(Common and uninteresting confidential conversations: a 10-15 minute drama unsuitable for public viewing.)
Swapna
Arjun, her husband
Dr. Shyam, their clinical psychologist
A man (twenties) & his father (fifties)
A woman (thirties) & her daughter (early teens)
The stage is divided into two by a partition. There is a single door on that partition between the waiting room (on the left) and the doctor’s office (on the right and occupying 75% of the stage).
In the waiting room, there is a single row of 6 chairs facing the partition. There is also a noisy table-fan placed on a small table. The waiting room is otherwise empty.
A woman and her daughter occupy seats 2 and 1 respectively. Arjun enters the waiting room leaving his shoes and wet umbrella outside. He takes seat 6. A man and his father enter the room, and occupy seats 4 and 5 respectively.
The man is in a tense and rather disheveled state. The other four appear calm and well-dressed. All of them appear to be troubled by mosquitoes and the noisy fan. Apart from that, the five people remain seated and stare blankly at the wall in front of them. Once in a while, the man rises, walks up to the noisy fan, tries to adjust the speed or gives it a thump hoping to reduce the noise.
The woman (addressing the three men): Excuse me.
Arjun (the only one who turns towards her): Yes?
The woman: Do you know how much to give the doctor?
Arjun: I asked him. He will tell you.
The woman: First time. (Arjun does not respond. She turns to her daughter.) Molu, when the doctor asks you questions, please answer, ok? (She hesitates. The daughter does not respond.) Molu, speak to him, ok…just answer his questions, that’s all. (She now lowers her voice.) Tell the doctor that Daddy works abroad. (She places her hand on her daughter’s arm.) Don’t mention about Uncle staying with us, ok? It does not matter but there’s no need to talk about him, right, molu? (The daughter turns away from her mother after removing her mother’s hand on her arm. The two then continue to stare at the door.)
The man’s father (to Arjun): What is the exact time?
Arjun: 4:16.
The man’s father: I hope we get to see him before six. When did the last one enter? (No one responds. He then addresses the door.) He takes so much time. (Then, he turns to Arjun again.) Are you next?
Arjun: No, they are next. (With a small turn of his head, he indicates the woman and her daughter.)
The man’s father (to Arjun, more urgently): What is the exact time?
The man (speaks rather sharply from seat 4): Appa, keep quiet!
The five people then continue to stare at the wall silently.
The light fades on that part of the scene and the other side brightens.
There is a desk, a large chair for the doctor and two smaller chairs for patients on the opposite side. There is a computer and the table for that on the right of the doctor. The room is not disorderly but there are lots of books, files and loose paper. Some kids’ toys can also be seen.
The doctor is talking to Swapna. When the light brightens, we are also able to hear their conversation gradually.
Dr. Shyam stoops a little, even while sitting. His face is pleasant and friendly.
During their conversation, Swapna is demure and maintains eye-contact all the time. She does not interrupt the doctor when he speaks. Her hands remain at her side. Her legs are crossed at the ankle and her posture is elegant. She does not fidget.
Dr. Shyam: Good…we have covered a lot, haven’t we?
Swapna: Do you really think that we still have a chance?
Dr. Shyam: Yes. And, that is not because I really like you two.
Swapna: But, it is not getting better. In fact, the situation seems to be worsening…
Dr. Shyam (laughs): I would have been worried if the situation had not worsened…it looks as if you two are at least responding in some way, right?
Swapna (shakes her head): But, we have not changed our stand at all…
Dr. Shyam: Look…we have had these separate sessions for me…for us…to understand the problem. Now, the three of us, at least, agree on what happened. Do you remember how it was in the beginning…even that was not clear…
Swapna (nods her head): Where do we go from here?
Dr. Shyam: I think we can start having joint sessions.
Swapna: That’s not going to be pleasant…
Dr. Shyam: Anything new at home?
Swapna (nods her head but keeps quiet)
Dr. Shyam: What happened?
Swapna (hesitates but she does not turn her head away): We tried to make love, have sex, whatever…
Dr. Shyam: Some argument…
Swapna: I just couldn’t…the thought of him sleeping with her…that hit me like a blow to the stomach…
Dr. Shyam: He is not sleeping with her now, is he? (He pauses till she nods in agreement.) At that time, both of you had mutually consented for a divorce, wanted to try living separately before filing for the divorce, am I correct? You even went abroad…
Swapna: But, I did not sleep with anyone…
Dr. Shyam: True. And, your husband did not sleep with just anyone. He met a woman he really admired and the two of them got close mentally and physically. But, for some reason, that did not work out and after eight months, that affair ended. Were you here then?
Swapna: No. I returned after Lehman collapsed, after I got laid off. We started meeting again…and we wanted to give it another try…
Dr. Shyam: What happened then?
Swapna: We started living together once again.
Dr. Shyam: Your husband told you about the affair before that, right?
Swapna (nods her head): Yes.
Dr. Shyam: If Lehman had not collapsed, you might not have returned at all other than for the case, right?
Swapna (nods her head)
Dr. Shyam: Anyway, after your husband tells you about his affair, you think a lot about it. But, you still wanted to try living together. Correct?
Swapna (nods her head): Yes.
Dr. Shyam: Then, what happened?
Swapna (remains silent)
Dr. Shyam: In the first week together, you come across a photo of that lady in one of his personal diaries.
Swapna (protests): I was cleaning.
Dr. Shyam: The fights start then?
Swapna: I asked him why he wanted to keep her even now.
Dr. Shyam: Her or, her photo?
Swapna (she ignores the doctor’s question): He does not even apologize. He does not even wait for the divorce…cannot even wait…he does not even say sorry for his infidelity.
Dr. Shyam: You two were separated…you were away…
Swapna: Does that justify his infidelity?
Dr. Shyam: Is there anything to be justified? If someone were to tell you that staying away is a kind of infidelity, what would you say?
Swapna: Are you on his side?
Dr. Shyam (laughs): Then, I would get paid by him only, right? (He pauses.) Let’s leave that. Before that…I asked you a question…what was it…ah, yes…do you think that he still keeps her or her photo?
Swapna: It is worse. He wants me to accept her. What kind of woman does he think I am? I am not willing to share my bed or my husband with any woman. I do not want such a husband. When we sleep together, he must be thinking about her, I am sure.
Dr. Shyam: He does not think about you?
Swapna: How do I know? But, I know that he thinks about her quite often.
Dr. Shyam: You know that?
Swapna: A wife can make out such things.
Dr. Shyam: Ah…it is possible that he fantasizes about her…
Swapna: So, he told you that he does, is that so?
Dr. Shyam: If he had told me, do you think I would admit that? (He pauses for a while.) Isn’t it normal for married people to fantasize about people other than their spouses? How about you? Don’t tell me that you have never thought of Hrithik Roshan or Brad Pitt or some Greek god?
Swapna (laughs)
Dr. Shyam (laughing along): Why? Don’t you fantasize?
Swapna: I was laughing at the Greek gods…I prefer normal men…Balraj Sahni or Humphrey Bogart or (she appears to be thinking)…
Dr. Shyam: Or, Arjun?
Swapna (nods her head and smiles): Yes.
Dr. Shyam (looks at his watch): Let’s call it a day, ok? Next time, let’s have a joint session. Trust me. You two are doing great.
Both of them rise. Swapna takes an envelope from her bag and gives it to Dr. Shyam. The doctor slips it into a drawer. Then, the two come out through the door to the other side. The whole stage is now bright. When the doctor enters the waiting room, the 5 people there stand.
The doctor goes towards the woman and her daughter on seats 1 and 2.
Dr. Shyam: Ah, good! You have come with your daughter. Very good! Look, do you mind if I see this man first? (He points towards Arjun.) Just for a few minutes to arrange the next meeting. Is that ok? (The woman nods her head vigorously.).
The doctor then goes back to his office. Swapna does not take a seat but stands near the exit. Arjun goes to her.
Arjun: Will you wait?
Swapna (nods her head and says softly): Yes.
Arjun then enters the doctor’s office.
Swapna keeps standing in that corner. The woman turns to her as if to offer her a seat or to engage her in conversation. Ignoring her, Swapna stares at the door.
Then, except for Swapna, the action there continues to be the same as before, with mosquitoes and the noisy fan.
The light dims in the waiting room and the office brightens. Arjun has taken a seat and he is leaning forward with his arms on the doctor’s desk.
Dr. Shyam: I was telling Swapna that we can have joint sessions from next time.
Arjun: Will it help? She has not changed her mind one bit.
Dr. Shyam: Have you? These fights will not disappear so fast.
Arjun (edgy and embarrassed): So, she told you about yesterday?
Dr. Shyam (he remains silent and keeps looking at Arjun)
Arjun: I am still not comfortable about discussing my bedroom matters with strangers…or doctors.
Dr. Shyam: Does she tell strangers?
Arjun: How should I know...I guess not...
Dr. Shyam: Do you talk to her about your…bedroom matters?
Arjun (exasperated): Doc, there is nothing to talk about…that is one of the problems, remember?
Dr. Shyam: Do you talk to her about the lady?
Arjun: Talk? Her photo is enough for Swapna to see red. The only time I could talk about her was the time I told her about that blasted affair.
Dr. Shyam: Do you regret that it has ended?
Arjun: Doc, it has ended, period. I don’t cry over spilt milk. If only she…my wife…could understand that…
Dr. Shyam: Maybe, your wife thinks that you would like to keep that lady, too…
Arjun (laughing nervously): What…a ménage à trois? When I can’t even keep one in bed? Do you think I am crazy?
Dr. Shyam: No. But, don’t you think your wife could feel a bit jittery about your feelings for that lady?
Arjun: Doc, jittery is an understatement. For her, that lady should not even exist. Not even a memory. I get so mad when I hear those crazy demands…burn her photos, never think about her, that’s all she has to say…that lady is…I mean, was…part of my life. I will not discard any part of my life, period.
Dr. Shyam: It won’t hurt anyone, will it…if you forget…erase that part?
Arjun (rather agitated): You are beginning to sound like her, doc. Can’t you understand? It is the past…can I erase that? Even if it amounts to nothing…even if I could…will I have to erase something else after that? Myself?
Dr. Shyam: Don’t worry, I understand you, Arjun. And, you will make her understand. Give her some time.
Arjun (tired and downcast): It’s been more than a year.
Dr. Shyam: Hey, just some more time, ok? Trust me, both of you will understand each other better soon.
Arjun: I hope so, doc. Just getting tired of it all…
Dr. Shyam: So, let’s meet together next time. I will call you about the exact appointment, ok? Till then, think about what we talked about…
Arjun nods his head and stands up. He hands over some folded money to the doctor who puts that in the drawer. When he is near the door, Arjun turns to the doctor.
Arjun: Doc, what were your conclusions from the Rorschach tests?
Dr. Shyam: Ah! The tests you don’t believe, right? (The two laugh.)
Arjun: I studied about all those ink-blots…thanks to the Net…about what you expect me to see in those stains…
Dr. Shyam (laughs): Did your Net tell you that one of them……what was it…ah, yes… looks like a naked gymnast with one leg up, correct?
Arjun (laughs): Just kidding…but, a joke to a shrink can be dangerous, right?
Dr. Shyam (laughs along and after observing that Arjun was waiting, as if, for something): Are you nervous about the psychological assessment?
Arjun (sheepishly): Not really.
Dr. Shyam: Here, let me show you the preliminary report…I hope you will be satisfied with that…even though you do not believe in what I do…
The doctor searches in a couple of files. Finds a sheet of paper and hands it over to Arjun.
Arjun (reading aloud bits and pieces): …seen in detail, in mental status examination and in diagnostic testing…do not manifest features suggesting any psychiatric illness or abnormality…there is poor frustration tolerance and mild impulsivity…intellectually bright and judgement in non-emotional matters are also good.
Arjun gives the sheet of paper back to Dr. Shyam, shakes hands with the doctor and leaves the office. The woman and her daughter enter the doctor’s office. Swapna and Arjun exit the stage together.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Will You Marry Me?
In the summer of 1985, a girl asked me that question for the first time. To be fair, the question was, “Will you marry girls like us?” I was accompanying four girls 3-5 years older than me. It was more precarious than that. I was in a cable car on its way to Sentosa (an island and a tourist attraction in Singapore). The question was posed by a beautiful and voluptuous Sri Lankan girl. I stared at her intensely and thought about two other facts of life. One, I suffer from vertigo. Two, the 1983 cable car disaster when two cable cars on its way to Sentosa plunged 55 metres into the sea and seven were killed, about which I had read in the Reader’s Digest. I managed a polite and succinct reply, “No.”
The trauma caused by that reply lasted more than fifteen years. My recovery was partly helped by a ‘get-tough’ education. I was taught Socrates by priests and I learned that ‘As to marriage or celibacy, let a man take which course he will, he will be sure to repent.’ Coming from a family with the wrong background, I had only one course to avoid the other. In that same school, I was taught logic in primary school. I learned about the 3 questions to get a “Yes.”
- Q1: Will you answer the three questions with a Yes or a No?
- Student: Teacher, if she does not agree?
- Teacher: Boy, do you really want to marry such a girl?
- Q2: Will you give the same answer to this question and the next?
- Q3: Will you marry me?
Due to unforeseen circumstances, my first date was an arranged affair and it coincided with the ceremony called ‘viewing-the-prospective-bride’ (pennu kaanal). The elders agreed that we were suitable material. Even the stars and the bank accounts agreed. We were allowed to go to the only park in town. In the sun, she reminded me of Smita Patil. In the shade, she looked like Ingrid Bergman. I asked her my well-compiled 19 questions and realized that she is my soul-mate. I asked the 20th question, “Will you marry me?” She gave the polite and succinct reply, “No.”
Before long, I was involved in my second such ceremony. I did not raise any question this time. It is unnecessary, I had been warned. And therefore, everything went smoothly and almost successfully. That night, I happened to talk to an old and dear attractive friend who had just returned that evening from New York. We spoke over the phone late into the night. When the clock was about to strike one, she told me, “I always thought we would be an item.” I was sleepy and replied, “Me too.” Then, this friend asked me, “Will you marry me?”
We slept on that question. That morning, I got up early and tried to resume the conversation with my friend. Her strict and unhelpful mother told me to try much later in the day. I thought very carefully. I called up the ‘prospective-nearly-fixed-bride’ and told her that I am otherwise engaged. I did admire her sang-froid. Much later that day, I got through to my friend and gave her a resounding, “Yes.” She asked, with sang-froid still in the air, “Yes what?” I jogged her memory, “Yes to your question about marriage, you fool.” She replied, “We talked a lot of nonsense, didn’t we?”
