My First  English Novel : A Fascinating Trip to Humans Manufacturing Site

                                                             Background note  

As I grew in years, I either witnessed or learnt through different sources how tentacles of evil, in all its manifestations,  have expanded on earth to cover all directions both  vertically as well as horizontally. Sometimes it seems to me how correct  William Shakespeare was in his assessment when he  asserted in his play, the Tempest “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” Later I came across a quotation attributed to Russian writer and philosopher, Fyodor Dostoevsky “ Humans are the cruelest creatures  of all because they can smile while destroying.”. I found it  endorsing  my assessment in my novel “ A Fascinating Trip to Humans Manufacturing Site”  that humans are animals like animals of the jungle; but, what  makes them more ferocious surpassing  ferocity of the animals of the jungle are ironically the two  precious divine  gifts : the  brain, and the vocal cords to speak.}    

The immediate inspiration to write this novel, however,  came from the   simple words of American poet, essayist  and philosopher, Ralph Waldo Emerson:

“The sun shines and warms and lights us and we have no curiosity to know why this is so; but we ask the reason of all evil, of pain, and hunger, and mosquitoes and silly people.”

 The Book  was at display at the New Delhi World Book Fair at Pragati Maidan from 4^th   to 12^th January 2020; not only won prestigious Golden Book Award 2025 but also Web-Series Worthy Story Teller awards 2025 by WRITER  TODAY. The author for this  book was earlier honoured by DELHIWIRE.com as Top 50 Most Influential Authors of 2024. 

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                                  The  Brief  of The Novel                                                                    

The novel  ‘A Fascinating Trip to Humans Manufacturing Site’,  is a concept book, a philosophical  Sci-Fi fantasy,  where an unexpected dream reveals itself as an encounter with divinity  which shows up as an organized, bureaucratic hierarchy. It   seeks to   probe  inside of humans, filled as they are with strains of  different animals,  with a view to explore the capricious nature  of human   behaviour and actions. It seeks to examine   what prompts  each human being to behave and act the way they do;  how it is that a person or  groups of human beings turn  to be  evil incarnates surpassing  ferocity  of the most ferocious animals of the jungle and act as  the worst enemies of none else but  their own  fellow human beings. The reason we know   is  that  humans are animals like animals of the jungle. But, what perhaps makes them more ferocious surpassing  ferocity of the animals of the jungle are ironically the two  precious so called divine  blessings: Gift of the  brain, and the gift of vocal cords to speak. This, welded with  other allied  human  strains, forms the main thread of the story. The plot runs in   three parts, ‘ Take Off’,  Highjack’, and   ‘ Hangover’. 

‘Take off’’ is the built up for the second part, ‘Highjack’ which is the main stay of the novel. The main protagonist catches the flight to be on way to Port of Spain and would be joined at Heathrow by two of his colleagues, Sidhartha and Maneesha. As the flight takes off, he gets engaged initially in a casual  conversation with co-passengers which turned into serious discussion on crucial national issues  with the intervention of a senior lady journalist, Sarita, who later  becomes the part of the team at Heathrow. As the trolley of hospitality arrives, he  sits relaxed. Having sipped couple of drinks on the rocks, and having taken the meals to the full, he finds  his eyes closing restlessly to fall in slumber. He vaguely remembers  to have struggled to focus on television screen with drooping eyes and found the images vanishing with  the falling down of his eyelids.  But in slumber, a fresh switch is pushed  which throws him into  the bright new colourful  world in a long-protracted dream……….

The second part begins with  the main protagonist slipping  into fast sleep and,  in his dream, finds himself being hijacked in a cute little aircraft where he hears an announcement for   emergency  landing.  But the aircraft, instead of being in a landing mode,  keeps flying higher and higher to   finally   land   at a place where travellers  are  overtaken by an  aura of  soothing divine  flavour.  The  group  of travellers   is then  escorted on a peculiar  vehicle passing through  ‘Gateway to Divinity’ to reach a  conference hall where  the group is shaken by the  shock and surprise  when it is told by  the top  boss  that this group of highly talented twenty persons is purposely brought to the  abode of God to be prepared to serve on earth a definite   purpose necessitated by divine  perception that   evil  on the earth has been assuming  such an alarming proportions  that   winding  up of existing world  and to   create a  new divine  order seemed only viable solution.  But before deciding to wind up the world , it is decided to give the existing system a chance by  sending a well-trained group back to earth to fulfil the divine  mission.  The group is then  taken round on a familiarization trip to places like a  safari and then finally to ‘Divine Research & Development Centre’  where  hundreds of hands are seen   engaged in human manufacturing operations  at the  ‘Humans Manufacturing Site’. 

