Of Love, Life and Travels

My laptop is a treasury of incomplete mediocrity: essays, passages and pages worth stalled thoughts/ideas. A few samples.
An excerpt from what once was touted (in my head, of course) as my most definitive work (:P):

“What are you saying, man?” Arjun asked, shaking his head from side to side.
I stayed silent. Sometimes, when I am silent, and the night is still—the trees, the sky, the birds, the insects all noiseless—and the vehicles don’t lumber up the sleepy highway, I hear the hills sing their song. There are no words, just a hushed tune, almost like a lullaby, but not quite.
“You came back all the way to find out about that girl? That maid in the Guest-House?” he asked, still shaking his head.
The spell was broken—the song ended even before it began.
I kicked a stone down the valley, into the dark, a little irritated. I heard a couple of soft thumps, of the stone bouncing down the slope, before a muffled thwack told me it had hit green. With my hands on my hips, I said:
“Look, there are things that you won’t understand”
He took a big swig of his beer (Maharani), and still shaking his head said sarcastically:
“Like what? You are in love with her or something? That it took you seven years to understand it?”
“Something like that” I lied.
“What? You’re joking right?” he asked.
I stayed silent again. My limbs felt loose, my head felt a little light—Maharani might be desi, but it hits you pretty hard. I concentrated hard on the silence, but I knew that was not how it worked: the hills didn’t sing on request, they sang when you least expected it.
“Oye!” he said, and hit me playfully on my head, “You’re lying right? Or you’re plain drunk?”
“I am so not drunk” I said, and took a wild swipe at him, but he dodged it unconvincingly and I added: “And I am not lying”
He threw his bottle down the valley, and ran. And I ran after him, shouting, my beer-bottle in hand: the world was a blurry haze; a full moon shone brightly, flanked by big grey clouds; the mountain-air had a distinct biting cold about it; and tears streamed down my eyes. I laughed and shouted and ran. He laughed too, and like kids left loose in a park, we ran atop the hills and into the town, puffing and panting, but forever laughing …

****

From Twilight 2.0 (yes, it was meant to be continued, but never got down to writing it)
(Oh, a brief introduction: the central character gets addicted to these hallucinatory fruits that he finds in the forest. Visions that follow)

In minutes, I feel strangely content, tranquil. Though substantially darker, everything seems to have acquired a halo about it: the trees, though still unimaginably gargantuan, are a flashing green; the flowers, amongst whom I lie, are no longer soft and pretty, but brutally colourful—even more violent than what they seemed at that first initial sight; the river flows slower, though I am sure it cannot; and the setting Sun is a suspended unreal blood-red bob on the horizon; the horizon is devoid of colour, so empty that it makes the world look as bright as a thousand splendid suns; and everywhere I turn and see, I see her—myself, for in a sense she is I—clad in the simple white sari that she wore so dignifiedly when she walked away, smiling benignly. My heart melts, my eyes shed tears of joy, and my mind, yet, is calm. If this is what being in love is, then I won’t ever get tired of it. I shut my eyes, and she is there. I do not know when I pass onto my dreams and see her there.

Happy new year.

The Automaniac

It was late-evening, the light was fading. The sky was a grim grey-brown, as it had been all day. It being Sunday, there was little traffic on the road—cars and bikes zoomed past him, the odd bus trundled by; few autos chugged past noisily, but they were mostly taken and did not stop despite his repeated signaling; a bullock-cart, full of fresh manure, passed him, leaving a trail of obnoxious smell behind; He walked around in circles, getting increasingly impatient, muttering to himself to stay calm. And then, he finally saw an auto that was passenger-less: he jumped down the pavement, onto the road, in its path and swung his hands frantically. It stopped.

“Where to, sir?” the auto-wallah asked, grinning. And the man noticed he had no incisors.

The man hesitated, before he said:

“To the Market. Er... How much?”

The auto-wallah gave a demented, tooth-less grin yet again, and declared:

“Sir, you will give me fifty rupees”

That was nearly twice what he thought it would cost, but he simply got in quietly.

With a single hard tug at the lever, the engine spluttered and coughed into action. The rush of the wind stung so hard that the man hugged his jacket and drew his bag closer to him. He noticed there were three decorated rear-view mirrors, one on either side of the windshield, and one on top, just below the picture of the Goddess. In every mirror, all he saw was different bits of the face of the auto-wallah: the mirror above showed his forehead, mostly dominated by a bright-orange tilak, and a portion of his curly, messed-up hair; the mirror on the right showed one side of his two-day stubble and one red, kohl-lined eye; the other side, showed the other half of his face, a black birthmark on his cheek, lips more grey than pink. In the mental picture he made of the face, putting together the pieces in every mirror, the auto-wallah looked like a lunatic.
“Do you like my auto sir?” the auto-wallah asked suddenly.

“Um?” he said, looking at the mirror on top, at the red-eyes that were trained on him.

“Auto .. Like? You?” the auto-wallah asked again.

“Its nice” he said, pretending to look around.

The auto-wallah let out a shriek of laughter and abruptly sobered down and asked in a soft, toneless voice:

“Only nice?”

“Very nice, sir. I meant very nice” he said hastily.

And thanks to one of the rear-view mirrors, he saw one side of him smile.

They were still twenty minutes away. He just didn’t like the way the journey was going, but he held his calm.

They stopped at a signal. A bus tanked next to them with a loud hiss, and a gust of welcome hot air blew from its exhaust; the buzz of still running-engines all around irritated him; a beggar-boy, carrying his little sister went from one tinted window to another-- finally one opened and sent a jet of red-paan that the boy did well to dodge. Presently the boy came up to him: he looked away and refused. The auto-wallah gave the boy a ten-rupee not and said menacingly, looking at him through the mirror:

“Sir, don’t you have to give this boy ten rupees, too?”

The man briefly considered abandoning the auto and bolting, thinking this was the devil that had, perhaps, come to give him some sort of a warning.

But he simply took-out a ten-rupee note from his wallet and gave it to the boy.

The light turned green and they were away, again.

“Can you sing, sir?” the auto-wallah asked.

“Um .. Me?” he asked and instinctively, held on to his bag even more tightly.

“Yes, sir”

“No, I cant”

“Eh?”

“I can’t” he said a little loudly, trying to make himself heard over the din of the auto.

“I am not deaf, sir” the auto-wallah said sternly.

“Sorry” he muttered.

And they both stayed silent, before the man noticed the reflection in the mirror lighten as it broke into a smile. He relaxed slightly. The auto-wallah said:

“I’ll teach you a song, sir. Sing after me”

“Um .. Ok” he said meekly.

And the auto-wallah broke into a joyous cacophony: it spoke of the greatness of the country, of the mountains and the rivers, of the Gods and the Kings, of diversity, of unity, of tolerance and kindness and of course, of love. With every line he repeated, the man grew tenser. Sweat beads formed behind his ears and rolled down his cheek; his eyes grew steely and dark much in contrast to the auto-wallah, whose blood-shot eyes moistened with feeling and he looked like a sad, mad man.

When he finally reached the Market, the man nearly jumped off the auto. His hands shivered as he fumbled with his wallet, before dishing out a hundred-rupee note and said “Keep the change”. The Auto-wallah gave him one last tooth-less maniacal grin of gratefulness. He ran, as fast as he could, in the direction opposite to that of the Auto. And then he heard it and he stopped and relief flooded him. He smiled, slid his hands into his pockets, whistled a soft love-song and walked on. In a few hours he’d watch it all on TV, reporters scrambling to get a shot of the debris of the Auto that carried the bomb (his bomb in his bag!) that rocked the Market and shocked the nation ..

The Joy is Gone

The joy is gone.
No more pumped fists. No more face bursting with pride. No more grimace if there's a misfield. No more diving stops of his own bowling.
No more ugly defensive prods. No more slightly less uglier cover-drives. No more royal slashes through points.

The joy is gone.
No more 'how many wickets did he get?' before 'whats the score?' . No more: please dont give five runs this over, or you'll finish with an economy rate over 2.5. No more: 'three for 83?' and a quick mental calculation of the average (27.66). No more disappointment when the batsman plays a copybook forward defence. No more crazy goosebumps during the over after he gets a wicket.

The joy is gone.
The Kumble before the shoulder injury taught me leg-spin. The Kumble after taught me cricket. The Kumble now taught me to cope with loss.

The joy is gone.
And I was there, at the Kotla, to see it fade away.

