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Sunday, September 14, 2008

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.

Friday, September 12, 2008

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.

Saturday, September 06, 2008

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.)