The Art of Reading

I am quite sure you are not here to learn from me the art of reading.

Since that's settled, I can confess I have no idea about the art of reading.

I write more than I read. In other words, I hardly read. But, once in a while, I arm-twist a friend or two to read what I write. 

They are good readers. They teach me a lot about how to improve my writing. But, I never learn.

If I had listened to them, my short stories would have been much better.

It is not that I don't listen to them at all. Because of them, I have really cut down or even done without the 'flowery' stuff. Oh, you know, the part where writers go ga-ga, lyrical and descriptive about Nature, moods, etc..

There is one tangential issue I should note. How much do readers affect a writer? 

Some writers carry their own life, character and even acquaintances into the world of their writing. 

Some stay away from their own life, preferring a well-researched setting outside one's own world.

Is that because of the readers they expect?

So, what does all this have to do with (the art of) reading?

After a long time, I have picked up a few novels to read. Last night, I picked up one. I was still in the short-story mode: expecting a quick ending by the end of the chapter, my editing eyes cutting out stuff that would not be there in a short story, impatient when I reached chapter two.

Worse, with short story or novel, I read like a person who knew the author.

I will pick up another novel today. I will try to forget the author. Take each page as it comes. Try not to expect the ABCDE short story structure in every chapter (it is not a structure I personally use). Remain objective. Mildly critical. And, most importantly, try to get lost in that world.

A Love By Any Name...

Recently, I googled "what lovers call each other".

Flashback:

In school, in the pre-Internet era, my gang discussed the same. To be ready for life 10-15 years ahead. We made a list. Even ranked all those synonyms of sugar, baby, dearest, etc.. 

We were thorough. We also talked about what would happen after. That part ended with a collective horror we called nightmare on M-street. What if the first night ended with "Theernno, Chetta?" ("Finished, bro?")? 

(Chetta is one of those ambiguous labels Malayalee ladies use. It could mean elder brother. It could mean husband.)

Back to the Future: 

The lover in my gang (1 out of 8) refused to divulge his mating call. He has 4 kids. The last as recent as 2 years back. Not one a mistake,  he says. My religion forbids protected sex, he adds wistfully.

The raconteur, on his first night, regaled his spouse with his best performance. She suffered a stitch in the side. Called him, "Po Da!" ("Get lost!"). Affectionately though. The consummation had to be postponed till her side mended. What did you call her, we asked. I never got to that part of any story, he said.

The silent one admitted the position mattered more in his case. After many a hit and miss, the silence between them was turning out to be the stuff of art movies (with a script from a prolonged writer's block). They placed the bed beside another window, for better visual sans audio. Till dawn, they lay lost longing. With first light, the cock crowed. They assumed the bird-on-top position. His wife, an amateur ornithologist, twisted and turned. "Look! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" she exclaimed. He lay there, silent still satiated, wondering if his wife had picked up that sweet call from Shakespeare's poem 'Spring'.

The MCP and the fascist did something right. They got four full meals every day.

The communist's wife, in orgasmic frenzy, cried, "Kuttaaaa." (A local version of "Baby.") His father knocked at their bedroom door and asked, "Yes, moley (daughter)?" He had forgotten to tell his wife that her father-in-law's pet name is Kuttan.

The liberal got divorced. He is a lost cause now. I kept it simple, called her darling, he says. We didn't tell him his darling rhymes with Worli, with 3 r's and 4 l's, a capital of each included.

Then, me. I am googling, didn't I say?

A love by any name may not remain as sweet.

(Did the nightmare on M-street happen? It must have, to all. The best horror leave us stunned and silent, don't they, with shivers running down the spine with every reminder: girl with long hair ('The Ring'), doll ('The Poltergeist'), young boy ('The Omen'), etc..)

Phew! Water! Alas!

 A week back, I decided not to trouble my friends ever again with my water woes.

I stayed away, saving you from that depressed grumpy unwashed self with small worries like how to take care of an old mother without water in these coronatimes.

If the times were different, we would have just taken a flight to Goa and stayed in a resort for a month or till the government supplied water.

Last night, we got 800L of water. Phew! 

Now, I can deal with the lighter things in life like fascism, communism, freedom of expression, even basic human rights.

Alas, no! I promise not to touch that basic human right called water. Never again!