After  a long question and answer session, the main protagonist  suddenly wakes up  and   looks  around with eyes clouded with severe  impact of a long-protracted dream as he finds himself sitting in his original aircraft.  He finds it difficult to dismiss the whole thing as a mere dream  because every word that he heard there and every place that he visited  made sense like divine revelations. 

 After the plane has landed at Heathrow, he unloads himself of the burden of the unusual dream  after his meeting with Sidhartha and Maneesha at the waiting lounge where Journalist Sarita joins them. They hear the sequence  of the dream, get into the exercise of  analyzing it threadbare and decide that  its contents are too serious and sensible to  be dismissed as a mere dream .After a long discussion,  Sarita, who  treats it as  a  scoop, takes it upon herself the responsibility to take it  forward in consultation with his editor  after returning home  in India and what she does, supported by his editor,  really  turns it into a story of the year which,  with massive engagement of global media,  gets floated all over the world.      

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Second post about author, Dinesh Verma’s  journey as a writer                                                                                 

                    ‘My Times My Tales’  and its Hindi Version

                            ‘Mere Samey Ki Meri Kahaniyan’

            As we move through the passage of time, we come across one incident or the other on our way, and while most of them slip into oblivion as a passing phase, a few of them cling to us as part of a precious treasure. Such happenings keep lingering in the recesses of our minds aching to be expressed through our fond medium, be it a piece of art, a lyrical composition, a novel or a short story.

            Overtaken by desire to express myself on episodes which either touched my inner chords or stirred my sensitivity on matters of relevance to society, I chose to articulate my thoughts and feelings in the form of narratives. My book ‘My Times, My Tales’ is a compilation of 27 such tales which I have articulated to share with learned readers. Here are flashes of some of them.   

            Long back I was catapulted into travelling by a passenger train which was 24 hours late, but the journey, instead of being irritating, became a memorable experience which  I narrated in my tale ‘Delusion of Appearance’. ‘….Far from being averse to its stoppages at short intervals, I started enjoying the journey for its leisurely movement, crowded and yet specious. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry, not the train atleast. I could look at the faces that spoke volumes, heard peals of laughter reflecting carefree attitudes, eyes that wept without trickles of tears telling tales of want and misery. It brought me face to face with the bitterness of human existence ………’ But it was for a sharp bitter pill which I had to swallow at the end of it that the journey became memorable. 

            On another occasion, while travelling from Kalka to Delhi by Himalayan Queen with friends’ families, I observed the conduct of a limping vendor in the compartment whose movement created thud thud sound  that irritated initially  but when I watched his dignified conduct from close quarters I found it to be  sound of self-respect.  I narrated it  under the title ‘Dignity of a Limping Vendor’: ‘….. As he moved from one row to the other on his single leg with his head held high, it seemed to me that the famous philosopher , Henry Ward Beecher, perhaps had this proud man in mind when he uttered his famous words:  It is the heart that makes a man rich. He is rich according to what he is, not according to what he has.’ 

            In one of the tales ‘My Encounter with Ghosts’, I have narrated an incident that would have left me a die-hard believer in the existence of ghosts but for timely disclosure that saved me from falling into pit of superstition. It was the middle of the night. ‘…….As I entered the labyrinth of the old market complex, my bicycle suddenly came to a grinding halt, as if stopped from behind….I quickly checked the bicycle and found nothing wrong…..I was already jittery….I looked around like a dove caught between hounds. The more I thought, the more I felt the horror of the rhythmic steps of ghosts dancing around me with mocking gestures…….’

            Having lived now in Delhi for decades, I have no hesitation to admit what I have stated in my satirical narration, ‘Delhi: Paradise of spirituality’, ‘….it occurs to me at times that great saints whose quest for eternal truth took them to the difficult terrain of Himalayas to undertake extreme penance for attaining eternal salvation, the Moksha, only wasted their time and energy. They could have easily achieved their spiritual goals if they had lived in Delhi as a common man……….

