Endless Knight

A Confession

Yes, Ms. Farzana Versey, a writer whom I have always admired and drawn inspiration from, asked me to review a poem of hers entitled ``Half A Night``, last year Fall. At the time, I was working on recreating a piece called ``Endless Night`` and a day earlier, had seen an accident take place. Reviewing her poem somehow brought images of a futility and seasons, especially winter and seemed almost to belong in some form in the later part of that write-up. In retrospect, I should have acknowledged her original poem`s contribution - at the time, I did not think of it. Later, in foolish pig-headedness I denied it.

It was wrong. I am sorry for any distraction this caused. I hope she can find it in her heart to forgive me. Kindly consider this request. I apologize for any strong words I have used against her. I request the web-site to delete those. Her work is of value to a lot of people. I hope she will take that into consideration before deciding to remove it from this site.

I reproduce this from Ms. Versey`s i-log of 02/12/07, with responses.

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I would like BJ to let me know:

a. How those particular lines ‘came’ to him.
ANS: The ``spring smiles...`` line came to me via e-mail in her poem.

b. That the ideas and metaphors are not similar (I did not say same, because a smart writer knows how to work round, as I myself have displayed with the Eliot example).
ANS: Those probably have similarity - I am amateur.

c. Plagiarism is indeed a serious charge, and I wonder why the author is quite happy making confessions about “feelings” and “words staying with me”, but refuses to do a small gracious thing of saying, yes those words are from the poem and he took the skeleton and developed the idea further and took it on a different track.
ANS: Yes, I most likely did that - without realizing that I was plagiarising.

d. Doing the above would put an end to this debate, and put an end to my name being dragged in quite irrelevantly and irreverently. I suspect the author would not like to put an end to it, which is why these circular ‘acknowledgements’.
ANS: I hope this acknowledgement accomplishes that.

Again, I am sorry for my harsh words on various occasions to Ms. Versey and other interactors at various moments.

e. I have no desire to have his piece removed because even outside of my 123 articles on Chowk, I still have a body of work that have at least a couple of thousand articles. I do believe that Beej K. Singh needs a good forum and this is the right one.
ANS: Thank you.

There are knights and then there are knights! And sometimes, the darkness of the night brings out the darkest of the knights!

The dark knight rarely kills people – for that would be the easy death – like the one described below for the individual who was least expecting it when he started his journey. The dark knight turns people into mindless vegetables who have eyes but can not see the obvious – into people who have sense but not common sense.

Like the snake venom– the dark knight stuns people and suspends their judgment. The dark knight represents the darkness of soul.

The dark knight turns a whole subcontinent into humans who have the testicles.

But lack the ability to perform!

People who procreate, but mourn not for their own babies!

The following i-log was posted by the interactor named “BeeJay” on May 1, 2005.

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Partners in Crime

X straddled the victim and pushed the knife while Y and Z held him down on the thin, hard green plastic carpet. The horrible sounds of death were loud at first but subsided quickly as the sharp blade sank into the brown skin and sliced through the windpipe. The sound stopped because the air from lungs started to come out instead as red bubbles, first tiny bubbles dulling the sides of the shiny metallic surface, and later, as the blade was withdrawn and wiped off, larger bubbles through that massive gash. The blood initially came out in spurts and splattered X, Y, and Z, who deftly avoided their faces, but as its supply dwindled, the blood only welled up around the neck, forming a small pinkish red puddle that won’t get fully cleaned until several days later in a far away land. As the face froze into an eternal mask of pain and horror, the 20 day old honeymoon of the 25 year old newlywed came to an abrupt end.

W secretly guided the negotiations between the killers and outsiders. He coached the killers in what demands to put and what to accept. He planned the whole outrage, providing every minute bit of instruction, including how much money to extort, money that was to come directly to him and his gang of ruthless killers! In fact, W did pretty well for himself until he got “promoted” when V realized that W was becoming a threat to him.

