November, 1984

It rained that evening. A warm, welcoming rain punctuated by big, bulbous drops, uncharacteristic of the city, atypical of the month. The sky was overcast—a veil of grey, grim and continuous, hung above. K, secure under the confines of a nondescript shed by the road, carefully inspected the contents of his wallet and then proceeded to check his mobile phone and wallet. Content, he relaxed slightly: not a drop of water on them. He looked up at the sky and, at once, his eyebrows re-knit, his mouth stiffened—there wasn’t a trace of blue. It was not a good sign. He didn’t like the rain, not one bit, not in the city. It made the roads stink: the whole place smelt and felt like an open railway toilet, the drains overflowed, the water stagnated making the traffic come to a standstill, the pigeons, that dotted the evening sky flying in pretty patterned flocks, hid under buildings, afraid of the sky’s sorrow and the earth was muddy, ugly-brown.
And then he saw a sight that made him, instinctively, click his tongue, and shake his head in disapproval, from side to side, maybe a little too obviously: it was a man, not much older than he, walking leisurely, hands in his pockets, whistling an old film song, drenched like he had just swum half across the Arabian Sea and then realized he had forgotten to take off his clothes.

“Quite out of place, isn’t it? This rain?” he asked cheerfully, approaching the shed, looking at K.
K looked away and pretended like he hadn’t heard the man.
But the man seemed to be possessed by the devil, for by the time K turned around, he was standing by him, wiping his glasses with his shirt, not really noticing that a wet cloth would do little to improve the condition of the glasses. He smiled broadly, extended a soppy hand, and said:
“Murugan”
With a wary, disdainful look at the outstretched hand, K, doing some quick thinking, folded his palms and said:
“Namaste. I’m K”
“Why, why, why! Aren’t we a contradiction? A traditional greeting, but a post-modern, single initial for a name!”
Stunned by the character judgment based solely on a gesture and a sentence, K retorted:
“I’m a practical man. I don’t like wet hands and I don’t disclose personal information to complete strangers”
The stranger’s face fell and he said, his hands back in his pockets:
“I was only joking. I’m sorry. Maybe I was hasty”
“That’s okay” K replied, a little gruffly, though inside he felt triumphant for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
And they fell silent with K wondering if his life had come to this, celebrating victories in little ego battles with random men and the man, lost, staring into the rain, but his mind elsewhere, a smile from a different time planted on his lips.
“Beatuiful” he said, eventually.
“Eh?” said K.
“November rain. Correction: Warm November rain”
K did not want to concur and lie, nor did he want to disagree and debate, so he ended up making a noise that sounded like a soft fart. The man was momentarily startled, for the sound was alien in a civil conversation, but mistaking it for some digestive problem, went back to smiling dreamily and said:
“It rained like this, back in 1984, through November— warm, fat drops, echoing against the roofs of buildings and the windshields of cars”
“Yes, I quite remember—it was one of the worst months of my life—my bloody scooter wouldn’t start and I had to take the bus, which took a long, circuitous path. Always late for work—I nearly lost my job”
“I” said the man, still smiling, “on the other hand, was out of work. And in love. Ah, those were the days”
K rolled his eyes, but the man was not one to be distracted. Still staring dreamily into the distance, he continued:
“She was doing her degree in the Arts College for Girls and I would wait, for hours together, at her college gate, to get a glimpse of her. I was, after all, out of work and had all the time in the world. And when she was done with college, I would follow her, everywhere she went—up till the gate of her house, to the movie hall, to the market—like a faithful dog or, better still, Mary’s little lamb”
“Didn’t she call the police?”
“No, she didn’t. Which means” he said, cracking his knuckles, “she didn’t disapprove, but she didn’t approve either—if she did, then maybe we could have got somewhere”
“Did you even talk to her?” K asked, with a smirk on his face.
“Oh yes, many times. But usually about the weather, or polite enquiries about each others’ health or the price of onions—a sentence here, a comment there—they meant the world to me. And one day,” he said, and broke off, his voice choking as he looked at the relentless rain wistfully and continued, “And one November morning, it poured, as always; but, unlike always, I spotted her underneath a tree, just like I saw you, umbrella-less and cursing the rain. And I never carry an umbrella—never—but that morning, my grandmother—bless her beautiful soul— in typical grandmotherly fashion, gave me her incisor-less, paan-stained grin, thrust the umbrella in my hand and said, a little wisely, a little mischievously: take this, who knows, it may just come in handy! And come in handy, it did!”
“So you both walked under one umbrella, with your arm around her shoulder?” K asked haughtily, although he was curious.
“Of course not—this is 25 years ago in middle-class India: you really think people wouldn’t talk if that had happened? People would talk even now, in some localities. But, what happened is the reason why I love November rain—I gave her my umbrella and told her to use it and I followed her, keeping a polite distance. She threw back shy, grateful and sorry glances at me, at periodic intervals and I could feel myself floating, in a state of pure joy, not caring about the wild rain, or the warm gusts of wind. She made my day. And many, many days to come”
“Are you a poet?” K asked, for he was always good at these things.
“Its funny you ask, because you are nearly right—I am a painter. You should come to my exhibitions some time. But in those days, I was, would you believe it, a pickpocket. I always had good hands, you know—and its funny the things that people do when they are desperate. I always mailed the wallet and its contents back to their owners though, except for the money, of course. I had little use for anything else”
And K suddenly stiffened, checked his pockets to make sure his wallet was there, and then, walked right ahead, into the rain. Having gone a few metres, he paused, turned around and shouted, through the sheets of rain that separated them:
“The college she went to—your .. um .. muse—it was called Gandhi Arts College for Girls, right?”
“Yes” the man said, very surprised.