            Every time I have to go to a medical practitioner, I come back with an experience that forces me to recall doctors of my childhood days. The extract from the write up ‘Dr Commonsense’ indicates the reason ‘….there were many in those days like Dr Shambhoo Nath whose primitive style of treating patients, based on their extraordinary  level of commonsense, was tolerated because it made up considerably  for modern day technological advancement and over commercialization of the profession ….’ 

            And every time I read in the newspaper report about parents taking  teachers to task for having punished their children for mischief, I cannot help recalling the teachers and parents of my school days, for, in my mind there linger the words of my mother about the attitude of my father on the subject  which I incorporated in the story ‘The Sweet Bitter Pill’ ‘…..He deliberately thrust the bitter pill down your throat because he wanted to nip in the bud the sickness of indiscipline setting in you. He was least bothered whether the teacher was right or wrong ……He never wanted his children to grow disrespectful and impertinent towards their teachers whom he placed on a much higher pedestal than even the parents.’ 

            Then there is the story of ‘An Angelic Commoner’ about whom the more I thought the more I became convinced that while there is enough of depravity to lead one to sink deep down to unfathomable depth of dirt, there is no dearth of goodness as well that touches the topless tower to beacon the earth with its sharp soothing brightness.

          There is also an interesting story ’Trapped in a Ring’ that narrates the journey of a simple ring purchased for Rupees Twenty from ganga ghat by rings-lover Guruji  which becomes fascinating ‘cosmic joke’ perpetuated with macabre sense of humour.

           And in the same veins have been written some other tales like ‘An Unusual Burden’ and ‘The Bag of laughter’. There are many more in the book, each one with a different colour and flavour.

             Going by  growing demand for Hindi version of the these twenty seven short stories, I  got published the Hindi version of the book under the title ‘Mere samey Ki Meri Kahaniyan’ which also  came  on selling platformst.    

 Links on selling portals for the book ‘My Times My Tales’:

 Amazon: https://www.amazon.in/dp/9357477225?ref=myi_title_dp

 Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/product/p/itme?pid=9789357477222

Links  for the book ‘Mere samey Ki Meri Kahaniyan’:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.in/dp/9362521105?ref=myi_title_dp

Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/product/p/itme?pid=9789362521101

 

 How I came into writing     

I have written in recent years four books, which included a short story book, two novels and a  simplified version of Bhagavad Gita. Their  published copies have been available on popular selling platforms.  Many of the learned readers of my books, aware of my background as Government officer,  showed their keenness to know   how I got into writing. They talked  about my books with probing questions. In order to meet  queries , I have taken the convenient rout  to post in series  in my blog/website   about my books and  my journey as a writer.  

It is interesting to recall how I came into writing . As long as I was in position in Government, I did not pick up pen and paper except to write a few mid page articles in news papers. However, after my superannuation I had all the time to myself and began to jot down in leisurely hours recalling some incidents and occurrences of the past  which had left lasting impression on my mind. Then  I began  to pour out my thoughts from those picked up incidents and happenings and articulated them into a readable stuff.

 However,  it  did not cross  my mind to have them published until my friend  Prof. Pradeep Mathur,  a very  senior journalist, vouched with conviction  that this was  precious publishing stuff. He even  went ahead  to take upon himself the responsibility to have it published through his Peoples syndicate. That is how the first edition  of my book ‘My Times My Tales’, with twenty seven short  stories, was published. The book was formally released in the  year  2016 at  Civil Service Officers  Club, New Delhi.

Since Mr Mathur’s Syndicate was not professionally equipped to continue handling publishing and distributing responsibility, I assigned the job with his concurrence to a publishing house in the year 2024. That is how its second edition was out which is available at Amazon and other selling platforms. The feed back that I received from learned readers was very encouraging. Each story of the book ‘My Times My Tales’ has been  recognized  as  excellent narration of interesting tales.

 Going by the positive feed  back and growing demand for Hindi version of the these twenty seven short stories, I tried my hand and after successful translation of all the stories in Devanagari script, I got published the book under the title ‘Mere Samey Ki Meri Kahaniyan’. Thus the Hindi version of the short stories came also on selling platforms including Amazon and Flipkart.     

And with this first story book, both in English and Hindi,  began my writing venture. And the pen moves on.