Lesser men would have drowned themselves in a vat of alcohol. I tried to reason with my family that I was ready for the next ceremony. They told me that they were not. They also advised me to have a change of scene. It might be good for my health if not theirs, they suggested. I left for Berlin.
There, I led a lonely life till I was spooked by a lady with a Celtic butterfly tattoo on the lower back. On a rare sunny blue day on which the cactus flower bloom was a bright yellow, we were walking in a park by a lake. The scene would have made Van Gogh cut off his right ear or Wordsworth prance on the vale like a senile seven year old. Such a setting is fine when you enjoy solitude or soporific matrimony. Many brave men before me have fallen from grace on such a scene, I knew.
My head was tilting to the right and hers to the right too, ready for a long and tender kiss (philematologists have studied why we did that the right way, read this 2003 article in the famous scientific journal Nature [click here]). Without going on my knees, I crooned to that amazing lady, “Will you marry me?” She replied, “Enschuldigung, ich verstehe nicht (Sorry, I don’t understand).” I knew enough German to translate but I did not.
By the time I returned from Berlin, unattached and free, my family had recovered and they arranged the next ceremony. For some unknown reason, I convinced my folks that I should go alone; and surprisingly, they acquiesced.
There are certain homes which resonate with your inner spirits and you can even hear banshees wailing and in that girl’s house, they seemed to be lamenting my protracted bachelorhood. The prayer (puja) room was next to the living room and I was made to bow to a wide assortment of Gods of various faiths. I sat next to a seat on which was placed the photo of a famous swami with a funny hairdo. I prefer the bearded variety in orange robes that refer to every woman as Ma.
For the first half-hour, I met the uncles and aunties. They quizzed me about my physical activities and academic qualifications. Then, the eatables came along with the older generation. I fielded every question very well and also, consumed well. At the end of the first hour, the younger generation came in along with the prospective-bride. She sat on a seat opposite to mine, maintained a chaste silence accompanied by a beatific smile.
Next to me sat an intelligent girl, a cousin probably. She and I got along famously and discussed the poetry of Housman and e.e.cummings; then, we shifted to movies covering the psychosexual in The Silence of the Lambs to the courtroom scene in To Kill a Mockingbird. We went on for more than fifteen minutes. I nearly asked that girl, “Will you marry me?” I then noticed that my prospective-bride had left the room.
I did marry another using illogical means but to avoid copyright infringement, I will not write about that.
Now, I request humbly and sincerely for an honest poll.
Though my experiences do not provide an adequate sample for a proper statistical inference, I am certain that I preferred it when the woman did the asking.
What is your preference? Should the man or the woman ask the question “Will you marry me?”
Try to forget your better half (if any). If your preference contradicts experience, you can always try it out once again your way.
The future of your kids and the institution of marriage depend on your answer.
Author’s note:
- I am still waiting for my first original thought. Till then: I plagiarize, therefore I am (Latin - effingo ergo sum).
- My better half tells me that this would have been better ghost-written rather than being written by a ghost.
The trauma caused by that reply lasted more than fifteen years. My recovery was partly helped by a ‘get-tough’ education. I was taught Socrates by priests and I learned that ‘As to marriage or celibacy, let a man take which course he will, he will be sure to repent.’ Coming from a family with the wrong background, I had only one course to avoid the other. In that same school, I was taught logic in primary school. I learned about the 3 questions to get a “Yes.”
- Q1: Will you answer the three questions with a Yes or a No?
- Student: Teacher, if she does not agree?
- Teacher: Boy, do you really want to marry such a girl?
- Q2: Will you give the same answer to this question and the next?
- Q3: Will you marry me?
Due to unforeseen circumstances, my first date was an arranged affair and it coincided with the ceremony called ‘viewing-the-prospective-bride’ (pennu kaanal). The elders agreed that we were suitable material. Even the stars and the bank accounts agreed. We were allowed to go to the only park in town. In the sun, she reminded me of Smita Patil. In the shade, she looked like Ingrid Bergman. I asked her my well-compiled 19 questions and realized that she is my soul-mate. I asked the 20th question, “Will you marry me?” She gave the polite and succinct reply, “No.”
Before long, I was involved in my second such ceremony. I did not raise any question this time. It is unnecessary, I had been warned. And therefore, everything went smoothly and almost successfully. That night, I happened to talk to an old and dear attractive friend who had just returned that evening from New York. We spoke over the phone late into the night. When the clock was about to strike one, she told me, “I always thought we would be an item.” I was sleepy and replied, “Me too.” Then, this friend asked me, “Will you marry me?”
We slept on that question. That morning, I got up early and tried to resume the conversation with my friend. Her strict and unhelpful mother told me to try much later in the day. I thought very carefully. I called up the ‘prospective-nearly-fixed-bride’ and told her that I am otherwise engaged. I did admire her sang-froid. Much later that day, I got through to my friend and gave her a resounding, “Yes.” She asked, with sang-froid still in the air, “Yes what?” I jogged her memory, “Yes to your question about marriage, you fool.” She replied, “We talked a lot of nonsense, didn’t we?”
Lesser men would have drowned themselves in a vat of alcohol. I tried to reason with my family that I was ready for the next ceremony. They told me that they were not. They also advised me to have a change of scene. It might be good for my health if not theirs, they suggested. I left for Berlin.
There, I led a lonely life till I was spooked by a lady with a Celtic butterfly tattoo on the lower back. On a rare sunny blue day on which the cactus flower bloom was a bright yellow, we were walking in a park by a lake. The scene would have made Van Gogh cut off his right ear or Wordsworth prance on the vale like a senile seven year old. Such a setting is fine when you enjoy solitude or soporific matrimony. Many brave men before me have fallen from grace on such a scene, I knew.
My head was tilting to the right and hers to the right too, ready for a long and tender kiss (philematologists have studied why we did that the right way, read this 2003 article in the famous scientific journal Nature [click here]). Without going on my knees, I crooned to that amazing lady, “Will you marry me?” She replied, “Enschuldigung, ich verstehe nicht (Sorry, I don’t understand).” I knew enough German to translate but I did not.
By the time I returned from Berlin, unattached and free, my family had recovered and they arranged the next ceremony. For some unknown reason, I convinced my folks that I should go alone; and surprisingly, they acquiesced.
There are certain homes which resonate with your inner spirits and you can even hear banshees wailing and in that girl’s house, they seemed to be lamenting my protracted bachelorhood. The prayer (puja) room was next to the living room and I was made to bow to a wide assortment of Gods of various faiths. I sat next to a seat on which was placed the photo of a famous swami with a funny hairdo. I prefer the bearded variety in orange robes that refer to every woman as Ma.
For the first half-hour, I met the uncles and aunties. They quizzed me about my physical activities and academic qualifications. Then, the eatables came along with the older generation. I fielded every question very well and also, consumed well. At the end of the first hour, the younger generation came in along with the prospective-bride. She sat on a seat opposite to mine, maintained a chaste silence accompanied by a beatific smile.
Next to me sat an intelligent girl, a cousin probably. She and I got along famously and discussed the poetry of Housman and e.e.cummings; then, we shifted to movies covering the psychosexual in The Silence of the Lambs to the courtroom scene in To Kill a Mockingbird. We went on for more than fifteen minutes. I nearly asked that girl, “Will you marry me?” I then noticed that my prospective-bride had left the room.
I did marry another using illogical means but to avoid copyright infringement, I will not write about that.
Now, I request humbly and sincerely for an honest poll.
Though my experiences do not provide an adequate sample for a proper statistical inference, I am certain that I preferred it when the woman did the asking.
What is your preference? Should the man or the woman ask the question “Will you marry me?”
Try to forget your better half (if any). If your preference contradicts experience, you can always try it out once again your way.
The future of your kids and the institution of marriage depend on your answer.
Author’s note:
- I am still waiting for my first original thought. Till then: I plagiarize, therefore I am (Latin - effingo ergo sum).
- My better half tells me that this would have been better ghost-written rather than being written by a ghost.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
My Father is a Good Man
Last weekend, at Chennai airport, I saw Shreya and her father – the girl I should not remember and the man I want to kill.
For thirty one years, I have harboured that thought. But now, like a serious matter losing relevance, I have to write before the ink fades on that memory. What remains seems like a silent movie with shadows acting.
At that time, we lived in Borneo – an island divided and administered by three countries: Indonesia (more than 70%), Malaysia (the two big states of Sarawak and Sabah) and Brunei. When I jog my memory, it is not the best or the worst which comes to mind but two rather irrelevant memories.
I remember that, in those days, Brunei did not like to recruit Malayalis because of ‘their communist inclinations’. Around the same time, in Sarawak and Sabah, the government was facing the danger of secession and also, communist protests. The government had even passed an order declaring that communists would be shot-at-sight.
Even with such conditions prevailing, the people from Kerala were not viewed with a single label. Thanks to that, my father worked as an engineer for the Sarawak government and he even received the medals for long-service and good-service from the Head of the State.
My second memory is of the Iban, an indigeneous tribe of Sarawak. At one time, the Iban used to be a fearsome warrior race famous for headhunting and piracy. My father used to tell us that the Iban were a simple lot, quick to please and even quicker to anger; he called them the original human, worthy of trust and loyalty, before becoming primitive like us.
We were occasionally invited by my father’s Iban sub-ordinates for simple meals at their longhouse. On one of those visits, to express their affection and respect, my father was presented with a parang, a sword more than 100 years old, well-designed for one handed use and probably, with a few human heads to its credit. I used to wish for that parang as my inheritance.
The place where we lived was too small to be a town and too big to be a village. There were two Indian families and the rest consisted of Malays, Chinese and Iban. Shreya’s family was the other Indian family.
Shreya was my classmate from lower kindergarten till primary three. Her father worked in my father’s office, in the clerical or accounts division, and both of them reported to a Chinese boss named Mr. Chung. I used to hear my parents discuss about ‘irregularities’ in the accounts division and about some confrontation between Mr. Chung and Shreya’s father. My parents and Shreya’s folks rarely socialized. But, my parents treated Shreya like a daughter.
Since we were the only Indians in that town, she had to be my girlfriend. I did not complain because she was beautiful, dusky; with lovely black eyes and long lashes; and, she could smile and laugh the way I love. We never played doctor-and-nurse-or-patient because she wanted to be the doctor all the time. I used to go to her house for books, jigsaw puzzles and her cycle. She used to play with me in our three-acre compound, treasure-hunting on the green slopes under the shade of huge wild trees. She allowed me to be the guide and her protector.
Once, I asked her if she is a Tamil brahmin. A Tamil chettiyar, she proudly corrected. I asked her what it meant, brahmin or chettiyar. We were eight or nine then and neither of us knew. She asked me about what I am. I don’t know, I remember saying with a defeated low tone, my father told me that it is not worth knowing, I added weakly.
In that village-town, my family used to be invited for a party nearly every other week. My parents got along well with nearly all. We used to have parties in my house too, including the day-long party on Diwali. I used to call Shreya but she could not come without her parents.
Of those days, I also remember my mother arguing with my father’s ‘bad habit’ of not saying ‘no’ to those who ask for money. Every month, a week after pay-day, I would see my father being approached for small loans. The Iban used to return. Most of the others tried to return with chicken or meat, fruits or vegetable.
My father used to take me with him to his office when he had to check on some work on holidays. I used to hear him shout and rage with his famous temper. But I knew that it was not really serious. Without my father’s knowledge, I used to receive sweets from his co-workers. They used to tell me that my father is a good man.
It was a Friday when everything started. Shreya and I were resting inside a freshly-dug pit at the edge of the compound.
- Sree, I got a new jigsaw puzzle yesterday.
- (envy and silence from me)
- It is different…it allows for three different pictures…depending on how you start at the center…
- Wow (curiosity won the battle)…can I play with that…with you…
- But, you have to show me one thing…
- What? (what could I have)
- Will you show me the headhunter’s sword…the Iban parang?
That evening, while my parents were entertaining some guests, I took my father’s parang from their bedroom cupboard and smuggled it out within my Yonex racket case. It was with great pride that I displayed the sword in her room. Shreya had to beg real hard before I allowed her to hold it in her hand, with my hand over hers to make sure that she did not drop it or hurt herself.
We heard someone outside her room. I took the sword from her hand. I didn’t have enough time to put it away in its case or within the racket case. I hid the parang beneath Shreya’s bed. It was Shreya’s mother at the door and she informed me that I was wanted at my place.
The next day, I went to Shreya’s house at around ten. Shreya told me that the sword had been there beneath the bed the previous night but that morning, the parang was missing. We searched together. When she cried, I wanted to cry too. At noon, I told her that I will return later that day to search the house more thoroughly.
That afternoon, heavy equatorial rain caught us by surprise, and by evening, the village-town seemed like one big muddy flooded playground. But, it was a common affair.
At about six, it was quite dark outside when my father received a call from Mr. Chung for some urgent document. I begged my father to take me with him. We went in our old Beetle. At the office, I was told to remain in the car. My father entered the office through the front entrance. There is another entrance on the right, close to the back-gate, and I saw someone exiting the building that way. It was dark and raining. But, I caught a glimpse of the face in the bright search-light placed at the gate. It was Shreya’s father but I could not be sure.
A few minutes later, I saw a police-van and an ambulance rush into that office compound. I sat in the car for a few more minutes while I watched more police cars enter the area. Curiosity got the better of me and I left the car. A constable prevented me from entering the building. A senior policeman there recognized me. Maybe, he had seen me at some party. He ordered one of the constables to take me home. He told me that my father would come later. Nobody asked me anything else.
During the days that followed, I heard that my father had found Mr. Chung dead, hacked to pieces. The police were trying to get more details from him. I was assured that he would return to us soon and I believed that my father would return. I saw Shreya a few times but I did not tell her or even my mother about seeing Shreya’s father that night. It did not seem to matter and I did not want to cause any trouble for Shreya. In all that confusion, I even forgot about searching for my parang.
A week or two later, I heard a Chinese lawyer talking to my disconsolate mother.
- I advised him to go with my story about an Iban.
- (my mother was weeping)
- I told him to say that he saw an Iban, one of those sub-ordinates, being reprimanded by Mr. Chung and in a flash of anger the Iban had chopped Mr. Chung. But he won’t listen to me…can you make him listen?
- Don’t you know that he won’t agree to such stuff?
- What la, you know it is going to be difficult…
A month later, I read the ‘whole’ story in the newspaper about how my father had a fight with Mr. Chung, how he killed him with his own parang which was found at the scene of the crime. My father was not even able to explain how the parang had reached that place. The rest of the columns described my father as a bad man, a hot-blooded man known to have fits of anger and even a suspected communist. It seems that he was ‘cool’ enough to take his son to the office and even ‘bold’ to call the police himself.
