The trees know the truth.

The trees know. They really do. The Native American tribes understood the wisdom of the trees. I often think that trees just might be the wisest living things on this planet. And last week I heard a wonderful poem about trees that expressed that same sentiment. It's so exciting and awe-inspiring to read someone's writing from centuries ago, only to find that there is something in the human spirit that ripples and echoes down the ages.

Civilisation!
The trees shudder in dismay.
The city writhes on.

So much of what we call civilisation is so barbaric. And when we call men "beasts" or "animals" to express that, it seems a bit silly. They are far less barbaric than we are. And the trees .. the American tribes would say that if a tree had to be cut down, it was better to cut the younger tree, because to cut an old tree was to destroy and lose forever the wisdom within that tree. So when I see our glorious old trees being hacked and pulled out of the earth to make way for malls I can't help but think: Stupidville, here we come.

Once Upon A Speed-Bump

Once upon a speed-bump, I saw it all. We used to be the City of Gardens and Lakes and even of Beans. Somewhere along the line, we turned into the City of Potholes. And when I saw that speed-bump (aka speedbreaker or road hump) outside the Ashok Nagar Police Station, I knew exactly how Phoebe felt in that episode of Friends - the one where Carol and Susan get married.

Great big speed-bump stretching across the width of the road, designed to slow down traffic. And if that doesn't stop you, then the pothole will. Yes. A great big pothole INSIDE a great big speed-bump.

"NOW I've seen it all!"

This is why.

Perhaps the screaming mother is not creating a Hitler or a Stalin or a Saddam, perhaps he will not turn into a shadowy rapist who avenges himself of his childhood injustices with every woman he can. Perhaps he will not keep alive that searing coal within him, perhaps he will not fan it into a full flame one day in a communal riot.

Perhaps he will just be a man who screams at his own children. Who drinks a little too much at office parties, works too hard, drives too fast, smokes too much. Who hits his wife, or maybe just hates his life. Whatever he does do, however, whatever he does become, I will know. And I will know why.

His blanched fist tells me.
His choking rage screams the truth:
His parents failed him.

I am beginning to understand that in every man who raises his arm in violence, who kills, or rages, who seethes and hates, and seeks to destroy, there is something not just to fear, but also to pity. In every violent action, every such man tells us:

My mother failed me. My father failed me.I was scared. I was hurt. I was small, and alone, and fragile. I was afraid then, and I am still afraid.