                               

                          ........ Next post will be about my first book 'My Times My Tales' 

                             ......  Can also be seen on my website: https://dineshnverma.com/

 

 

 

                                       I Learnt It a Hard Way     

           He was five years elder to me and I was around fourteen then. We were sitting together to chew the meals served by his mother, my aunt,   with whom I had gone to stay with my father  during a short spell of holidays. While chewing the morsel I suddenly stopped eating and pushed my finger  inside my mouth to feel what had hit the space between the teeth. I continued using my finger to locate the culprit,  caught it  and threw it out, assuming that none was watching me absorbed  in this odd act. I was wrong. I was being watched by  my cousin who was sharing the meals with me. I did not notice it being too busy in my act, but his gaze must have been  fixed on my face contorted due to the hurt in my gums  and  my  finger in action with tears trickling from my eyes.

          He had waited for me till I had done with it in my crude way. And then, in a tone, that rings melody to my ears  even to this day, he said  to me, “You do not have to do it the way you did.” Then, displaying through the movement of his own tongue, he explained how, instead of finger, the tongue inside the mouth locates the unwanted small piece and pushes it out to be thrown away conveniently.

        The lesson that I learnt then in my teenage taught me never to miss an opportunity to learn if there was  scope for learning. Even after I had done my graduation and was pursuing postgraduation in English, I learnt with a pinch of salt at that stage that   there is no age for learning and that there is no end to  learning.

         For some unavoidable reason, my grandfather had to go to Moradabad to be with my uncle and had to stay there   longer than planned. I was then in Bareilly and had strict advice from him to be in touch with him  through regular correspondence.  The only means of communication  then being  post card and inland, I regularly wrote to  him and was always promptly responded by him by his neatly written postcards and inlands.

            One such detailed inland I wrote to him when my cousin, though elder to me but more a friend than a brother, was selected  for a job out of Bareilly. Overtaken by mixed feeling of pleasure at his selection and grief at his departure from Bareilly, I wrote in English with a congratulatory tone balancing it, with best of my ability, with words of agony. It was indeed an occasion for utmost rejoicing that my cousin got employment of his choice.

          After about a month my grandfather was back to Bareilly and,  as usual,  got busy with his routine of life. He had steel bed close to his wall almirah which contained   his  entire world  from books in  Persian(Farsi),  Urdu and English, scores of Unani medicines like Majoon Taba kusha to Tukham Balanga , heaps of papers, from relevant to irrelevant, tied in number of bunches.      

         One day, not long after his return,  I came into the Baithak (now called drawing room) for something and as I passed  through his bed he signaled me to wait.  I stopped abruptly and  looked at the open almirah and watched him with a sense of lurking fear of having inadvertently  annoyed him for some reason. He took out a bundle from where he snatched  a used inland. It was one of the inlands I had sent to him  when he was in Moradabad. I found a couple of lines of the letter marked in red. I was shivering in my shoes and was preparing myself to be at the receiving end. But it came like a cool breeze when he spoke  in a soft  tone. “ Look, you had written a very good letter, and I am proud of your love for your brother.” I felt like being patted on my back. But the next sentence he spoke was a bombshell that shook me as if shaken by a tremor.  “Did you know what it meant when you wrote: ‘Though I will be missing him, but since he is leaving for good, I am very happy about him.’ “Did you know what it implied?” he asked me. I looked at him with blank eyes. He explained,  “ The phrase  ‘to leave for good’ means to leave for ever. It is used for the departed soul.”  My God! I found tears trickling down my cheeks. “There is nothing to feel bad. We all make mistakes. The important thing is  never  to give up the desire for   learning. There is no age for learning; there is no end to learning.” I retreated with dried tears reflecting what my ignorance could have cost me if the letter  had been addressed formally to someone else.

           I have  crossed now my grandfather’s age, but I have not forgotten the words of caution passed on to me by my him. I have written five books and got them published but not without first passing on the scripts to  my knowledgeable friend, brothers-in-law and sons-in-law for having a close  look through them and thrice I was saved  from having  committed gross factual mistakes before pushing the scripts in the publishing houses.     

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On the subject of unusual Debate - 'Does God exist?'

 

                 

                  

   A few days back there was an unusual debate between poet and intellectual Javed Akhtar, a known atheist, and religious scholar Mufti Shamail Nadvi on ‘Does God exist?’, moderated by Saurabh Dwivedi of the  Lallan Top. I heard the whole of it and  also read the article  on the subject by senior journalist  Yogendra Yadav published in the Indian Express on 23^rd of December.