Water Crisis

 Major crisis at home (the first of 2021)

KWA water supply in 2021  (Jan 12-19, 2021): 2290L

KWA meter also ran due to AIR (Jan 1-Feb 7): 2600L

Corporation tanker filled sump on 8 days between Jan 1-Feb 7, the last time on Feb 2.

Now, due to sewerage works, even that tanker can't approach the house. (Not even a fire engine! God forbid!)

 

From e-Petition to CM on Feb 7, 2019 (exactly 2 years back):

"Personally, I have given up hope. And, this will be my last letter to

you all regarding this. I guess this will also be forwarded to the MD

of KWA and discarded in some bureaucratic cesspit.

I do not know why the (Residents Association) and community leaders do little to help my

old parents. Is it because they think their job is done if the

majority are happy and a small minority are expendable?

I do not even want to think that caste and religious considerations or

base financial/real-estate interests have played a role, even

subconsciously. Even if that is not in play, the 'apartheid' or

discrimination or step-motherly treatment seems to indicate some such

despicable idea."

From mother's letter to Kerala Water Authority and Councillor on Feb 5, 2021:

"I request your assistance. I am an old lady of 76. We are observing

reverse quarantine in this Covid crisis and that is why we can't come

and see you personally... 

In January, we got water supply (for an hour or so before dawn) only

on these dates: Jan 12-19, 2021.

We have been depending on the Corporation tanker for many months for

water...

 

Since yesterday, the approach roads (on all sides) have been dug up

for KWA sewerage works.

The Corporation tanker can't come to my house. And no one knows when

it will come again...

Everyone cites the elevation as reason for the water supply problem to

our house. But, it is not just because of that. The KWA officials are

well aware of the issues in the neighbourhood and how some people here

oppose equitable distribution of water wanting more for themselves.

My son had sent an e-petition to the Chief Minister two years back (on

Feb 7, 2019)... In that, he also mentioned the

step-motherly treatment we have faced in this area for more than 10

years with regard to water supply.

At that time, I was looking after my ailing husband and without water

supply, it was very stressful (and it remains so). My husband died on

April 14, 2019. We could not even hold his last rites here in my

husband's house because there was no water supply. I am still sad

about that."

From mother's letter to Kerala Water Authority and Councillor on Feb 6, 2021:

"My house received NO water supply last night either. Instead, the

water meter has advanced by 500L because of AIR. Meanwhile, neighbours

seem to be enjoying good water supply. They are busy pumping to

overhead tanks all day long and wasting water we would have loved to

have.

The overhead tank is emptying fast and I do not know what to do other

than to beg to you all.

...there is some talk of a dedicated line...If that happens, it would be good. 

But, as in the past, people in this area would use their connections and power to divert from such

a line. For more than 10 years, they have been torturing us by

depleting our water supply. They do not want us to touch the water

they enjoy. We are untouchables of the 21st century.

Before considering the dedicated line, I request you to consider the

cheaper way of correcting errors of the past:

1. In 2019, the KWA installed a valve in front of house *** for

such emergencies. Sadly, neighbours blocked that with concrete. The

police have not yet found those culprits. If you could close that

valve completely once or twice a week for adequate time during this

phase, our sump might fill. Please do not leave the valve partially

closed (as done earlier)--that might benefit only one house and harm

everyone else including us.

2. 6 years back or so, the *** Residents Association... 

decided to deplete our supply even further by diverting water to house

*** and nearby houses. There is another line running in front of

those houses but their boring point is still from our line with

inadequate supply. Could you please shift the boring point so that

there is more water in our line?

3. 10 years back or so, when this line was put, we received normal

24-hour supply for a week. Then, the line was opened to a downhill

portion serving house *** and nearby houses. The mistake was that

no valve was put before the downhill section. They enjoy unlimited

supply at the expense of those slightly elevated compared to that

downhill area. Overnight, our supply reduced to an hour or so in the

early morning.

Will someone please listen to a desperate old lady's cry for help?"

A Dog's Life

 

I think I loved a girl I called Big Dog.

She had a Labrador. Then, a Great Dane. We used to look at each other, the dog and I. Pedigree mattered there. Even the dog did not wave goodbye.

I think I also loved a girl I called Small Dog.