K reached home late that evening. He rang the bell twice, for he was dripping wet and his mind was occupied. He heard his wife’s footsteps and then a series of clicks, as latch after latch opened; finally, she swung open the door, smiled, a tad surprised, and showed him the front of her palm as if to say: wait, and turned around to go back inside.
“What’s this sudden thirst for adventure today?” she hollered, as he heard drawers roll open.
“Oh nothing—I just wanted to get back in time for the match” he yelled back.
She brought back a towel and wiped dry his hands, his face, his hair.
“Did you miss me?” he asked her.
She was a little taken aback: it was a question he hadn’t asked for years, decades even.
“A little longer and I would have run away with my pickpocket!” she said mischievously—quoting from memory, for it was a little dialogue that they used to play often during the early days of their marriage.
“Pickpocket?” he said, in mock-anger, and then swooped down to peck her on her cheek, sending it a shade darker than brick-red, and whispered in her ear:
“Maybe we should change that dialogue—he’s a painter now”

Smooth Kill-- 3

Continued from here

Krishna stands up and gives me a hand. I get up: my head is a little dizzy, my vision is strangely blurred. I put an arm around him, leaning on his shoulder, and he guides me back towards the house. As we walk back, memories flood my mind, in a sequence of pictures. It starts off with a dream—there is a woman who used to visit me often in my dreams, her face is veiled, but she wears clothes of the royalty, she is always crying and very silent. I ask her questions, she gives no answers, only continuing to cry more. As I grow older, the dreams are less frequent, maybe she doesn’t miss me anymore, maybe she is married and has children, maybe five other children.

Suddenly, we are at the Court, the atmosphere is tense; my eyes are red, red with rage and red with a haughtiness that I will regret for the rest of my life. Draupadi, a woman I respect as much as I respect Bhima as an archer, is crying; her hair is messy, her clothes even messier; she is appealing to the elders, to anyone, to restore sanity. My eyes are, however, on Yudhistra: he rarely flies into a rage and as I look at him, it is evident that this is one of those rare occasions. I am, honestly, terrified for I don’t know what to expect. He looks at me, with a loathing so deep, that it sends a chill down my spine, but I stare back, trying to be brave. And then I see his eyes trace the length of my body, down to my feet, and suddenly, he is calm, as calm as the mountains, as composed as a river in summer. Confused, my eyes follow his and I find myself staring at my own feet and I cannot understand. But now, I realize: they are not my feet he sees, but his mother’s. Our mother’s.
And then I hear a voice in my head and that fills me with pride and gives me strength. It is a voice from very long ago, the voice of my best friend—it is authoritative, filled with a conviction that no one around him seems to share: Can’t you see, can’t you see this man is not a suta? Can’t you see he has the gait of a lion? Can a deer ever hope to have such a walk?

“Lie down Radheya” Krishna is saying, abruptly bringing me to the present.
I look around. I am in my bedroom, by my bed, neatly made. I don’t know how I got there, but I manage a weak smile. I need sleep, need to forget. Things, though much clearer now, are jumbled. The pieces are all there, but the whole picture is too hard for my mind to grasp.
“Thanks Krishna” I say, tucking into my bed.
“Can’t say it’s my pleasure, but you’re welcome, I guess” he replies wryly.

In moments, I am asleep.

*****

I walk back from Radheya’s place much later than I initially intend to. My charioteer is sleeping; a couple of the horses are grazing, another is sleeping, the last one is staring at the sky and, in my opinion, contemplating existential questions. I tap my charioteer on the shoulder and he wakes up, a touch embarrassed. I smile easily and say:
“I suggest you continue your siesta on the chariot”
He gives me a quizzical look. I smile again and say:
“Go sleep on the chariot. I’ll do the riding” and take the whip and slap the ground exactly in the manner he does. The horses all come trundling back, each at its own pace.
“Its ok” he says, “I have finished sleeping”
“Oh, don’t think I am doing this for you” I say, “There is a war on our hands and I need practice”
“Oh” he says, comprehending.

As I tie up the horses and take my seat, my mind goes back to the events of the day: he is a fool, that Radheya—a very likeable one at that. He had and still has the power, if he ever changes his mind, to stop all that bloodshed and yet he doesn’t. Generations to come might see that as a selfless decision, but it is, in fact, very selfish. One cannot put loyalty and friendship over the lives of so many great warriors and thousands of nameless, brave soldiers.
Steering my horses down a steep incline, I ask my charioteer:
“Am I good?”
“Yes sir. I have never seen someone ride so easily” he says, and I see his voice has acquired a fresh tinge of deep reverence.
Unsurprisingly, of all my achievements, it is this one that impresses him the most.

No sooner do we travel a few hundred metres than we bump into Vrishala, the wife of Radheya, sitting contently on Radheya’s favourite chariot, evidently making her way home. I stop and get off and greet her. She falls at my feet. I bless her, a little embarrassed— my show at the court, earlier today, has obviously reached public ears. I ask:
“Where have you been? I am just returning from a visit to your house”
“Oh” she says, her face falling, ruing a missed opportunity, she asks, “Did Radheya look after you well? Did he give you something to eat? Did he quench your thirst?”
“Yes, yes” I lie automatically, “He is a great host”
She looks greatly relieved.
“I had actually gone to the temple” she explains, “Faith acquires a whole new meaning in these troubled times—I hear war is now inevitable?”
“Yes” I say, trying to put on my gravest expression, “Are you praying for Radheya?”
“Oh, I am not worried for him. Everyone knows he is invincible. And he has promised Duryodhana he will win it for him and Radheya never makes promises he can’t keep. My sons, however, are a little too eager. And like every mother, I am worried for them. Radheya, I know, will take care of them too. But, I still worry a lot”
“Yes, I know” I say in a voice that is not mine: her unshakeable faith in her husband’s abilities throws me off guard.
“But, Krishna” she says, suddenly, “I will have them all, won’t I? Even after the war?”
It is a question that leaves with little room: lie or stay silent. I choose neither.
“It has got really dark and I need to get going. You keep up the good work, Vrishala”

And I hop onto my chariot and crack my whip: the horses jump to life and we are away, in a swirl of dust, flying past mansions and houses, long-shut offices and markets that are closing down, empty parks and vacant streets; but nothing can distract me from the one thought that constantly plays in my mind, like a temple priest’s chant, except it is much darker: I am a murderer-- a clever, cunning, shameless murderer.

