The colour of fire: Agni-V

I hate missiles. They are inhuman. But, of course, you might say, that is the idea. I hate missiles because I like a fair fight, if at all. Firing missiles with a push of a button is not fair. Don’t give me examples of other countries and how all is fair in love and war. It is not.

Yet, we in India have been jubilant over the Agni-V ballistic missile that took off from Wheeler Island off the Odisha coast on Thursday.

I tried to get excited as I saw a few clippings on television and then some photographs. 

In repose it looks like a giant-sized pencil. It reminded me of a fairytale where a young character stares wide-eyed at this marvel and tries to grasp it in her hand and she just cannot. And then with a great rumbling sound it moves on its own and whooshes off into the sky, writing out something on the clouds in red letters. The girl cannot read it clearly and the pencil is gone. She cries. For some reason I think of the character as a girl. Maybe, I am rewinding to my own childhood.

Missiles are an adult childhood game. I want to applaud this longest range ballistic missile with a range of over 5,000 kms. I want to start clapping when I read newspaper reports that call it “a high five moment”, “a game changer”. I want to make angry faces at the US for lecturing us to “exercise restraint” and to Chine for calling it a “political missile”. We are just playing. So what if it can reach most parts of China. I can reach China too.

I still see that little girl and a colour pencil. But now I look closely and it has ‘Bharat’ written on it, and then it pierces the clouds and withstands heat of 3000 degrees Celsius. I had no idea heat could ever get that hot. I do not know many things. I am sweating in 35 degrees C. This must be one swell of a missile. It has the right name. Agni – fire.

We are now part of the elite club of nations with Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile (ICBM) technology like U.S., Russia, France and China. I read that, “India's policy of no-first-use of nuclear weapons, Agni-V will provide the country with depth in deterrence.”

This makes me feel good. The missile can reach very far, can destroy, but unless somebody else uses it first we will not do anything. I don’t know much, but I only hope it does not start to rust, or its parts do not get consumed with all the wiring inside. If it can withstand so much heat, then it must be careful not to burn itself. It happens with so many things in life.

I know you will tell me to shut up and stop this fairytale. You will quote some scientist who said, “Today, we have made history. We are a major missile power.”

Okay. I want to be part of history, of an elite club. I also want every little girl and boy to get a colour pencil just like Agni-V to act as deterrence against hunger, and to bring some cheer in their lives.

Krishna and some innocence...

I can hear the drums. A bunch of young people will form a human pyramid and break a clay pot filled with curd and lots of money. Gods don’t come cheap anymore. The stakes are up. Because devotees are full of greed.

Today is Janmashtmi, the birth of Lord Krishna. As a young boy he survived attempts to kill him because of divine intervention. He was like most boys and was raised by a cowherd and his wife. That surrogate mother, in fact, was the principal influence on his life. Yashodha. He would rob the churned milk and return to her, his mouth speckled with white residue.

That made him human.

He was surrounded by gopis and would steal their clothes as they bathed in the river and demand more butter to return their garments. That butter did not add any cholesterol to his system nor lard to his girth. Krishna has always been pictorially depicted as lean, often playing the flute.

On Janmashtmi day, that human pyramid forming takes place. As a child I recall there used to be one right outside our building, in the lane. They used the window bars of an apartment to tie the rope from one end and the other end was secured in the building across. At the centre would be the pot. The fellows who climbed up were children of the labourers, tailors, maids, cooks, drivers in the locality. We would egg them on as they tripped. Finally, the smallest one would reach the top, break the handi and they’d share the money. It wasn’t much. Sometimes, they would come round offering us prasad (holy offerings). We took it without a care about how it was made and where.

Childhood hungers are different.

I would still look wide-eyed if everything had remained the same. But they don’t. Things change. We change. One transforming the other in a cycle that spins out of shape. Now those soiled and creased currency notes are replaced by money that can be in hundreds of thousands. The celebrations are held in designated areas sponsored by companies and attended by celebrities.

The pot is higher, many more tiers of people climbing and breaking limbs to reach it.

Yet, I keep my queries aside. For, it is only during these festivals that the poor become important. They are needed to fracture bones. To dance shamelessly in the streets. To stuff their faces with unhygienic colours. To get indelicately drunk. To snivel before the gods of today, Mammons in their limousines throwing big moolah to feel they have earned their place in heaven.

The gods have given up. Their myths that spoke of sagacity have been sold to the highest bidders. Their images come in forms that are ostentatious. Oh, I said, I would not raise a quizzical eyebrow, I said I won’t…

So, this morning I added an extra dollop of butter on toast in memory of the lord. The grease that stayed on my lips reflected a childhood I was born to lose.

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Pop secularism?

Images:
Top - painting of Krishna and Mother by Raja Ravi Verma
Bottom - photograph in TOI