She had those small types: Pomeranian, Chihuahua and such. Then, she had six of those. The first one and I used to have the same look. Why not me? Why do the others get everything?

I know I loved my Uncle's dog.

Not that Uncle with the boxer. That dog tried to save my Uncle from a cobra, got bit instead and died. A lot like me. The other Uncle had a lovable mongrel. He knew his good relatives and bad relatives. He used to chase the latter. A lot like me.

I know I did not get along well with my wife's family dog.

The first time I went to her house (to see her for the first time, to propose for the last time), we (the dog and I) came to an understanding (the same I have with kids). We need our space and we don't like dirty talk (koochi-koochi-kute, etc.). We also knew we shared the same fate. A short life. And a big drop in the priority list when old age and new entrants like babies came along.

I think I preferred the Bombay dogs to the Bangalore ones.

Once, near the D-mart at Hiranandani, I was near a bunch. A couple of middle-aged ladies too. They were scared of the dogs (and me). Like a gallant knight, I stood in front of my kind and the ladies walked by. Not even a word of thanks from them. I looked at my lot. Us poor migrant workers just cannot bite a royal ass in Bombay, we thought. Our Bangalore cousins could.

What is that old adage? Ah yes.

It's a dog's life every day. 

 

The Rebecca and Maxim de Winter in Us All

 

I used to give my first infatuation a birthday card every month.

She had to call me for her birthday party, after nine cards. There my best friend told me not to trouble her. That they were boyfriend girlfriend. As if that was not enough, she called me her brother at the party. All my friends knew what that meant.

I rebounded then and there, to her best friend. I called her my first love. I gave her a birthday cake. Not every month. Only on her birthday. She left for the US after two cakes. When she came for summer break, it was on her birthday. I was there at the airport with her family and a birthday cake. She introduced us to Mike. We had the cake at the airport, Mike too. I was left with the box.

That is when I decided not to remember the birthday of a woman I wanted to be with all my life.

So, when my wife asked me, "Do you know what is today?", I could only reply, "Today is today." with a smile. Never smile at serious women, I kicked myself mentally.

"It is my birthday and you forgot, yet again." She locked herself in the bedroom. I was in the doghouse yet again. 

How could I explain the situation?

Every married couple has a lot of Rebecca and Maxim de Winter in them.

It did not help that my mother-in-law visited yesterday. 

She told me, "Your wife can't cook."

"She can. Very well too," I replied.

"No, she can't. She is a very busy and successful person. She can't cook."

"But, I cook half the time. I am also slightly busy and successful," I said.

"Get a cook," she said firmly.

"But, I don't like outside cooks in our house," I said.

"Marriage is all about compromise," she said.

"We used to cook and do everything on our own when we were in London," I said.

"That is London. This is not London."

Meanwhile, my father-in-law sat watching Netflix on TV. 'Breaking Bad'. He was trying to say something to me. Last time, it was 'Reservoir Dogs' on another channel. 

A Party to Murder

  

“Keep everyone separate,” Shokie said on the phone at seven in the morning, “get their position and company…throughout the night.”

“They are not forthcoming about what was going on,” Anu said.

“That’s to be expected with such parties but they might offer what they observed till the murders,” Shokie said.

Shokie was given the double murder case around half past five that morning, as soon as it was reported. Along with the case came the caution: wrap it up fast and discreetly. Shokie had immediately sent Anu to take charge at the crime scene which was an hour’s drive from the horrific landslide site with more than fifty dead where Shokie, Anu and the rest of the team had been since the previous afternoon.

“I should be there before nine. Some jokers…politicians are fooling around here and delaying the handover.” Shokie ended the call with, “Anu...keep your report brief.”

The first time Anu received that advice, she had bristled.

“The final report can be a Ramayana. Till that stage of a case, I prefer Hemingway’s style,” Shokie told her that first time, returning Anu’s thick meticulously detailed report without even looking at it.

“I have not read either,” Anu retorted.

“Me neither,” Shokie replied.

I asked for it, Anu thought. That was true. When she was promoted as sub-inspector, she had broken a personal rule and asked her father, a retired superintendent of police, for a professional favour. Her father had clammed up, scowled but finally agreed to her request. He took her to the house of a senior officer in the department, a person Anu called Uncle since childhood but not then.