Smooth Kill-- 2

Continued from here
When I awake, I am disoriented. I wonder why Krishna is sprawled out on my sofa, apparently sleeping. And then it all comes back: the princess, the story, the vision, the happiness. But, the happiness was only momentary for now I am gripped with a deadly fear, a fear for my friend, a fear for my loyalty to the one man I love more than life itself.
Still feeling dizzy, I haul myself up. I need water, I decide. My feet take me into the passageway that leads to the entrance, away from the kitchen where there is water. I am intrigued, a little concerned even, but too dazed to disobey. In the silence, my footsteps echo. The only witnesses to my unsteady walk are the Seven Great Portraits that adorn the walls of the access, each diagonally opposite to the other, forming a perfectly chaotic zigzag pattern; painted by Sudeepa, known for his life-like portraits of people from all walks of life, these paintings, like most things in my life, are gifts from my best friend. I can almost sense their eyes—the cobbler, the eunuch, the archer, the writer, the court poet, the princess and Sudeepa himself, in an astonishingly accurate self-portrait— follow me as I make my way out.
When I am outside, relief swoops over me. For some reason, the passageway was uneasy and claustrophobic. It is a cloudy night: the moon peeps between two huge masses of grey; the stars are few and twinkle listlessly. The air is fresh though; and the night is alive with the call of the night-birds, the hoots of the owls and the gush of the wind through the swaying trees.
I suddenly realize where I am heading and pat my unconscious self on the back: our house-hold well, fifty feet deep, hitting sweet ground- water at a mere fifteen, is barely metres away. And as I draw water from the well, a picture comes to my mind. And, all of a sudden, two erstwhile minor details achieve a significance that only hindsight can bestow.

I am twenty-one; a proud but penniless archer, roaming the streets of Hastinapura, the greatest city in the world. I enter, quite inadvertently, a theatre. There is some sort of a tournament taking place for archers, big and small, have gathered, bows and quivers in tow, clad in shiny armours. All eyes are focused on one young lad, no older than seventeen. The very sight of him fills me with a deep sense of loathing, it is inexplicable. Maybe it is the manner in which he wields his bow—there is a certain practiced nonchalance that any experienced eye will tell you is put on, an act; he is fairly good because his tricks are very imaginative, but I cannot understand the need to be so theatrical. He is a star, no doubt—the crowd, seven thousand in all, commoners and aristocrats alike, seem to love him. And he seems very conscious of that fact, cockiness etched in every nerve of his body, every move he makes.

When they cheer him for the umpteenth time, for performing a trick I can blindfolded, I refuse to lurk in the shadows. I string my bow and there is a resounding twang and the cheering crowd is taken aback; and suddenly, heads turn, all eyes are focused on someone else. It is my moment of reckoning, I immediately realize: my one shot at greatness. I walk silently and the theatre has gone so quiet that I can hear my own footsteps. And then I hear murmurs, soft and quiet, politely inquisitive. I refuse to be distracted, not looking once in the direction of the audience. I simply take my bow and string it once more, this time it seems ever louder, for I am in the centre and that leads to multiple echoes and the crowd go dead quiet, all expectant, excited. As I shut my eyes to say prayers to my teacher and the Sun, my chosen God, there is a commotion in the inner stands—the queen, Kunti, faints. I pause and look at the white-bearded grand old man, sitting in the main gallery, who seems to be running the show: he simply smiles, nods and signals—the show must go on.

With a smile at the pompous, young archer and a bow to the aristocratic elders, I begin my exhibition. Initially, I simply repeat what their star archer had just displayed, doing each of his tricks with consummate ease: that gives me confidence. And then, I move onto my bag of tricks— skills that the archers of Hastinapura haven’t been taught, skills that they haven’t seen even, skills that even Bhagavan Bhargava, my teacher, found hard to teach, skills that I, however, have mastered so well that I barely notice I am performing them. What greets me initially is silence and that worries me, but stealing a glance at the crowd I realize that it is one of amazement, of incredulity. And then gradually, some men find their voices, others begin clapping and before long, the crowd are on their feet, roaring and hooting; some old men even have tears running down their eyes.

And with every trick I perform, the clouds grow darker, the air is thick with moisture, the pungent scent of rain prevails. And yet, much to my surprise (and that of most present), I alone am bathed in a fantastic, unearthly bright orange-yellow glow, almost as though the Sun, refusing to be outdone, has put its spotlight on me. On one end, there is the original star, Arjuna, son of Indra, the God of Rain, black-grey clouds looming large over his head. On the other, there is Radheya, the new super-star, unaffected by the threat of rain, for, unknown to him, his father is keeping an eye on him too.

I gulp my fill of water—three fourths of a bucket—and splash the remaining on my face in the hope that I would regain my composure and think calmly. My mind, failing to come to terms with the situation, is blank. My wretched body however can’t take it —my hands and legs behave as though I am on a chariot travelling on a pot-holed road. I cannot stop shivering. I rush inside, past the passageway and the prying eyes, past Krishna, still blissfully asleep, past the dining hall, the reflection of the lamp-lights dancing on the newly purchased silver cutlery and into my bedroom, where lay my bow and quiver. I pick them up, still shaking, and run outside.