The senior policeman came to our house to question my mother on one of those days. When he was leaving, I approached him. I told him about how I had lost the parang. I told him about seeing Shreya’s father. The policeman held my shoulders kindly. He told me that my ‘girlfriend’ had also phoned him to tell him about how the parang was lost.
- I do hope that you and your girlfriend have a better time ahead of you. But, do not tell stories like this, ok? Another person in my place might not take it lightly.
- But, it is not a story…
- Listen, young man. You are now accusing your girlfriend’s father? I know why you are saying that…maybe I should ask your girlfriend about that…stop it! Do you understand what I am saying? The next time, I will not be so kind…
My mother and I left the country a few days after the execution. I had stopped meeting Shreya long before that. I heard that Shreya and her folks also left for Australia a few months later.
Last week, at Chennai airport, I saw Shreya and her father – the girl I could not forget and the man I wanted to kill. She came to me and said,
- Sree, it is me. Shreya, remember?
- (silence)
- Your father was a good man, Sree.
- I know.
For thirty one years, I have harboured that thought. But now, like a serious matter losing relevance, I have to write before the ink fades on that memory. What remains seems like a silent movie with shadows acting.
At that time, we lived in Borneo – an island divided and administered by three countries: Indonesia (more than 70%), Malaysia (the two big states of Sarawak and Sabah) and Brunei. When I jog my memory, it is not the best or the worst which comes to mind but two rather irrelevant memories.
I remember that, in those days, Brunei did not like to recruit Malayalis because of ‘their communist inclinations’. Around the same time, in Sarawak and Sabah, the government was facing the danger of secession and also, communist protests. The government had even passed an order declaring that communists would be shot-at-sight.
Even with such conditions prevailing, the people from Kerala were not viewed with a single label. Thanks to that, my father worked as an engineer for the Sarawak government and he even received the medals for long-service and good-service from the Head of the State.
My second memory is of the Iban, an indigeneous tribe of Sarawak. At one time, the Iban used to be a fearsome warrior race famous for headhunting and piracy. My father used to tell us that the Iban were a simple lot, quick to please and even quicker to anger; he called them the original human, worthy of trust and loyalty, before becoming primitive like us.
We were occasionally invited by my father’s Iban sub-ordinates for simple meals at their longhouse. On one of those visits, to express their affection and respect, my father was presented with a parang, a sword more than 100 years old, well-designed for one handed use and probably, with a few human heads to its credit. I used to wish for that parang as my inheritance.
The place where we lived was too small to be a town and too big to be a village. There were two Indian families and the rest consisted of Malays, Chinese and Iban. Shreya’s family was the other Indian family.
Shreya was my classmate from lower kindergarten till primary three. Her father worked in my father’s office, in the clerical or accounts division, and both of them reported to a Chinese boss named Mr. Chung. I used to hear my parents discuss about ‘irregularities’ in the accounts division and about some confrontation between Mr. Chung and Shreya’s father. My parents and Shreya’s folks rarely socialized. But, my parents treated Shreya like a daughter.
Since we were the only Indians in that town, she had to be my girlfriend. I did not complain because she was beautiful, dusky; with lovely black eyes and long lashes; and, she could smile and laugh the way I love. We never played doctor-and-nurse-or-patient because she wanted to be the doctor all the time. I used to go to her house for books, jigsaw puzzles and her cycle. She used to play with me in our three-acre compound, treasure-hunting on the green slopes under the shade of huge wild trees. She allowed me to be the guide and her protector.
Once, I asked her if she is a Tamil brahmin. A Tamil chettiyar, she proudly corrected. I asked her what it meant, brahmin or chettiyar. We were eight or nine then and neither of us knew. She asked me about what I am. I don’t know, I remember saying with a defeated low tone, my father told me that it is not worth knowing, I added weakly.
In that village-town, my family used to be invited for a party nearly every other week. My parents got along well with nearly all. We used to have parties in my house too, including the day-long party on Diwali. I used to call Shreya but she could not come without her parents.
Of those days, I also remember my mother arguing with my father’s ‘bad habit’ of not saying ‘no’ to those who ask for money. Every month, a week after pay-day, I would see my father being approached for small loans. The Iban used to return. Most of the others tried to return with chicken or meat, fruits or vegetable.
My father used to take me with him to his office when he had to check on some work on holidays. I used to hear him shout and rage with his famous temper. But I knew that it was not really serious. Without my father’s knowledge, I used to receive sweets from his co-workers. They used to tell me that my father is a good man.
It was a Friday when everything started. Shreya and I were resting inside a freshly-dug pit at the edge of the compound.
- Sree, I got a new jigsaw puzzle yesterday.
- (envy and silence from me)
- It is different…it allows for three different pictures…depending on how you start at the center…
- Wow (curiosity won the battle)…can I play with that…with you…
- But, you have to show me one thing…
- What? (what could I have)
- Will you show me the headhunter’s sword…the Iban parang?
That evening, while my parents were entertaining some guests, I took my father’s parang from their bedroom cupboard and smuggled it out within my Yonex racket case. It was with great pride that I displayed the sword in her room. Shreya had to beg real hard before I allowed her to hold it in her hand, with my hand over hers to make sure that she did not drop it or hurt herself.
We heard someone outside her room. I took the sword from her hand. I didn’t have enough time to put it away in its case or within the racket case. I hid the parang beneath Shreya’s bed. It was Shreya’s mother at the door and she informed me that I was wanted at my place.
The next day, I went to Shreya’s house at around ten. Shreya told me that the sword had been there beneath the bed the previous night but that morning, the parang was missing. We searched together. When she cried, I wanted to cry too. At noon, I told her that I will return later that day to search the house more thoroughly.
That afternoon, heavy equatorial rain caught us by surprise, and by evening, the village-town seemed like one big muddy flooded playground. But, it was a common affair.
At about six, it was quite dark outside when my father received a call from Mr. Chung for some urgent document. I begged my father to take me with him. We went in our old Beetle. At the office, I was told to remain in the car. My father entered the office through the front entrance. There is another entrance on the right, close to the back-gate, and I saw someone exiting the building that way. It was dark and raining. But, I caught a glimpse of the face in the bright search-light placed at the gate. It was Shreya’s father but I could not be sure.
A few minutes later, I saw a police-van and an ambulance rush into that office compound. I sat in the car for a few more minutes while I watched more police cars enter the area. Curiosity got the better of me and I left the car. A constable prevented me from entering the building. A senior policeman there recognized me. Maybe, he had seen me at some party. He ordered one of the constables to take me home. He told me that my father would come later. Nobody asked me anything else.
During the days that followed, I heard that my father had found Mr. Chung dead, hacked to pieces. The police were trying to get more details from him. I was assured that he would return to us soon and I believed that my father would return. I saw Shreya a few times but I did not tell her or even my mother about seeing Shreya’s father that night. It did not seem to matter and I did not want to cause any trouble for Shreya. In all that confusion, I even forgot about searching for my parang.
A week or two later, I heard a Chinese lawyer talking to my disconsolate mother.
- I advised him to go with my story about an Iban.
- (my mother was weeping)
- I told him to say that he saw an Iban, one of those sub-ordinates, being reprimanded by Mr. Chung and in a flash of anger the Iban had chopped Mr. Chung. But he won’t listen to me…can you make him listen?
- Don’t you know that he won’t agree to such stuff?
- What la, you know it is going to be difficult…
A month later, I read the ‘whole’ story in the newspaper about how my father had a fight with Mr. Chung, how he killed him with his own parang which was found at the scene of the crime. My father was not even able to explain how the parang had reached that place. The rest of the columns described my father as a bad man, a hot-blooded man known to have fits of anger and even a suspected communist. It seems that he was ‘cool’ enough to take his son to the office and even ‘bold’ to call the police himself.
The senior policeman came to our house to question my mother on one of those days. When he was leaving, I approached him. I told him about how I had lost the parang. I told him about seeing Shreya’s father. The policeman held my shoulders kindly. He told me that my ‘girlfriend’ had also phoned him to tell him about how the parang was lost.
- I do hope that you and your girlfriend have a better time ahead of you. But, do not tell stories like this, ok? Another person in my place might not take it lightly.
- But, it is not a story…
- Listen, young man. You are now accusing your girlfriend’s father? I know why you are saying that…maybe I should ask your girlfriend about that…stop it! Do you understand what I am saying? The next time, I will not be so kind…
My mother and I left the country a few days after the execution. I had stopped meeting Shreya long before that. I heard that Shreya and her folks also left for Australia a few months later.
Last week, at Chennai airport, I saw Shreya and her father – the girl I could not forget and the man I wanted to kill. She came to me and said,
- Sree, it is me. Shreya, remember?
- (silence)
- Your father was a good man, Sree.
- I know.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Love Dies
A few days back, my friend and I were looking at photos on the Net. On one thumbnail, I felt my friend stiffen with tension. Though she was looking at the photo, her mind seemed to be far away.
“What happened?” I asked.
“This photo reminds me of a college…the hostels…I visited that college recently…” she replied haltingly. She was touching the screen and tracing that photo with her right index finger. [I noted that the photo belongs to Raghuram Ekambaram a.k.a. kolipakkam - click here to see the photo.]
Then, she continued,
“The hostels are shaped like E. This looks so much like the center wing. Do you know…on one of those wings on the side of that E, the twelfth and last room used to be 113 on the ground floor and 213 on the top floor.”
“Used to be?” I queried.
“Yes, those rooms were demolished.”
“Why?”
“Some time back, a student who stayed in 113 got into a fight with the local people. It was rare, you know, for students to mix with people outside the campus. Some say that it was a business deal or a local love affair that went awry. One night, a group of locals came to that student’s room and hacked him to pieces. The college authorities hushed the case real fast. That room remained empty that year but it was allotted to a new student in the next academic year. On the very first day, when that new student opened the steel cupboard to place his stuff, he found within…a severed right hand.”
“Aw…come on…” I exclaimed.
She countered, “I know...Anyway, students then on refused to stay in 113 or 213…in the other hostels on campus, too…and, the college did demolish. I have seen the old photos with the twelfth rooms on that wing. It is not there now.”
“You goofie, every college has such tales. My college had the old chowki (chowkidaar or caretaker) in the red-and-yellow-shawl. This old chowki died in my first year in college. He was found dead near the X-ray lab a few days before Holi - an old man who was alone in life and death, and always with a red-and-yellow-shawl around his frail body. He used to be really friendly with students. During my second winter there, a student who was studying late at night left his room, to go to the loo, after latching the door. When he returned and unlatched the door, he found an old man inside, an old man in a red-and-yellow-shawl. Every winter, we used to have at least one student seeing him.”
I laughed and she joined in, too. After some time, I could feel that she had slipped away from me once again.
“Hey…are you there?” I enquired, touching her hair and tucking it in behind her ear.
“Can I tell you something…maybe, just another laughing matter…it might help, I guess…to laugh, I mean…” she asked me.
“Shoot.”
“I went there recently for recruitment. I heard another story in that college…”
“Ah…at least, you have called it a story…”
“Shut up, will you? Listen…”
Then, she told me the following:
On one Sunday evening long back, two students went together to the Saraswathi temple on campus. He (let me call him Arjun, she said) was not very religious, circled the deity, finished his prayer fast and sat on the cool marble temple steps waiting for her (let her be Swapna, she added). She joined him after some time. She looked weak and tired.
“What happened, Swapna?” Arjun enquired.
“Just a mild headache…I am ok…must be migraine…sitting here will help…” and she added shyly, “with you.”
After some time, she asked him, “Arjun, these steps are very cold, aren’t they?”
“Not really…are you feeling feverish?”
“No…but…I think I should go back to the hostel.”
He went with her till the gate of the ladies’ hostel. Before parting, he said
“You know, I have been thinking of getting married…asked my mother to find me a girl as soon as I leave and join that company.”
It was an old joke between them. Every time, she would reply with
“I have been thinking of going away after college…meeting new people, forgetting the old ones and allowing them to forget…”
The college rules did not allow them to touch each other in public but there’s a lot that looks can do, too.
Anyway, this time, she just smiled without saying those words and went inside.
Next day, on Monday, Arjun did not see Swapna in the morning classes. He asked the other girls in his batch. She went with her father, one girl told him. He felt angry with Swapna for not informing him.
Later, that day, Arjun received a call at the Warden’s house (those were the days before the mobile and even hostel-phones). It was Swapna’s father. Arjun could not hear him well and then, he heard Swapna’s voice on the line.
“Arjun, can you please come…”
Swapna’s father came back on the line and told him, now more clearly, the name of a hospital. He left immediately and met Swapna’s father outside the ICU.
“Her headache got bad. She called us and we brought her here. A few minutes after calling you, she became unconscious. The doctors tell me that they are draining her brain...aneurysm, haemorrage, something…”
That night, Arjun waited outside the ICU. According to the hospital rules, visitors were not supposed to hang around near the ICU. But, he waited near the ICU. The doctors and the other staff probably understood and did not make him leave.
He did not leave his post that night or the next day. Swapna’s family waited in the waiting room on the ground floor. On Tuesday, around 3 pm, a doctor approached him and told him to come back with Swapna’s father. They were told that Swapna is brain-dead.
Arjun took Swapna’s father back to his family, then went up again and requested the doctor for a moment with Swapna. In the ICU, Arjun stood next to her bed, touched her for the first time and said, “I love you, you know that, don’t you?” That was the first time they used that word.
Arjun left the hospital without saying a word to Swapna’s family. Swapna never had the chance to face the five stages of dying (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) and Arjun felt that he had all the time for that.
A few days or a few weeks later, he realized that he was beginning to forget her. He felt angry with himself. But, no anger could hide the fact that the dead have no place and that only the living matter.
Swapna’s family tried to contact him. But Arjun had left that college and that city. He disappeared. Some say that there are days when the steps of the Sarawathi temple feel unnaturally cold.
At this point, her story ended, or I thought that it had. But, my friend continued:
“When I went to that college, a famous author was there for her book-release. The author read excerpts and at one place, she read from her book…love never dies…
Then, that author did something strange. We saw her pointing at someone at the back. We turned to look but we could not figure out at who she was pointing her finger. The author was talking to someone there…
“Could you please repeat the question? Can you tell me your names, please?” the author said.
Then, the author addressed everyone “Interesting question from the two at the back. Arjun and Swapna would like to know if there is anyone here who actually believes that love never dies.”
Those who were familiar with that old story also knew that Arjun and Swapna always returned to mock those words.”
I held my friend in my arms…tightly…there is no point in hoping to hold her when she is not there anymore, right?
“What happened?” I asked.