The Train

(This piece was written way back in March. I dont remember writing it, but I remember being fairly impressed when I read it much later on, last month. I even wondered if I'd actually written it, thinking it might have been Swaroop's :p )

I coughed and hid under my blanket. The train rattled through uninhabited plains, rendered dim by the thick, solar-shielding coat of the windows. I had been in the wretched train for less than two hours—enough time for the inhospitable AC atmosphere to get to me. I had tears streaming incessantly from my eyes, only to be matched by a nose that ran like a leaky drain, my cheeks were puffed, and I felt like that time, when, as an adventurous kid of six, I had climbed into the freezer, half-naked. I coughed again—this time a series of jerky noises that concluded in a horrible, wheezy squeal that caused many heads to turn. I buried myself under the blanket, more out of embarrassment than cold, promising never to resurface until the landscape outside changed.
******

“Sir?” I heard a youthful voice call out softly, from very near my face, on other side of the rug.
I did not respond.
“Sir? Please wake up”
I rolled over.
“I know you are not asleep, Sir. I know”
Now I was curious. I turned around and pulled off the blanket to see an unfamiliar face stare at me: it had the eyes of a frog—large, oval and kind; the nose—long and flat—the shape of a boatman’s oar; prominent cheekbones, nondescript ears, a hint of a mush and a two-day stubble. I scowled, face muscles crumpling up—I can sure look hideous when I want to. He looked at me with eyes widened and broke into a great, big smile. And I couldn’t help smiling back myself.
“I’ve got hot tomato soup for you” he said and thrust the cup into my hands.
I was still a little groggy. I did not know what to say, how to react. I groped under the blanket, inside my jeans-pockets and struggled to extract my wallet.
“No, no sir!” he said, rushing to stop me, “Please. Payment can wait. You really need this, urgently”
I shook my head in refusal, though, inwardly, I was grateful—those pockets were a pain, having a two- centimetre radius through which I wondered how I had managed to squeeze in my wallet in the first place. I gratefully accepted the soup—the warmth of the plastic cup itself was rejuvenating. I let the steam from the cup warm my face, a flush of blood returned to my cheeks and then I gingerly slurped.
“Excellent” I said hoarsely, to my new friend, who beamed in return and continued, “Thank You”
“Oh, no problems, sir” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “We see a lot of cases like you. Don’t worry. You are in safe hands”
And then, in a flurry he was gone, carrying his tray and vessel with a practised carelessness, announcing to whoever was interested in a monotonic but resonant voice that even the farthest man in the compartment could hear with astounding clarity, “Tomato Soup! Tomato Soup!”
And all that was left was the rhythmic, monotonous rattle of the train; and outside, beyond the rail-tracks and the wires and the milestones, I saw green fields and cows and tiny huts and men toiling under the afternoon sun: the landscape had changed.
******

After many hours of fitful sleep, characterised by dreams of great recollection value, I felt much better. Outside, all was dark—not even specks of light in the distance—and, courtesy the darkness, I felt we were moving at twice the usual speed. I felt much better.
I wanted fresh air—one untouched by the stale scent of rugs, pillows and the odd perfume—and I walked across to the enclosure between compartments. I looked at myself in the stained mirror: I looked a sick man still. I sat by the door and peered outside: trees sped by, but beyond there was just black. The sky was blacker still—dotted by thousands of stars, a sight that I love and hadn’t seen for a long while. With soft-music in my ears—thanks to my brand new MP3 player-- drowning the drone of the train, I relaxed. And sat and gazed.

A tap on my shoulder brought me back to my senses. I turned around to see another hot cup of soup on the floor beside me, pulsating with the throb of the train. And he was gone.
******

I remember not having slept that night: The AC and its effects served as a huge disincentive to get back, and I also felt my cold returning. What’s more, I had a very good book with me—I cant quite put my finger on what it was, perhaps a Gerald Durrell, and I sat in that enclosure, the only place that was still lit at unearthly hours and read till plains changed to forest that further transformed into city and stations and finally returned to being the plains, lit only by the radiance of a million stars; till the stars all set, in their own precise manner, and a sleepy, red-eyed sun rose over the hills in the distance.

I slept as people awoke.
******

I lugged my bag and walked up to the enclosure and placed it there. There was just one man who was standing by the door—tilting outwards into the wind that set his hair wild, balanced as precariously as a circus acrobat, only his hands held the garish, yellow bars on either side of the door for support. He wore a stained railway uniform and he seemed to be lost in thought. I don’t know why, but I said,
“Oye! Be careful!”
He turned around and we both broke into smiles, his smile much more open and radiant than mine.
“So, sir! You are getting off?”
I nodded in the affirmative, still smiling.
“How are you? Cold gone? Magic soup did the trick?” he spoke as fast as the train in the darkness, questions incessant, yet considerate and genuine.
“Gone!” I said and extracted my wallet with surprising ease, and thrust a hundred rupee not in his hand—the cost of nearly a dozen soups—and said, “Thanks!”
“Sir” he said, “Why simply?”, but nevertheless pocketed it gratefully.
And then there was silence, punctuated only by the incessant rattling of the train, as we both swayed.
“So, Ranga” I said eventually, with a swift glance at his badge, “Where are you from?”
“Belgaum” he said, now looking away and staring again into the darkness.
“And you’ve been in this train-business for how long?”
“Three years” and then added just to assure himself, I thought, “I like it here”
“You do?” I asked.
“Yes. You get to make friends here. The other members of the staff are very nice and friendly—they really pamper me, being the youngest and all. And you see so many people: and you learn from them. Every journey always brings in interesting people” he said, thoughtfully, words no longer coming out like they were slipping down a slide, and added, “India is a very big country”
I didn’t know what to say. And so I listened. And as he grew more comfortable, his speech grew faster, as though he was trying to match the words-per-minute world record, and he was telling me about his childhood, his village, his love-affair with the railways, Sachin Tendulkar and tomato soup. Sometimes I would lose track of what he would say, for I would get lost in his gestures—intensely expressive, like a child practising for a school-play; even more distracting were his giant eyes and those orb-like, kind eyeballs that sometimes grew so large that they almost seemed fake. Sometimes, he proved to just be too fast for me. He was saying something, when I interrupted, apologised for doing so and asked,
“How much do you earn?”“Not much, Sir. 1600 rupees plus food and clothes”
“And what do you do with it?”
“I send it back home. To my father. They are looking for bride for me now; then I’ll surely get some money. I might even quit this place and go to the city in search of something”
“And where in the—“
He cut me short, to add with a naughty, girlish giggle,
“Oh, I save some money to buy the odd cigarette or a bottle of booze” and before I knew it, he was blowing air into my face and asking, “Can you smell it in my breath?”
I couldn’t. My nose was blocked. I said very appreciatively,
“Oh. I can. Some booze that is!”
We talked some more: about Kannada film actresses and strangely, the polio vaccine.

******

And then, it was time for me to leave. The train was braking hard now, inertia caused me to be momentarily unbablanced, before it slowed down considerably, the rhythmic beats becoming louder and clearer, horn blowing, much like an elephant trumpeting, as it curved to enter my station. It stops for barely two minutes, so we bid a hurried farewell, as I wished him all the best and shook his hand and he half-hugged me. I jumped off and turned around to see him beaming. And before we knew it, the train sounded its horn, and it slowly, creaked back to motion. He was waving now—in his own exaggerated manner, hands everywhere, the wind messing up his hair once again, and then he shouted:
“Remember the name, Sir”, and he was farther and farther away, “K.P.Raghu! You’ll see me in the papers one day—even Rajni Kant started off as a bus conductor”

I then checked my jeans pocket—it was a mechanical action with me—and realised: the wallet was gone.

Patchwork Prabhakar--2

Continued from here
Seven
Rakesh returned to a tense hostel. There was tension everywhere—he could feel it in the way the watchman stared at him an extra second longer than he usually did; he could feel it in the way the dogs moved about silently, stealthily as though they were afraid of something; he could feel it in the wind—the way it blew, he couldn’t quite say what, but he thought there was something sinister about it; and as he entered the gates he saw it.
There were policemen and that made it obvious that there had been a fight and considering the size of the crowd, it must have been a big one. There were groups of boys standing in circles buzzing like bees, murmuring, whispering; and in the middle, there was the most important group—the principal looking as dead as ever, the Superintendent of Police speaking inanimately but firmly, the Warden looking sleepy and lost, and the President of the Students’ Union.
Rakesh, his eyes elsewhere, walked straight into Bharat, a tall, sturdy friend whose rather purposeful (and angry) strides were abruptly stopped by the collision.
Bharat swore.
“Sorry, sorry” Rakesh hastily apologized, one hand raised and then looking around, he asked “What happened here?”
Bharat swore again and then asked angrily, “Where the fuck were you?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, mother-fuckers: go back and fuck your prostitutes, don’t come here. We don’t need you people who can’t come when called. There’s a fight going on, and there’s no one to from our side …Where were you?”
“Actually, the signal’s very weak in the hospital and we left in a hurry … “
“Oh! So, nowadays, you do it in the hospital too, eh?”

Rakesh held his calm, and before Bharat could add anything, told him the whole story: how Prabhakar had come to them in the morning, looking a little scared and asked them if they could find people to donate blood for his father. ‘Or you could come yourself, you know’ he had added (‘Hope and fear make a very strange mixture. Strange but potent. When a friend of mine in college once asked me something, a little scared, but with a lot of hope, I had to contend with a whole waterfall of pity!” he’d say often) They had gone, seventeen of them, to the hospital, getting stuck first in a traffic jam and then later in the form-filling. It had taken them four hours for the blood-drawing session to begin. And all the while, Prabhakar and his brother ran, from one doctor to the other, from one room to another, to the laboratory, to the nurses, to pay bills, to collect receipts and submit forms. Prabhakar was resolute, never once breaking down and displayed the same odd dark humour that his mother did (‘I cant go and see my father like this, he had said with a sad smile, when the doctor had told him that his father was stable, but not out of danger, ‘I’ve grown so pale and white that Papa will think only I’ve donated all the blood’)
And when he was done with his tale, finishing off with how Prabhakar chose to stay back with his father and keep him company, the two stayed silent, listening to the perpetual buzz of the students and the crickets around.
“And what about you?” Rakesh asked eventually, “What happened here?”
“Oh, nothing. We just really missed our Ahimsa-preaching peace-maker Prabhakar and to show how badly we did, we fought one another”

Eight
Kapil scanned carefully the throng of people boarding the train. Most of his job was done: he had supervised the chart-making process; overseen personally the loading of the rice-bags in the goods compartment; counseled the engine driver and members of the pantry car; reported to the station master that all was ok. All he had to do now was sit as comfortably as he could manage on his rickety chair, drink his tea and wait till the train left.
He continued looking around: a porter carrying five bags scurried past him, an oldish couple trying hard to keep pace; the lock-seller walked around, crying his wares, trying to tempt a group of college-students into buying one from him; an old, scrappy man just sat on his suitcase on the platform, tiredness etched in every line of his face; and then he spotted a porter and two young men, who first put a wheel-chair, and then carefully, and after some maneuvering, carried an old, frail man into the compartment. The porter came back for another round and he loaded what seemed like some kind of a machine into the train. Kapil was intrigued. He called his assistant and asked him to check what those men were up to.
Two minutes later, as he watched the youngsters (who looked like they hadn’t slept in days) bid a worried goodbye to a couple of women, the assistant came back and reported:
“The old man is dying. And he wishes to die in his village. His youngest son, who looks like he’s just entered college, told me that. Apparently, it’s costing them a fortune to just keep him alive and they’re very very worried he’ll die in the train”
“And what if he does?”
“They’ll travel with the dead body, what else?”
Kapil was disgusted and he made no attempt to hide it.
“What’s with the machine?”
“It’s keeping him alive … “
“These people, I tell you. Taking all that trouble just to fulfill a senile man’s wishes … “
His assistant didn’t hear him finish. The train blew its horn just then.