V, his boss, was the most adroit of the lot and in the plot every bit as much. The self-styled CEO of a vast enterprise, he ensured that the best wages went to the least productive among his workforce, as long as they protected him personally. V is fearless, except perhaps of other masters in even more far away lands. But they generally leave him alone, because he is so indispensable! V was and is the eternal survivor - the type of individual around whom a whole building may collapse after fire, but this individual always escapes without a single scratch. Perhaps he may even go out and collect the fire insurance!

And then of course, there is U who watched it all without batting an eyelid. U believed that the life of one K (kafir) was a trivial and insignificant price to exact for the greater, much greater cause of K (Kashmir). U, who was firmly convinced that one faith provides the sole path to salvation and therefore, every other consideration is secondary! U, who bought it all because it was all for a “good cause” or even “the cause”! U, who neatly created a distinction or even a disconnect in mind - between being a good Muslim and being a good human being and felt convinced that in order to be one all the time, one need not always be the other – and the human being came out the loser. In significant numbers, U watched it all passively, day after day, year after year, as one lie replaced another, as one fake messiah was superseded by another - every one of them calling himself the true representative of the people of the Book. As one outrage followed another, U took it all calmly, very calmly! U, without whose acquiescence – active or silent, there would not have been the V, the W, the X, Y, or Z.

Yes, it was U, still without a clue!

They were partners in crime, all of them, but especially U.

#35 smakhd

Thanks, yaar!

wow....that was damn gud...one really needs a lot of introspection and an acute sense of observing life to come up with something as sharp as this...

#33
Thank you, Razia B.

Re: # 22
I`m admitting --I was confused. Great peice beej.

peace,
RB

#31 Kaal

Hi, Kaal! Sat Sri Akaal!

Thanks for your kind words (I think)!

(Why do I suddenly feel like everyone is staring at me?!)

Seriously, thanks!!

Funny you mention the Ramcharitmanas! I am still waiting for certain people to respond to an earlier (second) piece I submitted based on an episode from that literary masterpiece.

You don’t think that…

Hmmmm!

Naah, it could not be!

Not with that UNFLINCHING idealism!

No way, Jose!

iron

Beej is a strange character. A connoisseur of Ramcharitmanas who writes so exceptionally well in English language. A man so expressive of and so passionate in his views, yet who can quickly climb the rungs of inspired detachment. A Chowkie who treasures Gandhi`s memory but doesn`t shrink from a good verbal brawl.

Hard to think of a more multifaceted, multi-talented, interesting person on Chowk...

#29 Big Zero

Thanks. I feel enriched every time somebody says they liked my words.

Your i-log excerpts are beautiful! I thoroughly enjoyed those – just as much as I have thoroughly enjoyed your other write-ups published here.

My dear, in my book, you are no zero! :)

Perhaps a big hero!


#27, #28 Iron_Mask

Thanks yaar. I appreciate your positive feedback.

The words we all put here come mostly on the spur of the moment, few of us carefully think through what message we are trying to communicate at a given time, if any - and what ACTUALLY gets communicated. If we did, I mean if we truly did, we would not be saying such hurtful words to each other all the time - perhaps it would be a world containing a lot less rancor. But we don’t live in THAT world.

(Also, in fairness, perhaps such a world would be rather boring!)

And you are quite perceptive. I am mostly more upbeat – but this piece was penned in a somewhat different frame of mind. We get those changing moods – like those changing seasons. I hope that my winters are a lot shorter than my springs! But some winters can be quite intense.

We make little pictures – perhaps no better than doodles – from colors which come to us courtesy of the real Artist who drew us all. We all make use of what “comes to us” – knowingly or otherwise. I think it is as it should be. Perhaps we should all be more appreciative of THE source, not to mention the tributaries that our fellow human beings essentially represent!

Therefore my dear, your observations are “on the dot”!

And yes, I like to wear many hats.

Perhaps to cover my very own bald spots! :)

I love ya!

Fabulous! The interconnection between the various eternal cycles -that of night and day, the spring and autumn, and the ultimate one of life and death - of nature has been beautifully drawn out. The writing style is thoroughly engrossing.