“This photo reminds me of a college…the hostels…I visited that college recently…” she replied haltingly. She was touching the screen and tracing that photo with her right index finger. [I noted that the photo belongs to Raghuram Ekambaram a.k.a. kolipakkam - click here to see the photo.]
Then, she continued,
“The hostels are shaped like E. This looks so much like the center wing. Do you know…on one of those wings on the side of that E, the twelfth and last room used to be 113 on the ground floor and 213 on the top floor.”
“Used to be?” I queried.
“Yes, those rooms were demolished.”
“Why?”
“Some time back, a student who stayed in 113 got into a fight with the local people. It was rare, you know, for students to mix with people outside the campus. Some say that it was a business deal or a local love affair that went awry. One night, a group of locals came to that student’s room and hacked him to pieces. The college authorities hushed the case real fast. That room remained empty that year but it was allotted to a new student in the next academic year. On the very first day, when that new student opened the steel cupboard to place his stuff, he found within…a severed right hand.”
“Aw…come on…” I exclaimed.
She countered, “I know...Anyway, students then on refused to stay in 113 or 213…in the other hostels on campus, too…and, the college did demolish. I have seen the old photos with the twelfth rooms on that wing. It is not there now.”
“You goofie, every college has such tales. My college had the old chowki (chowkidaar or caretaker) in the red-and-yellow-shawl. This old chowki died in my first year in college. He was found dead near the X-ray lab a few days before Holi - an old man who was alone in life and death, and always with a red-and-yellow-shawl around his frail body. He used to be really friendly with students. During my second winter there, a student who was studying late at night left his room, to go to the loo, after latching the door. When he returned and unlatched the door, he found an old man inside, an old man in a red-and-yellow-shawl. Every winter, we used to have at least one student seeing him.”
I laughed and she joined in, too. After some time, I could feel that she had slipped away from me once again.
“Hey…are you there?” I enquired, touching her hair and tucking it in behind her ear.
“Can I tell you something…maybe, just another laughing matter…it might help, I guess…to laugh, I mean…” she asked me.
“Shoot.”
“I went there recently for recruitment. I heard another story in that college…”
“Ah…at least, you have called it a story…”
“Shut up, will you? Listen…”
Then, she told me the following:
On one Sunday evening long back, two students went together to the Saraswathi temple on campus. He (let me call him Arjun, she said) was not very religious, circled the deity, finished his prayer fast and sat on the cool marble temple steps waiting for her (let her be Swapna, she added). She joined him after some time. She looked weak and tired.
“What happened, Swapna?” Arjun enquired.
“Just a mild headache…I am ok…must be migraine…sitting here will help…” and she added shyly, “with you.”
After some time, she asked him, “Arjun, these steps are very cold, aren’t they?”
“Not really…are you feeling feverish?”
“No…but…I think I should go back to the hostel.”
He went with her till the gate of the ladies’ hostel. Before parting, he said
“You know, I have been thinking of getting married…asked my mother to find me a girl as soon as I leave and join that company.”
It was an old joke between them. Every time, she would reply with
“I have been thinking of going away after college…meeting new people, forgetting the old ones and allowing them to forget…”
The college rules did not allow them to touch each other in public but there’s a lot that looks can do, too.
Anyway, this time, she just smiled without saying those words and went inside.
Next day, on Monday, Arjun did not see Swapna in the morning classes. He asked the other girls in his batch. She went with her father, one girl told him. He felt angry with Swapna for not informing him.
Later, that day, Arjun received a call at the Warden’s house (those were the days before the mobile and even hostel-phones). It was Swapna’s father. Arjun could not hear him well and then, he heard Swapna’s voice on the line.
“Arjun, can you please come…”
Swapna’s father came back on the line and told him, now more clearly, the name of a hospital. He left immediately and met Swapna’s father outside the ICU.
“Her headache got bad. She called us and we brought her here. A few minutes after calling you, she became unconscious. The doctors tell me that they are draining her brain...aneurysm, haemorrage, something…”
That night, Arjun waited outside the ICU. According to the hospital rules, visitors were not supposed to hang around near the ICU. But, he waited near the ICU. The doctors and the other staff probably understood and did not make him leave.
He did not leave his post that night or the next day. Swapna’s family waited in the waiting room on the ground floor. On Tuesday, around 3 pm, a doctor approached him and told him to come back with Swapna’s father. They were told that Swapna is brain-dead.
Arjun took Swapna’s father back to his family, then went up again and requested the doctor for a moment with Swapna. In the ICU, Arjun stood next to her bed, touched her for the first time and said, “I love you, you know that, don’t you?” That was the first time they used that word.
Arjun left the hospital without saying a word to Swapna’s family. Swapna never had the chance to face the five stages of dying (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) and Arjun felt that he had all the time for that.
A few days or a few weeks later, he realized that he was beginning to forget her. He felt angry with himself. But, no anger could hide the fact that the dead have no place and that only the living matter.
Swapna’s family tried to contact him. But Arjun had left that college and that city. He disappeared. Some say that there are days when the steps of the Sarawathi temple feel unnaturally cold.
At this point, her story ended, or I thought that it had. But, my friend continued:
“When I went to that college, a famous author was there for her book-release. The author read excerpts and at one place, she read from her book…love never dies…
Then, that author did something strange. We saw her pointing at someone at the back. We turned to look but we could not figure out at who she was pointing her finger. The author was talking to someone there…
“Could you please repeat the question? Can you tell me your names, please?” the author said.
Then, the author addressed everyone “Interesting question from the two at the back. Arjun and Swapna would like to know if there is anyone here who actually believes that love never dies.”
Those who were familiar with that old story also knew that Arjun and Swapna always returned to mock those words.”
I held my friend in my arms…tightly…there is no point in hoping to hold her when she is not there anymore, right?
Monday, September 6, 2010
Two Sides of the Coin
Recently, I was asked the question: what do you do for a living? I told the half-truth: I have retired. Today, I thought of coming clean. I will briefly tell you about my business. If you read till the end, there is a prize to be won (t&c apply, not tlc).
What is my business? It is called ‘Two Sides of the Coin’ (click here for a homepage) – we offer the better alternative. The business is best explained with examples.
First, consider politics. We get 40% of our revenue from politics. Every politician wants to have an own group. Language, religion, race and ethnicity are so easily exhausted. Think of the many permutations and combinations. Here, our task is to make today’s bhumiputr tomorrow’s foreigner.
Even ruffians and anarchists want to be divided and subdivided. Go to any street-corner and look at the goondas hanging around in spotless white or saffron or green or chic red or dull khaki and the way they mix and match.
Those are our customers - we give them an identity, the USP and a life-long mission. And, we do it for a modest fee. Given the volume of business, the pennies will do.
Second, consider religion. I have a sentimental attachment to this – I started my business with this. When I started, I had only one guru to follow – history. It is still really hot.
In politics, everything is transparent and people know the truth. But with religion, the work has to be clandestine and involves a great deal of subterfuge. There is very little to be made with inter-religious divisions. That is so obvious, isn’t it? We make money from creating intra-religious divisions and in this advanced age, it is the sub-divisions that really sell. Split and split again.
If a caste or sub-caste involves people who used to tap coconut trees for toddy, divide them into groups based on whether they were the first or the second to come down the coconut tree, i.e., to leave their ‘ancestral’ occupation.
If your group consists of people who landed by ship from some other land, differentiate between those who came on the deck and those who were in the first-class cabins. Irrespective of whether you are an upper-caste or a lower-caste, we will help you find your own group.
We help even atheists find their ‘special’ group: the rationalists, the ones who say I-went-to-space-and-did-not-see-God, the tricky kind with is-there-God-is-a-non-question and so on.
Even those who fight against the caste-system come to us and we give each group a meaningful identity, for e.g. the against-caste-but-against-reservation group who are not keen about every dog having its day, the against-caste-but-want-benefits-based-on-caste group and so on.
I have been asked the question: why do you say ‘two sides’ when there seem to be many sides? Everyone wants the other side to be the side. Just another side will not sell.
Some try to challenge us by bringing in emotions and concepts like love, altruism, jealousy, patriotism and so on. We do not deal with love but if it is love marriage, then it is an institution ready for our attention. Even lovers like to have their own elite group and we help in creating the group that they desire. The same idea holds good with the other concepts.
Most of our business is based on groups and institutions. We rarely deal with individuals. But, recently, we had a client with the following requirement: his wife wanted at least two persons as her husband. We gave him multiple personality – with different styles, techniques and even philosophy of life. We even allowed for spontaneity.
Divide and rule, that is our mission.
If you have reached so far, there is only one question in your mind – what is the prize?
The prize is: anything you want!
To get the prize, just answer the following (only the winners will get a response) and the gift is yours:
Name a group which cannot be divided?
Author’s note: This is to celebrate tomorrow’s Bharat Bandh – if I am to believe the newspapers, normal life will be paralyzed from midnight to midnight and the government has endorsed it.
What is my business? It is called ‘Two Sides of the Coin’ (click here for a homepage) – we offer the better alternative. The business is best explained with examples.
First, consider politics. We get 40% of our revenue from politics. Every politician wants to have an own group. Language, religion, race and ethnicity are so easily exhausted. Think of the many permutations and combinations. Here, our task is to make today’s bhumiputr tomorrow’s foreigner.
Even ruffians and anarchists want to be divided and subdivided. Go to any street-corner and look at the goondas hanging around in spotless white or saffron or green or chic red or dull khaki and the way they mix and match.
Those are our customers - we give them an identity, the USP and a life-long mission. And, we do it for a modest fee. Given the volume of business, the pennies will do.
Second, consider religion. I have a sentimental attachment to this – I started my business with this. When I started, I had only one guru to follow – history. It is still really hot.
In politics, everything is transparent and people know the truth. But with religion, the work has to be clandestine and involves a great deal of subterfuge. There is very little to be made with inter-religious divisions. That is so obvious, isn’t it? We make money from creating intra-religious divisions and in this advanced age, it is the sub-divisions that really sell. Split and split again.
If a caste or sub-caste involves people who used to tap coconut trees for toddy, divide them into groups based on whether they were the first or the second to come down the coconut tree, i.e., to leave their ‘ancestral’ occupation.
If your group consists of people who landed by ship from some other land, differentiate between those who came on the deck and those who were in the first-class cabins. Irrespective of whether you are an upper-caste or a lower-caste, we will help you find your own group.
We help even atheists find their ‘special’ group: the rationalists, the ones who say I-went-to-space-and-did-not-see-God, the tricky kind with is-there-God-is-a-non-question and so on.
Even those who fight against the caste-system come to us and we give each group a meaningful identity, for e.g. the against-caste-but-against-reservation group who are not keen about every dog having its day, the against-caste-but-want-benefits-based-on-caste group and so on.
I have been asked the question: why do you say ‘two sides’ when there seem to be many sides? Everyone wants the other side to be the side. Just another side will not sell.
Some try to challenge us by bringing in emotions and concepts like love, altruism, jealousy, patriotism and so on. We do not deal with love but if it is love marriage, then it is an institution ready for our attention. Even lovers like to have their own elite group and we help in creating the group that they desire. The same idea holds good with the other concepts.
Most of our business is based on groups and institutions. We rarely deal with individuals. But, recently, we had a client with the following requirement: his wife wanted at least two persons as her husband. We gave him multiple personality – with different styles, techniques and even philosophy of life. We even allowed for spontaneity.
Divide and rule, that is our mission.
If you have reached so far, there is only one question in your mind – what is the prize?
The prize is: anything you want!
To get the prize, just answer the following (only the winners will get a response) and the gift is yours:
Name a group which cannot be divided?
Author’s note: This is to celebrate tomorrow’s Bharat Bandh – if I am to believe the newspapers, normal life will be paralyzed from midnight to midnight and the government has endorsed it.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
24 Hours in an Urban Reality Show
One
19:00 - Yesterday at 7 pm, as I turned the key in the lock, I prayed for a dark and empty apartment.
It was dark inside. I checked each room. The apartment was empty too. I could smile.
I had drawn the curtains that morning and it was still that way, like mute spectators seemingly untouched by anything from within or without. I stood by the closed French windows, looking at the other apartments, at families gathering, at kids and their parents following each other. I wondered whether anyone there was watching me. I did not open the windows to let in the sound from outside.
It had been a hard day with a crucial presentation. The academic lot in the project wanted the grant at any cost, those from the company wanted just the program and I wanted to write the right numerical program for the right scientific problem. At the end of the day, their symbiosis won and I was discarded as a parasite.
Hunger made me come out of that reverie. I checked the contents of the fridge. There was some old cooked stuff which I did not feel like warming or eating. Anyway, I wanted to cook and relax. From what was available, I leisurely made a basic meal: fried chicken breast along with chopped spicy sausages, roast chilly potato wedges, sautéed beans and carrots and there was enough sweet yoghurt in the tub. I split the stuff into two portions.
20:15 - At quarter past eight, I ate my share. I was washing the dishes and sipping Amaretto Disaronno when my wife entered the flat. She came over to the kitchen, stood by the door and said,
“Hi, smells real good.”
“Your portion should still be warm.”
In our first year, we had agreed to dispense with the formality of waiting for each other or checking up on one’s arrival.
“I would have loved to have,” she leaned against the dining table, stretching, “but I had a heavy sandwich for tea.”
I kept quiet. I felt that there was more to come from her.
“I have to catch a night flight. There’s an important meeting at HQ tomorrow.”
“Again…?” I blurted.
“What do you mean by ‘again’? I told you that I am ready to sit at home, didn’t I?”
“For what…? Hey, it’s fine with me. Don’t get worked up about that.”
“Yeah, right…it must be convenient for you.”
I stared at her. I could feel my body stiffen, hands clenching, nails sinking into flesh and a dirty feeling curdling in my gut. I snarled,
“Spit it out…whatever…”
“When you reply to your friends, do check the send-list…or, did you include me intentionally?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember the e-mail you sent yesterday…to her…your friend who is like a sister…?”
Each emphasis sounded like an obscenity. I did remember sending that e-mail in a hurry but I could not remember adding my wife as a recipient. It must have ‘dropped-in’ from the frequently-used-list since their surnames are a close match, if not their character.
“Well, you saw my e-mail…is there anything in that for you to bitch about?”
“You don’t even remember, do you…just last week, you told me that you are not in touch with her.”
“But, there is nothing in our e-mail. It was just the usual Hi…Bye, right?”
“I didn’t check if it was Hi…Bye or Wham…Bam.”
“It was a good idea, wasn’t it, not to tell you the truth?” I retorted.
“I bet you sent that to me just to hurt me…to make me worried, to spoil my day in office.”
“Whatever!”
She stormed to the bedroom and I stayed in the drawing room. I could hear her packing and getting ready to leave.