“I want to work with Inspector Shokie,” Anu requested.

“Why?” the senior officer asked.

“She is my role model.”

The two men looked at each other. The senior officer laughed loudly. Her father continued to scowl.

“Excuse me,” the senior officer sobered up. He smiled at the sullen Anu, “Long back, in a departmental interview, someone asked Shokie who her role model was. Guess her answer.”

Anu shook her head, bit her lower lip. “Her mother?”

“Well, that’s what we told her to say from then on. Her reply had been: no one,” the senior officer reminisced, rather fondly.

“What else can we expect from her?” Anu’s father added.

“But, you two got along,” the senior said. Anu’s father’s scowl got worse.

Anu knew that Shokie had reported to her father at some stage but that remained a topic her father avoided.

“Ok, I will put you with her,” the senior officer told Anu. Then added, “Just do not forget what law, order and justice means.”

Later that night, during dinner, Anu asked her father what the senior had meant by that.

“Since you are going to work with Shokie, let me tell you the first thing you
will learn from her: figure it out yourself,” her father replied with smug satisfaction.

Apart from the advice on report writing, Anu did not receive any other advice from Shokie. She did not receive any praise either, even though she thought her “triple-effort” deserved it. They did not socialize outside office hours and they did not share personal details. Once when Anu requested permission to attend a workshop on female empowerment in modern workplace, Shokie refused. Do your work, Anu was told. She was allowed to attend other programs though. At a course on cybersecurity and advanced weapons, she met Antony who used to work with Shokie. Antony too refused to say much about his former boss, even though his admiration was clearly evident. All that he divulged to Anu was, rather wistfully, “Don’t feel bad when she or you move to other teams, when you are erased from her contact list, without a word, without a farewell, after working together for years.”

When she was told to take charge at the scene of the crime, Anu was determined to put in another “triple-effort” to solve the case on her own; not to enter her boss’s good books if there was one, but to prove to herself she could be as good as Shokie. After eighteen hours at the landslide site, she was tired, hungry and grimy. The adrenalin rush alone kept her on her feet.

She was at her meticulous best at the crime scene. She secured the site, took notes and photos of the scene, never relying solely on the experts in her profession. She isolated the partygoers and personally interviewed them, the main suspects.

Around quarter to nine, Shokie arrived at the resort.

It is a lovely resort at the top of a hill, private, nearly a kilometre from the gate. The nearest neighbours and shops are at the foothill. The resort has a main building with office and kitchen, and a dozen cottages of various sizes. The resort is owned by a politician and an actor, with a driver and an accountant the benami owners. The police knew about the rave parties and other social events that took place there. They were discouraged from taking a closer look.   

Six cottages are to the left lower edge of the hill. The remaining six, where the incidents of the night happened, are to the right. The cottages are widely separated, only a few even visible from each other. The cottages have two exits, a front door and one at the back along with a veranda. There is a pathway on that side of the resort that leads to a charming hilltop gazebo.

Shokie surveyed the scene from a distance. Anu briefed her about the night’s events.

“There are two dead. One a male 50 or so, the other a female in her early twenties. Preliminary estimates suggest he was murdered in his sleep, throat cut from ear to ear, between 2 am and 4 am, no defensive wounds. The young lady consumed poisoned between 4 am and 6 am.”

“13 people, including the dead, arrived late evening to party. Eight in the age group 30 to 50 and five college kids in the early twenties. I have prepared a worksheet of their known positions during the night. Included observations and known relationship too.”

“Of these six cottages on the right, two were used for partying. Party Room 1 is a large cottage with hall which can accommodate 20 or so, and with four bedrooms. Party Room 2 is a cottage with two bedrooms. The older lot had four cottages for themselves but they were mostly partying with various groups the whole night.”

“They had dinner together in the main building from 8 pm to 10 pm. Then, split up in various groups.”

“The dead man remained in his cottage throughout the night. From 10 to midnight, he was with his wife and a young lady. He must have had other company later but no one is admitting to that.”

“His cottage is the exclusive one near the top. The front door is visible from Party Room 2. There is a path from the back porch to the hilltop gazebo.”

“It rained heavily between 4 am and 6 am. If there were any footprints leading to the cottage, they are all gone.”

Shokie nodded. Anu continued.