``Why nature is so obsessed with its cycles, few know and even fewer try to understand. ``

In the same spirit, this is what i wrote in an ilog entry a while ago:

If, somehow, the earth stops rotating, would we stop growing in age?
Agar aisa hai tau koi brake lagaoo pls. I can`t stand this injustice...Who gave the earth the right to feed upon our ages, just to satisfy its wicked aspiration of ROTATING AROUND!!?

and as for the `even though everyone knows the ultimate futility of dusk overcoming all` bit, this is what Iftikhar Arif has to say :

raat kay doosray kinaray per
jaltay bujhtay huay chiragh ki lau
khauf-e-nadeeda kay isharay per
mujh say kehti hai Iftikhar Arif
raat kay doosray kinaray per
raat ik aur intizaar meiN hai
!
koi chupkay say dil meiN kehta hia
raat per apna bus chalay na chalay
khwab tau apnay ikhtiyar meiN hai!

and indeed this `khwab` is what instills the zeal in us to forever seek a tangent to all these eternal cycles!

Always enjoy your artistry BJ. Look forward to more.

beej kumar, from your interacts on chowk I have alwasy presumed that you were one of lifes eternal optimists, a pragmatist - not a philosopher perssimist....after reading this story/article I am having different thoughts....you seem to be one of those people who are dettached and wonder at the futility of the struggle for life on earth.....as if you know the asnwers alrady and seem to say - why the heck do you want to struggle...struggle and strife are always there, betterment is momentary...the cycle of life, betterment, death etc are etrnal...know the terminal conditions and your life in between would cool...your last paragraph was a downer if there was one in this light

``Only for a while – and then it happens all over again! Another night and another morning! A seemingly never-ending night until the final night comes around and the eternal knight reasserts himself and claims his own – what is, was, has forever been, and shall forever remain exclusively his. ``

even the bible quote you give showns your penchant for the eternal knights role in our lives you donot pick any one of the others justice etc or even the last one.....

but then I digress your intention behind this seems to be different from the interpretations given here.....so what is it...out with it and be done...

beej kumar....you are good...and good not in the way people here seem to suggest....but this pasage is surely unsurpasable (sp?) on Chowk...no matter how much others might be flowery.......in their prose and creative in their writing.....Sir, I salute you.....in fact this last week for some unknown reason the song zeemax put up here in #7 was being hummed by me....and it is very apt....

the passge is

``From the end of the long, winding driveway, the silhouette of the colonial structure looked back like a protective friend – not necessarily approving but understanding nevertheless. Back in there, there was warmth, there was a glowing light and there were memories. On the pavement however, there was only cold black tar – unevenly spread and with occasional granite pebbles. As is the way of nature; what was cold, dark, unresponsive, and hard looked a lot more solid than what was lit and warm and beckoning. ``

bravo...bravo...as I progress though the article I hope to see similar passages....only the old folk understand this......

And although the connection is a bit tenuous, so is this piece posted by the interactor nick-named “Stan” on November 16, 2005.

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Mourning for Babies…

In moonlit nights
The seeds they fell
All over the place
Of many, many colors
Little plants – they made

Till Hand it came
And killed them all
And said to valley
Whose sons are these?
I wonder – it said

In echoes of plants
Of dying things
Like vibes in air
It just hung on
In shrinking size

With heavy, heavy heart
The mother held on
Trying hard to cradle
Askance she looked
With tears in eyes

Blind Man saw not
With rage cold, cold
“Just lies – all lies”
He killed then all
The flowering weeds

Nor paused to ask
If father could be
Not trivial thing
So hard it dies
The word that bleeds…

The following i-log, posted on June 15, 2005 by the interactor nick-named “Bee Jay”, is in the same vein.

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Death Comes As the End

In our little village, there were only two Muslim families. In one, the male breadwinner did manual labor with the other field hands. He went by his nickname “damroo”, sometimes “damroo miyan” among fellow laborers – which was not meant as a term of respect, only in jest. His real name was unknown to virtually every one in the village; it was certainly unknown to me. He looked just like the rest of the laborers – full of dirt and grime, and he dressed in a short dhoti – just like them. He never stood out as anything other than a crucial but replaceable part of the labor force. He always talked with everybody with extreme politeness. He was also a very hard worker – never a minute late in the morning. People liked Damroo, but hardly paid any attention to him otherwise.

