council proclaimed evacuation. Time was short and choices were to be made.

The farmer took one last look at the things he salvaged. The Rice and the house were tucked safely into the Cart. He looked at his field with moist eyes. His years of toil had to be left behind but the eyes were moist for the Rose he was abandoning.

Though wild and brave, she didn’t earn the rescue. For everything the farmer saved was sanctioned but not a wild Rose. 

Rice is the staple nourishment with which the human race survived. A wild Rose is a mere indulgence of nature for aching souls. So, he was told.

The Cart rode off carrying the farmer, his Rice and all baptized possessions, which will soon find a new home. The wild Rose stood with her stem held high, her leaves and flowers shed, for she need to brave the flood now.

What's in a name?

What's in a name? Sometimes a legacy.

On 04^th March 1961, India’s first aircraft carrier, INS Vikrant was commissioned by Indian Navy.

Built by Vickers Armstrong, HMS Hercules (as she was called), the Majestic class vessel was inducted to the British Royal Navy in 1945. When World War II ended, her construction was still incomplete. HMS Hercules was sold to India in 1957 and was later re-named as INS Vikrant.

India’s decision to own a British light fleet aircraft carrier was met with all sorts of protest and skepticism. But then, isn’t that the fate of any major Defence procurement? With a vast coastline, India had to strengthen its Navy and INS Vikrant was the answer.

INS Vikrant started its Indianization at Harland and Wolff Yard, Belfast, Ireland; the same shipyard that made RMS Titanic!

On 4^th March 1961, she was commissioned by Vijayalakshmi Pandit, the then High Commissioner of India to Britain. Commanded by the young Captain Pritam Singh Mahindroo, the ship sailed half way through the world, finally getting a hero’s welcome at home by the then Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, formally joining the Indian Navy on 3^rd November 1961 at Bombay Harbour. The story of its first Captain, who started as a merchant navy sailor at 16, is as interesting as the Ship, but that is a story for another time.

INS Vikrant was never taken lightly by the enemies. She was initially deployed in Operation Vijay of 1961 (annexation of Goa), with her role being patrolling the sea to check foreign intrusions. During the 1965 war, Pakistan claimed to have sunk her when she was actually in dry dock fitting. There were many questions raised about the heavy investment made on the vessel, some even terming her as white elephant. Her hour of glory however, came during the 1971 Indo-Pak war, with the vessel playing an instrumental role in neutralizing enemy advances.

Seldom has a ship commanded the imagination and inspired so many generations! The vessel was celebrated and paved way to the sea of interest on maritime studies and investment in India.

After an active service spanning over three decades that was marred by some controversies as well, INS Vikrant was decommissioned on 31^st January 1997. Ironically, her first Captain, himself, decommissioned her in the Mumbai Naval Dockyard.

But the story of INS Vikrant was far from over. Post decommissioning, she was converted to museum ship in Mumbai. Opened for public in 2001, operational cost soon overrun all sentiments. The museum was finally closed in 2012, after Navy failed to get a partner to run it. Thereafter, it was decided to scrap the vessel, a decision that invited many litigations and flared emotions.

INS Vikrant was sold as scrap through an online auction in January 2014 to IB Commercials Pvt Ltd. After further round of litigations and appeals, going all the way up to Supreme court, INS Vikrant was scrapped on 22^nd November 2014 at Darukhana ship breaking yard in Mumbai.

The British Seahawks, French Breguet Alize aircraft, Westland Sea Kings, HAL Chetak, Sea harriers to the Bofors anti-aircraft guns – INS Vikrant carried it all.  

All good things have to end. For better things await only when the good is gone.

Today, India’s first indigenous aircraft carrier (IAC 1) – INS Vikrant, built by Cochin Shipyard is undergoing trials. The initial plan to built the new Vikrant was laid down as early as 1989. It came to design phase in 1999 and formal govt approval happened in 2003. IAC 1 - INS Vikrant is expected to be commissioned by 2022 and be a formidable force in India's maritime capabilities.

So, what's in a name? Not just a legacy, but a destiny to script!

IAC 1 - INS Vikrant