Outside, the wind has picked up; the night, however, has gone chillingly quite: the owls don’t hoot, the insects seem to have been struck dumb. With one hand I draw my first arrow, my shaking other hand holding the bow unsteadily. The arrow’s tip catches the moonlight and twinkles briefly. I pull the string and let it go, at an angle to the wind, into the darkness. After the first fraction of a second, I cannot see it, yet I know exactly where it lands, my trained ears keeping track of its pathway. I draw my next arrow and repeat the action. I do this several times and gradually, my body gets into the groove, my hands and head grow steadier and steadier until they are as still as a statue; my mind is calmer, though it consciously avoids any thought but that pertaining to the act of taking aim and tracing the path the arrow takes. And then, in the near-silence (the only sound being that of the wind, racing through the dancing trees) I hear Krishna call out my name.
I do not turn around. Still continuing to shoot arrows into the darkness, I ask
“My mother—Does she know who I actually am?”
“Yes”, he says. He is now standing by me.
“Who is she?”
I know who she is, but I still can’t bring myself to acknowledging it. I need someone else to tell me.
“Kunti” he says flatly.
For a second, I turn my head slightly, still continuing to fire arrows, to look at him. He has an odd expression on his face, I cannot quite place it.
And strangely, maybe out of inactivity, my legs collapse and I am on my knees. I still do not stop taking aim though. And then the tears begin to flow; they are tears of anger. Anger at fate, for I have always managed to be on her wrong side, at the receiving end; anger at my father, the Sun—could he not once have told me? Anger at my mother, Kunti, for being cowardly and stupid; anger at Krishna for I know that this is also part of some grand plan of his; anger, most of all, at myself, for being so unlike a warrior, for letting my emotions get the better of me.
Krishna is still looking at me, with the same odd expression.
“It’s the act of taking aim in the darkness”, I say to him, a little too loudly, “all that concentration is causing my eyes to become watery”
I know they are stupid words, but they sting him like nothing I have said before. He seems to be in terrible misery, so much so that he is forced to look away.
“I understand”, he says simply; his voice is strained.
And then I can take it no more. I drop my bow and lie down on the ground, facing up, on the spiky lawn, carefully trimmed under the supervision of my wife. The sky has just two colours and shades of them both: black and white. The sky is a black blanket; the stars, mostly hidden by monstrous clouds, flash like white diamonds; the clouds are graying in the centre, and white at the edges, much like my now foster-father, Athiratha’s hair; the moon, shaped like a strained bow-string, is off-white, with patches of light grey.
“Radheya”, Krishna says softly “I offer you the Earth. If you join us, there will be no war. And you know Yudhishtra, if I tell him of your story, he will gladly renounce his throne for his brother. And Duryodhana will be equally pleased. You will be the Lord of the World”
For a second, I picture myself as King of Hastinapura, seated on the jeweled throne, surrounded by my brothers and friends. The next instant, I realize the King’s face is not mine, but that of another man: a far nobler, a far more powerful, a far more generous and importantly, a far better administrator than I can ever dream of being. It is the face of my best friend.
My decision is made.
“No. I will not come over your to your side. And Yudhishtra will not get to know. My name is Radheya and my mother is Radha”
“So you will put your friend over your brothers? Loyalty over blood?” he asks.
“I am simply putting my word over everything else. And I have promised my friend to fight the war and fight my very best and let him have his throne”
“Your friend is not a nice man, Radheya”
Those words cause me to flare up, like it is I who am being insulted, like I am being called a suta.
“One more word, Krishna, one more word about him and this discussion is over. I cannot harm you, but I can threaten to not listen. On the day of the tournament, when the whole world looked down upon me for being a suta, who came to my rescue? Who made me King of Anga? Who made me what I am today? Who saw my soul, who saw me for I what I truly was, a kshatriya, a warrior, a hero? I owe my life to him”
Krishna is silent, his face inscrutable. I look at his face, glowing serenely in the faint moonlight and my rage dissipates as quickly as it rose. One cannot be angry with him. I say:
“You know Krishna, if you weren’t on the other side, we could have been friends. The best of friends even”
He picks up my bow and examines it carefully, his long fingers gracefully stringing it tenderly; he even smells the wood lovingly. He then looks at me and smiles and says:
“I think we are”

To be continued.

Smooth Kill-- 1

[A little history: Krishna goes to Duryodhana's court as peacemaker. It fails miserably-- Duryodhana not only rejects the peace offer, but even tries to capture Krishna. Krishna then changes into his Vishwaroopa-- his original form, a sort of grander version of the usual Vishnu-- and with a few choice words, breaks free and leaves. Mission unaccomplished]

It is twilight, my favourite part of the day. On another day, I would be outside, dressed in plain robes, walking on the streets, watching children play marbles, their mothers keeping a worried eye on the road, wary of rogue chariots that speed without a care in the world; On another day, I would be at the market, listening to sellers complain and buyers haggle, striking hard bargains, yet finding time to crib about the new neighbor, the rise in prices and how fast their children grow up; On another day, I would be at the park, home of the very old and the very young, the children playing their games, the geriatric talking of the good old days. But today is not just another day: the proceedings in the Court have rendered my mind near-numb. The only sensation that persists is this continuous pain in my forehead, like the buzz of the amphitheatre crowd that persists in the ear even after they have been rendered deaf by all the shouting and the cheering.