Though  I found the idea of such a debate quite pointless because I believe that  it is  impossible  to prove the existence of God and it is equally impossible  to prove the  claim  that He does not exist. But the subject nevertheless has always attracted my attention  as I found it academically both intriguing and  exciting. .

I was reminded by the debate about the detailed discussion on the subject  in my own novel ‘A Fascinating Trip To Humans Manufacturing Site’, the book that has to its credit the Golden Book Award 2025. Being a hot topic, those  who followed  my Blog  earlier may enjoy the titbits that the extract  from the book carries. 

Extract from  novel ‘A Fascinating Trip To Humans Manufacturing Site’ (pages 47…)  

            And , now  I will send you  on earth to hear for yourselves the discussions that propelled us to initiate this exercise.  Mr Zomo got up from the seat and went near the panels hinged to the wall in a certain order . Out of hundreds of panels he put his finger on one , which, understandably, denoted “Earth’. It seemed apparent from the actions of Mr Zomo that the  panels, which came out as fixed on the wall on the push of a  button,  related to different stars , planets and satellites.  As we saw it happening, the panel marked  ‘Earth’, with  a mysterious touch by Mr Zomo,  started  opening in a circular mode, widening gradually, exposing the planet  and bringing  it into focus  in a moving sequence one after the other , the crust , oceans , the mountains, the jungles, the cities , towns and a terrain of villages  on earth.   At a certain point , the movement began to  slow down narrowing the  process of  focusing,  first on a township, creating an illusion for us to be   walking on the streets and lanes , and then on a halting railway train which picked up speed  after we ,  the team of twenty,  found ourselves sitting in the compartment in an haphazard manner on seats which , somehow, faced six gentlemen conversing with each other excitedly.

          There was a seventh person who sat on a solo seat ,silent and alert, hearing every word spoken  by the group of six while appearing to be  indifferent and unmindful to what was happening. He, without any doubt, was  God’s representative. By the time our team joined the group of six in  the compartment , they seemed to have warmed up to discuss the theme , incoherently though ,  which was the reason for us to be brought  here on earth for a while.

         “What did you say? I could not hear you, Satish. There was so much noise , “ asked  the man in his early forties sitting at the corner of the long berth. 

        “  Ok, Avinash, I said  why should we all the time blame God for everything that goes wrong. After all , we have the brains and  if we do not act wisely , what is the fault of God. Why  should we take shelter under the cover of Providence for our wrong and foolish actions? ” repeated  Satish what  perhaps he had already spoken before we landed inside the compartment . He was seated  third in the facing row.

       “ And what about things over which man has no control  like the victims of natural calamities? The hurricanes, the avalanches,  earthquakes and  tremors, fast winds and heavy rains and such other calamities which leave behind the cruel ‘ dance of death and agony’ for no fault of a man ,”  contested  Gokul, an elderly looking person  sitting next to Satish.

     “ Yes, I quite agree with  Gokul,” joined Himesh the discussion which had risen to take serious overtones.  “ Well, do not misunderstand me. I have as much faith   in God  as anybody else. I believe as most of us believe that here is some power that created us and that  governs us. But the question keeps lingering in my mind that if God is there and He governs the earth,  then why there is so much  of misery, woes and pains  afflicting  the living beings,”.

          Satish seemed to be completely cornered . He did not have  answer to any of the queries raised by Gokul and Himesh . Added to it, Nirmesh gave quite a different twist  to whole discussion when he put a point blank question,  “ Where is He? if God is God, the omnipresent, the omniscient and omnipotent and created the world and the life on it with all the intelligence, then how was it that there was  so much evil and so much of  suffering? How could he vitiate his own creation?” He spoke as if challenging the very existence of God .  His skepticism was born out of  apparent  contradiction that the God is  there and yet He does nothing when there is pain and agony engulfing  his own created living being. That amounts to He being not there in the opinion of Nirmesh. 

      “ Yes, to that  extent your question makes sense when you say why there is so much evil and suffering on earth , if God is there to take care of us. But if  you use the argument to insinuate that God, or for that matter, Divine Power does not exist, then I beg to differ,” said Gokul. “That there is some power, we may call it with whatever name, that created Universe and  regulates it . How did  that Power created its creation and regulates it  is a matter perhaps beyond our comprehension . But  it certainly has the intelligence. ”

         “ Well, I do not know.  I am simply  confused.  I have been trying  to seek answers  to only  two questions which keep nagging me , specially when I see people worshipping with deep faith  or even talk about the God or the Divinity  with phrases like ‘ Nothing happens without Him’. And nobody seems to know enough to answer them,” Nirmesh was bent on raising ticklish issues of philosophy knowing that none there, for that reason, anywhere had the  answers.