21:30 - At half past nine, she was at the door. She came back to me, sat next to me on the sofa and reached towards me. I moved back to avoid her touch.
“You can’t even hold me these days, can you?”
“If I did, I would be treating you as a prostitute.”
She got up and left, thankfully not banging the front door this time. I sat there, with my eyes closed, for a long time.
23:00 - It must have been around eleven when I went back to the kitchen and put her portion in the fridge. I remembered what my parents used to tell me about their fights. They used to throw dishes out through the window. Even when they could ill-afford to do so. They have been married, quite happily, for nearly sixty years.
Moral of the story: Dishes are thrown out through the window in happy homes.
Two
00:00 - Around midnight, I realized that there was no point lying in bed waiting for sleep. All that came were murderous thoughts. I decided to go for a walk to clear my head.
It is a pleasure to walk in the middle of a city road at that time of the night, to look at the moon philosophically while it returns a cold empty stare, and to smoke that rare joint without passively taking in exhaust fumes.
On one of those rare occasions when my wife and I shared the guest bedroom, she complained about how men, and not women, had the luck to do all that. It is true, I admitted. It is not safe enough for women to have such pleasures.
I had walked past the school and the Party office. I was near the dangerous turn on that road leading to the University. In the moonlight, I could see that there were some people on the footpath, huddled close to the short wall. At about twenty meters, I could make out that there were three – a young woman in her early twenties, a young baby in her arms and a girl barely in her teens.
The woman and the girl were sharing a meal from one clay pot. When they saw me, the young girl tried to hide a small cloth-bag furtively. As I got closer, I could see that the bag barely covered a water-melon. Probably, that was their prized possession of that day.
They are migrants or gypsies or whatever people call them these days. I have heard that there are vans which pick up these people and deposit them at the state border. It makes this place look good, I am told.
I did not even want to think about their life or the dangers these women faced. I have heard that there is an appropriate term in physics: dark matter – invisible matter that makes up most of the mass in the universe. In reality, unlike physics, people are like me and try not to observe.
I was then five meters from them. I saw briefly the bright headlights of a large speeding car swerving dangerously at the sharp turn. Before I could utter a cry, the car was nearly on us. What happened next took just a few seconds.
To my right, I could see the girl jump over the short wall. Though she had tried to throw her precious bag in that direction, it went vertically without any horizontal flight. The woman and her baby stood fixed. I grabbed the woman and jumped over the wall, with the baby crushed between us. There was a loud crash behind us and a squelching splattering sound also.
I landed on my back on soft wet ground. Though jarred by the impact and scratched and cut at a few places, I was fine. The woman moved quickly away from me. She and her baby looked more or less undamaged. The girl crawled to them. She seemed angry and ready to take on the driver but the woman held her tight. They disappeared into the night.
I jumped over the wall back onto the road. I could not help admiring the BMW and its wide wheels. It had gone a distance on the footpath, then crashed through a drainage slab and ended up immobile with one of those large wheels stuck in the large drain.
I moved towards the car. The watermelon had landed on the car and splattered in the front. The left front window was lowered and I saw a girl lean out, retching violently. The doors on that side were too close to the wall and could not be opened. On the driver’s side too, the windows were lowered. I heard a male having a slurred conversation on a mobile,
“Dad…the car is stuck…we hit something…damn it, dad…who cares…something or someone…just heard a sick sound…dad…please come…can you hear me…damn…”
The driver stepped out of the car. He was drunk, sobbing and young. I was right behind him and he had not seen me. I do not know what came over me then.
I grabbed him by his neck and pushed his head inside the car through the window. I reached inside through the door, for the button, and raised the window till the young man’s head was securely trapped in a narrow gap, choking him a little.
Through the window, I could see inside the car. The girl in the front wanted to scream but I hushed her and thankfully she kept quiet with her mouth and eyes wide open. A very young couple was lying on the back seat quite oblivious of the outside world. Drunk or doped, they were sleeping like babies, drooling spit on each other’s laps.
I was seething with rage, partly due to them and the rest from my own life. I reached for the young man’s waist and stripped him of his wide belt. I held the buckle and wrapped the belt a few times around my hand to leave enough for a good short whip. Then, with that, I smacked him hard ten or twenty times. That is deterrence or retributive justice or a good lesson or whatever. The only kind of justice such people will ever face.
I knew I was also letting out a lot of other stuff. I was too tired to feel ashamed but not too tired not to feel good.
01:00 - All this took place in a few minutes. I left the place quickly and got home by one. I had a hot shower and later, ate a bar of chocolate, drank a large peg of Glenfiddich and listened to Dido croon to me and only me.
03:00 - At three, I fell asleep on the sofa.
Moral of the story: If you drive after drinking or doping, angry men walking on the road can be a nuisance.
Three
06:00 - At six, I opened my eyes briefly and sent the message ‘hi today sick thx’ to my boss. He must have been expecting it. Then, after switching off my mobile and shifting to my undisturbed bedroom, I slept soundly.
10:00 - I ran out of luck, once again. I was woken up, at ten, by a friend. His arrival was heralded by the musical car reverse horn playing ‘Bad Moon Rising’. Then, he tried to play ‘Spanish Rose’ with my door-bell.
“Hi.” I greeted weakly.
“Hey man, holiday, huh?” He pushed me aside and entered.
“Yeah...”
“Is the Mrs. around?”
“No…she had to leave early for work this morning. You should have called…we could have planned…”
“Man, you would have scooted.”
It hurts to have friends who know you rather well.
I have two types of friends: the friends who contact me only when they are on holiday; and, the friends who do not contact me even when they are on holiday. I prefer the latter.
This guy belongs to the first category and worse, he is also what people call a best-friend. I try my best to avoid him but he has the habit of turning up and leaving me with trouble.
The last time was at my wedding. He graced the occasion without invitation. The main part of the five-minute ceremony which is the tying of the thaali (mangalsutra) was about to happen when a young boy-child came to me, looked at me and cried with anguish,
“Appa!”
The priest and the bride sighed at the same time. Standing there, with the chain to put my bride on leash, I wondered about how people dealt with such minor inconveniences. Then, I saw my friend rush to us,
“Mone (son), come here,” and then to my bride, “he gets confused at times.”
Later, during that event, I saw him sharing a hip-flask with my father-in-law and brother-in-law. These two new relatives, like many others in my place, are usually long on spirits and short on sense. The three of them appeared to be bosom-buddies.
That first night, before tucking me in with their relative, the two in-laws asked me in private,
“Your friend is a jolly good fellow. But, we could not understand one thing. He asked us the meaning of 6.9 (six point nine). He said that it is a good time interrupted by a period. What did he mean by that? He told us that you would know all about that.”
I feigned ignorance.
That’s all that my friend did on that occasion. He has mellowed with age.
Today, my friend looked nearly normal. Probably, that was because he was raiding the fridge. He took out my wife’s portion of what I had made last night and between large bites,
“Man, good stuff…”
“Ah…you should try her traditional stuff…that is her specialty…” I elaborated.
“Yummy…your wife is a great cook…”
“We were celebrating last night…” I lied again.
“What was the occasion?”
“Do you need an occasion?” I gave a sly wink. He guffawed with pleasure and a full mouth.
Truth, I have realized, is insufficient and unnecessary for most relationships.
“How is your wife?” I asked.
“In production…thought of having the second before menopause…”
“But, she is very young.”
“I meant mine.”
“Ah!” I agreed.
We talked about foreign trips and vacation plans, mine definitely fictitious, his probably true. Then, he talked about his latest venture, building holiday homes for himself from Chennai to Kanyakumari and then up till the Konkan coast.
“Managing a single large house is so difficult…especially when you are old…so, I want small holiday homes…and I want to go from one to the other by speed-boat.” he tried to sell the idea passionately.
I kept quiet. These days, friends have very little to talk about other than real-estate. I also realized why he is my friend. There is very little we need from each other.
“How about you, man? Is this a rented place?” Another emphasis treated like an obscenity.
“Yes, it’s rented. Why have anything which I can’t discard in an hour!” I philosophized.
“Your wife?” he challenged.
“Including my wife…”
He eyed me warily. And, as if to change the line of thought or to raid another fridge, he suggested,
“Hey man, let’s go to Seetha’s place. She is in town.”
Seetha is…was my first love.
“Ok.” I replied.
We left immediately.
Moral of the story: A good friend is indeed a friend not in need.
Four
12:00 - We reached Seetha’s house around noon. Seetha’s parents greeted us cautiously. We waited for her to finish her mid-day bath. Her father and I studied the tiles on the floor, and when we came up for air, exchanged ambiguous smiles that would have made Mona Lisa jealous. My friend quizzed her mother about some shared acquaintances.
After twenty long minutes, Seetha came in like a breath of fresh air and her parents left her alone with us. She looked the same as she did twenty years back, still that 30-to-40 look which used to look great in that 15-to-25 stage. I looked at myself in a mirror on the wall, still the same 45-to-55 look, too.
There was one difference with the old days. She refused to look me in the eye. Probably, that was because my friend monopolized the dialogue. She was also into real-estate.
I studied her house. Chrome, leather and prints in sepia; more chic than the Ikea stuff in the Living; and not as personal as the stuff in Country Home. Her drawing room was as big as my apartment plus half the car-park. She had done well, without me, I concluded without envy.
13:00 - Around one, she realized that my friend did not intend to leave without a meal at her place.
She is on a diet, she claimed. We shared her misery with a frugal meal of rice, dal and a measly portion of vegetable curry.
13:30 - At half-past-one, we were back in the drawing room and I felt lost in that great expanse. Seetha went to a room inside and returned with some old letters. She said to me,
“Look what I found when I was clearing old junk.”
I did not have to look long to recognize that stuff. Old letters, greeting cards, flowery handwriting and poems composed for her. There were so many, too many. Seetha sat next to me and read a few of those personal lines to my friend. I laughed with them and felt sad.
I am not sure whether I loved her then. At one time, I did love the idea of falling in love with her.
After the laughter died down, my friend and I took leave. We went to a restaurant and had a proper lunch.
Moral of the story: When you write love letters, do not use ink that lasts.
Five
15:00 - My friend dropped me at my place at around three and left me in peace. I sank into my arm-chair, enjoyed the solitary air and dozed till four.
16:00 - I had a mug of black tea with heaps of sugar.
I logged onto my computer and checked e-mail. The inbox had a few friendly notes which I kept for later. I studied the spam more closely. There were the usual – cheap vicodin, enlarged organs and the like. I deleted all but the one with the subject, ‘yellow convertible’. I opened that e-mail:
'A father asked his son on his fourth birthday,
“What do you want for your birthday, son?”
“A yellow convertible, Papa!” the son replied.
“Fine, son…I promise that you will have that on your eighteenth birthday.”
This was repeated on every birthday. On the eighteenth birthday, the son asked for the same once again. The father said,
“This morning, I saw a nasty accident involving a yellow convertible. Sorry, son…I cannot get you that.”
What is the moral of the story?
Never ask for a yellow convertible, ask for a red convertible.'
Nodding my head in agreement, I shifted to a social-networking portal and tried to be anti-social, enjoying virtual company and comfortable honesty.
18:30 - Around half past six, I received a phone-call from my wife.
We exchanged cordial greetings. She promised to return the next day. We made plans to go out for dinner. She filled me in on all the details about her trip. At the end, she asked,
“How was your day at work?”
“I took leave.”
“Why?”
“Simply…”
“What did you do?” the volume was increasing with each emphasis.
“I was here most of the time.”
“And…” my wife persisted.
“Seetha is in town. I went to her house for lunch.”
She kept quiet. I clarified with a lie which sounded good,
“Just a simple lunch – pulao, mutton curry, vegetable kofta and grilled paneer which was out of this world. And payasam for dessert…ada payasam…”
“Sounds like a feast. Were there other guests?”
“No.”
“She made all that…for you…?” my wife asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe not…” I was testing truth but it didn’t sound as good.
She kept quiet for some more time.
“Seetha asked about you.” I lied.
“How is she?”
“Looks the same…” I admitted the truth.
She kept quiet and I kept quiet too.
I felt Solitude shift on the sofa from my right arm to the left side. I do not like that side of Loneliness’ face.
19:00 - The clock-wall ticked loudly complaining that it is seven pm once again.
Author’s Notes:
• Before I submitted my first research paper for publication, my mentor suggested that I could split the 19-page dense article into two or three. Listening to good practical advice has never been my forte.
• I did think of splitting this into three: Modern Marital Mishaps, Dangerous Drunk Driving, Long Lost Love or another attempted alliteration. I could have posted two under Current Affairs and one in Travel.
• The question that remains: where do I put it? Current Affairs? I chose “Creative” because it is the closest to a “Non-Creative” account of mundane and common stuff without twists, turns, suspense or thrill.
• As for morals, I can only repeat Bertolt Brecht’s words in The Threepenny Opera, ‘Food comes first, then morals.’ Anyway, it is a myth. People tend to believe myths. As for stories with a moral, the less said the better.
19:00 - Yesterday at 7 pm, as I turned the key in the lock, I prayed for a dark and empty apartment.
It was dark inside. I checked each room. The apartment was empty too. I could smile.
I had drawn the curtains that morning and it was still that way, like mute spectators seemingly untouched by anything from within or without. I stood by the closed French windows, looking at the other apartments, at families gathering, at kids and their parents following each other. I wondered whether anyone there was watching me. I did not open the windows to let in the sound from outside.
It had been a hard day with a crucial presentation. The academic lot in the project wanted the grant at any cost, those from the company wanted just the program and I wanted to write the right numerical program for the right scientific problem. At the end of the day, their symbiosis won and I was discarded as a parasite.
Hunger made me come out of that reverie. I checked the contents of the fridge. There was some old cooked stuff which I did not feel like warming or eating. Anyway, I wanted to cook and relax. From what was available, I leisurely made a basic meal: fried chicken breast along with chopped spicy sausages, roast chilly potato wedges, sautéed beans and carrots and there was enough sweet yoghurt in the tub. I split the stuff into two portions.
20:15 - At quarter past eight, I ate my share. I was washing the dishes and sipping Amaretto Disaronno when my wife entered the flat. She came over to the kitchen, stood by the door and said,
“Hi, smells real good.”
“Your portion should still be warm.”
In our first year, we had agreed to dispense with the formality of waiting for each other or checking up on one’s arrival.
“I would have loved to have,” she leaned against the dining table, stretching, “but I had a heavy sandwich for tea.”
I kept quiet. I felt that there was more to come from her.
“I have to catch a night flight. There’s an important meeting at HQ tomorrow.”
“Again…?” I blurted.
“What do you mean by ‘again’? I told you that I am ready to sit at home, didn’t I?”
“For what…? Hey, it’s fine with me. Don’t get worked up about that.”