The other person was also known by a nickname – he was called “Sameera”. He was not a part of the labor pool. He was said to hold a job in the Sugar Mill a few villages away. I saw him just once – in my childhood. He was hardly ever seen in the village.

Except on festive occasions! The only time I saw Sameera was during a visit one Holi season. He had been called. He had his instructions and he knew exactly how to go about them.

He carried a very deep oversize copper dish. He also carried a little jute bag. He placed both items next to the charpoy outside our ancestral house.

He went some distance and brought with him the baby goat that we kids had been playing with just a little earlier. That goat was a lively one, and we would have hours of fun just chasing him around! He was used to being handled by people. Sameera was making gentle “pooch, pooch” sounds and the goat came readily – he was ready for some action. Sameera turned the goat around to face a certain direction, then straddled him and held the goat’s shoulders firmly between his thighs. He grabbed the goat by its baby horns and lifted its head up forcefully. The goat was not used to such rough handling and started bleating “maaahaaah…” in protest. Sameera reached into the jute bag and took out a sharp knife. He positioned the goat’s neck directly over the copper dish. The goat’s notes of bleating took on an added note of urgency. Sameera started cutting the goat’s neck from underneath, while simultaneously yanking its head up to make the task easier for the blade. The bleating soon stopped and the eyes remained frozen – with permanent fear. After severing the head, Sameera put it aside on a banana leaf. Starting with the center point of the goat’s neck, Sameera ran the knife midway through the length of the goat then pulled off its skin, placing it on another banana leaf.

He first hung the carcass from the lowermost branch of a little mango tree. Later, he cut off the limbs and hacked them into smaller pieces. He finished cleaning and then he left. Most results of his labor were left behind for others – he only took away his wages – the head, the skin, some other unwanted body parts and the congealing blood that the deep copper dish was now virtually full of.

The job had been completed so deftly and with such precision that nothing on the ground remained to give an indication of what had taken place!

Damroo was just another working stiff, but Sameera was a free-lancer. I have often wondered what else he did for living and whether he would have been equally good at that, too. Somehow, I doubt it. Not everyone is naturally good at everything.

The last time I visited my village, Damroo had passed away. Sameera’s whereabouts were not known. On the whole, I probably saw Damroo thousands of times and Sameera just that once. I hardly remember what Damroo looked like. Sameera’s is a different case – after all these years, I remember every feature of him distinctly and still sometimes see him when I am sleeping at the end of the day, and probably will keep doing so – till the end of the line.

And talking of the “knight”, the following i-log was posted on May 19, 2005 by the interactor nick-named “Bee Jay”.

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Appointment with Death

“Boy, you seem to know a lot about international affairs,” John said. Actually I did not. He based his statement on the discussion we had been having regarding an ongoing U.S. hostage crisis. (The crisis was just beginning - eventually those folks would not come home for almost another year.) Over the previous few weeks, I had seen many patients come and go as I stayed on my side of the double occupancy hospital room – John was just the latest and, since I was scheduled to be discharged the following morning, obviously he was also the last of them.

“How long have you been here?” He asked. I told him. He whistled. “I hate hospitals. I have never stayed in one. The doctor somehow conned me into this. He insisted he wants to observe me – just for one day. There is no way I’ll spend another day in here!” I didn’t ask him why he needed to be observed – a lot of things can happen to you when you cross seventy.

We talked for another couple of hours. It felt like a lot longer. His words gushed out. He talked like he had not talked to another human being for a long time, like never before – like there was no tomorrow. He told me about his retired life. He told me about his pre-retirement life and his career. He told me about his successes and his disappointments. He told me about his children, now living far away and about his wife of fifty years who was not with him any more. He told me about the many interesting places he had been to. He told me about his happy moments and his sad times. He told me about his loves of life and in what he told I could see his love of life. He told me how full his life was. I could even see how empty it was. I could see his life play out before my eyes – really see.

He talked to me like I was his friend.

We both dozed off. At 9 PM he called out - “Bee Jay”. It took me a second or two to respond – I was unaware that a new name had just been born, a name that would stay forever. I helped him as he used the bathroom, the I.V. tubes and the bottle stands trailing him. He thanked me before getting back into bed.