       “ What are those questions?” asked Himesh .   

        “My  first question is:  If God created Universe , me , you and all of  us ,  then who created God?  The simple answer that most of the people give is  that  God is God who is above everything and hence He was  not needed to be created . But this is not the answer to my question,” said Nirmesh

          Well, you are an atheist  and do not believe in the existence of God. That is why you are raising such baseless questions,” retorted Satish who saw into the question threat to his own unflinching faith. He was the person who followed tenets of his faith and religion meticulously and visited nearby temple regularly for worshipping before the divine  deities.  He had  visited most of the prominent temples and gone on pilgrimages, taken  holy dips in the Ganges on most of the prescribed occasions, paid obeisance  at  famous Shrines of goddess  Vaishno Devi and Sat  Sai Baba of Shirdi. Not that others did  not have faith or had not gone on  pilgrimages or visited places of worship. There are innumerable people who have gone beyond the realm of their own faith and paid their  obeisance at others’ places of worship, mosques, churches and gurudwaras.   But none could match the level of faith that Satish had nurtured. He  was ready to quarrel if anyone dared pointing to his excessiveness on the matter.

      “ Well, if you look to my question with a sense of logic, you will understand  why I posed the question the way I have done it,” continued Nirmesh. “Long back my  six years old daughter posed the question: “Papa, you told me that you are my father who had a father, then your father had a father and his father also had a father and so on and on,”  She kept adding  and then , tired of  unending ascend of my predecessors, she cut short by  putting the question, “But  who was the first father?” I said our first father was God. Then who was his father? she asked.’   I could understand what was cooking up in her tiny  innocent mind . But I could not give any satisfactory answer  to her question. But the question kept lingering on.  There has  to be a creator of every creation, whatever the process of creation,” Nirmesh stopped to see if any of his friends in the group was ready to answer it. He found everyone thinking with the seriousness of philosophers but, quite expectedly, did not find them venturing to answer.

         We , who were hearing the discourse with curious  interest, were not surprised at the silence of others. There was no question for them to answer a question which none so far could answer eversince the first man touched the ground of this earth. Breaking the silence, Himesh goaded Nirmesh to speak out the second question , as if he intended to answer  both the questions together.

        Nirmesh took some time to pick up the right words and then said “  My second question is : Assuming God is God, the omnipresent, omniscient and omnipotent, who created, with  the divine  intelligence,  the world with life on it in all its varieties, then how was it that there is   so much evil and so much of  suffering.  We are born to live  all the time in one fear or the other, the fear of sickness, accident, invalidity, pangs of ageing, the dangers of natural calamities  and ultimate death. We do not know when evil, in its varied manifestations, may take us in its  vice like grip in one way or the other.” He stopped to breathe and to watch the reaction of his small but highly enlightened audience.  .

          Taking advantage of the pause that lasted for a little too long than usual, Bindan,  who was so far only hearing and had not spoken a word bursted out  to give vent to his pent-up thoughts and feelings  supplementing  what   Nirmesh was trying to argue. “I have not been able to understand why God  created us to live the way we live, live in strife, all the time ready to pounce at others to inflict  physical and moral injuries, rapes , plunders , murders , robberies , skirmishes and full scale wars  leading to  large scale naked dance of barbarity  and death ?  If evil was created to coexist with good , the way it does all over the world, then was it created  for fun  or was there some tangible reason for creating world full of  funny contradictions? What was the purpose after all ?  To me it seems to be  nothing short of a game, a sport to be played and enjoyed  by  Divine Power by pitting good against evil. And the fun is that these two opposites poles are being put at loggerheads with  hundreds and thousands and millions of twists in the game. I think, the great English novelist, Thomas Hardy, was right when he concluded his novel ‘The Tess of D’Urbervilles’: with  the words , if I remember correctly,   ‘As  flies are to the wanton boys so are we to him.  He kills us for fun.’ If this is  not it then what it is it?” He heaved a sigh of relief after he was through  and watched his friends for reaction .