“Yeah, right…it must be convenient for you.”
I stared at her. I could feel my body stiffen, hands clenching, nails sinking into flesh and a dirty feeling curdling in my gut. I snarled,
“Spit it out…whatever…”
“When you reply to your friends, do check the send-list…or, did you include me intentionally?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember the e-mail you sent yesterday…to her…your friend who is like a sister…?”
Each emphasis sounded like an obscenity. I did remember sending that e-mail in a hurry but I could not remember adding my wife as a recipient. It must have ‘dropped-in’ from the frequently-used-list since their surnames are a close match, if not their character.
“Well, you saw my e-mail…is there anything in that for you to bitch about?”
“You don’t even remember, do you…just last week, you told me that you are not in touch with her.”
“But, there is nothing in our e-mail. It was just the usual Hi…Bye, right?”
“I didn’t check if it was Hi…Bye or Wham…Bam.”
“It was a good idea, wasn’t it, not to tell you the truth?” I retorted.
“I bet you sent that to me just to hurt me…to make me worried, to spoil my day in office.”
“Whatever!”
She stormed to the bedroom and I stayed in the drawing room. I could hear her packing and getting ready to leave.
21:30 - At half past nine, she was at the door. She came back to me, sat next to me on the sofa and reached towards me. I moved back to avoid her touch.
“You can’t even hold me these days, can you?”
“If I did, I would be treating you as a prostitute.”
She got up and left, thankfully not banging the front door this time. I sat there, with my eyes closed, for a long time.
23:00 - It must have been around eleven when I went back to the kitchen and put her portion in the fridge. I remembered what my parents used to tell me about their fights. They used to throw dishes out through the window. Even when they could ill-afford to do so. They have been married, quite happily, for nearly sixty years.
Moral of the story: Dishes are thrown out through the window in happy homes.
Two
00:00 - Around midnight, I realized that there was no point lying in bed waiting for sleep. All that came were murderous thoughts. I decided to go for a walk to clear my head.
It is a pleasure to walk in the middle of a city road at that time of the night, to look at the moon philosophically while it returns a cold empty stare, and to smoke that rare joint without passively taking in exhaust fumes.
On one of those rare occasions when my wife and I shared the guest bedroom, she complained about how men, and not women, had the luck to do all that. It is true, I admitted. It is not safe enough for women to have such pleasures.
I had walked past the school and the Party office. I was near the dangerous turn on that road leading to the University. In the moonlight, I could see that there were some people on the footpath, huddled close to the short wall. At about twenty meters, I could make out that there were three – a young woman in her early twenties, a young baby in her arms and a girl barely in her teens.
The woman and the girl were sharing a meal from one clay pot. When they saw me, the young girl tried to hide a small cloth-bag furtively. As I got closer, I could see that the bag barely covered a water-melon. Probably, that was their prized possession of that day.
They are migrants or gypsies or whatever people call them these days. I have heard that there are vans which pick up these people and deposit them at the state border. It makes this place look good, I am told.
I did not even want to think about their life or the dangers these women faced. I have heard that there is an appropriate term in physics: dark matter – invisible matter that makes up most of the mass in the universe. In reality, unlike physics, people are like me and try not to observe.
I was then five meters from them. I saw briefly the bright headlights of a large speeding car swerving dangerously at the sharp turn. Before I could utter a cry, the car was nearly on us. What happened next took just a few seconds.
To my right, I could see the girl jump over the short wall. Though she had tried to throw her precious bag in that direction, it went vertically without any horizontal flight. The woman and her baby stood fixed. I grabbed the woman and jumped over the wall, with the baby crushed between us. There was a loud crash behind us and a squelching splattering sound also.
I landed on my back on soft wet ground. Though jarred by the impact and scratched and cut at a few places, I was fine. The woman moved quickly away from me. She and her baby looked more or less undamaged. The girl crawled to them. She seemed angry and ready to take on the driver but the woman held her tight. They disappeared into the night.
I jumped over the wall back onto the road. I could not help admiring the BMW and its wide wheels. It had gone a distance on the footpath, then crashed through a drainage slab and ended up immobile with one of those large wheels stuck in the large drain.
I moved towards the car. The watermelon had landed on the car and splattered in the front. The left front window was lowered and I saw a girl lean out, retching violently. The doors on that side were too close to the wall and could not be opened. On the driver’s side too, the windows were lowered. I heard a male having a slurred conversation on a mobile,
“Dad…the car is stuck…we hit something…damn it, dad…who cares…something or someone…just heard a sick sound…dad…please come…can you hear me…damn…”
The driver stepped out of the car. He was drunk, sobbing and young. I was right behind him and he had not seen me. I do not know what came over me then.
I grabbed him by his neck and pushed his head inside the car through the window. I reached inside through the door, for the button, and raised the window till the young man’s head was securely trapped in a narrow gap, choking him a little.
Through the window, I could see inside the car. The girl in the front wanted to scream but I hushed her and thankfully she kept quiet with her mouth and eyes wide open. A very young couple was lying on the back seat quite oblivious of the outside world. Drunk or doped, they were sleeping like babies, drooling spit on each other’s laps.
I was seething with rage, partly due to them and the rest from my own life. I reached for the young man’s waist and stripped him of his wide belt. I held the buckle and wrapped the belt a few times around my hand to leave enough for a good short whip. Then, with that, I smacked him hard ten or twenty times. That is deterrence or retributive justice or a good lesson or whatever. The only kind of justice such people will ever face.
I knew I was also letting out a lot of other stuff. I was too tired to feel ashamed but not too tired not to feel good.
01:00 - All this took place in a few minutes. I left the place quickly and got home by one. I had a hot shower and later, ate a bar of chocolate, drank a large peg of Glenfiddich and listened to Dido croon to me and only me.
03:00 - At three, I fell asleep on the sofa.
Moral of the story: If you drive after drinking or doping, angry men walking on the road can be a nuisance.
Three
06:00 - At six, I opened my eyes briefly and sent the message ‘hi today sick thx’ to my boss. He must have been expecting it. Then, after switching off my mobile and shifting to my undisturbed bedroom, I slept soundly.
10:00 - I ran out of luck, once again. I was woken up, at ten, by a friend. His arrival was heralded by the musical car reverse horn playing ‘Bad Moon Rising’. Then, he tried to play ‘Spanish Rose’ with my door-bell.
“Hi.” I greeted weakly.
“Hey man, holiday, huh?” He pushed me aside and entered.
“Yeah...”
“Is the Mrs. around?”
“No…she had to leave early for work this morning. You should have called…we could have planned…”
“Man, you would have scooted.”
It hurts to have friends who know you rather well.
I have two types of friends: the friends who contact me only when they are on holiday; and, the friends who do not contact me even when they are on holiday. I prefer the latter.
This guy belongs to the first category and worse, he is also what people call a best-friend. I try my best to avoid him but he has the habit of turning up and leaving me with trouble.
The last time was at my wedding. He graced the occasion without invitation. The main part of the five-minute ceremony which is the tying of the thaali (mangalsutra) was about to happen when a young boy-child came to me, looked at me and cried with anguish,
“Appa!”
The priest and the bride sighed at the same time. Standing there, with the chain to put my bride on leash, I wondered about how people dealt with such minor inconveniences. Then, I saw my friend rush to us,
“Mone (son), come here,” and then to my bride, “he gets confused at times.”
Later, during that event, I saw him sharing a hip-flask with my father-in-law and brother-in-law. These two new relatives, like many others in my place, are usually long on spirits and short on sense. The three of them appeared to be bosom-buddies.
That first night, before tucking me in with their relative, the two in-laws asked me in private,
“Your friend is a jolly good fellow. But, we could not understand one thing. He asked us the meaning of 6.9 (six point nine). He said that it is a good time interrupted by a period. What did he mean by that? He told us that you would know all about that.”
I feigned ignorance.
That’s all that my friend did on that occasion. He has mellowed with age.
Today, my friend looked nearly normal. Probably, that was because he was raiding the fridge. He took out my wife’s portion of what I had made last night and between large bites,
“Man, good stuff…”
“Ah…you should try her traditional stuff…that is her specialty…” I elaborated.
“Yummy…your wife is a great cook…”
“We were celebrating last night…” I lied again.
“What was the occasion?”
“Do you need an occasion?” I gave a sly wink. He guffawed with pleasure and a full mouth.
Truth, I have realized, is insufficient and unnecessary for most relationships.
“How is your wife?” I asked.
“In production…thought of having the second before menopause…”
“But, she is very young.”
“I meant mine.”
“Ah!” I agreed.
We talked about foreign trips and vacation plans, mine definitely fictitious, his probably true. Then, he talked about his latest venture, building holiday homes for himself from Chennai to Kanyakumari and then up till the Konkan coast.
“Managing a single large house is so difficult…especially when you are old…so, I want small holiday homes…and I want to go from one to the other by speed-boat.” he tried to sell the idea passionately.
I kept quiet. These days, friends have very little to talk about other than real-estate. I also realized why he is my friend. There is very little we need from each other.
“How about you, man? Is this a rented place?” Another emphasis treated like an obscenity.
“Yes, it’s rented. Why have anything which I can’t discard in an hour!” I philosophized.
“Your wife?” he challenged.
“Including my wife…”
He eyed me warily. And, as if to change the line of thought or to raid another fridge, he suggested,
“Hey man, let’s go to Seetha’s place. She is in town.”
Seetha is…was my first love.
“Ok.” I replied.
We left immediately.
Moral of the story: A good friend is indeed a friend not in need.
Four
12:00 - We reached Seetha’s house around noon. Seetha’s parents greeted us cautiously. We waited for her to finish her mid-day bath. Her father and I studied the tiles on the floor, and when we came up for air, exchanged ambiguous smiles that would have made Mona Lisa jealous. My friend quizzed her mother about some shared acquaintances.
After twenty long minutes, Seetha came in like a breath of fresh air and her parents left her alone with us. She looked the same as she did twenty years back, still that 30-to-40 look which used to look great in that 15-to-25 stage. I looked at myself in a mirror on the wall, still the same 45-to-55 look, too.
There was one difference with the old days. She refused to look me in the eye. Probably, that was because my friend monopolized the dialogue. She was also into real-estate.
I studied her house. Chrome, leather and prints in sepia; more chic than the Ikea stuff in the Living; and not as personal as the stuff in Country Home. Her drawing room was as big as my apartment plus half the car-park. She had done well, without me, I concluded without envy.
13:00 - Around one, she realized that my friend did not intend to leave without a meal at her place.
She is on a diet, she claimed. We shared her misery with a frugal meal of rice, dal and a measly portion of vegetable curry.
13:30 - At half-past-one, we were back in the drawing room and I felt lost in that great expanse. Seetha went to a room inside and returned with some old letters. She said to me,
“Look what I found when I was clearing old junk.”
I did not have to look long to recognize that stuff. Old letters, greeting cards, flowery handwriting and poems composed for her. There were so many, too many. Seetha sat next to me and read a few of those personal lines to my friend. I laughed with them and felt sad.
I am not sure whether I loved her then. At one time, I did love the idea of falling in love with her.
After the laughter died down, my friend and I took leave. We went to a restaurant and had a proper lunch.
Moral of the story: When you write love letters, do not use ink that lasts.
Five
15:00 - My friend dropped me at my place at around three and left me in peace. I sank into my arm-chair, enjoyed the solitary air and dozed till four.
16:00 - I had a mug of black tea with heaps of sugar.
I logged onto my computer and checked e-mail. The inbox had a few friendly notes which I kept for later. I studied the spam more closely. There were the usual – cheap vicodin, enlarged organs and the like. I deleted all but the one with the subject, ‘yellow convertible’. I opened that e-mail:
'A father asked his son on his fourth birthday,
“What do you want for your birthday, son?”
“A yellow convertible, Papa!” the son replied.
“Fine, son…I promise that you will have that on your eighteenth birthday.”
This was repeated on every birthday. On the eighteenth birthday, the son asked for the same once again. The father said,
“This morning, I saw a nasty accident involving a yellow convertible. Sorry, son…I cannot get you that.”
What is the moral of the story?
Never ask for a yellow convertible, ask for a red convertible.'
Nodding my head in agreement, I shifted to a social-networking portal and tried to be anti-social, enjoying virtual company and comfortable honesty.
18:30 - Around half past six, I received a phone-call from my wife.
We exchanged cordial greetings. She promised to return the next day. We made plans to go out for dinner. She filled me in on all the details about her trip. At the end, she asked,
“How was your day at work?”
“I took leave.”
“Why?”
“Simply…”
“What did you do?” the volume was increasing with each emphasis.
“I was here most of the time.”
“And…” my wife persisted.
“Seetha is in town. I went to her house for lunch.”
She kept quiet. I clarified with a lie which sounded good,
“Just a simple lunch – pulao, mutton curry, vegetable kofta and grilled paneer which was out of this world. And payasam for dessert…ada payasam…”
“Sounds like a feast. Were there other guests?”
“No.”
“She made all that…for you…?” my wife asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe not…” I was testing truth but it didn’t sound as good.
She kept quiet for some more time.
“Seetha asked about you.” I lied.
“How is she?”
“Looks the same…” I admitted the truth.
She kept quiet and I kept quiet too.
I felt Solitude shift on the sofa from my right arm to the left side. I do not like that side of Loneliness’ face.
19:00 - The clock-wall ticked loudly complaining that it is seven pm once again.
Author’s Notes:
• Before I submitted my first research paper for publication, my mentor suggested that I could split the 19-page dense article into two or three. Listening to good practical advice has never been my forte.
• I did think of splitting this into three: Modern Marital Mishaps, Dangerous Drunk Driving, Long Lost Love or another attempted alliteration. I could have posted two under Current Affairs and one in Travel.
• The question that remains: where do I put it? Current Affairs? I chose “Creative” because it is the closest to a “Non-Creative” account of mundane and common stuff without twists, turns, suspense or thrill.
• As for morals, I can only repeat Bertolt Brecht’s words in The Threepenny Opera, ‘Food comes first, then morals.’ Anyway, it is a myth. People tend to believe myths. As for stories with a moral, the less said the better.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Stochastic Resonance
The illness started soon after my birthday, I remember. After ten days of misdiagnosis in the hands of the Campus doctor, I was barely conscious of the shivering with high fever, vomiting bile and difficulty in breathing along with an unbearable pain in my chest. I begged my friend (the one who was my ‘side-y’ in the hostel) to take me to Delhi, to my cousin’s place in Dhaula Kuan. I guess the proper treatment started then. I remember the doctor asking my cousin,
“How did he reach this state of pneumonia without being diagnosed?”