Nine
In my three years in the hostel, two things stand out about the months of March, April and May: the scorching heat and the constant fear of exams. I remember, that year, the summer was particularly harsh; people walked around dressed even more sparsely than professional wrestlers; coolers adorned every window; the humidity was terrible; and worst of all, I was addicted to alcohol then.
I took alcohol breaks both before and after each of the three sessions in the day: the morning, the afternoon and the night. But, this story is not about me.
I had just finished an exam and didn’t quite know what to make of it. Staring at the question paper, and thinking, and wondering when I’d get back to my room for my drink, I walked towards the hostel, when my phone rang. It was Prabhakar’s brother. Prabhakar didn’t own a phone then, and his brother mostly called at his roommate, Pratik’s cell, but he was in an exam. I, his senior and mentor, was second in line. “Hello” I answered the call.
“Hello, Prabhakar hain?” he asked.
“No, he’s not with me now but I am going to the hostel and he must be in the mess. I should be with him five minutes … Anything important?”
“Can you ask him to give a missed call when you see him? It’s urgent”
“Ok”
And he hung up.
I wondered what it was now. The previous night at around ten’o’clock, he had called. Prabhakar was sleeping: he insisted on waking him up, only to ask him if he had an exam the next day and then wished him ‘best of luck’ when he had already done so in the afternoon. Prabhakar slept odd hours during the exams: he slept after dinner, at around eight and woke up at two in the night. Then, he studied all the way up to the exam hall.
I walked into a near-empty mess—most students had an exam at this time. There was yellow dal and French fries—dry potato-strips that had no taste at all. I spotted Prabhakar sitting alone in a corner, playing with his spoon and the rice, his mind evidently somewhere else. I sat beside him, put my phone in his hand and said:
“Your brother wants you to give him a missed call”
Prabhakar immediately did.
“Hello … Abhi? … Ok, can’t I finish my lunch? … Alright, I am starting now”
By the time the conversation ended, his hands were sweating. The colour had drained off his face. He just sat there, at the mess table, not saying anything, still as the mountains for what must have been a minute, but seemed like an eternity. I asked him, hesitantly:
“Anything important, Prabhakar?”
“I don’t know, sir. Brother wants me to come over, right now. He was saying something about booking a train-ticket …”
And then we both knew it, and without saying it, he had finally mustered enough courage to face it. I put an arm around him, and he stood up abruptly and said:
“Bye”

Four days later, when he came back to give his last exam, Prabhakar described the proudest moment in his life: the time when many, many people from different villages, hundreds of kilometers away come to pay their last respects to his father. “He was a very good man” he said, with no tears or sorrow, just a heart bursting with pride.

Ten
I met Prabhakar just once thereafter. I had already graduated (with a first division) by then and was working in Bombay. Never one to be ever able to resist the advent of the Delhi winter, I took a couple of days off to visit the city, now covered in a blanket of pleasant chill and bathed in mild sunlight during the day-time. The rickshaw-ride into the University, late one evening, was particularly refreshing: the rickshaw-wallahs wore thick sweaters and turbans in colours ranging from the jarringly jazzy to the expressionless dour; students sported jackets and sweaters, hands in their pockets and walked briskly; the trees seemed rejuvenated by the winter wind—they danced with a new vigour; the sky was a mélange of orange and blue—it was the best that Delhi could produce, and coupled with the winter’s magic, it was fascinating; the moon was pale and crescent-shaped and the first star appeared in the horizon.

I smiled at the watchman as I entered the hostel gate and he looked at me for a second longer than usual—he hadn’t seen me in three months and I attributed it to that. The pink bougainvillea still spilled over the walls like overtly gracious hosts, falling over each other to welcome everyone who entered, and as I entered the second, smaller gate that led to the main hostel building, all was a little too quiet and I realized that something was not right. Then, from somewhere, first came a thwack. It was audible, but not very loud, because it was so far away—had I been there, on the first floor, then it would have resounded. It was followed by a roar of tremendous pain—someone was hit and hit hard. And the rest of the hostel was calm, no one made a noise.
And then I heard foot-steps coming down from the first floor, tap-tap and then the plonk of a stick. In the semi-darkness, a figure emerged on to the corridor, carrying a stick nearly two feet taller than him, walking like some demonic warrior. And slowly, the shuffling of feet, students filing in, mostly first years, on the corridors above, all deferentially watching the stick-man walk. Not one talked. It was Prabhakar. And I waited for him to come to me. As I watched him walk with the stick, taking long, but calm strides, I knew there was something about him that had changed. He walked with tremendous confidence, he seemed nobler. He smiled when he saw me: and in that smile, I saw traces of his innocence, but it was shadowed by something more powerful, something commanding, something responsible, something the old Prabhakar never had.
And he said, “Hello Sir”
I embraced him like brothers do. And I looked pointedly at the stick.
“Oh this!” he said, following my eyes and looking at the stick, “Now that I am a senior, I sometimes have to take up the task of keeping peace in the hostel … that’s all!”
Death scars: sometimes irrevocably, sometimes in small ways.

Patchwork Prabhakar-- 1

(this is a two-part story. both parts are done. i've found it hard to split it into two, but it just is too long for one blog-post. this part may thus seem very random and directionless. part two in three days.)

One
With his pant nearly up to his chest, his striped-brown shirt buttons all open and hanging loosely showing a neatly tucked in off-white bainan, Prabhakar was quite a sight; he looked quite like a Bihari version of Rajni Kant in Batshah (where he played a super-hero auto-wallah). On the sprawling lawns that the lay outside the hostel, Prabhakar walked with a half-swagger, one that didn’t seem put-on and yet had no trace of arrogance, swinging his arms and smiling broadly at those who passed by.
Kansal stared at him, chuckling to himself, and asked:
“Is he a first-year?”
They were sitting on the cement-seats that were reserved for seniors. They were at one end of the lawn, allowing them a proper view of all those who walked in and out. Another year had just begun; the air was still and heavy; the election was what was heavy on everyone’s minds.
“Yes; proper Bihari” said Kunal.
“Bulao usko, maather chod. Oye, FIRST YE—“
“Arrey, let him be: he’s a nice, simple guy. And we have better things to do than rag a first year”
Kansal still looked at him longingly, like a hawk’s eyes stalking its prey, and he asked:
“Kaam karega?” (Will he work for the party?)
“Pucca. Its in his blood—he’ll be one of our best supporters”
“Naam kya hain?” he asked.
“Prabhakar”
“Pra-bha-kar” he said, rolling the word in his mouth, and smiled.

Two
It was on the banks of the River, sitting in the shade of her favourite mango tree, was where Prabhu found his mother. With one hand, she held the veil of her Sari and with the other she threw pebbles at the river. The pebbles bounced once, twice, even thrice sometimes on the water-surface before sinking: she didn’t have to think to cause multiple ripple-centres with the same stone; she had been doing that since she was five.
As he reached by her side, he noticed her drawn face. Unnatural worry-lines punctuated her face as though someone had drawn them there with a pencil. He put a hand on her shoulder, she turned around, looked at him, smiled weakly. She placed her own hand—the one that held the veil—on his, and turned back to the river, continuing to throw the odd stone listlessly.
“You miss him badly, don’t you?” he asked.
She didn’t say a word. She simply looked up at the skies and sighed. A few stray strands of her hair danced in the wind.
“Oh, Prabhakar” she said to the Sun, a pale shadow of its summer-self, weakened by the continuous downpour and hiding behind clouds of dark-gloom, “You hide just like my Prabhakar”
And in spite of himself, Prabhu smiled.

Three
Savitri flipped through news channels, lounging on the sofa.
Nuclear Deal. Click. Nuclear Deal again. Click. Tata. Click. BREAKING NEWS: The Lord Ganesha’s idol drinks milk again! Click. Nuclear Deal again, again. Click. BREAKING NEWS: ABVP wins University Elections! NO Click.
She paused, and her fingers ran over the remote, but didn’t press any button: she wanted to see this. A vast number of jubilant students were sloganeering and carrying out a victory procession as a harried reporter tried to scream over the mad din they were making. She didn’t notice the reporter nor did she hear what she was saying for all she wanted to see was if she could spot Prabhakar in the crowd. She didn’t and she continued flipping channels, but her mind was now elsewhere.
Prabhakar came over every weekend. She liked him and in him, she tried to see a younger version of his oldest brother, her husband. And she loved what she saw—there was innocence, so much of innocence that she was always afraid he may be taken for a ride; there was exuberance; there was wonderment with the way the city worked; there was honesty, but most importantly, there was joy—a happiness and freshness that went with him wherever he went, whatever he did.
And, sometimes, very rarely, she saw him do what she thought was impossible: she saw him take his brother back in time—for Prabhakar would break through that tough and world-wearied exterior that he put on and make his brother forget, ever so fleetingly, the fact that he had a family to start, but didn’t have enough money to do so. With his stories of their village, and their trees, their rivers and hills, Prabhakar would not just entertain them, but also briefly ignite a dreamy spark in his brother’s eyes; and before they knew it, they would be laughing away, lost happily in the alleys of memory tinged by the halo of nostalgia.