Slouched in my arm-chair, overcome by fatigue, I shut my eyes. When I open them, after what seems like a few seconds, I see a familiar figure leaning against the wall, studying intently the uninspiring ceiling. I shut my eyes and open them again. He is still there, but now he is smiling at me. Still half-convinced I am hallucinating, I make to stand up, but he waves his hand, signaling me to remain seated as he flops into the chair opposite mine in a carefree manner that can only be his own. I manage a weak smile and say:
“Krishna”
He looks faintly bemused, a half-smile on his lips. Many find the smile irritating, mistaking it for a smirk, a sign of contempt. I like it; it is so typical of his joie de verve, always ready, at the slightest instance, to give way to full-blown laughter, like a full cloud waiting to burst.
“You look much older than I remember” he says, still smiling.
“Oh, I’ve aged a lot in this past one day: some people have this effect on me” I reply, returning the smile. And instantly, he laughs, the cloud bursts and I feel lighter, the tiredness of the day, and the wretched madness of the court a thing of the distant past now.
“Oh, I sort of lost control there” he said, not in the least distressed about it.
“I think it had the desired effect”
“I think I could have achieved that without resorting to such pyrotechnics”
Trust Krishna to say something like that: in a flash of majestic brilliance, of tremendous rage yet supreme calm, this man, earlier in the day, showed the world its past, its present, its future—Him. And he calls it pyrotechnics.
“So we are at war, Krishna” I say, trying to state it simply, without emotion.
“Yes, we are” he says, his voice echoing the gravity of the situation, yet steadfast.
And he looks at me, and I into those beautiful, almost feminine eyes and we burst out laughing.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask, once the laughter had subsided.
“Oh, nothing. Thank you for offering”
“But you must take something” I insist, “After all—“
“No one goes away from the Great Radheya empty- handed?” he finishes the sentence for me.
“No—I just thought you might have had a long day yourself, though you-- “ I pause, and look at him mock-appraisingly, “ don’t really look it!”
He chuckles and says
“That’s not true. I am not growing any younger. I think I am starting to grey. And when I don’t shave, I acquire a definite salt-and-pepper stubble. But, enough of small talk, Radheya” he says, and I notice the change in tone. It is darker, mirroring the events outside, for the happy hours of twilight have given way to a cloudy, black night. Even inside, the oil lamps flicker with less intensity, the air is still. I stiffen: I don’t like what I am seeing.
“Radheya” he says, “I have a proposition”
“I am all ears” I say cheerily, trying to lighten up the mood. But it comes off sounding strangely hollow, out of place, and I shift in my chair.
“Come over to our side. Fight with us”
I stay silent, disbelieving. Maybe I heard wrong.
“Radheya?” he asks, raising one eye-brow.
“I am waiting for the punch-line” I reply truthfully.
“There is no punch-line, Radheya. I want you to fight with us. I will be honest, I like you. You are flawed, like all of us are. But, unlike most of us, you also are extremely good”
“Krishna” I whisper, “You are afraid of me? You see me as a threat to victory?”
He smiles sadly and says:
“Oh, don’t give yourself so much importance”
I smile back and say:
“You know this is useless then, Krishna. You know there is no point. Duryodhana is my best friend, my Lord, my life. You, of all the people, must know all of this”
“But you are fighting on the losing side. And I respect and love you too much to see you do that. Don’t you see: we have Arjuna—“
“Arjuna, as you well know, is fallible and pompous”
“Bheema, Satyaki—“
“Krishna, Krishna” I say, smirking, “The truth is that they have you, not you have them”
“Yes” he says, grimly, stating the obvious, “We have me”
“Krishna” I say and for some reason, my voice quivers, “Do not fear for me. I know I will die. And I am glad I will. I sometimes welcome the thought of death”
For a moment, Krishna remains lost in thought: I study his face. It is true, he is growing older. But age has only enhanced his grandeur: his wisdom, earlier well hidden under a mask of youthful mischievousness, is now, with the passage of time, allowed to take centre-stage; his eyes that once set young hearts a-flutter, now evoke reverence, from young and old. Krishna is still handsome, still perfect, in a strangely asexual way.
He is wrestling with something inside him and though very unnatural, there is still a particular symmetry to the creased lines on his face and when they re-align themselves, as they have now, they are still perfect. He is calm once again and asks in a voice that is robbed of emotion, so detached that it is painful:
“So, there is nothing that I say that will make you change your mind?”
“Krishna”, I say, growing slightly irritated, “You know my answer. You knew it even before you came here. You even know what is to come. Sometimes” I say and pause, wondering if I am crossing the line, but then throwing caution to the winds, I continue, “Sometimes, I think living your life is a little boring—especially since you know everything”
Krishna laughs, slightly taken aback and then says:
“You have been to the theatre six times in the last seven weeks to watch a play you’ve seen being performed since you were five. What excites you, still?”
I nod, comprehending, but unconvinced.
“I am sorry” I say, as sincerely as I can, “but even if my mother asks me to fight against Duryodhana, I will not”
“Your mother?” he whispers, “why would you even listen to that heartless princess who left you to the mercy of the Ganga?”
Krishna’s face is strained, his voice unsure. I haven’t seen him like this before: ever. And as I stare at him, I forget, momentarily, all else. It is hard to see this man in pain, I desperately want to look away, but I can’t and so, I stare transfixed, numb. And yet, in the inner recesses of my mind, a word tosses around—one precious, golden word—like a baby in a basket, being tossed around by the waves of the Ganga. Princess. Princess, I mutter to myself and shudder, feeling something very hot traversing the length of my body. Princess, I say again, and now, my hands are shaking, my side-burns growing moist.
“Krishna” I say softly, trying my best to stay calm, “Do you know?”
Of course he does: he is the actor, the master of the script. And I have never seen him so pained. His face betrays fear, shame, pity and immense love: it is such a potent mixture, that it drains the blood off my face. He cannot see me in the eye and though I long to see elsewhere, my curiosity overpowers everything else.
“Who?” I plough on, and my voice is choked.
“She was a vivacious, brilliant girl” he says, wistfully, as though longing for an innocence that was long gone, and continues, “and the apple of her father’s eye; it was said, and it would seem remarkable now, that she could talk for hours and hours and never tire. You changed her life forever: her resplendent youth, the fountain of her happiness, went dry, and she transformed from a vibrant, colourful girl into a stoic and determined single mother of—“
“Who?” I interrupt. I want to know now, more than anything else.
Krishna is trying to prolong it: for some reason, he does not want to say. He stands up and walks around, running his fingers along the walls, until his path is blocked by a cupboard leaning against the wall. He studies the imported vase carefully, placed on top of the cupboard, given by my father-in-law as a parting gift to his dear Vrishala. He then proceeds to pick the now-wilting flowers and smells them. And suddenly, he places them back and I can see he has changed again: this is not the Krishna of a moment before— he is suddenly more determined, a little angry and his eyes are chillingly ruthless.
“As I was saying, this sixteen-year old princess—she was only sixteen when she had you—transformed into a stoic, monochromatic mother of five great children”

I dig my hands into the cushion. I can feel pins and needles all over my body. Maybe he is lying, maybe he is playing one of his tricks. It can’t be true. There are many mothers of five—many princesses who have five children. It can, of course be, anybody’s guess as to who she is. And yet, in the back of my head, I calculate furiously: she was sixteen when she had me, how old is Kun— I stop myself, I suddenly do not want to think, to know. Desperately, I ask:
“And my father—who is he?”
“He’s gone now. But, you’ll see him tomorrow. So will the rest of us”
“No riddles, Krishna” I plead, “Just tell me who”
“It’s funny how” says Krishna, sounding half-surprised at the discovery, “your father and your maternal grandfather share the same name—Surya”
In the split second after my knees give away and before I fall over, I have a vision. Standing by Krishna, but more brilliant than anything I have set my eyes on, there is a man, bathed in an ethereal orange light, looking at me with infinite love and tremendous pity; and I trace the path of a single tear that runs down his face, down his shining armour, glistening blindingly golden; and we hit the ground together, the tear and I, and I am overcome with joy. Bliss. And black thereafter.
To be continued

Rediscover

The darkness flew past us. People sat apart, mostly silently, some sleeping, their heads resting serenely against the glass; others stared into the nothingness, unmindful of the gentle swaying and the muffled pounding of the rail on tracks. I was listening to myself condemn Free Thinking. I had several such recordings on my Ipod on subjects diverse—this was the most recent and therefore, by default, my current favorite. The metro stopped briefly and the doors opened to nobody. That was expected—it was 10 45 and this was the last metro.

Children laughed in my ear—my recordings were not mere commentaries, drab and monotonic. A lot of work went into them. There was, firstly, an idea, which was the basis of the whole initiative—usually a twisted take on something common, sometimes pointedly hilarious and often implausible, other times serious and even highly debatable; then there was the background score comprising of variants of a basic tune and other sounds. The tune was “composed” by yours truly, aided by a music-maker software and an able, finished musician-friend of mine; and the other sounds— children laughing, or the buzz of the marketplace, or the sound of gunshots—were all painstakingly chosen to add dramatic effect. In most cases, the end product was nothing like I had envisioned it in the beginning: reality, I had long before discovered, is harsh. But, I kept at it—the joy was in the process and though disappointing, I was quite fond of my recordings.