“The cottages on the left side of the resort were vacant last night. The eleven suspects are in various rooms. We are using one cottage as control room.”

“The staff here is minimal. Two shifts. One front desk person in the office and three in the kitchen, they do the housekeeping too. We have not allowed the night shift people to leave. The day shift is keeping the kitchen open.”

“Has everyone had breakfast?” Shokie asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you tell someone to get me a flask of coffee and some toast and jam?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They walked to the cottage that was set up as control room. Shokie went to the balcony, sat on a reclining chair.

“What a view! We better make use of such resort facilities when we can,” she said. She closed her eyes.

Anu waited till the coffee and toast arrived. She watched her senior put 4 heaps of sugar in the mug of coffee.

“Ma’am, I have e-mailed the worksheet to you. I have noted known position, company and their observations…too few of those.”

“Hmmm…”

“With regard to the 13, the eight older ones seem to be successful professionals, two of them married couples, and the five college…”

“Anu,” Shokie interrupted, “fill me in on those details later.”

“11 main suspects,” Anu remarked.

“12, right?” Shokie asked.

“Yes, 12 if one assumes the dead lady killed the man and then took her own life with poison.”

“Take any dozen. Four will lie. Four will tell the truth. Four will remain silent. Some truths will be lies. Some lies will be truths. The honest ones need not be good,” Shokie mumbled that like a nursery rhyme, half asleep.

“Ma’am?” Anu said after a while.

“Hmmm?”

“Where do you want to start, ma’am?”

“Me? I am going to make use of this holiday. You know what to do. And, Anu…wrap it up fast and discreetly.” Shokie smiled, leaned back, her eyes half-closed, sipped coffee, had toast with liberal amount of jam.

“Ma’am, I have taken blood tests of all. They are all walking pharmacies after what went on last night,” Anu said.

“Keep it,” Shokie said, “that will be part of the discreet.”

Anu left to resume her investigations.

Shokie reached for her laptop and studied the worksheet Anu had prepared. She made notes on the same.

 

xxx

 

20:00-22:00: Dinner together.

22:00-24:00: Dead man (M1) in own cottage with wife (F2) and young lady (F11). Three men and three women in Party Room 1. Two men and two women in Party Room 2. One observation during that period: 30-year-old man (M7) in Party Room 2 saw the twenty-year-olds with them, man (M9) and woman (F10), slip a bottle of expensive wine into a backpack. 40-year-old woman (F4) in the same cottage did not see that.

00:00-03:00: Dead man (M1) is with unknown company or killer in own cottage. Four men and four women in Party Room 1, mostly together during session, though no one can vouch for another. In Party Room 2, thirty-year-old man (M7) was replaced by thirty-year-old woman (F8). Observations: Two men (M5 and M6) going to Party Room 1 think they saw a man and a woman (M9 and F10) go to the room of dead man (M1), carrying a backpack. But, the group in Party Room 2 (F4, F8, M9 and F10) say they were together. The older women (F4 and F8) admit they could have slept a bit. Party Room 2 has the best view of M1’s front door. But, none of them saw anyone enter M1’s cottage.

Shokie nodded appreciatively at a note Anu made with regard to that: Why didn’t the dog bark?

03:00-05:00: Dead man (M1) is with unknown company or killer in own cottage. Two men (M5 and M6) retire to their cottage during that period. The remaining ten were in Party Room 1. Fluid situation with no one really sure who was or was not there, and with no track of time. Observations: The two men (M5 and M6), on their way back from party, once again saw the young couple (M9 and F10) go to M1’s front door. Female F4 says she saw female F13 leave M1’s room. She is not sure when. Rains.

Anu wondered: Did M5 and M6 see M9 and F10 go to M1 twice?

05:00-06:00: Wife (F2) finds man (M1) dead. She waits with man (M3) and lady (F8) in M3’s room. Woman (F4) and man (M7) were together at hilltop gazebo. Two men (M5 and M6) remain in their room. The five college kids are in Party Room 1. One of them, a lady (F13) is found dead. Observations: An expensive bottle of wine is found next to F13.

Anu had also noted: There could have been a flurry of activity behind all that. Man (M3) reported both crimes to the person in office who reported it to police without delay.

 

xxx

 

Shokie poured coffee, heaped more sugar. She looked at the worksheet once again.