Four
“I love you!” she whispered into his ear, smiling.
They were sitting in Ram’s car, her head resting on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her body.
He smiled and sighed. And then, he said teasingly:
“Love is a sacrifice, a compromise and one mustn’t let oneself be corrupted by the influence of the other without discovering himself first—for, it is only when not in love, and not plagued by thoughts of the other does one get to know himself and if one falls in love too early, then you might end up never knowing the real you”
“Did you make that up just now?”
“No, a friend of mine told me. In Sanskrit first, then in chaste Hindi”
“I can think of a hundred ways to rebut that statement of his, but not one in Sanskrit”
He smiled and nodded. She kissed him on his cheek, then shut her eyes and asked:
“Who is this friend?”
“Prabhakar: he’s doing a Bachelors in Sanskrit. People say he knows more of the language than half his teachers … Sometimes I wish he was good at something else: what is the point in being a genius at a dead language?”
“Well … maybe he just has to do it … When Radheya went to fight the Kurukshetra-War, he knew he was the best, and yet he knew he would die. That didn’t stop him from fighting, did it?”
Ram’s face screwed up in concentration and he finally gave up.
“The analogy is just too convoluted for me”
“I think it doesn’t fit in there” she said with an irresistible mischievous twinkle in her eyes and he kissed her …

Five
“Prabhakar! Prabhakar!” Rakesh shouted, pounding the door and panting loudly.
His heart beat rapidly, as much from the exertion of running all the way up those stairs as excitement. He heard the door latch click open, and as soon as the door swung open, he shouted:
“You’ve topped the college – “ and he cut himself short, for it was not Prabhakar, but his roommate who opened the door. A little groggily, Pratik, the roommate, said, between stifling a yawn:
“He’s not here. He’s gone to the hospital—his father’s been admitted”
“What?!”
“No, no need to panic. He’s just having some trouble with his liver” he said, rubbing his eyes and continued, “Nothing serious”
“Oh, ok … But, please do tell him he’s made us all proud—he beat the second-best by twenty marks! The teachers think he’ll top the University in his final exams!”
“Oh, wow!” Pratik croaked and then his eyes lit up like those Chinese fire-crackers as he added “I’ll get to drink again today! Ah, free alcohol!”

Six
His eyes darted up, then down, then up again, then down. His left hand was perpetually in motion, his right hand supported a note-book that lay open on his thigh; the pencil his left-hand held seemed to have a mind of its own as it moved seamlessly over the book. At first there were just lines: long, firm lines outlining an elf-like face with big ears and a pronounced chin; the hair was cut short, short enough to be prick-y, but not quite enough to be the latest fashion; and then came the features—and the lines curved and danced and grew shorter and softer. No, it was not a soft face—far from it—the eyes were bright, the nose was long and big, the lips were a pale pink and thin, the eye-brows a little bushy. The features were hard, and yet there was something delicate about the face—it was a beautiful sketch.
“Who are you drawing?” she asked
“Hmmm?” he said, adding the finishing touches, not taking his eyes off the book for he had seen enough of the face to draw it from his head.
“Who are you drawing?”
“Ah, done!” he said and neatly tore the page off and gave it to her. “Here, this is for you”
She studied the picture carefully and smiled. He was really good at sketches and she liked this one a lot, but she asked again:
“Who is this?”
“That guy there” he said, pointing to a person who was frantically gesturing and firing-off instructions to a group of seven-eight people around him.
She thought the resemblance was remarkable.
“Why does he look so worried?” she asked.
He sighed and said: “Everyone has problems nowadays ya …”
“He’s …” she said and waited, staring hard at him and trying to get the right word in her head, “gawky”
He didn’t think the guy was even remotely gawky, but he didn’t tell her that.

Blog-awards!

Avid blogger—it’s a term people use often to describe themselves. I am, perhaps, an avid reader; a lazy, but not very infrequent, writer; a pathetic blogger—my blog is updated once a month and I read the same few blogs over and over again. So, when I got an award (for which I sincerely thank Annappa), and was asked to name my seven favourites, I was, at first, a little afraid that seven was a little too much... And yet, surprisingly and after a whole of week of racking my brains, I came up with seven names: five alive, one dead and one gone.
1. Swaroop: The first place I go to when I go online, the sheer breadth of the writing more than anything else (more than the brilliant wit, the fantastically innovative style of writing) leaves me wondering whether the rasam he’s making for himself nowadays has something more to it than just the standard ingredients ...

2. Prabhakka: There’s SO MUCH happening there. And so much fun too ...
3. Soumithri : Some of the science fiction is mind-blogging. Some of the random theories are very interesting.
4. Sita: I like the blog, and I visit it almost as often as I visit Swaroop’s. I cant quite put my finger on why I like it so much though ...
5. Anil: More than what he writes, its how he writes what he does thats extra-ordinary. And that's taking nothing away from what he writes, just emphasises how well he writes ...
6. Raikamal: Sublime. It’s a little sad that there’s not been a post since June last year.
7. Anand Anna: It was actually the best blog I’ve ever visited (perhaps Swaroop’s blog now is very very stiff competition). And it’s gone.
So, that’s my list.
(the un-linked blogs are already on the 'links' section on the blog)
Oh, and before I forget-- the fine prinit:
1. Award seven other people. (This way, there will be no unawarded blog left in the world!)
2. Write a post about this award, and link to our blog in that post. (The second half is optional.)
3. Be eternally grateful to us for the award. (This is compulsory.)
4. Tell their awardees that they've won awards. (This is just common-sense.)

The Slum

Mukundam Sir never walks around the slum—he struts around it, hands in his pockets, kicking the odd stone that lay in his path, swinging his black, double-compartmented bag that he slings around his shoulder, smiling at the skies and simultaneously, eyes darting everywhere, observing everyone, looking for children— children picking rags, children washing clothes, carrying boxes or pails twice their weight—and in between all this, he manages to carry out the most genial conversation with me about why Laxman is India’s best batsman. It is hot. So hot that sweat drips off my face like rain-drops off sloping leaves of trees during monsoons; so hot that I have almost finished the litre-bottle of ‘AquafinE’ water I bought at the slum-general store. I am famished, and another hour under this maddeningly scorching sun, I’ll call myself exhausted. I pour the last few sips of water on my head and stare into the hazy blob of yellow above and have this foolish urge to take off my Tee shirt. And through the corner of my eye, I notice Mukundam Sir swaggering around unmindfully, now whistling a tuneless tune, in a full-sleeve shirt ...

The slum is vast—a maze of intertwining gullies, some parallel and straight, some curved, some looped and some shapeless. It took me a whole week and a half to find my way around this place—the houses/huts/settlements have no numbers, they pretty much look the same in some places, it is as easy to get confused and lost as it is for an American in a game of cricket. Landmarks are difficult to find, and I relied heavily on intuition; with time however, I improved for every lane has an identity of its own, in this case most easily epitomised by its people. I used people as landmarks—I knew I was a couple of lanes behind the Government School by the sight of an old hag, devoid of teeth, always clad in saris in varying shades of green (a little bit of research told me that an Environmental NGO had come recently and distributed clothes for the old and the infirm), sitting by her house, staring at the bare, opposite wall like it had secrets only she could fathom; The sight of a group of merry, little children—whose combined ages I could almost count on my fingers— playing with the rags from the dump told me that a few steps to my right and I would be in the street of the Lambadis—a wandering, backward tribal group of people who rarely mixed with the rest; I knew that I was in the adjacent lane to the Muslim settlement by the sight of good, old Saidulu—a balding, gem of a man who lost both his thumbs and index fingers in an ‘accident’ (that was all he would tell me)—squatting and doing his wood-work with his seven-year old daughter covering up for his disability.

“What Saidulu?” Mukundam Sir says, “Still not willing to send the girl to school?”
Saidulu looks up—his deformed hands trying to keep the sun off his eyes—and says:
“See, how much help she can do around the house. And the little one inside? She’s barely a year old and needs someone around. Her mother goes away to work, every time she gets a chance”
Mukundam Sir shrugs and just when I think he’s not going to lecture, he does.
“You are only thinking of yourself, think about her for a change ...”
I’ve heard this speech so many times that I barely pay attention to what he says. And that allows me to appreciate everything else about his performance— his Adam’s apple bobs up and down frantically as his voice acquires a curious, different booming quality and this finds echoes in everything else he does as he gesticulates wildly, hands everywhere, now close-fisted, now open, now flowing; his face acquires a glow, it shines with something more than just pride—perhaps its only a trick of the light for the sun is blazing, and his deep-brown skin is sweaty and oily, perhaps not ...

When he’s done, leaving Saidulu staring at his scrap of wood meditatively, I ask him:
“Don’t you get bored of saying the same thing over and over again? Where does all the enthusiasm come from?”

“The enthusiasm comes from the fact that lunch is ... ” he pauses, to look at his watch, “... less than ten minutes away”
That’s typical Mukundam Sir. Sometimes, I wonder if this man is human: its one thing to have an inexhaustible fountain of enthusiasm tucked away inside you somewhere, its quite another to brush off all the noble work you do with incredible modesty (and a dash of flair).

