"Life is the price we pay for running away from death "
































































Somewhere in a corner of the vast and mighty desert, lost among the shrubs and brush, was the dung bettle, relentlessly pushing on the dung pellet, trying to get it atop the little sand mound. She was miniscule, silently apparent in the shifting desert winds, weighing not enough even to leave footprints in the sand she treaded. Queerly, the dung left more of a footprint than the beetle did. Like an avatar of the modern day Sisyphus, she forced herself upon the pellet.

She would thrust and shove, and the pellet would budge just about a tenth of an inch; but give up, she did not. Maybe it was her patience, or her foolishness, or maybe just an ordained law of nature acting unbeknownst, she just kept pushing. The pellet moved slowly up the mound, ever so slowly, but it moved...

The desert took no note of this struggle; rather it appeared to fight a struggle of its own. It howled with the tempest of an fire-breating monster. Its sand blew and blasted everything in its reach. In that soaring heat and biting cold, the beetle toiled on. It seemed like the dung pellet was its world, but for the world, did the beetle matter at all? Many a times the beetle slipped into the sand, but it wouldn't give up. It would scrape its way out and keep pushing again. Little by little, it made its way to the top, stopping not for rest but for course correction. And just when it appeared to reach the top, it turned on its back and fell dead. The sand had finally overwhelmed it. The dung pellet, nudged by the wind, rolled over, buried the beetle, and landed at the bottom of the mound - right from where the beetle had started. In the vastness of the desert where a living and fighting beetle couldn't make its presence felt, would a dead one leave any mark?

Not in the least! The desert howled on, as usual, and the sand covered everything up.

In another era, in a bigger desert, a creature much bigger than the beetle had also worked tirelessly, pushing his pellet of truth and justice into human hearts. The man was old and frail, with only a loincloth covering his principles, and his world was bigger, yes, but not different from the beetle's desert. It shifted continuously and its noise drowned even the strongest voice. He never took a break, they say, and pushed and shoved humanity persistently towards the light of peace. And just when he appeared to reach the top, his light was taken away, and as he lay buried, the world moved over, and landed, back at the bottom from where he had started. In the vast shores of the cosmic desert, where his world itself is a tiny nondescript pebble, would he leave a mark at all?

Almost certainly, not!