My compartment was near-empty: a group of tired-looking men in suits and red ties sat on one end and, involuntarily, a frown crossed my face. A little away, a family of three, carrying baggage that could have been a lifetime’s worth, huddled together—the kid sleeping on the mother’s lap, who seemed wary. I couldn’t get my eyes of her silver bangles for some reason. There were others—an old, bearded foreigner, who seemed so completely at home that a surge of strong jealousy arose in me; a few seats away sat a tall man, with a pointed nose and a flat head, who reminded me of a grown-up Suppandi; and diagonally across, sat this man in reading glasses, notebook and pen on his lap, staring curiously at me. I stared back for a moment—he didn’t look away, but a slow smile spread across his face, extending from his lip to his nose to his eyes, like a ripple on the water surface. I liked the smile, but I didn’t want to smile back. So I looked away.

Empty stations and billboards and neon lights whizzed past us. I was listening, distractedly, to me lecture on “Everything but 42” (a pathetic attempt at dark humour).
I looked around: a couple of unrecognizable faces, who I hadn’t noticed enter, sat apart, one listening to the FM on his phone; Suppandi-head had disappeared; the woman with the silver bangles looked more relaxed; out of the corner of my eye, I looked at the man with the reading glasses—he was apparently poring over his notebook—I could see, even from where I sat, that the page was blank; he noticed me looking at him and immediately threw a quick smile and asked:
“What are you listening to?”
“Um .. Nothing” I said, unplugging my earphones and immediately switching playlists.
I don’t talk much to strangers. I don’t talk much to anyone anyway. I like my silences.
He walked across, sat by my side and said, gesturing towards my Ipod:
“Can I listen?”
I didn’t refuse. It didn’t seem right to do so.
He let me hold the Ipod, sensing my insecurity, and simply plugged the earphones in his ear.
“Whose voice is this?”
“John Lennon”
“John Lennon definitely wasn’t around when Twenty20 began” he said laughing.
“I know” I said, wondering if he was in the habit of making random statements.
“So?” he asked, one eyebrow a couple of notches above the other.
“So?” I muttered, wondering what was happening.
“So, whose commentaries are these?”
And that was when it dawned. I was aghast. My playlists hadn’t switched; I had just moved onto the next recording. That was not Lennon he was listening to sing, but “Dislike”, my theory on dislikes and why it is necessary for all of us to have strong ones (Twent20 figured prominently on my list of strong dislikes)
“That is .. my friend” I said.
“He’s good” he said and went back to listening intently.

I sat there, looking at him, trying hard not to look as though I was trying to gauge his reaction though that was exactly what I was trying to do. I had never shown my recordings to anyone—like most things in my life, it was intensely personal and completely worthless, embarrassing even. Yet, here I was, sitting by this random stranger, studying expectantly every expression on his face. I could hear my voice crackle through the earphones. And despite the screeching and the chugging and the relentless stream of instructions of the monotonic voices from above (Any unattended baggage can be a bomb; Please do not forget to take your belongings; Don’t talk to strangers), I could hear every word of what he was listening to.
He had an intelligent, expressive face—much like an academician or an artist: most of the time, as he listened, it was engrossed and serious, eyebrows knit, foreheads creased; but every now and then, the lines smoothened and he let out a chuckle or smiled knowingly; he caught on, very early, to the cold, biting sarcasm, characteristic of well-hidden anger, let loose in the privacy of these recordings, and I could see he quite liked it; and when it finished, four stops and seven minutes later, he was smiling and I was flush with inexplicable excitement.

“You are a smart fellow” he said and added, eyes twinkling, “And you’ve got a nice deep voice”
“Thanks” I said, a little embarrassed by the praise and at being seen through so easily.
He looked up to check where we were and continued:
“And the music? You composed it too?”
“Well, sort of. With a little help” I said.
He was clearly impressed.
“Young man, two things .. lighten up a little” he said, and added with a wink, “And lie more convincingly”
The metro was slowing down now, breaks screeching, and he got up. I got up too, out of politeness and also because I knew no one would take my seat.
“I am a writer” he said, moving towards the door, “And I thrive on such chance encounters: you’ve opened up quite a few avenues for me”
“Pleased to be of service” I said, smiling broadly. It had been ages since I had flashed a smile like that at a friend, let alone a man I had known for barely fifteen minutes, and added, “Maybe you should write a story about me sometime”
“Maybe I will” he said.

The doors opened to nobody, the robotic voices had a fresh set of instructions ready; he stepped out gracefully, hands wrapped around the blank notebook and turned around and waved.
“What’s your name?” I shouted and waved back, suddenly remembering to ask; the doors would shut any moment now.
“Gaurav” he said, “better known, in the literary world, as ARG”
The doors shut; the name registered though.

The metro gathered speed; the station lights had their moments, before darkness engulfed us again; And for some reason, I felt extremely light.

And I was riding from darkness to light.

Her First Rally

The men stared at her pointedly: men in the metro stare at any female who wears jeans. It also helps if she's fair, has straight hair and chews her pen. She lent back against the door and sighed as she looked at the route-map that she knew like the insides of her house: another five stops after this one. She chewed her pen even more and nervously fidgeted around. Trying hard not to dwell on the number of people she would be addressing, she concentrated on her speech, on the basic framework, on the quote of VD Savarkar she had picked up from the Party' s students' manual.

"This station is Rajiv Chowk. Change here for the Blue Line"

The doors opened to a sea of desperate buzzing men, almost like a swarm of thirsty bees and they swept into the compartment, taking with them the few who had to get out.

Please stay clear of the doors.

The men against the tide panicked, pushed and squeezed their way through the now-closing doors in a manner that would have made Darwin proud.

Rana slouched in the driver's seat, legs sticking out of the car window, a burnt cigarette in his mouth, a half-smirk lining his unshaven, gaunt face. He coughed and spat, the cigarette flew out too. It provoked nervous laughter from the rest—he silenced it with some well-chosen words, soft and menacing. They sat there, the four of them, three behind, one by his side—staring at their watches, keeping an eye on those exiting the metro station and entering the car-park. Rana didn't like the air in the car, it was just too edgy—it was a simple job and yet, these stupid bacchas were afraid. First-timers were fun to boss around, but the onus of the entire thing fell squarely on Rana's shoulders, something that usually wouldn't have bothered him too much: if only these stupid kids stopped shifting so much in their seats.

"Open the windows. Now. I need fresh air" he said, and much to his consternation, there was more shuffling; and to drown it, he put the radio on and hummed along with one of the latest Punjabi Hits.