********

I’ve got chapattis with aloo and thire saadam for lunch. I’ve also got some typical Andhra-curry that I can’t name, but still tastes swell. Mukundam Sir has got his normal quota of loads of rice, some delicious looking bendakai kura (my favourite) and lemon-pickle.
“Exhange offer!” he announces, miming perfectly the voice of the Big Bazaar lady, “Your Aloo for my bendakai; No extra fee; Hurry! Offer open till I count 5. 1 ...”
I quickly swap curries and smile at him. But, he’s looking away—at the blackened stream that lays by our slum, a faint trace of a frown on his face.
We are at the eastern edge of the slum— Mukundam Sir’s most preferred area. The government school building is here, towering over the rest of the slum with its inaccurately titled bright blue board on the third floor wall that reads ‘Government Girls Higher Primary School’ (there are far more boys than girls in the school); beside the school is a small temple—the deity is miss-able, being barely a foot tall and covered in garlands and turmeric, camouflaged by the bark of the tree by which it stands, but not the paintings of Durga looking lethal on a tiger (benign in comparison) or that of Kali, blood-stained trishul in hand, tongue sticking out; and these two—the school and the temple— form the centre of a single-storied housing complex, with one-roomed government-allotted quarters that house five, six or even more: lines of houses run on all four sides; and past the houses, the land slopes down, dirty green in colour, into the a stream, as dark as the skins of the coolies who toil all day; washerwomen wash clothes by its side, some men bathe their bulls, children swim and play ...
“What are you staring at?” asks Yadamma, the woman whose home we use as our dining-place.
“Huh?” he says, and almost mutters to himself, “those children by the stream ... why aren’t they at school?”
I catch Yadamma’s eye, and the two of us smile and nod our heads in understanding—some people can’t get some things out of their heads. And suddenly, Mukundam Sir asks me, unable to hide the dejection in his voice:
“Laxman got out twice today to the same bowler. Guess who?”
Or maybe they can.

It nearly six in the evening: the men and women return from their work, tired, worn-out, backs slouching, dragging their feet; some have gathered by the tea-shop, drinking chai, discussing slum politics, marriage, scandals, ration cards; others play cards and drink beer, on the open-aired first floor of the perennially under-construction, half-done apartment complex; the women rush home because their children wait for them hungrily, there are vessels to be washed, there’s water to be drawn; the children are noisy, some still in uniforms, some in workman’s clothes, playing marbles and ­chor-police; and in perfect contrast to all the frolic and madness and colour below is a polluted grim sky above and an expressionless yellow sun, making its way down ...

Mukundam Sir is smiling, as always, drinking the final chai for the day. The chais are free for us—the tea-shop owner is a fan. Not everyone is though, and Mukundam Sir, smiling calmly, is explaining to a woman why she must send her little girls to school. If I hadn’t been here for a month, I would have thought that she was near-hysterical: but that’s how it is here—the women and men are loud and almost violent in their gestures, never bothering to tone-down and be ‘civilised’: perhaps they’re being defiant, relishing the opportunity to be free, for in most ways, they are slaves of circumstances, of ignorance; perhaps, that’s how we all men once were, before civilisation and society clamped down upon us, setting norms and making politeness and softness go hand in hand. I don’t know, but I can’t help admiring and envying how ‘natural’ and unrestrained they seem...

And then there’s Mukundam Sir, as soft as ever, patiently listening to her lecture and smiling—it all came so naturally to him—I cant see how he can be a slave to societal norms in any way. The woman’s saying, from across the road, loud enough for everyone to notice, but not everyone does:
“Why can’t a rag-picker’s daughter be a rag-picker? Who are you to make that decision for her by sending her to school?”
Another smile, and somewhere inside, I can’t help but think that all this kindness and smiling is only fuelling her anger, as he says:
“Yes, she can be, if she wants to. But, why are you denying her the opportunity to make the choice herself? Who are you to decide that this is what she should do? Send her to school and once she’s done, if she wants to come back to work with you, then she very well may, but pray don’t deny her the choice by making it yourself ...”
And I think that’s struck a chord somewhere, and a part of her has already accepted defeat or is thinking along his lines of thought for she is raving like an absolute lunatic now, hardly coherent, stringing a slew of insults together, unable to say anything that makes sense.
When she’s done and gone, having called Mukundam Sir so many names that he’d give Lord Vishnu (of a thousand names) stiff competition, Mukundam Sir sighs, smiles and says:
“Ah, she’ll come around: I think I finally broke through this time, did you notice?”
I nod. Yes, I did. I also noticed how he stayed inexplicably calm throughout her tirade: any lesser man would have lost it. And to think that this man goes through something like this everyday.
“Let’s go now ... Long night ahead, and another day tomorrow ...”
The tone catches me off-guard: it’s the first time today that he’s shown any signs of weariness.
I turn around to face him and am caught off-guard again—his face is as fresh as ever—his eyes shine, his gait has the same buoyant feel to it; he’s back to being his normal super-human self.

********

The night is quiet; there is a wind that blows slowly, almost teasingly, beckoning me outside; the few stars that defy the pollution shimmer palely; there is no sky, no moon, just a dark-grey above.
I give in—it is just too tempting. I reach for my helmet, feel my pockets to see if my vehicle keys are there—they are—and in a matter of seconds, I am out, racing through the streets of the city, the wind slapping against my chest, goose-pimples on my arms.
There are few vehicles on the road; the shops are shut; the odd cow rummages the garbage dump by the road; dogs howl in the distance; and street-dwellers are fast asleep with night-watchmen giving them company. And before I realise it, I am on the road leading to my slum—it’s a road I frequent so often that mechanically my subconscious mind guides me in the direction. The road narrows, and just as I am about to curve into the slum, I nearly hit a man with a cricket bat in his hand, walking in the middle of the road. I honk loudly and my brake screeches. Just as I am about to let my tongue loose on him, I stop myself—its Mukundam Sir.
“Sir?”
“Huh?” he says, looking straight ahead and continuing to walk.
“Sir?” I shout loudly, driving slowly to keep pace with him.
He doesn’t respond, but simply twirls the cricket bat in his hand and moves on. I don’t know why, but I am suddenly afraid.
I hastily get off my vehicle and let it rest against the wall that borders the road, throw my helmet aside and run ahead to catch up with him.
In the orange light of the street-light above, I notice his face: it is blank. I grab him by the shoulders and give him a few jerks: he stops and stares dazedly into my eyes, and gradually there’s a flicker of recognition, and then the sides of his eyes well up, and he drops the bat and slumps onto the ground, onto his bums, leaning against the wall behind. And he whispers, but in the silence around, it is all too audible:
“Why don’t they understand?”
“I do”, I say, “I do. And they’ll do too. Someday”
Silence. He’s looking past me now.
“I guess they will” he says gradually, and I notice the smoothness returning to his voice, as I give him a hand and he rises.
There’s an uneasy silence as he brushes away the dust from his backside—I don’t know what to say.
“Oh, and by the way, since I am no longer the great, noble man you think me to be, Bendakai koora is my favourite too, please spare me some the next time I bring it”
He always does.

Political Science-- 3

(Its been quite a while and had actually half given up. But, the series seemed very reader-friendly, by my low standards at least. They were the only posts that people (If two-three persons can be called that) ever asked me about ... So, on popular demand ...)
7 30 AM
The Bathrooms
(The Bathrooms are like standard hostel ones, all over the country: dirty, smelly and wet. The mirrors are stained; the flushes work sometimes; the showers might shower you with slime for water, and sometimes shower the nozzle along too with the slime/water. But, like everything else in the hostel—all this is made up for by the cheer, goodwill and loudness around. The bathroom is also where the most interesting and honest conversations can take place, and is considered by many an intelligent mind as a great place to innovate, ideate and think.)
“Oh my god! The sun has surely risen from the west today”
Amit Kumar, as is his name, has a penchant for clichés. Most clichéd statements are badly timed—overused (over-timed?)— But Amit timed them as well as Ashish Nehra timed his cover-drives. He was peeing in the adjacent loo; and he was a friend. No, an enemy actually—he was from the other party. No, a friendly enemy, I guess.
I was groggy. And the familiar feeling of uneasiness was just beginning to settle in my stomach: I had come to expect it, as part of my new life now. I felt like a sailor with perennial sea-sickness. Also, quite like inflation, it was self-fulfilling—on some mornings when I didn’t feel any uneasiness, I felt odd and sort of expected it to come on. And it did.
“I have been up by 7 30 for three days now!” I said defensively.
He laughed and continued,
“Wow! That’s amazing! I’m impressed, President Sir!”
“Knock it off—can’t a man just pee in peace?”
“Pee for President! Pee for President”
“Shut up now!”
“And no, a man can’t pee in peace. Why can’t they lower these damn things? Do I have to stand on my tip-toes always?”
Amit bore the dubious distinction of being the shortest hosteler around.
I snorted. And said,
“Loo-ser”

On my way back, I met this stranger, who seemed vaguely familiar, walking up to the toilets. Instinctively, I stuck out my hand, telling him,
“Hi, I am standing for post of President from the ‘Wa—“ and caught myself mid-way: he was the sweeper.
He gave me a very perplexed smile, before proceeding, leaving me with some very fundamental existential concerns.

I opened my door to see the Alarm going crazy and Shoaib sleeping with his head below his pillow rather than the other way round.
“Shoaib!” I shouted.
“You fool” he said, his voice cracking, unused and rusty, “Don’t you know the difference between ‘snooze’ and ‘off’ on your alarm?”
“Am so sorry”, I said, rushing towards my mobile phone and turning the alarm off. And then I hit him on the back and that seemed to frustrate him even more, but he emerged from behind the pillow and stared at me through half-open eyes and asked,
“What?”
I looked straight into his eyes, assuming a very serious countenance, and said in my most solemn tone,
“This is getting to me. I don’t know what I am, I don’t know who—“ I said, pointing to myself vigorously with both my hands, “this is!”
He looked at me and then slowly, like a man under the influence of hemlock, shut his eyes and went into a content sleep.

2 PM,
The College Canteen
(The canteen is shady. The chairs are those typical red, plastic ones one sees in shady places. The lighting is poor, dark-ish—shady again. The waiters don’t hop around cheerfully, but creep up on you, the man at the counter doesn’t speak at all, only grunts and nods, like we’re discussing a top-secret smuggling deal. The staff are all Malayalis and the lucky few to be acquainted with the language can understand what they say amongst themselves: for the rest, their conversations seemed very shady. Everything tastes the same in my canteen and therefore, Special Chinese Noodles is only a wriggly version of Pure South Indian Dosa.)