“To find the needle in the haystack, put the hay on fire and wash away the ash,” that line in a children’s mystery novel crossed her mind.

She scribbled in a pocket book:

·       Bottle of wine (M9 & F10 to ??? to F13)

·       ??? = M1?

·       Party Room 2---nothing seen at M1’s cottage? Why?

·       F13 & M1---F4 saw---how?

She tried various scenarios.

·       M9 & F10 & F13?

She scowled. “Too many villains ganging up? Unlikely.”

Twice she got up from her seat. Once she even reached the cottage front door.

“Let the kid find out,” she muttered and returned to her position on the balcony. She forced herself to relax.

She took out the pocket book once more. She did not like the conclusions she had reached. This time, she wrote in careful longhand. She always found that to be therapeutic in such moments.

·       M9 & F10 took the stolen bottle of expensive wine to M1, after lacing it with poison. Were they told to come later? Was M1 expecting another? They used the front entrance of M1’s cottage each time. Nothing to hide or not trying to hide? Deep emotions—rage?

·       F13 was with M1. How else could she get that bottle of wine? Did she use the back route to enter and exit M1’s cottage? That could explain why no one in Party Room 2 saw her enter. If she took the bottle of wine, she would definitely take the back route. Then, how did F4 see her? Not on her way to Party Room 1. She was in no position to see F13 on that route. Or, was F4 around the back of M1’s cottage?

·       After F13 left M1’s cottage, F4 must have entered and killed M1. Check the rear part of M1’s cottage, the gazebo and area around for evidence.

·       M9 & F10 must have turned up at M1’s cottage again a little later and found M1 dead. They must have gone there to make sure M1 drinks from the bottle of wine or to retrieve it.

·       F13 took the bottle of wine from M1’s room. She must have had it later, on her own. And, died.

Shokie could guess many reasons as to why M9, F10 and F4 would want to kill M1. She could not think of one reason why F13 had to die.

She scowled, closed her eyes and waited for Anu.

 

xxx

 

Anu turned up around mid-afternoon. She was flush with excitement. Shokie told her to sit down. A constable brought a flask of fresh coffee and a plate of vada. Shokie served the coffee and told her junior to have that and vada.

Then, Anu briefed her about the investigation and her findings.

“Ma’am, the young couple, M9 and F10 in my notes, have confessed. They are actually brother and sister. It seems M1 destroyed their parents. They stole the bottle of wine, poisoned it and hoped to kill M1 with that. Their plans went for a toss. They would not have felt a bit of guilt if they had killed M1 but the death of F13, by chance, is going to haunt them.”

“The other proved to be tricky and a bit of serendipity helped. I found two sets of footprints at the hilltop gazebo, made by the same footwear and same person. One wet and one dry. Someone had been there before and after the rains. It was a lady’s footprint and it turned to be that of F4. She must have gone later with a man to remove old footprints and place new. A bit too clever for her own good. We searched the area around. She made another mistake. She thought it was a steep drop from the gazebo. She did not know that there’s a ledge beneath. If she had thrown with more force, it would have been anywhere. She must have casually dropped the bloody knife wrapped in cloth thinking it would reach the river below and be gone forever. She had not even bothered to wipe her fingerprints off that knife. Maybe, she wanted to be caught. She has not confessed. She has not said a word. But, Ma’am…that M1 was a nasty man.”

“Great work,” Shokie said.

Shokie leaned back in her chair, staring without expression at the beautiful view. Anu too leaned back, with the look of a serious person trying hard not to blush.

 

Post Covid Symptoms

 

I got out of hospital eight days after my wife died. We went in together. She had comorbidities. I did not, they said.

I did not realize then that those eight days were the best days of the rest of my life.

It was really tough managing on my own. I tried to get a help. My kids said they are unable to come from abroad. They could not come even for her. She was the good parent, me the bad one. We had decided on that long back.

There were lots of messages to attend to. I got to it finally. Wish-me-wells from strangers. We-are-there from relatives. Get-it-sorted too.

It was by chance I came across a thread within a group.

They hoped I would not last long. For my good. She had comorbidities, they said. I did not, they complained.

 

Stories from the Marriage Vault

 

1. The most interesting stories about matrimony are those where the couple are perfect for each other but due to circumstances turn out to be toxic for each other.