Another four stops to go, she thought. The tension, which had up to now been languishing unnoticed in the insides of her stomach, now crept up, above her chests and to her throat, where it settled, forming a big lump. Another strand went down from her stomach, paralyzing her legs, giving her pins and needles. To distract herself from her state, she stared back at a man who had been shamelessly staring at her ever since she got in: he looked away, embarrassed. And it hit her again: she was the face of the party; this was her first rally; hundreds, maybe thousands of people standing under the mellow sun, waiting for her, chanting her name. Her name.
The tension had finally got to her head.

"Let's go over this one more time, mother-fuckers" Rana said, stretching and cracking his knuckles.
They immediately all stiffened up, sitting upright, overtly attentive. It irritated him.
"She is tall, fair, wears black shades and an orange salwar. She boarded the 10 28 metro, which means she will be here in exactly .. " he paused, to look at his watch and continued, ".. 5 mins. I am guessing she will walk past us to her car, which I am unable to trace, but is somewhere here. Just stay calm and when she does walk by, get out and form a circle around her. I want no touching, understand: one hand on her and I'll fuck your sisters. Just surround her and shut up. No talking. I do all the talking. Who does all the talking?"
No answer. He looked around. The guy in the back seemed to almost cry softly.
"Bosudi-wale, do you want to go back to drinking your mothers' milk?" he bellowed.
If that had meant to be a war-cry to inspire, it inspired just one emotion: fear.
"It's a fucking female. We are NOT hitting anyone! No fights, just talking. What is wrong with you guys?"
That's when he noticed, following their gaze: at the edge of the car park, along their row, fifteen cars to the right, was a police car.
"Right" he said, not taking his eyes away, "these chutiyas had to turn up here also. Its ok, if we keep it quiet, they won't notice. Ok?"

"It is said, in the puranas that a leader is not—" she said in her head and paused. Something was not right.
She shut her eyes again, and focused. The words had to flow and yet be forceful and loud, it had to sweep people off their feet. Focus, she muttered. And then went again:
"It is said, in the puranas that a successful leader—"
The metro screeched to a halt just then, causing her to momentarily be imbalanced. She held onto the railing and looked around, hoping no one noticed.
Twenty pair of interested eyes stared back at her.
This station is ______.Please stay clear of the doors

Luckily, the phone rang just then, to distract her: it was a message wishing her luck, she read it, shrugged and looked up—two more stops to go.

'Now, men, get off. As quietly as you can" he said, opening the door and closed it with a soft click.
"And keep an eye on the—"
The rest of what he said was lost in three doors banging like gunshots in the still air. Instinctively, his eyes immediately ran to the policemen standing: they hadn't noticed. Rage filled him, he wanted to bang something too, someone's head maybe, but he held his calm and said:
"Silence people. Silence"
They stopped muttering, but he could sense their fidgetiness. It was getting to him now, making him nervous.

And then he saw her get out. He had never seen her before, but he knew it was her.
"Look!" the kid next to him bellowed and Rana was quick to stamp on his feet. It had the desired effect: he shut up.

She got out of the metro, made her way up the escalator. All was a blur now, she couldn't think anymore. Mechanically, she made her way up the stairs and walked in a haze until she realized she was going the wrong way. She pulled herself up, turned around and walked: the station was unfamiliar and she shouldn't be making such mistakes. Time was of essence. She made her way towards the correct exit, ignored the security guard whose eyes tracked her until she was finally out and breathed in the fresh late-winter, early-spring air. It had a refreshing, calming effect. She spotted the car she was supposed to take quite easily for there were few cars and walked towards it.


They saw her coming their way: she was something divine, Rana thought. He'd have much liked to woo her than threaten her. She walked gracefully, like an angel straight from the epics; her short kurti clung on to her body attractively; her shades were placed delicately over her fore-head.
Someone behind him whistled softly but suggestively. And he controlled the urge to smash him to pulp. Instead, he glanced quickly at the oblivious policemen and said just one word: Now.

And then she saw them and froze. She was afraid this would happen and had thus insisted on driving to the rally, all by herself. She thought no one knew how she was coming or where her car was.


The marched silently in a file and Rana stopped right in front of her, blocking her path. The rest formed a circle around her. He was impressed by their efficiency, but was far more impressed by how beautiful she was. For a second, he lost his bearings: the fear in her kohl-lined eyes nearly melted his heart, she was suddenly this delicate piece of crockery, to be handled with care. And then he heard himself say, in a voice whose texture sounded alien to him,
"Get into the car. And not a word"
She nodded mutely, weeping: tears trickled down her cheeks. Rana saw she hadn't expected this, not one bit, her face said it all.
The policemen were laughing; someone must have cracked a joke somewhere.

They had formed a circle around her now and she was left defenseless. How did they get to know? Who had told them? And how did none in her own party come to her rescue? She silently gave in to their demands and followed them in to the car. She didn't want this. She so didn't.



**********

"VOTE FOR US AND VOTE FOR HAPPINESS:SAGARIKA"
In a stunningly powerful first rally, the newly announced first-time candidate from the Students' Party, the attractive Sagarika, held the crowd of thousands a-sway in a forceful speech. Already famous, a darling of the local media due to her photogenic face, her new-age sense of style and vicious comments, Sagarika couldn't have hoped for a better debut.
Arriving in the media van (we got to her in spite of her trying to get off a stop in advance and giving us the slip!), Sagarika propounded her three-point agenda … "

FRIENDLY ABDUCTORS
In a strange case, a girl was abducted from the VV Metro station, only to be dropped back a few blocks from her house. She was unharmed and was only robbed off her wallet and mobile phone, not before the leader amongst them got her a rose and chocolates …

Colours Apart

We painted together. She chose her side of the sheet, I chose mine. We were always like that, respecting each other’s spaces. I drew a tree; she drew a Rajasthani woman, complete with red sari, silver earrings, and a waist that would set several roadside loafers’ hearts a-flutter; I pictured them too, those loafers, perched by a wall between my tree and her woman, popping peanuts, clad in designer jeans (jeans with designs), ogling, high-fiving, laughing, commenting. Instead, I drew a Sufi saint. Dancing perhaps, I don’t know. Subjectivity in art was my forte—even the question of the saint’s clothes were ambiguous, the top half seeming to suggest some type of a shawl, the bottom more like the Emperor’s New Clothes.