We needed a break. I had shook so many hands that I felt like some holy mystic—touch my hand and see all your troubles go. I had smiled so much that my jaws were aching, and sadly, the plastic smile was still stuck on my face, like a scar that refused to go. The Don, as always, was by my side. As I was ordering at the counter, the Don nudged me and said, smiling indulgently,
“When you become president, you won’t be paying for all this!”
Behind that fixed smile, I groaned: what a great incentive to become president, I thought—save 15 bucks worth expenditure on food that tasted like it was made in my hostel toilets. Furthermore, the canteen was run by Tamils and even my excuse of a Tamil was enough to earn a free chow mein or a dosa every now and then.
As we made our way, with two plates of noodles and coke, I acknowledged innumerable students with a nod or a smile as the Don—my walking directory—whispered each of their names and their courses in my ears.
“And that’s Nikhita, English Honous—Oh, and I have some good news for you” he said.
That sentence finally broke through my fixed smile—I actually frowned, my jaw muscles cracking and vibrant, relishing the new-found freedom. The Don’s news generally meant trouble, and the good ones especially were perhaps the worst type of news. Steeling myself, I asked,
“Well, what is it?”
“We’ll be going” he said and paused, trying to force a long chain of noodles into his mouth, “We’ll be going to visit the girls’ hostels today!”
I smiled a real smile for the first time in the day. I imagined a picture of walking through scented corridors, girls everywhere. If they dressed anywhere close to as sparingly as we did in our hostels then it was going to be a wonderful evening. I asked,
“When will that be?”
“In the evening. Say, around, 5 30?”
I smiled again. I felt rejuvenated and life didn’t seem too bad really: the malayali waiters suddenly seemed very cheery and less creepy, as they took orders; the noodles tasted like they were specially got from ‘Mainland China’; all around me, the students fought, talked, shouted and enjoyed; and I was still smiling, thinking of James Bond and girls ...

4 30 PM
The Don’s Cell
I walked into the Don’s cell, fresh from a bath and a shave. I was early, but very excited, and wanted to be on time. The Don looked at me and one look at his face, my face fell. This, I knew was news, and the worst type.
“Er … Sharan?” he said, like a father trying to tell his child that the brand new toy-car from the store they had bought had some internal defect and wouldn’t budge even if it had King Kong pulling it, “We might not be going to the hostels today”
“What?” I said crestfallen, falling into a chair. The Don paused as only Dons do—from Godfather to Sarkar—and trust me, these long periods of inertia only look good in the films. I dug my nails into the chair, frustrated, waiting. At long last, he asked in a dramatically poised tone,
“Hmmm … Have you heard of the party Insignia?”
“No” I said, wondering why the he could never answer straight and had to go about it in such a round-about manner with questions for answers and added for good measure, “Nor have I heard of Gold Flake Party or Classic Mild Party”
The Don either didn’t get the joke or chose to ignore it. He continued,
“Well, they are a fringe party. But, they made an impact last year. And they have a decent chance this year—apparently they’ll team up with NSUI if the need arises. Anyway, getting to the point—“
‘Finally’ I said, half-aloud.
“Yes, I’ve fixed up a meeting with the President. She wants to address the hostel, but firstly she wants to talk to us. I have a feeling you might just like her”
“When is she coming?”
“Any time now …”
“Cant we just get done with her and then go to the hostels?”
“Well. I am not too sure. Lets see …”
And there, I thought, there was still a ray of hope. I went back to feeling a little light, like I had air-floaters for sandals. And then there was a knock on the door and it swung open and I literally flew.

She was a vision. The first thing I noticed about her, strangely, were her fingers—they were long and slender, like those of a seasoned artist. She was beautiful—she had eyes that were focused and incisive, that made you strangely conscious of who you are and not what you are wearing; her eyebrows danced at will, like those of a child, in perfect contrast to the maturity in her eyes; her hair fell on her shoulders in a manner that was almost stately, yet attractive; she was draped in a shawl, that covered her top and fell back gracefully; I couldn’t take my eyes of her.

“Fuck you, Don” she said.
And I swear I heard Violins play in the background, as she said those words.
The Don didn’t say a word, but quietly offered her a cigarette.
“Fuck you, Don” she said again.
The Violins were getting louder.
The Don asked lazily—
“What is it?”
“They’ve taken my I-Card. Your stupid watchman took my I-Card and asked me to sign in some shit-all register”
“I can have them got back. I am sorry” the Don said in the same strange, lazy drawl.
Her eyes fell on me, and I felt my back go stiff—I nearly overbalanced and fell off my chair; her eyes flicked to the Don immediately, enquiringly.
“Oh, I forgot” the Don said apologetically, “This is Sharan. He’s our Presidential candidate”
She turned to look at me and flashed a small smile—it was a small one, and yet it was flashed. And it was, oddly, not plastic—I had seen many a fake smile in recent times, mostly by politicians-to-be to people they thought they wouldn’t ever see again but had to be nice to, just in case, and this was not that kind of a smile. Maybe I was just imagining things; maybe not. She said:
“So, what course are you in?”
“Economics”
“Ah!” she said, turning to the Don, “You didn’t pick a Science-ee?”
“No. This kid’s good. Real good. And we need someone like him to get us the Arts and Commerce votes. I am a major hit amongst the Sciences. When I was President last year—“
I was just beginning to roll my eyes and sink back into my chair, prepared for a long-drawn out speech, when she cut him short:
“Don, not now. I am not in the mood”
“Eh? What? Not now, yes, I guess, not now. Not now … no, not now …” the Don said, shaking his head. And I was glad.
There was another silence—this one not so dramatic for the Don didn’t intend it to be—and we all sat looking around; I was looking mostly at her, feasting my eyes.

“Maybe you should talk to him and see what you think of him” the Don said, looking at her.
“Huh?” she said, shaken out of her reverie.
I was nervous—what did the Don want me to do now? Talk? For a second I thought of the Don as a matchmaker, and I was the groom desperate to impress a potential bride. I smiled, thinking of the picture. The Don unfortunately took that as a sign of my willingness to ‘talk’ to her.
“Sharan” the Don said, “Tell her what you think of Hypocrisy being a benchmark for Civilization”
“Well” I said immediately, “I think they should make that road four-laned, the one near Haus Khas”
The Don looked at me, startled at first, then confused, then thoughtful and finally aghast. I didn’t care, I had had enough of impressing people …
And then I looked at her, and a smile lit up my lips: she was amused, impressed perhaps; she was smiling. And boy, could she smile!

To be continued ...
(Part 4's already done, by the way)

The Wave

I would be lying if I said that the sky was overcast. I would also be lying if I said it was not. The palm-dotted island that fitted between my palms separated by a foot when we left the shore now looked life-size and very inviting. It was windy—the scented sea breeze slapped against our faces, billowed our shirts and made me grab my poorly tied veshti in alarm. The boat wasn’t rocking though, in spite of the near-manic wind, for the sea was calm and the boatman an expert at his job. The sun was a brilliant red ball set amidst white, pale ghosts of clouds on an indigo horizon. In the opposite direction, below threatening dark-grey clouds that we mistook to be receding, was the shore we’d left, speckled with human dots bathing in the frothy waves of grey-blue water and coconut-palm beyond on the ochre sand, some standing grotesquely crooked, all desperately trying to get their share of the sun.

I laughed happily, for no apparent reason. And he laughed too: Ramanatha—Rama for short—the boatman, my best friend, as he stroked the sea gently and cajoled it to stay placid and let us make our way through. Rama was tall and though endowed with strong arms and muscular thighs, quite lanky. His face was angled and neatly chiseled, like one of those Egyptian pictorial representations of humans: his nose was long and pointed and his eyes were like fishes—flattened and extended horizontally. They exuded confidence, and had a very calming effect on people around him. And it was my eyes that were his eyes to the world.

“And there”, Rama said, pointing to a deserted corner of the shore, far to my right, that had the waves lashing against rocks, “that’s where Vikram nearly died”
And we laughed again, swept by a wave of nostalgia.

Unsurprisingly, we were laughing when it happened too. I was ten. Vikram was nine. And Rama, my best friend now, was fourteen. The beach was our home then. Under a blazing sun and clear skies, clad only in under-wears for all but the last week of the two joyous months of our summer-break, we played amidst the rocks, with the waves. The game we played most often was simple, thrilling and horribly addictive: two of us would stand on the tallest of rocks, some ten feet tall and pointed and dark brown; the other would be below, a tennis-ball in hand. And he would throw the ball, and we took turns, us kids on the rock, to be Jonty Rhodes or Superman: we would fling ourselves in the air in the direction of the ball, catch it and then plunge into the water.

On that day, it was I who threw the ball. The one distinct image from that day is of Vikram standing atop the rock against a blameless blue sky, his wild-hair dancing in the wind, eyes firmly focussed on the rising ball. He crouched, as the ball began its descent and when he thought the time was right, flew from atop the rock in the direction of the ball. It was a perfect dive: as their trajectories met—the ball and the boy—he clasped his hand around it and broke into a broad smile. With arms raised in celebration, he went down, into the five-foot deep water. He didn’t emerge.
We were laughing, trying to guess from where he would resurface, sure that this was just another one of his stupid tricks.
The ball surfaced though, shining in the sun, sullen and alone, exactly at the spot where he’d vanished.
And that’s when we panicked.

