Kindness

We must all be kind to others, wouldn't you say?
But is it possible to be kind to people who we believe are superior to us?
Kindness is a condescension. I do not think I'd cherish someone being kind to me. If kindness is the effect and pity, the cause, I'd rather do without it.
I am in a train. There is a man sitting right across. He has only one leg. I avoid looking at him. The fact that all my limbs are intact, makes me uncomfortable. Other people are nicer. They make forced conversation with him so that he doesn't feel left out. They spring up to do things for him, which he can easily manage by himself (he could crack a peanut alright).
A young man comes along. Medium build, average looks. Joins in the conversation. Offers the one-legged man a cigarette. Teases him about his loud clothes. Admires his watch. Dozes off after a while.
I feel a degree of respect for this young man, which unknowns rarely evoke. Nothing great to look at; he might be a rogue, who knows; or even a bore. But he could look at the one-legged man, talk to him as an equal.
Isn't his the right perspective? Wouldn't the poor guy (poor guy !!! I still haven't learnt anything) appreciate it more to be treated like everyone else, joked with, cared for but not oppressed with 'kindness'?
If it were up to me, I'd revise and edit the Value Education books. One chapter less - Kindness.

A City in the Sky

It's night. I am walking in a lane. It's cloudy. And it's windy. The clouds are swirling and moving.
I look up. I like looking at the sky, and the clouds.
The clouds part a little and I see a city in the sky. Only it is upside down. And white and silver.
As the clouds shift, I see different parts of the city. Winding cobbled narrow streets. Buildings with towers and minarets. I feel so excited, it's almost a pain in my heart. There's a turmoil of so many emotions, that it is difficult to separate one from the other. I ache to see more, to capture the beauty, the magic, somehow.
I look at the person I'm walking with. I know he will laugh at me. I still ask him to look up. If it turns out to be a hallucination, I know my heart will break. But there's wonder in his eyes now, and it shows on his face as he looks up. My heart leaps with joy.
I wake up. From the bottom of my heart I am sorry it was merely a dream.

Temple on the Wall

4:46 am.
A bitingly cold January morning.
A very cliched start.
All is still except the groans of the watercooler outside my room and a chink-chink of unknown origin. Without really looking at it, I had been staring at the top-left corner of the wall for some time,... 20 minutes, an hour, maybe an hour and a half, without a single thought in my head. The electricity suddenly goes off. There appears a kind of dim window, on the spot where I had been staring. It is a small temple with hardly space enough for a grown-up to sit in. In the dimness of a single diya, I see a boy and a girl, both of uncomaparable beauty, conferring in rapid whispers. They were black, painted all over with lamp black. They had beautiful big eyes. The boy had a peacock feather in his hair and a yellow cloth over his torso.
The light comes back on. The scene disappears. It lasted for about 30 seconds.
I am surprised, but not very much. I am a little scared, but not very much. It must mean something. Atleast I want it to.
Think I will go wash my hair now.