I was woken up again at 9:30 PM. He was talking again, but not to me. He was at his home and was confused by the sudden unfamiliar scenes that seemed to have developed all around him. He got a little louder and decided to remove the I.V. appendage so he could get into his “own” bed.

The blood started trickling down. The emergency call switch was malfunctioning. I shook awake the nurse at the counter. She went running into the room. Soon, a whole bunch of staff members rushed in. The doctors rushed in too. They also brought in a large gadget. I could hear their voices from the waiting area. The voices were loud and earnest at first, then became like any other set of voices later. They brought the gadget out. The hospital staff and the doctors came out too. There was no rush any more.

John came out last.

At 11 PM, they allowed me back into the room. The other bed remained stripped of all its linen. The room was very quiet. The heating was running full-blast yet it still felt a little cold. John had kept his word on not spending another day in there – he didn’t even stay the night.

He had another appointment waiting, one which most people won’t wish to keep, if only they knew when and where it’s scheduled!

Talking of the Pale Horse, the following i-log was posted on September 28, 2005 by the interactor nick-named “Beej”.

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The Pale Horse

As the bicycle-rickshaw approached closer to the naala (the open sewer stream) its driver started pedaling furiously – he was trying to build up enough speed to get over the hump that the bridge was.

“Hold tight, babu -jee – bump ahead!”

The slim man riding the rickshaw – colleges did not pay enough to afford a car – was already aware of the oncoming bridge over the ten feet or so wide stream well known to every resident of the city – in those days, the city was divided almost exactly down the middle by it. The stench ensured awareness – it filled the air and was discernible well ahead of the stream itself.

The rickshaw started its climb at full speed – and promptly decelerated while gaining elevation – the driver pushing his hardest – the carrier slowly rose to the topmost point where it seemed suspended for an eternity. The rider looked down and got a clear view of the green, slimy water gushing through the stream – like green tar – the cumulative waste product of countless households that emptied into the stream along the way – crawling with microbes from bodily fluids and other fluids and waste products and good products and all kinds of bacteria which were feeding upon those products – each and everyone having in it the essence of life – yet each condemned to a life of death.

He felt glad he was above it and not a part of it.

He felt a sudden jerk as the rickshaw wheel slipped over a large stone piece – about four inches in size – and shoved it aside forcefully. The stone jumped up a little before settling down again. It was an oval shaped stone with a smooth white surface except for a dark brown spot at one end – similar to that on the stone at home.

Only last week, his wife had picked up that stone – for a different purpose than its designated purpose of grinding spice over the stone tablet – and ended up putting a spot where there had been none before – from the blood that trickled out of his sister’s wrist as one of the pieces from the broken bangles had cut the skin. The bangle pieces made a melodious clinking sound as they fell on ground.

They wiped the vermillion off the parting in her hair. “It was God’s will – it was his time to go!”

Everyone had said of his brother-in-law. He had echoed it himself – trying to console where no consolation was possible – uttering words which every one did – and everyone knew were inane words.

* * *

“Can you not stay home today? The students have been very rowdy – I hear all kinds of troubles are going on – what with those elections coming!” His sister had asked her husband.

“It ’s true they are agitating – but virtually all of them respect the teachers. Why, I can not cross even one betel-shop without hearing “pranam, sir”!”

“It seems to get worse every day – they don’t listen to anybody – and I don’t like you to be there when they hold that rally.”

“I can not be absent today – if even people like me stay away –who will be there to stop them from getting into even more trouble?!”

He had waved to her and flashed a warm smile as he had mounted his bicycle.

* * *

He asked the rickshaw driver to wait for him and stood gazing at the five feet platform with that crumbling brick periphery. He reached over and touched the brick wall. As he ran his fingers gently over its rough surface, he felt the texture of the spots that he had come to visit – the spots that looked darker that the rest of the surface. The spots were almost exactly circular, about an inch in diameter – where the blood had first splattered – creating ray-like markings that emanated from the circles. There were several of them in clusters and there were four clusters, at different locations. The blood had first caked, then peeled off, leaving no traces behind it except for those discolored marks – vague reminders of the event from a week before – the week now a millennium away.