Rama was swift—he too plunged from above and disappeared into the water. After a few very painful, tense moments, they both came into view—Rama, his face inscrutable, hauling an unconscious Vikram and swimming towards the shore. In five minutes, Vikram regained his consciousness. His eyes met mine.
“Hi!” I said, relieved and embarrassed at the same time.
He stared at me for a while, and then slowly turned his head, looked at Rama and smiled. Rama smiled back. An uneasy silence prevailed as we averted each others’ eyes, afraid to acknowledge the gravity of what had happened.
And then Vikram asked, looking beyond us, at the yellow, hazy, scorching tennis ball of a sun,
“Good catch, no?”
“Yes, excellent” I said.And we laughed and laughed until we could no longer do so; and we all lay exhausted, but content on the ochre sand, facing the blemish-free sky, hearing the waves lash against the rocks …

The skies had prematurely aged: graying suddenly everywhere, they grumbled and mumbled like a frustrated old man; the fiery, young sun disappeared without a trace. That was how it is here, in my land, along the coast during the monsoons—the Rain-Gods were always fooling us with their fickle minds and stupid tricks. No matter how long you stayed here, you could never tell.
“Bad timing” said Rama, scanning the skies.
“Yes” I said.“Maybe we should go back”
“Go back?” I asked looking around. We were just about the half-way mark, perhaps a little ahead: the trees on the island looked bigger than those on the shore.
“Yes. I know we’re closer to the island. But, it’s the wind—we’d be going against it”
“As you please” I said and relaxed. I smiled. I liked all this: a little bit of harmless adventure—in a dingy boat with thunder and a furious wind and a sea that was no longer calm for company. I knew it was harmless—this was a sturdy boat and in the safest hands along the coast. It also helped that the boatman was my best friend and would do anything for me.

Rama and I were once neighbours (that’s not saying much because, where we come from, everyone is everyone’s neighbour) We went to the same school—he was a couple of classes ahead; We played the same games—cricket, football, lagori; and we fell for the same girls; but we had very different career-paths. I went to the city, to study engineering. He did his graduation in Kannada literature from the degree-college nearby. He stayed back, teaching in the high-school, pursuing his masters simultaneously. I got a job in Infosys and only came back once a month with riveting tales of life in the city—of shiny, tinted-glass buildings, flyovers and traffic; of romantic coffee-houses and dance-clubs; of five-star hotels and roof-parties; of goddesses for women who, thankfully and unlike the gods, didn’t have any morals.

He listened to these tales, wide-eyed, and I knew with every journey back, little by little, our relationship was changing. We started off as equals. But, I knew so much more now, I had done and experienced so much more. He was quite like the proverbial frog in the well and he saw me as no longer an equal, but some revered figure who had chosen to fight the real-world and come out scarred, but very much on top; And I let that impression linger simply because I was only human and I liked all the veneration I evoked in his innocent mind; more and more of our conversations began to centre around me; my tales were getting increasingly exaggerated to the point that I was certain he hero-worshipped me. I loved that feeling.

The sea was getting pretty rough now. The wind pushed harder, the boat rocked more. But, with the wind behind us, we made swift progress. Rama began to whistle an old Kannada folk-song—a fast-paced, school-day celebration favourite—and I banged on the boat to keep the rhythm. And then, I stopped suddenly, spell-bound: the skies were cracked open by a streak of white magic; the sea, for a split-second, suddenly lit up; the boat shone and Rama momentarily acquired a divine-halo. And it rained.

He rowed faster now. I still felt no fear: we’d been through far worse before; and Rama’s calm eyes were very comforting. The rain left us both fully drenched; the wind that was seemingly changing its course, caused us to shudder; there was more lightning, more roars of thunder in the skies; Rama still whistled and rowed, at a furious pace now; and I pounded the boat like a madman, laughing aloud, soaking in the rain and the moment: I was loving it all. And we were nearly ashore.

And then, he suddenly stopped rowing. His face assumed an expression that I had rarely seen: the comforting calm in his eyes had vanished. He just stared past me, at the sea, paralyzed. I turned around, following his eyes, and a shout of uncontrolled panic escaped my mouth. Driving towards us at a ferocious pace was a wild monster-wave, with salty-froth for saliva. It was at least a fifty feet tall and a thousand feet wide. I couldn’t stop shouting. And it was barely a minute away. The wind was now against us; the shore was still a few hundred metres away.
‘Row, Rama, Row!’
I screamed staring at the colossal wave, but I didn’t know if he’d heard it for the wind was howling now, the rain pouring and the wave roaring. And that’s when I noticed that something was wrong: the boat was rocking badly, and we were making little progress, in fact I thought we were going in the opposite direction. Afraid to take my eyes off the wave, but forcing myself to do so, I turned around and screamed once again. He was gone. My friend, my boatman, the man who hero-worshipped me, had abandoned the boat and had chosen to swim back ashore. I was all alone. And the sea was just too rough for me to swim back to safety like my friend.

I grabbed the abandoned paddle, and turned around to face the wave once again. And I knew it was hopeless: I had barely thirty seconds left and a fair distance to row. The wind blew furiously, pushing me towards that wave. I threw the paddle away, and spread my arms out wide, and between streams of tears (or was it rain?), I stared at the wave and worked myself into a rage. I’d rather die an angry man than a depressed one, I mused.
‘The fool! ‘ I shouted to the dull-grey sky, to the rain, to the wave, to myself.
‘The moron, the bastard, the traitor. How could he do this to me?’

And then it came: the gigantic, tremendous, hungry wave—roaring in all its glory, even out-bellowing the thunder and the wind, as white as a dove’s breast, as angry as a stirred monster. And as I looked at it for the last time, I laughed. I laughed till I felt pain like I had never before felt; I laughed until strangely, like a premonition of sorts, I smelt antiseptic in the scented sea-breeze.

It took me six months to recover. I had acquired a limp that my doctor had said might just heal with time. There was also some problem with my spine: I don’t quite know what, but my back hurt every once in a while. It was summer, the rains had gone. I was admitted in a private hospital in the city and this was my first visit to my hometown since the wave had robbed me of my job, my life and my spirit. I was walking along the road that led to my house—a narrow, rocky path set amidst tall, straight, coconut trees on either side. Thorny shrubs, all a very rich-green courtesy four whole months of inexorable rainfall, were at the barks of those trees, as though protecting them from any harm.

And I saw Rama.

He was walking towards me, beaming, as usual the first to welcome me to my home. I saw through that fresh, welcoming smile right away: his eyes, those comforting fishes, were shaky and lost and were set above deep, dark pouches of what could only be terrible grief; he had lost a lot of weight, the muscles in his arms and thighs were all gone; and I sensed this air of immense guilt about him—it wasn’t anything in particular, perhaps he walked a little differently, or his back was more upright, or his smile just a little sad. And strangely, I felt neither anger nor pain at the sight of him—I felt sympathy—sympathy for what he had put himself through. I limped towards him, both my bags in tow, and I laughed aloud for the first time in months. He laughed too—a sincere, genuine laugh (his eyes told me that)—and he offered to carry my bags for me. I refused: it just didn’t seem right to ask him to do so. We walked along the path towards our home. And not too far ahead, between the clutter of tiled-houses and coconut trees, I saw the waves relentlessly pounding against the shore; and the sun, after a long and tiring journey across the horizon, melted into the sea—they were equals again, they were one.

Genius?

I’ve often been fascinated by the way economists work—how their theories are formed; how, in the complicated world that we live in, with nothing certain and true, they manage to still come out with theories that substantiate empirical data. Even more fascinating is how, when confronted by conflicting data, economists with completely contradicting theories can win Nobel prizes. At some level, I think it has a lot to do with assumptions they make: some realistic, some based on popular consensus, some iffy, some downright hilarious; but mostly contrived, to justify some ends and backed by, they all claim, “sound logic”. So, I thought, I’d try my luck at an analysis, pick up a question, a puzzle, a debate and see if I could make sense of it.
Most questions in my life stem from the world of cricket. Even the most existential ones: Who am I? (A dispassionate cricket-lover or an India fan?); what am I doing here? (And not someplace where there's a TV so I can watch my Test Match in peace?), Where do my roots lie? (Why do I support Hyderabad? Would I choose Hyderabad over even Bangalore?) But, I am beating about the bush. In essence, this is a piece on genius. Who qualifies as one? Most importantly, is Laxman one?
In order to justify that inexcusably long first paragraph, I begin by paying obeisance to my economic roots and making a few assumption/statements (none too far-fetched in my opinion): a genius is someone who is special; who, if in an academic field, thinks and acts and theorises at a level that the normal man can only dream of; who, if an artist/sportsman, is someone blessed with infinite amounts of “creative power or natural ability” (OD); who, therefore, is a pioneer of sorts; who is far ahead of his times—innovative, inventive and different.
Laxman’s a man who’s hard to catch or just isn’t flashy enough to be under constant media glare. Interviews come at a trickle. And in the precious few, he’s never verbose, not even close. But, he’s not as soft or as silent as the media portrays him to be: he does say what he wants to say, perhaps more politely than most of the younger lot. What interests and appeals to the cricket-lover in me is his take on any cricket-issue—his comments on the state of the game, the pitch, batting, slip-catching—they are mature, intelligent and incisive, indicative of a man who is a sound cricketing brain. Cricket-wise he is an extremely good strategist—Azharuddin, one of India’s best captains ever, still believes he should be made captain and it really is a pity that we haven’t seen enough of Laxman the Captain. But, based on what little we have seen and know, it would far-fetched to term Laxman a genius, purely on academic terms—as someone who has the ‘vision’, who sees the game from a level above the modern-day thinking cricketer.
“Creative power or natural ability”: both interesting terms. Laxman has wrists of God—his flicks and clips of, not merely his pads but deliveries a good two stumps away from his off-stump are special and unparalleled (no, even Azhar couldn’t produce the shots he does). Blessed with tremendous amounts of natural ability, he’s managed to “create” his own range of strokes: different, silky and very, very special. Every batsman has his own style and in a way, it may be argued that every batsman “creates” his own style based on what comes naturally to him. But, what makes VVS stand apart is how different his predominantly wristy style is: the scale of the deviation from the batting manual is immense, far too much to be in the “permissible” range; and yet, unorthodox as it is, it is still extremely effective. It is a manner that is new comprising of shots that are outrageously distinctive—testimony to his creative powers that can only be derived from his phenomenal natural ability. He definitely will not be a pioneer, simply because his batting is impossible to replicate. And he is different, though not a man ahead of his times (in fact, some may argue that he is slightly behind given the difference in his test and one-day records).
If being innovative is bringing to the game something that it has never seen before, then Laxman, perhaps, just fits the bill. His stroke-play is unique, “ground-breaking” even( a cruel adjective for such a soft batsman). But, in a broader sense, innovation might also imply a continuous tendency to adapt, to learn, to change. And though, even after so many years of watching him bat, some strokes still leave me awe-struck, I can safely say that it is pretty rare that they’ll shock me. The fact that he continues to retain his place in a line-up so star-studded shows that he’s made adjustments—some technical, some mental—to the way he approaches his batting; the fact that he will always remain, in many eyes, someone of unfulfilled potential probably indicates that he hasn’t done enough (or couldn’t do enough) to continuously adapt to bowlers who began to see more of him. He’s still managed to stay a couple of steps ahead, but it probably isn’t quite enough to catapult him into Genius Inc.
Purely on natural ability, Laxman would make the cut. But, otherwise, taking all other grounds of qualifying into account, he’d probably classify as a “limited genius”: who probably requires a whole set of pre-requisites to actually come into his own. Most important, amongst those, is an opposition who is unashamedly attacking, a fielding captain who is not too familiar with his game and Laxman in a mood to be instinctive, to bat with abandon. There are few occasions where this happens: the most recent being that brilliant 109 at Australia, but otherwise, by and large, bowlers have learnt not to feed his strengths. Laxman’s response has been to mellow down, to solidify his defence, to let his instincts be guarded—in a strange way, in a quest to maintain his place in the side, he has limited his genius: it has proved productive, his innings are still punctuated by those magic flicks, but whole innings of magic are few and far in between. He’s realised that the costs of continuing to try and live by the sword greatly outweigh the benefits of curbing his natural instincts. You won’t see those beautiful but frustrating twenty-eights anymore— it’s the gritty seventy-two that’s become his trademark, valuable contributions, running around with the tail.
There’s a lot to VVS’ batting that’s brilliant: his timing, his much-praised hand-eye co-ordination and when in full flow, his invincibility against even the greatest of spin-bowling. It’s not just his wrists that have got him to where he is. But, those very wrists have made him special--that have separated him from other greater mortals; that have flummoxed, with their snapping bite or their yummy roll, the best of bowlers; that have taken him to the brink of genius. He’s there. Almost. And that’s how it should be.