2. A grand uncle from my father's side married the daughter of a great grand uncle on my mother's side.

One day, the maternal great grand uncle returned from the fields after a hard day's work to find his son-in-law stretched out on his reclining chair doing nothing the whole day. 

The son-in-law was told to get lost.

The grand uncle married another and died poor. The grand aunt married another and lived happily ever after.

Moral of the story: Never relax on in-laws' chair.

Adieu, 2020

 

It wasn't the best of years.

It won't be the worst of years.

For some, the lockdown days were the worst. For us, at home, there was water supply those months. Neighbors were good neighbors then.

Lockdown ended. Water supply became the usual majority-gets-all-minority-get-lost issue.

It is easy for the government to install a statue of Sree Narayana Guru (irony: on the grounds of Kerala Water Authority).

It is still difficult, in the 21st century, for the government to supply water to the Guru's family when they live in an area where they can be ignored.

Maybe, those in government would have been different if the Guru had said explicitly: any water, some water, same water, for all.

My writing went for a toss in 2020. I managed to be humorous only once. Real life was such.

Virtual life saw its ups and downs. Connected with couple of good ol' pals. Disconnected with a few.

For a month or two, I shifted from Facebook (where I have a few friends, I hope) to Twitter (where I have none).

I was reminded of my early Sulekha days. Writing to myself. No audience. Observing, without great interest. Listening, with interest, with the same old exception, the right-wing lot. Commenting randomly, not expecting a reply. Even then, I managed to get blocked. I tried to tell Communists that their version of history was wrong. They thought I was anti-Left. I did not tell them Communists are not the Left, they are just Communists.

One particular block did hurt me. It was promising to be a decent acquaintanceship. But, moods always swing with higher priorities. C'est la vie.  

I sincerely hope 2021 will be better for all. I should somehow try to be humorous more than once.

When It Ended

  

We were neighbours in hostel and that December morning in our first year at the Institute, we stepped out of our rooms at the same time.

She must have noticed my hesitation. Or, I hers.

I thought of saying, “Ah! Forgot to take…” before disappearing back into my room, to give her time to leave. Maybe, she thought of the same.

Instead, we said at the same time, “Institute…?”

We nodded. We did not speak the first ten minutes. It was just after eight, the morning chill lingered, the lanes were empty.

“Sorry for the unwanted company,” I said. I hate companionable silence, unless with solitude.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“Weren’t you looking forward to a pleasant morning walk with solitude or with your usual…better company?” I said.

“I get the message…sorry for intruding,” she said.

“What message?”

“Look, let’s not argue…” she said, thought a bit, “no, why not…”

“Geez, for ten minutes you walk silently, your discomfort more than apparent. And now, you want to argue about that?”

“My discomfort…?” she said. “You are the one who’s been walking like a kid forced to do something.”

“Hey, since you are the adult, why don’t you admit the truth?”

“What truth?”

“You would have preferred your usual company.”

“Maybe…they wouldn’t be talking nonsense…”

“What nonsense? Since we joined the Institute, that was four months back just to remind you, you have made it clear that you do not want my company…in hostel, in Institute…not even in the Canteen.”

“Yeah, right…you go alone to the Canteen…it’s no secret to anyone you don’t like the company in the Institute…”

“What crap!”

“And, you disappear every weekend to party with your old groovy set? Hey, we are just boring country bumpkins after all.”

“Geez, now I understand why you keep that fawning company. It must be so nice to hear everyone agree with all the nonsense you say.”

“You and your Geez…yeah, they are any day better than you and your hoity toity lot.”

We did not speak for the remaining ten minutes to the Institute.

For the first time, in those four months, we were together in the office we shared. We did not mutter the usual, “Ah, let me give you space…” I did not disappear to the computer room, as was the custom when she was already there; and, she did not deposit her bag and race to her lab.

I closed the office door, placed my backpack on my chair and leaned against my table.

She too kept her bag on her chair and stood with her back towards me for a while. She turned to face me. I was still glaring at her. She moved closer.

I reached out for her hand and pulled her towards me.

“I will apologize later…” I said.

I kissed her, just a minute-long touch of lips.

“Now, apologize…” she said.

“For what?” I said.

She kissed me. This time, we were sure about the terrain.