        But it was too late because the train  slowed  down with the approaching station and he  and his friends began to take in custody their suitcases and got ready to get down. As for us , the travellers from the other world, we found ourselves first in the street and then , before we could make sense, found ourselves sitting on our seats from where we had vanished mysteriously and saw the panel on the wall returning to its position.  It goes without saying that  Mr Zomo pushed the  button to make the panel move in reverse position in order  to bring us back to the conference hall.   

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MOROSOVIRUS: UNWANTED SUCCESSOR OF CORONAVIRUS

   Sitting at home  during lockdown within the four walls of my flat in Delhi, like in a compartment of a stranded  wayside railway yard, with a   pantry jointly managed by my wife and me , it is only natural for me to be carried  by  a wave  of imagination  about  what it will   be like  after the  invisible demon chooses to say good bye to us.  I wonder what kind of specie we will emerge after the protracted war with the unseen is deemed to be over.

   Only a couple of months ago, whenever we met in a get together with our friends and families, we felt miraculously rejuvenated. And this was in addition of our daily habitual meets with our kith and kin and a wide circle of friends. There were no hiccups, no hesitations.  And now , with the present concept of social distancing  being taken a little too far, I am afraid,  social distancing  may not   in the long run, begin to  mean distance of miles even between the closest of kin , as an  unfortunate legacy of coronavirus,  if  at any point of time  it deludes us into the belief that it has left for good .

 My fears are born out of its  mode of  behavior that has  forced us to live the life of  prisoners, some in the house arrest , many others in the dungeons and many more running  away to escape being caught endangering their  lives in so  many ways. If we shun these negative expressions then let us call it ‘living the  life  of a recluse’.

    

   I find the   behavior of coronavirus  very funny . I  feel it is all the time around me, with its large family , wherever I am  , though I have not dared stepping out  even ones.  A little natural cough or a periodic sneeze  and  I shiver in my shoes without wearing them, as  I  see it coming and run to kitchen  to gulp in quickly  the hot water as if with every gulp I have shot it down and am watching its spoils with the pride of a skilled hunter.

    If  a vendor  comes to my  door at my calling , we jump, nevertheless, to the floor ,  rush to wear the mask and take the packet of medicines from him  with half opened doors  as if he is a ghost and is  handing  over a can of scorpions. The faces familiar for years have become suddenly alien, and still worse,  have become untouchables and  in many cases woefully  stigmatized for none of their  fault. We  keep washing hands fearing it is in our fists . While we pretend to know where it is, none knows for certain where it is. It is such a deceptive enemy. I call it deceptive because, with  all my claims to knowledge about it, I may come absolutely unscathed despite being in the crowded market without mask, and , if  ill luck  would have it , a single  transaction with a single unknown person may get me into the worst problem .  

   

   And finally , my mind goes to the future , the uncertain future , when the semblance of previous life has returned and the world, which was standstill, has started moving again.  But can it move with the same pace and fashion ? Now the very same people who would  hug me  at the very sight of me  will indeed move ahead to hug me, as old  habits die hard,  but will pull back quickly  and will rub hands in exasperation .  I do not know  when will the time come when we can hold the hands again and  shake them as  earlier, instead of contented with folding  hands saying Namaste  invoking   our rich cultural practice, a virtue out of necessity .

   With  phobia and fear psychosis building up all over the  world  I see coronavirus  throwing up  morosovirus  as its  successor. It is  creating  a vast  trail of  morose people . I see, hear and read every day about people’s changed behavior, in some cases verging on perversity, idiocy, and even lunacy. I see the old sacrosanct norm of love thy neighbour being thrown to winds. I loath to imagine a scenario where  the present day tactical distancing  becomes  a permanent barrier like international border  between two  people howsoever close they may be .

   While  the nation through its democratically  elected governments, both at centre and at states, has risen to the occasion, pushing all  possible resources to combat deceptively aggressive  invisible enemy ,  coronavirus  and   endeavouring ,at the same time,  to mitigate the suffering of  millions of poor  who, being in unorganized sector have been disorganized and disoriented, will surely succeed in winning  the war against coronavirus , but how  will it  contain the evil impact of morosovirus   remains to be seen as this virus, jocularly called morosovirus,  may be left behind by  coronavirus as its  successor as  Seleucus was left behind in India  reluctantly by  Alexender as his successor. 

       

     I pine to see the day when we shall  overcome the impact of  both , the predecessor as well as the  successor  and return to the good old days forgetting  both of them . I pray the day comes sooner than we desire . 

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