Twilight 2

NightThe City has acquired a gossipy feel to it. I can see whispers and rumours everywhere—on the outer walls of the city, atop sentry towers where my colleagues and I stand guard; in houses, both unpretentious and lavish; on roads a buzzing noise persists even though some time has elapsed since the Sun has set; in temples, where even the clangs of the bells or the chants of the priests aren’t able to sway one’s minds or mouths for too long; in theatres, where the poor actors are at their wits end as the crowds seem restless and distracted; even the forests seem twitchy, with more owls hooting and insects screeching.

Gradually, the last lanterns in the houses are put out—darkness engulfs homes but not the City. The street lamps are ablaze—they tend to burn out only just about the time when the moon is three-fourths done with his journey. A couple of rooms in the western wing of the palace—the section frequented most by me as a love-stricken lad in my teens—have lights burning. The Queen is preparing for her journey. I know it is madness, but my legs want to sprint at full-throttle towards the palace, to get one final glimpse of my Queen.

We play the Aim-Game again. I lose horribly—my first two shots don’t even hit the boulder.

I hear the familiar call of the conch and make my way down to the all-night open-air canteen on the city-side of my tower. The soup-maker is a nice man: one of those rotund, jovial sorts. More importantly, he is brilliant at his job. Nearly every sentinel or gate-keeper is here. With soups to refresh sleepy heads and sagging minds, the topic of discussion invariably veers towards the expulsion of the Queen. I enter in the middle of a discussion:
“... And the King has decided to ask the washer-man to stay for longer in his palace away from the angry eyes of protesters who think he has deprived them of their Queen”
“Is he hurt? Did the mob get to him?” I ask.
“Where were you? I heard it was all happening in your lane?” asks Narendra.
“He must have slept through it” someone else says and everyone laughs. My sleeping abilities are legendary in this circle, most of us having gone to the same school of archery. I never sleep on duty though. I wait for the laughter to die down and ask again—
‘Well, what did happen to him?”
“Nothing happened to him. He is capable of taking care of himself. The two mobs clashed and he got away. Not many were injured seriously though”
“Why did he say such an atrocious thing?” asks a soldier who I only know by face and continues, “And look at his audacity: he approached the King directly!”
“The King is easily accessible” chips in Jayendra, famed for his kindness, and continues, “Even you can approach him directly. As for your first question, as you can well see, opinion is divided. I personally feel that it was right of him to suggest to the king that she might be impure. The demon was the epitome of evil. He could have done anything with her”
“The Demon loved her with all his heart” says Siddhartha, as calm as Varuna when appeased. “He would never have harmed her. I hear, from no less that the Monkey-God who visited the demon’s gardens where she was held captive, that she was never even laid a finger upon by the Demon”
“Rubbish! What about during the war when he was losing? Wasn’t he getting increasingly frustrated with the goings-on? Couldn’t he have just taken out his frustration on her?”
“No he couldn’t! He loved her and even his wildest of urges could never have been able to break the shackles of his tormented Love. He wanted to win her, you see. He never wanted to steal her. Most, importantly, he wanted Her to accept Him as her husband, as her Lord. He needn’t have died—he could have just run away from the battlefield with her in tow. But, he fought, naively hoping that if he did beat our King, she might just accept him as her beloved. It was foolish, but that’s how love is. If our King loved her half as much, he wouldn’t really be sending her away. Why should he care if half the city sees her as a fallen woman?”
“How dare you say such stupid things about our King?”
“Now, my friends, don’t have a fight here” says Anantha, looking skyward, “I think its time we got back to our posts”
“I have one last question” I say, picking up my courage, “What if the Queen is impure? Why can’t the King take her back? What is wrong with a man being married to a woman whose chastity is disputed, but whose love is true?”
For a moment they are taken aback, I can see it in their faces. I see a flicker of hope, maybe I am right, and maybe what I think is actually a valid argument. And then they look at one another and begin to laugh—unfortunately, I was a bit too hasty with my assessment—and in a few moments, they are all roaring with mirth, some holding their stomachs, some even having tears in their eyes; even Siddhartha has a smile on face.Day
Mid-way through lunch, I ask my wife:
“What is your take on the Queen-issue?”
“I think its unfortunate, especially for the King and the Queen”
Uncomprehending, I ask, expecting a slew of belittling comments—
“Why is it unfortunate for the King?”
She smiles a smile I haven’t seen for long and says softly,
“If you had crossed mountains and forests and oceans and then fought a bloody battle with a Demon King all for one person, only to realise that she is not going to be with you for more than a short period, how would you feel?”
It hits me like a fire-arrow from the heavens—I have never really seen it from the King’s point of view. He must be distraught, as though a part of him that just sprang back to life is again being stolen away, but—
“But, isn’t it all his own doing? Why did he have to send her away? Doesn’t he know she is pure? He must, she is!”
“He knows. I am certain. But, how could he keep her? Especially since there is growing discontent against Him for accepting Her”
“What does he care about what some of us may think? And he’s led such a blemish-free life that it is impossible for his name to be tarnished by something as trivial as this”
“Impractical and completely out of touch with ground realities—that’s what you are. A peaceful and content Kingdom is not a reflection of the King’s state of mind, but the people’s. If the people are unhappy, or angry, then how can any progress ever be made?”
“But, doesn’t this decision leave many of us unhappy too?”
“No! You are too small a minority. And many of you will find it impossible to hate a man who has sacrificed his most prized possession with no great hesitation. It takes a brave man to do that”
She must be speaking sense for this is exactly what many in the city and the washer-man are saying. But, I am unconvinced and I think it is more my fault than anybody else’s: I am blinded by a skewed viewpoint stemming from my liking for the Queen; I have developed an impenetrable wall around my own reasoning, nothing anyone says will make any difference. I ask,
“Do you believe she is pure and chaste?
“Yes”
“And you still think the King is right?”
“Yes”
“Then who is to blame?”
“ Fate”

I shake my head in disagreement. The brave man is the one who is able to rise above circumstances. And the King could have easily been the brave man.Night
The Moon is in protest. It rose late, almost reluctantly, and now refuses to emerge from behind the clouds. I take heart from the fact that someone shares my sentiments. I have declined to play our Aim-game today and now haven’t even gone down to the soup-maker. The City is asleep, but will awake in some time. The street-lamps are long extinguished; the sky is transforming—it is a very dark blue now, but it won’t be long before it attains its confused yet exquisitely beautiful state: the sky at dawn sometimes makes me wonder whether God is a child, for only a child can produce such a disorderly mishmash of colours whose beauty and purity even the most talented of painters find impossible to capture.

“Open the gates” says a voice whose calmness seems like it is the result of several emotions, like the colours of the rainbow converging to give a pure white.
I look down. Forty feet below and clad in white is purity personified—our Queen, my Queen.
Most of the sentinels are away at the soup-maker and those who remain are just too sleepy to notice who it actually is, having stayed up for hours at a stretch now. They go about their job mechanically, opening the gates without much of a fuss. I strain my neck to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful face on the Earth.
And the moon surprisingly surfaces in silent obeisance.

And the Queen walks out, neither hurriedly nor patiently, not even without the slightest of jerks, not stooping, not looking back even once; her expressive face is stiff, perhaps the only untoward sign in an otherwise perfect performance. But when she walked, she walked like a Queen—with divine grace and dignity until she is swallowed by the shadows of the trees and her footsteps are lost in the mellifluous songs of the birds of twilight. And it is neither night nor day.