Time to get inspired. We have to march ahead, goose and gander like, chests puffed to aspirations of 56, chins held so high they obstruct vision; it would be nice to have a beard hanging thereby, if not a full-flowing bushel, just a wisp, a wisp would do, a scattered battalion of hair on an outing, that would do just fine.

It will not do to get left behind, because what is behind is being turned ruthlessly to ruins, all of those remnants of the era of NothingHappened, that’s being obliterated with gusto. It is being blown and pounded, scorned and screamed at in a great cacophony of destruction which is the intended preface to new construction: NayaYug, the yug unheard of, the yug now in invention, the yug beyond all yugs, beyond Satyug, Treta, Dwapar, Kaliyug... beyond all of them. But we haven’t got there yet, so it might be we are currently in Kaliyug. And we all know what happens in Kaliyug, in this Kalikaal, that’s what they also call it. The final dismantling of the HolyVow, or so goes one of the myriad metaphors of how we interpret our yugs. We are folks with many ways. We are folks who see things and read things and interpret things many ways. We often quarrel and squabble over this is right and that is wrong but we let those different ways be because the variety and the multiplicity is what we are descended from. Not one God. Many more than many. And for each, many stories and many ways of hearing and retelling.

That is how we became talkative. That is how we have so many stories. That is why we became so rich. So there is this metaphor of the yugs and the status of the HolyVow in each of them and the diminishment happened, yug after yug, as the HolyVow became diminished, little by little, limb by limb. On all fours in the first yug. Three left in the second. Two-legged in the third. And finally there were none. Undone.

So it is you hear the command issued to diggers and earthmovers, chomping about with their dinosaur jaws at the remnants of NothingHappened, making such a boisterous-clamorous-decadecibel feast of it. So it is you see the colour-coded soldiers scurrying about their given tasks of exterminating what remains of the Order of NothingHappened — black-robed, white-collared, blue-collared, khaki, ogee apparatchik going about their dictated tasks, hectoring, imploring, imposing, levying, raiding, arraigning, stymying, choking, charging, invoking, pronouncing, punishing. Doing all that requires to be done to pestle the accoutrements of NothingHappened to powdery rubble, so when the all the din and the tumult of it settles and the haze of what needed to be razed lifts, we shall most certainly see what it is that is in the works and which will inspire in such dazzlements that inspiration will need another name. Time to get inspired.

Let’s see what we’ve got. Something that will move a whole nation as whole nations and more have been moved in the past. Onward, in stunning unison of posture and purpose. Toward that one objective, the solution to end all problems, the final solution. The sheer inspiration the sound of finality can invoke. You can probably feel the tremor of it in your bones already. And in the bubbling of your blood.

The sky and its mutating hues. The seasons twirling in their unbolted dressing rooms. The sway of winds and their whispered necking in the trees. Fallen leaves and wings of birds. Rivers, forever flowing. Mountains, forever growing. Valleys and gorges, silent and gurgling. The oceans, their depths and surges. The deserts and their nugget gifts of oases. We are upon the season of Daffodils someone wrote, and so inspiringly, that folks began to see daffodils where there are only other flowers of yellow hue. Such a waste of effort. Let’s see what else we have. To move the nation, set it marching towards NavaYug.

We now have a guru and a goal

Beware though he may lead us to a hole;

His philosophy was a beggarly rehash

Of the one with the toothbrush tash.