* * *

The dark green color of the Jeep had become pale over time. It was followed by a police truck with a tarp awning – containing approximately twenty policemen with rifles. They jumped out and took positions, as directed by their officer in charge.

The college principal had called for help. The rally being held on campus was getting out of hand. The whole state was in a state of turmoil and this small town was no exception.

The officer in-charge had been promoted brand new to that position. He was a no-nonsense guy. He used his hand-held loudspeaker to announce:

“All of you – leave the area!”

The crowds were not leaving – they were not staying put either – they were mostly milling around – as haphazard and unruly crowds usually do.

The demonstrators in the back – from the other side of the brick platform grabbed handfuls of stone pieces and started hurling them at the khaki contingent.

“Ready! Aim your guns. Get ready to fire!”

“Sir, shouldn’t we fire warning shots in the air first!”

A stray stone followed its parabolic trajectory and hit the officer in charge on a vulnerable spot.

“They have had their warning. FIRE!”

Was it the desire to bring order or an intoxication with absolute power – the raw power to create death from life.

His brother in-law was the first one to get hit – the other three were his students who had either tried to shield him or to attend to him when he fell.

* * *

As he got back into the rickshaw for the return ride – he took one last look at that crumbling brick platform – which he would leave behind for ever, and made the resolution which would alter the fortunes of the region irrevocably.

The pale horse that had visited the college a week away took more than his sister’s vermillion – it took away more than those four lives. None of what was taken away was ever to be regained.

* * *

As time would pass – the slim man would stay slim no more. He would trade his shirt and pants for white khadi. He would sometimes rise and sometimes get catapulted through the ranks of leaders and politicians – sometimes more of the one and sometimes more of the other – making his transition from the mundane to the elite – becoming a regional king of a sort – one of a select group of those movers and shakers and – as is characteristic of most of this group, the shaking involved hands, mostly with palms that were well-greased; and the moving consisted mostly of transferring non-cooperating government officials to out-of-the-way places, to be replaced by more cooperative ones. His name would often appear in national news headlines – his stars would rise or fall – depending on the political climate of the day.

He had no reason to stop and look back at that slim man left far behind – at the altar of that old brick wall that kept on crumbling, as it had already been doing well before that fateful day the pale horse came visiting!

#21 Zee

Thanks, Zee!

Sometimes, I think most of my fun in writing comes from ``confusing`` individuals like you!
I have a feeling that others were confused, too. But I don`t think they will admit it, like you did. :)

Derive carefully and watch out for those dears!

BJ,

I guess you tied me in knots. Ok got it. The `eternal knight` coming to claim his own and what was always his .. beutiful.

#19 Azure

My dear, I take your words literally. Thanks.

This is very beautiful bjkumar. Perfect for this season!

#15 Zee

No, I don’t own a yellow Hummer.

For those who don’t know it already, “The Pale Horse” is a Biblical term and the “knight” riding the Pale Horse represents death – as listed in the account below.

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The Holy Bible: King James Version. 2000.
The Revelation
of St. John the Divine
6
The Seals

1.	And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.
2.	And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.
3.	And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see.
4.	And there went out another horse that was red and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.
5.	And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand.
6.	And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.
7.	And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.
8.	And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.
9.	And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held:
10.	and they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?

BJ,

I could have sworn I have encountered it somewhere before! I wonder where?!! :)

I did point to your last article. Did you hear it anywhere else other than that?

typo ... `knight`.

#9 by bjkumar on December 9, 2006 7:25am PT

And Zee, the eternal knight rides the Pale Horse!

So the eternal knoght`s Hummer was the bright yellow color it comes in ... hmmm ...

Or am I reading too much in your statement? I thought you meant someone else by the `eternal knight` ....

From the Public Safety web page of the town of West Seneca, NY

National Facts about Deer Vehicle Accidents (DVA)

Deer population nationwide was estimated to be 25 - 30 million in 2000.

An estimated 1.5 million Deer Vehicle Accidents occurred in 2002.

Drivers paid nearly $1.1 billion dollars for vehicle repairs.

150 drivers were killed across the United States due to DVAs in 2002.