The days that followed are hazy. Daily injections blackened my upper arms, steroids and antibiotics became my staple diet, x-rays to monitor progress and consultation with doctors at AIIMS interrupted fitful sleep. I think I saw the silhouette of my folks standing near the bed with lowered heads. Was it after the first or second week that I left Delhi, returned to my hometown and went to the house of Chaathan?
The journey used to take couple of hours to reach there. The first part was on the highway from Trivandrum to Kottayam and that took an hour or so. The rest of the journey was on a narrow road climbing high into deep and dark hilly forest. I think it was a cousin who gave me those details, the one who was cured of jaundice in that place. I do not remember the journey or my first sight of that house. I do not even remember how many days had elapsed till I regained consciousness there, in that house of Chaathan.
When I regained consciousness and opened my eyes, I saw a lady wiping my face and body with a hot towel. She is beautiful. Though I thought she was old then she must have been in the thirties or late twenties. I guess I always remember her as I saw her then – concerned dark eyes, gentle dusky face, pious and sensual in the traditional two-piece sari-set (mundum neriyathu) and, with each touch I felt she was holding me firmly in a comforting embrace. I call her appachi (aunt).
I saw her turn her head and I followed her look. I saw Chaathan for the first time. He was standing near the entrance of that room. He is tall with a body lean and muscular from sheer hard work, with a visage of indeterminate age, salt-and-pepper-hair and deep light-brown eyes staring intensely.
In the years that followed, I realized that my time in the house of Chaathan was like a permanent tattoo, a mark etched on my mind and actions. I yearned for that and probably tried to mimic or recreate. I remember most the minute and trivial details.
In the house, Chaathan wore a mundu (dhoti) and when he went out for business or pleasure, a well-pressed jubba (kurta) too. For kkrishi (farming), he used to wear just a thorthu (light cotton towel). I used to watch him wash his own clothes, meticulously hang the clothes on the washing line and then ‘iron’ the dried clothes by pressing with his strong brown hands. I observed all that in the days that followed.
On that first occasion, he told appachi
“Give him hot rice and fish curry, the worst is over.”
He left my room without another look or comment.
I realized soon that both of them were not accustomed to having unnecessary conversation. Though appachi was always approachable, she would often counter my incessant chatter with a smile. Chaathan was fine and normal most of the time but there were dark brooding moments when it was wise to let him be. I realized early that they loved to read and discuss, explore fantasy and science together and it seemed like their passion allowed anything.
After a day or two, I was well-enough to roam in that house. It is not a large house. There is a large area in the middle where Chaathan sat in a reclining chair which had a cloth back. Balan, the all-in-all help, used to sit on the floor near Chaathan’s chair and roll beedis for him. My bedroom was in the west wing along with three empty rooms. In the east wing, there is the master bedroom and the dining-cum-kitchen area. The bathroom and the toilet are a little away from the house, behind and shielded by trees.
The house of Chaathan did not have doors. I asked appachi about that and she replied rather confusingly,
“Doors need locks, and keyholes to spy and…when you really want to get out, you might find yourself locked within?”
Seeing the puzzled look on my face, she added with a less-serious tone,
“This house is too small for doors, isn’t it?”
When I was well-enough, I started taking my meals in the dining area which was adjacent to the kitchen, with the smell of cooking and wood-smoke clearing my head.
One evening, I saw Chaathan with a tattered paperback book in his hand and I realized that it was a book that I carried in my backpack for ‘sleepless moments’. It was No Orchids For Miss Blandish by James Hadley Chase. I was having podi-ari kanji (rice porridge), appachi was sitting on the floor fixing a murukkaan (paan) for herself and Chaathan, smoking a beedi, started reading the book aloud, his deep voice resonating in that room. Even now, I can hear that story being read well into the night.
“It began on a summer afternoon in July, a month of intense heat, rainless skies and scorching, dust-laden winds…
Miss Blandish watched him come across the room. She saw his new confidence and she guessed what it was to mean to her. Shuddering, she shut her eyes…
Some people could cope with this because they believe in God. I haven’t believed in anything except having a good time…”
One night, I was restless, finding it difficult to sleep and I got up to drink the cool water in the kujam (long-stemmed clay vessel). I stood near the bedroom-window for a long time. The moon had gone and I could hardly see anything. I heard a sound behind me and I turned around. A young man, probably about appachi’s age, was standing inside the room. Even in the dark, I could see his eyes, fierce and wild. He approached me slowly. When he was at an arm’s distance, he reached out and clasped my neck with a strong hand that smelled of sandalwood. My back was pressed against the window ledge. I was shivering violently and I wondered whether the fever was returning. We stood like that for a few long minutes. When he released my neck, I crumpled to the floor. I lay there without looking up. When I did, he was gone.
I stood up, trying hard to control the shivering, drank some more water and waited for a while till I could walk steadily. Then, I left my room to go to Chaathan’s room in the east wing. Light from a lamp was streaming from his room. The polished floor had a bronze hue in that light but felt cold to touch. I stopped at the entrance of his room and looked inside.
Chaathan and appachi were in a close embrace on the bed. I could see appachi’s naked back while they kissed deeply. Chaathan, who was facing the entrance, saw me before I could move away. Without breaking away from the kiss, he looked me over from head to toe, taking in the mild shivering and my sweaty state and probably, the panic on my face too. He gave me a slight nod and lifted his palm a little as if to indicate that he would be with me in five minutes or so. I went back to my room and sat in the dark.
It was definitely more than five minutes before Chaathan came to my room. He switched on the light. His calm composure was soothing. He stood near the entrance, looked around my room carefully, breathing deeply and wiping the sweat on his body with a thorthu.
Before I could say anything, he asked me,
“Did he come?”
When I nodded, he continued,
“Are you scared?”
For some reason, I replied,
“No.”
Chaathan smiled with amusement,
“Aren’t you scared of the living? You should be. As for the dead, they are not that bad. Don’t worry. Try to sleep.”
As was his custom, he left immediately without waiting for my response. But, I did sleep well after that.
Next morning, when I went for breakfast, nobody mentioned anything about the previous night. Later that day, I overheard Chaathan telling appachi and Balan,
“He is the right one. Not a believer or a disbeliever, without beliefs or doubts. He is like a fresh book waiting for the writing.”
I do not know whether they were talking about me.
I was then quite fit and ready to venture outside. That day, I stayed within the compound, walking on the sand in the courtyard, scrawling and sketching with my toes and erasing just as quickly, or resting beneath the canopy formed by a maavu (mango tree), a plaavu (jackfruit tree) and a beautiful aal maram (banyan tree).
Next morning when I woke up, I saw a youth standing at the entrance of my room. He looked a few years younger than me but that could have been because of his slight build, impish face and an ever- ready buck-tooth mischievous grin. He introduced himself quickly as Kundra, as if that said everything. He told me to meet him outside after breakfast and the morning bath. Then, he slipped out quickly not waiting for any confirmation from my side.
But, I was there and Kundra was waiting for me, eating a mango lustily with the syrup dripping down the side of his arms. He held out another one for me but I declined the offer. Then, he rummaged in the waistband of his mundu and came out with a handful of roasted cashew-nuts, and I accepted that greedily.
Finally, I had a companion who could chatter more than me. On the days that followed, he was my guide on that land. He told me about the houses outside that estate, the workers’ homes and the bigger houses that lay empty. Chaathan seemed to be in control everywhere, benevolent or otherwise, sharing their lives in every way. He told me that Chaathan’s younger brother had been appachi’s husband. Chaathan’s brother was found dead near the temple with sandalwood paste on one hand and blood on the other. He whispered that there is a rumour that Chaathan had killed his brother.
Kundra took me everywhere.
We explored the hills on one side of the house, the rubber plantation, climbed on top of big boulders perched precariously on rocks, collected wild pineapple growing near the rocks and he showed me the cracks where snakes lived. Even the sacred king cobra that leaves a golden trail, he said.
On the other side of the house, there were coconut trees, the banana plantation, the fruit trees and pepper creepers on teak, rosewood and mahogany trees with tendrils hanging within reach.
There is a narrow way downhill on that side to go to the temple and the river. The path ends on a small hill where the temple is located. The hill shields a place called moonattumukku (three rivers’ junction) and this is the bathing place for women. A turn in the river shields this place from the bathing place for men situated fifty meters downstream and the way to that is via the steps at the back of the temple.
On our third or fourth day, Kundra showed me a hiding place on a small ledge right above the ladies’ bathing place. We watched the women bathe. I saw a young woman bathing alone far from the rest and she stood out, a captivating beauty with graceful movements. I looked at Kundra. He seemed bored after finding little that could interest him. He lay on his back and dozed. I wondered,
“How could he sleep after seeing her? Can’t he see her?”
I turned back to that woman. She was looking directly at me and she gave me an amused smile. I moved away from the ledge, shook Kundra awake and ran away from that place. But, I did not tell Kundra about that young woman.
The next day, Kundra did not come. I ventured out alone but I did not go near the river. When I returned, I saw Balan in the courtyard. I asked him,
“Do you know where Kundra lives?”
The wizened face looked at me for a while from behind thick beedi smoke before replying,
“Kundra? My son went to the city a few years back.”
I was not sure whether I had recovered from the illness or whether my body and mind were still weak and susceptible.
That night, I was once again restless. Light from a half-moon gave me shadows to chase. I fell asleep when the half-moon disappeared behind some clouds. A touch woke me up or was it the smell of jasmine? I sat up on the bed. The young woman I had seen bathing was lying next to me. I thought I would start shivering. If she had smiled again, I would have. But she didn’t. I looked at her face and wondered whether I deserved her. I didn’t know what to do. She touched my face and then my chest. It seemed like she was spreading some balm on those areas which had doubled up in pain so recently. She knew that I was inexperienced and she guided me. We undressed slowly and made love. When she left, my first thought was about how I could convince my batch-mates that I had lost my virginity.
In the days that followed, I spent time walking and eating, regaining strength, helping Chaathan in the fields and talking to him and appachi in the dining area.
On one of those days, he asked me,
“Do you know about resonance?”
I recited from memory,
“A peak in the signal-to-noise ratio as we change the frequency of the input signal, and it occurs when the frequency matches the natural frequency of the system.”
“And, do you know about stochastic resonance?”
“No,” I replied.
“It is also a peak in the signal-to-noise ratio. But, it occurs as we change the input noise intensity. It is a phenomenon where the presence of noise in a nonlinear system is better for output signal quality than its absence.”
Why was he telling me this? Chaathan continued,
“We are more accustomed to linear response where things add up and intuition works most often. But, when we see a wave build up and travel like a solitary wave or a soliton, an immutable and non-dissipating entity, we feel that it is impossible. But it is possible if you step into the nonlinear world.”
He paused and smoked silently for a while before adding,
“We have an issue with noise, too. We would like to deal with the signal alone. The noise is unavoidable but we treat it like a distraction to be reduced. But, are we aware about every signal and can we really differentiate noise and signal without uncertainty?”
Once again, he let these words play upon my senses and strangely, I felt I was beginning to understand him.
“Everything about us and around us is nonlinear and a dirty mixture of signal and noise, especially the mind, the body, thoughts and emotions. When can we perceive more than others? Be free, from constraints; feed the noise, without bias or filtering, in the right environment; let the nonlinear system do the rest. That is when we will sense beyond what we usually sense, when the output signal gets truly magnified with increasing intensity of random feeds.”
I had a lot of questions but I realized that Chaathan had slipped out of that mood into one of gloomy silence. I slipped away and thought a lot that night.
Next day, Chaathan, appachi and Balan sat with me for breakfast. None of us spoke. It was time for me to leave. I kept my head down and finished the food on my plate. When I raised my head, I saw that Kundra and the young woman were also in the room. Then, the others I had seen in that region started appearing in the room. Even the man with the fierce eyes stood outside with that group while I bid farewell.
I slept on the trip from there. I remember very little of what happened after I left the house of Chaathan and till I reached Delhi once again.
I have not gone to the house of Chaathan after those days. Years have passed and whenever I have asked others, they shrug and feign ignorance about Chaathan. Nobody likes to talk about that and most have hinted strongly that I should avoid such talk.
Recently, I was talking to my mother about those days. I thought I should try to ask her once again about Chaathan. But, I stopped myself when she started as usual,
“When you lost consciousness in Delhi, even the doctors lost hope. Only God knows what brought you back from that state when you were nearly dead…”
Some memories have to remain private.
Author’s note:
Under the guise of fiction, I might have abused reality and the physical sciences, especially the three-decade-old multi-disciplinary subject of stochastic resonance.
I could be excused because I hate one and love the other. I am reminded of a foreword in a Physics Ph.D. thesis: ‘Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental.’ And, I do believe that any hypotheses should not cause Pauli’s complaint: ‘It’s not even wrong.’
I have been warned many times about abusing article-length and proper communication. I wish I could put the blame on small towns and villages where time dilates and space is truly warped.
I know that it seems like a death-wish.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Naalu Pennungal (Four Women) & Oru Pennum Randaanum (One Woman And Two Men)
Yesterday evening, I enjoyed a marathon session of cinema. I watched two movies by Adoor Gopalakrishnan: Naalu Pennungal (Four Women) and Oru Pennum Randaanum (One Woman And Two Men). Each film has four chapters based on stories written by Thakazhi Sivashankara Pillai.
Let me begin with the ending of the two movies.
The movie Naalu Pennungal ends with a woman saying:
‘…purushan illathe ottakku oru sthreekku jeevikkaan kazhiyanamallo…’ […a woman should be able to lead a life alone without a man…]
Oru Pennum Randaanum ends with a woman and three men (her husband and two ‘others’):
Woman’s husband: ‘Aaraadi ivan?’ [Who is he?]
Woman: ‘Ente kochinte achan.’ [Father of my child.]
Why did I put in those scenes? If you have read those lines and not seen the movies, note down your immediate thoughts about what you think you can expect. Then, see the movies or read the stories and find out if your notes match the sensitivity and complexity portrayed.
For those who are interested in knowing more about the movies or the writer, please follow the links provided above.
I have read somewhere that Adoor himself considers these movies to be simple. But, it requires a master-craftsman like him to recreate Thakazhi’s stories for the screen. The beauty of the land, the harshness of the system, the troubles and hardship in society, the complexity of human relationships – these are depicted with a careful eye.
For a movie-lover, two points stand out after watching these two movies:
• The two movies have strong roles for women and most of the stories are women-centric. This should be noted especially because the Malayalam cinema of recent years has hardly a role for women.
• It would be nice to have more budget movies of this type, i.e., with strong short chapters. These short chapters or movies of 30-45 minute duration would be ideal for prime time TV, but I can only hope.
I am not really reviewing the movies here. Then, what am I trying to do out here?