We stayed close, bodies touching, caressing, till we heard footsteps in the hallway.

“Better to get back to work, huh?” she said.

“Oh boy, it’s going to be tough…”

We laughed.

“Have fun with your company,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she said, “how I hate your company.”

“Solitude,” I said, “how I miss you,”

We laughed and went our ways. We did not realize that’s when it ended.

We stuck to our usual routine.

I got back to the hostel around half past six and waited for her. At eight, I had dinner alone. At ten, I switched off the light and tried to sleep. At twelve, I thought I heard someone knock lightly on my door.

Next morning, I had breakfast at six, not in the hostel but at a nearby eatery and left for the Institute from there. I remained in the computer room. I did not go back to the hostel that Friday. I stayed with a friend in the city the whole weekend.

I got back to the hostel late Sunday evening, with a hangover, stinking of liquor and cigar. She was sitting in the courtyard with her cronies. I took bath and slept. She woke me up around half past eight.

“Eat,” she said, extending a plate with Maggi, vegetables and paneer.

“Brrr…veg…”

“Eat.”

She closed the door and sat on the floor. I sat on my bed, trying small bites.

“On Thursday…” she started to speak.

“Did I ask?”

“On Thursday,” she continued, “my boss kept me in a meeting till eight. He wanted to finish off the work with Jacques. The whole lab went for a dinner after that. I couldn’t let you know. On Friday, it was more of the same. I knew you would be sulking in the Computer room. I thought it would be best if I waited till evening.”

“Why would I sulk?”

I opened the door, went to the kitchen and returned after washing the plate.

She was still sitting on the floor.

I closed the door and sat beside her.

No one in the Institute would have been bothered if we had carried on as lovebirds. No one was surprised when we were the exact opposite given our issues: religion, caste, class, region, family, everything except politics which we agreed was for the jobless. Some of our tussles were out in the open.

It must have been quite ugly in the final stages of our PhD. She had secured multiple options which included a good job in a pharmaceutical company and attractive postdoc positions abroad. With my less-than-stellar theoretical work and even-worse connections, I was even contemplating life outside Academia. She was supportive. She knew that irritated me more often than it comforted. She loved to mother me. I told her we should keep our professional spheres separate, that I did not need advice. She did not take any position for a few months waiting for some clarity from my side. I got a six-month extension to my fellowship. We lived together on my stipend in a cheap room-and-toilet outfit in a place called Lottagollahalli on the outskirts. We rarely went to the city. She had a miscarriage. A month before my fellowship ended, I managed to get a postdoc position with an unknown in Bayreuth. She took up a position in Berlin. I told her that I would love to marry her but wanted to wait till my situation was a little better. She agreed, too easily I thought.

We survived that relationship-at-a-distance stage too. She liked travelling. I did not. She hopped over to Bayreuth whenever it was convenient.

From there, we went to Manchester. She got a job. My postdoc position was a lot better and I produced one or two papers that grabbed attention. She complained of sexism in her firm and later racism when it came to promotions. I was not surprised when she decided that she wanted to try a new venture with an old colleague, along the lines of Theranos or something. That too in California. I agreed to follow her. I got an academic position there.

Her company got onto the front cover of business journals. For good reasons for a while, then for bad when her partner fudged data with one product.

That did not put an end to her flights of fancy. She bounced back. That must have infected me. I left Academia, changed fields and decided to make serious money on the Street. It was not as easy as I expected. That time, she followed me.

Our relationship also bounced along with our moves, in phase at times, our old demons revisited us often with a lag. Nothing really worth writing home about. Insecurity, shattered dreams, ruined relationships, financial troubles and that bloody mothering of course. Not even an infidelity, I think. Somewhere along the way, we got married and had two kids. When they were in junior school, we were advised counselling at a parent teacher meeting. How could it help when we did not want it? We ended the sessions when the counsellor asked us about our sex life. We walked out together.

The kids turned out alright despite us. At one family dinner, when they were in their twenties, they told us that we were actually normal and even thanked us. We wondered if they were being sarcastic. Later, in our bedroom, we discussed that feedback from the kids. Was it on some absolute or relative scale?

We thought we would mellow as empty nesters. It got worse and it got better. We laid to rest one insecurity. We were going to stick with each other till the end. Maybe, that’s when it started.