86.9% of all animal related accidents involve deer.

Deer Vehicle Accidents are most likely to occur between 5 AM - 8 AM and 5 PM - 9 PM.

October through January are the most likely months that a Deer Vehicle Accident will occur.

What you can do to prevent Deer Vehicle Accidents (DVA): DRIVE DEFENSIVELY

Remember Deer Vehicle Accidents can happen anytime, anywhere, and at any speed.

Always be sure to wear your seatbelt. Most of the people killed or injured in DVAs because they were not wearing their seatbelt.

Use extreme caution at dawn and dusk when visability is poor, especially during the months of October through January. Peek deer movements also coincides with times of high commuter traffic volume throughout the year.

Slow down when approaching deer standing near roadsides. They may bolt or change direction at any time.

Deer often travel in groups. If you see one, be aware that there may be others.

Brake firmly but do not swerve if a deer enters the road in front of you. Swerving can result in losing control of your vehicle and increase your chance of injury or death.

Deer crossing signs mark areas where extra caution should be used. Slow down, pay attention to the road, and drive defensively.

If you hit a deer, contact the local Police Department immediately.

#12 by dost-mittar

Thank you, DM-ji.

Well said! Most of the damage that we do to our fellow travelers in this world is merely due to our own inattention – and not through their fault – be it the deer or be it Iraq.

#11 by ahmedmadani

Thank you Ahmedmadani sahib and welcome back to my board! (I love your thoughtful and heartfelt inputs.)

Like I said to DM-ji above, most damage to our fellow creatures in unintentional but is damage nevertheless. In case of the deer, we have encroached upon her natural habitat and taken it over – kowtowing to commercial interests – taking over what used to be absolutely hers to roam freely – and now she dares to cross those paths only at her own absolute peril – and only when there is absolutely no other choice! Sad, na?! :(

A very poignant description of an all too familiar phenomenon. We all see signs of deer crossings while driving on highways but barely pay any attention to it and, if we do, it is to save our car fenders from bending and not for what our carelessness might do to a deer or her child.

BJK.... I liked your story, It always pains me to see cruelty in world specially to animals and trees. Its genocide of wild animals and trees, jungles . Changing of water courses and moving mountains just breeding like rats of humans. It really feels depressed many time.
Good night everybody.

#8

I did not mean to exclude Jang from the list of ``my dears``! The omission was an oversight.

And Zee, the eternal knight rides the Pale Horse!

#Subroto, VRV, VSG, Zee

Thanks a lot, my dears!

VRV, this work is no translation – except for the simple fact that ALL written words are merely approximate translation of feelings and thoughts – which are like little gulps of water – all drawn from the same eternal well of thoughts and feelings provided by the Almighty. Sometimes we put too much emphasis on ourselves as mediums, or even that well – forgetting the simple fact that we are all mere mediums for the same message.

Jang, thanks for the technical tips.

Zee, thanks for the link to the song! It sounds great. I kid you not, I could have sworn I have encountered it somewhere before!

I wonder where?!! :)

Dedicated to the sensitivity in this one as well as the previous article of BJ Kumar:

Beej,

Lovely article with prose that is poetically rendered.

Pl see my comments at #100 below Atlas Khan`s article ``The Great Wrong``.

Regards
V.S.Gopalakrishnan

I read it BJ. I cant describe the feelings the way u can but like a food taster do, I can say that this is a peotic look at the reality of this earth. The drudgery of everydayness and passage of every night......only to be broken by daylight.

Was this ur own or a translation of some desi literature?

...until the final night comes around and the eternal knight reasserts himself and claims his own – what is, was, has forever been, and shall forever remain exclusively his.

And who is that eternal knight? ... Surprise ... it is You!

BJ,

I read ur posts & like ur sarcastic language but I am yet to read this. Since Jang said that last 2 paras are good I read them. I agree.

For rest of the page I shud read that later.

wowy..very terse..loved the last 2 paras

one technical issues...snowstorm, a young fawn and cicadas dont seem to go together but i can see you need the snow for imagery, but by the time snow comes, fawns are maturish.

As always reading your stories is like watching a master craftsman at work.