Personally, I had three reasons to go through these movies and old stories, and to write about the same:
• One, I love fiction (quite often, more than reality) and writing. I also know that there are very few thoughts which have not been thought before in a better way. When I write, I wonder whether my ‘modern’ thoughts have been expressed elsewhere in a ‘better’ way ages back. By ‘better’, I mean ‘more true’. When I read stories, the first question that comes to mind turns out to be: ‘is it truly narrated – sans commercial acceptability and values, sans schoolbook morals, sans fear of the moral police?’ The stories in these movies are truly and carefully depicted.
• Two, when I need to scavenge for stories, I use my village. There are fewer rules, fewer gods and fewer reasons to worry in small places. In these two movies, the stories are based in villages and set in the period 1940-1960’s. Usually, I am more inclined to see a movie about life in a metro but I know that there is more life outside the metro. In these two movies, the social scene and human relationships are depicted without airbrushing. It allows us to see how society and human relationships have improved and where it has regressed.
• Three, I wanted to record something that I would like to understand better. And, for once, I would like to share the experience with others. I am sure that this is not due to altruism. Maybe, I desire a group who will ‘cut the crap’. The stories in these two movies are, like life and unlike popular writing, natural.
Let me begin with the ending of the two movies.
The movie Naalu Pennungal ends with a woman saying:
‘…purushan illathe ottakku oru sthreekku jeevikkaan kazhiyanamallo…’ […a woman should be able to lead a life alone without a man…]
Oru Pennum Randaanum ends with a woman and three men (her husband and two ‘others’):
Woman’s husband: ‘Aaraadi ivan?’ [Who is he?]
Woman: ‘Ente kochinte achan.’ [Father of my child.]
Why did I put in those scenes? If you have read those lines and not seen the movies, note down your immediate thoughts about what you think you can expect. Then, see the movies or read the stories and find out if your notes match the sensitivity and complexity portrayed.
For those who are interested in knowing more about the movies or the writer, please follow the links provided above.
I have read somewhere that Adoor himself considers these movies to be simple. But, it requires a master-craftsman like him to recreate Thakazhi’s stories for the screen. The beauty of the land, the harshness of the system, the troubles and hardship in society, the complexity of human relationships – these are depicted with a careful eye.
For a movie-lover, two points stand out after watching these two movies:
• The two movies have strong roles for women and most of the stories are women-centric. This should be noted especially because the Malayalam cinema of recent years has hardly a role for women.
• It would be nice to have more budget movies of this type, i.e., with strong short chapters. These short chapters or movies of 30-45 minute duration would be ideal for prime time TV, but I can only hope.
I am not really reviewing the movies here. Then, what am I trying to do out here?
Personally, I had three reasons to go through these movies and old stories, and to write about the same:
• One, I love fiction (quite often, more than reality) and writing. I also know that there are very few thoughts which have not been thought before in a better way. When I write, I wonder whether my ‘modern’ thoughts have been expressed elsewhere in a ‘better’ way ages back. By ‘better’, I mean ‘more true’. When I read stories, the first question that comes to mind turns out to be: ‘is it truly narrated – sans commercial acceptability and values, sans schoolbook morals, sans fear of the moral police?’ The stories in these movies are truly and carefully depicted.
• Two, when I need to scavenge for stories, I use my village. There are fewer rules, fewer gods and fewer reasons to worry in small places. In these two movies, the stories are based in villages and set in the period 1940-1960’s. Usually, I am more inclined to see a movie about life in a metro but I know that there is more life outside the metro. In these two movies, the social scene and human relationships are depicted without airbrushing. It allows us to see how society and human relationships have improved and where it has regressed.
• Three, I wanted to record something that I would like to understand better. And, for once, I would like to share the experience with others. I am sure that this is not due to altruism. Maybe, I desire a group who will ‘cut the crap’. The stories in these two movies are, like life and unlike popular writing, natural.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Better Luck Next Kid
Better Luck Next Kid
“Look at the bright side – it’s just a 5 minute walk from your house to the Court. It takes 1 hour for me to get here and more than hundred rupees, not that that will get you anything these days.”
I am now quite used to his style of delivery with the frequent changes of pitch or volume to emphasize each and every part of a sentence. I met him here at my lawyer’s office two and a half years back and I guess you could call us well-acquainted. I call him Sasi and when he is not around, my lawyer refers to him as Pickaxe Sasi. In the local papers, he is a ‘quotation killer’.
I once asked him for a rough quote. When he told me the price for a human head, I remarked,
“Isn’t that cheap?”
“Demand and supply,” he replied.
Another time, I asked him if he is not scared to die.
“Today or tomorrow, who cares?”
And after some thought, he added rather reluctantly,
“I am not that careless. Be with the right people, kill the wrong people. Leave the rest to the system. It works.”
I have been visiting this office quite regularly for the last three years. It is a nondescript and small office packed with files, 2 tables and 5 chairs. It is on the first floor of a commercial building situated right next to a drainage canal and the unbearable stink stays on my skin for days after each visit. My lawyer is rather good but he has no qualms about keeping his clients waiting for long hours in his office while he attends to some other case.
In the first six months of those three years, I was distraught, depressed and defeated. I survived that phase but my wife didn’t. I had to survive for the sake of the other kids. As Sasi says,
“Life can be shitty, close your nose and keep your head high. What the heck, you have got only one.”
I tried quoting to him what I remembered of Confucius,
“You will live a 1000 lives and this could be the only one you will remember.”
I cannot print his reply, even without the emphasized parts.
My son’s case has been going on for three years. Initially, I could only think of what he and his group had done. The papers did not allow me to forget the crime and the victims, the kids especially. I could hardly recognize the photo the papers printed, he looked like a killer. And, my honest gaffe was often repeated,
“…he did something evil.”
In the first two years, my lawyer expressed hope and told me that my son might get away with a few years or utmost a life sentence. We played all the trump cards that we had – manslaughter, accidental victims, background of the intended victims, right religion, right caste, right class, right background and upbringing, even remorse and the possibility for quick rehabilitation. But unfortunately, nearly everyone in my son’s group had the same credentials. A few months back, my lawyer confided that I should get ready for the worst.
Today, he will be sentenced and my son had requested me not to be there in court. That is why I am here, with Sasi, waiting in the lawyer’s office.
My other kids have turned out ok. My other son is influenced by Lady Gaga and Bono. With my daughter, I have to argue about low-slung jeans, piercing and tattoos. We still have meals together and there is enough money for the occasional visit to the fake KFC for tubs of chicken broast.
This son had bad luck. He turned out to be like me.
I was younger than him when I started off with Flower Power and sang on the streets with my group of friends, ‘give peace a chance’. Disillusionment followed fast and we tried to be rebels or fashionable anarchists. We wanted to target nuclear power stations but there weren’t any in the immediate neighbourhood. We tried to stay away from the unavoidable political affiliations. We had our gurus and the godfathers but they were smart enough to prompt only from outside the stage.
During a period of unrest in the country, a powerful students’ group in Delhi taunted our manhood by sending a pack of bangles to our union. We would have showed our machismo with country bombs, knives and cycle chains but the jeep in which we traveled broke down somewhere on the outskirts of Rohtak. We spent the night finishing off two bottles of Old Monk and when the jeep got repaired the next day, none of us were in the mood to go to Delhi.
A year later, we made it to a two-paragraph column on page 5 on a Saturday mid-day paper. We were even given a name, Urban Naxals. Since the paper was sympathetic to our ideals of bridging the huge class-divide, the paper also referred to us, in the second paragraph, as Robin Hoods. I left that group when I found my uncle’s name in a list of victims. I knew that my uncle was bankrupt and that he borrowed heavily from my father and others to keep up his lavish lifestyle. That group lasted for a few seasons and for some reason, without any victims.
I was brought out of my reverie when Sasi tapped on my shoulder. My lawyer was climbing the stairs to the office. I stood up and waited at the door.
My lawyer looked at me and shook his head.
“Your son and another got death. The judge concluded that they are the leaders. The country needs an example, it seems.”
I was ready for that, I think.
Sasi placed his hand on my shoulder and said,
“Better luck next kid.”
“Look at the bright side – it’s just a 5 minute walk from your house to the Court. It takes 1 hour for me to get here and more than hundred rupees, not that that will get you anything these days.”
I am now quite used to his style of delivery with the frequent changes of pitch or volume to emphasize each and every part of a sentence. I met him here at my lawyer’s office two and a half years back and I guess you could call us well-acquainted. I call him Sasi and when he is not around, my lawyer refers to him as Pickaxe Sasi. In the local papers, he is a ‘quotation killer’.
I once asked him for a rough quote. When he told me the price for a human head, I remarked,
“Isn’t that cheap?”
“Demand and supply,” he replied.
Another time, I asked him if he is not scared to die.
“Today or tomorrow, who cares?”
And after some thought, he added rather reluctantly,
“I am not that careless. Be with the right people, kill the wrong people. Leave the rest to the system. It works.”
I have been visiting this office quite regularly for the last three years. It is a nondescript and small office packed with files, 2 tables and 5 chairs. It is on the first floor of a commercial building situated right next to a drainage canal and the unbearable stink stays on my skin for days after each visit. My lawyer is rather good but he has no qualms about keeping his clients waiting for long hours in his office while he attends to some other case.
In the first six months of those three years, I was distraught, depressed and defeated. I survived that phase but my wife didn’t. I had to survive for the sake of the other kids. As Sasi says,
“Life can be shitty, close your nose and keep your head high. What the heck, you have got only one.”
I tried quoting to him what I remembered of Confucius,
“You will live a 1000 lives and this could be the only one you will remember.”
I cannot print his reply, even without the emphasized parts.
My son’s case has been going on for three years. Initially, I could only think of what he and his group had done. The papers did not allow me to forget the crime and the victims, the kids especially. I could hardly recognize the photo the papers printed, he looked like a killer. And, my honest gaffe was often repeated,
“…he did something evil.”
In the first two years, my lawyer expressed hope and told me that my son might get away with a few years or utmost a life sentence. We played all the trump cards that we had – manslaughter, accidental victims, background of the intended victims, right religion, right caste, right class, right background and upbringing, even remorse and the possibility for quick rehabilitation. But unfortunately, nearly everyone in my son’s group had the same credentials. A few months back, my lawyer confided that I should get ready for the worst.
Today, he will be sentenced and my son had requested me not to be there in court. That is why I am here, with Sasi, waiting in the lawyer’s office.
My other kids have turned out ok. My other son is influenced by Lady Gaga and Bono. With my daughter, I have to argue about low-slung jeans, piercing and tattoos. We still have meals together and there is enough money for the occasional visit to the fake KFC for tubs of chicken broast.
This son had bad luck. He turned out to be like me.
I was younger than him when I started off with Flower Power and sang on the streets with my group of friends, ‘give peace a chance’. Disillusionment followed fast and we tried to be rebels or fashionable anarchists. We wanted to target nuclear power stations but there weren’t any in the immediate neighbourhood. We tried to stay away from the unavoidable political affiliations. We had our gurus and the godfathers but they were smart enough to prompt only from outside the stage.
During a period of unrest in the country, a powerful students’ group in Delhi taunted our manhood by sending a pack of bangles to our union. We would have showed our machismo with country bombs, knives and cycle chains but the jeep in which we traveled broke down somewhere on the outskirts of Rohtak. We spent the night finishing off two bottles of Old Monk and when the jeep got repaired the next day, none of us were in the mood to go to Delhi.
A year later, we made it to a two-paragraph column on page 5 on a Saturday mid-day paper. We were even given a name, Urban Naxals. Since the paper was sympathetic to our ideals of bridging the huge class-divide, the paper also referred to us, in the second paragraph, as Robin Hoods. I left that group when I found my uncle’s name in a list of victims. I knew that my uncle was bankrupt and that he borrowed heavily from my father and others to keep up his lavish lifestyle. That group lasted for a few seasons and for some reason, without any victims.
I was brought out of my reverie when Sasi tapped on my shoulder. My lawyer was climbing the stairs to the office. I stood up and waited at the door.
My lawyer looked at me and shook his head.
“Your son and another got death. The judge concluded that they are the leaders. The country needs an example, it seems.”
I was ready for that, I think.
Sasi placed his hand on my shoulder and said,
“Better luck next kid.”
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Two Bridges To This Station
We haunt a million places.
Ask Jean-Paul in that café
or Isabel with dreamy eyes;
the local Romeo on the beach
or the Juliet on those snowy slopes;
ask them where they wish to be.
It is the same there,
for you or me, him or her.
How we wish we were in another’s place,
when the wallet’s empty or the mood’s foul,
when the rains don’t stop or the sun is hot.
But, it is really the same there.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
We do not belong there,
in that place without clocks,
with a shaded path
to an unknown station.
On those walls,
there is a scrawl over ours
but our seat is there
in that empty station
with the scarred ground.
We arrive with the last train,
mid-morning and south-bound.
The north-bound trains
don’t stop here anymore.
The locals pass by, without a glance;
for the gossips have gathered
at the gate or the market,
at the tea-stall or the backyard wall.
They are there for proper yarn,
stranger than ours,
when clocks come alive and merrily cry,
“Cuckold! Cuckold!”
or there’s blood and stones on the street
and a dead cuckoo.
There are braggart’s tales
of conquests and passionate lies,
about when
they spied the white cotton petticoat,
they slept against a bare broad chest,
the kisses and more,
on shaded river steps
or beneath the bower.
We are shy
and we choose
narrower paths
to our close secrets.
Those paths lead to the first bridge
sagging with old tales.
An uncle drunk drowned in these waters,
a cousin stuck mowed down
by the last north-bound train.
On the right,
there’s always the blue-green calm.
On the left,
dark clouds hover but we are not scared.
There’s another bridge
which tries to hide the world beyond.
It’s a new bridge
with one tale to tell.
If you go to the edge,
you can spy.
Over the coconut trees and the yellow bloom,
there’s our old friend in his boat,
barely seen through misty eyes.
His mother was a witch or a soothsayer,
an astrologer or a priestess;
her son like us denied all.
He pushes the pole against the river bed,
his two-helpers lying prone upon that cargo of husk.
We used to play together
when we were friends with him,
there’s a chipped tooth
to remember that
and there’s another deeper scar.
That dry lonely stump
in the middle was green then,
as green as that island
with the temple,
where we wished to go.
He refused us that ride,
“Not all places are the same –
that’s for lovers
who will be together.”
I kicked and punched
and screamed,
“We will be together.”
I cried
against his silence,
“Tell me why.”
To stand on that island pier,
to be in that cottage,
to pray at the temple,
to be together,
that’s not for all.
I am here,
she is with Him.
There are two bridges to this station,
there are two forever separated.
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