She looked at my Sufi and grimaced. I knew what was coming; she would first run her hands through her hair, bite the tip of her brush and let the words form in her head. And then they would pour—words poured for her, never flowed nor stumbled—she thought (and therefore spoke) faster than most people I knew and you had to listen to her in slow-motion for the first time if it had to make any sense to you.
What a waste of a pretty Rajasthani, she was saying, but I barely paid any attention.
Its good to be abstract and everything, but there is a time and a space for it all, she continued.
Time and place, time and space. Typical.
The woman is so precise and decked, with intricate details assuming precedence over long sweeping brush-strokes, she ploughed on.
Sweeping—her once-favourite adjective, only to be replaced by a string of better ones. Wonder if that’s how she is with her men too?
It is ok for the tree to be the way it is; it’s not a person and trees are meant to be flowing.
I’ll miss her flowing trees and singing chairs, oh yes I will, but it’s better now that later.
But the Sufi? He’s like this Bugs Bunny in a Nishant or .. WILL you please STOP giving me that DEMENTED smile?

“Huh?” I said and immediately wiped clean my smile and said uncertainly “Um … The Sufi is abstract because Sufis are abstract. Their whole existence—“
“The Sufis have figured things out” she snapped. “They think very clearly. I don’t see why they should be termed abstract”
“Abstractness and clarity are both subjective terms” I said, having had time to gather my thoughts, and continued “What is crystal-clear to the Sufi is still very abstract to us. And since we live by the rules of a democracy, definitely, by the simple fact that there are more normal people than Sufis , Sufis are abstract by majority vote” I said triumphantly, and added, without thinking,” Its like a solar eclipse or something ”
“You do realize that I have dated you for a couple of years now and will not fall for that old say-something-absolutely-random-in-order-to-appear-brilliant trick”

And that was why we were splitting ways: we knew each other too well. And yet, we rarely agreed on anything. And with time, we were less willing to compromise. And towards the end, we clung on to anything similar—like the fact that we both liked an almost universally acclaimed movie or that we both preferred rich sweet lassi to bad milk tea on a roadside dhabha—as a sign that we were meant to be together. Our love, however, was slipping through, like sand through a clenched fist, and the tighter we held, the faster it slipped. Eventually, we decided that enough was enough. I was glad it was an amicable split.
Even that day, our last day together, I think I nursed a hope, a silent one at that, that maybe, just maybe, she’d just read into my mind and would, out of the blue, say something that would shock me—that would tell me that we were just meant to be.

She walked up to me and placed our clearly abstract painting on my lap and said “Keep it. I want to paint again. Alone”
See, I told you, we were just not meant to be.
“I guess I’ll just go and watch TV”
“Suit yourself”

I don’t know when I had dozed off or for how long I had slept. But, when I awoke, I knew she was gone. I rubbed my eyes, and stretched and yawned and walked up to the kitchen for some water when something in the study caught my eye. It was the painting, her painting: there was a Rajasthani woman, precise and detailed, on the right side. There was a tree, much like my own, flowing and colourful, on the left. And in the space in between, perched on a wall, there were loafers popping peanuts, wearing designer jeans (jeans with designs), ogling at the woman, laughing and hi-fiving.

Rahman’s Best (2004-2009)

This is in no particular order.
1.Nenjam Ellam (Aiyitha Ezhuthu)
2.Sakkarai (New)
3.Ye Jo Des Hain Tera (Swades)
4. Ghoomparani (Bose)
5. Ekla Cholo (Bose)
6. Desh Ki Mitti (Bose)
7.Naina (Water)
8.Bhangri Mori (Water)
9.Aayo Re Sakhi (Water)
10.Mayelirahe (Ah Aah)
11.Khalbali (Rang De basanti)
12.Lukka Chuppi (Rang De Basanti)
13. Rang De Basanti (Rang De Basanti)
14.Athiradhee (Sivaji)
15.Madhuraikku Pogathadee (ATM)
16. Keelamal Kaiyile (ATM)
17. In Lamhon Ke Daaman Mein (Jodhaa Akbar)
18. Aditi (Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na)
19. Ada Hain (Ada)
20. Mehrbaan (Ada)
21.Elay nehram (Sakkarakatti)
22. Mastam mastam (Yuvvraaj)
23.Aye Bacchu (Ghajini)
24. Liquid Dance (Slumdog Millionaire)
25. Gangster Blues (Slumdog Millionaire)
26. Masakalli (Delhi-6)
27. Tu Bole (Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na)
28. Dekho Na (Swades)
29. Aye Hairathe (Guru)
30. Tere Bina (Guru)

 

The Best of the Best

 

1. Elay Nehram (Sakkarakatti): This is as good as Rahman can get. It is very different from the standard Rahman fare: its got a violin that, in the words of a friend, "cracks through the ear-phones", its got an accordion/mouth organ that is beautifully lost; a guitar that soothes and voices that astound. I can never tire of listening to it.
2. Aye Hairathe (Guru): Personal favourite for many reasons—Hariharan's best in recent times with Alka Yagnik providing apt support. Rahman does the "Dum dara" chorus brilliantly. It's got this magical charm about it that is indescribable; and an interlude to kill for .. Though some believe it wouldn't be on Rahman's 25 best all-time ever, I would certainly put it in there, in the first few positions.
3. Madhuraikku Pogathadee (Azhagiya Tamil Magan): Maybe Tamil music has a lot of such songs, maybe Vijay/Vikram fans see this as standard tamil folk, I don't know. I love it simply because of how refreshingly different it is. From the voices to the drums to the chorus to the lyrics (ah the lyrics!), they just fit in perfectly. Rahman's versatility is apparent here, especially with the guitar and the husky female coming in during the latter half.
4. Desh Ki Mitthi/ Ghoomparani (Bose): Listen to these tracks and let go. Incomparably melodious.

Goa

I went to see the Taj Mahal two Octobers ago. It was my third visit, the first in six years. By the time we were a couple of kilometers off Delhi, I had already made up my mind: the Taj Mahal was heavily overrated and like most overrated things, it stole the limelight and left many equally brilliant, if not better, wonders of the country in the shadows.
By the time I got back, twelve hours later, I kept wondering: what was I thinking?
Under-estimation had acquired a whole new dimension altogether.
Goa. I had seen it all, I thought. The Sun, sands and the beaches; the rivers, the greenery, the hills, the plateaus; the water-sports, the food, Old Goa, the churches and the carnival atmosphere: yes, I had ticked them all off my list of things to do/see in life. This is my fourth visit, I found myself telling a friend—the place in itself holds no excitement. And the greenery, the hills and the beaches? I grew up there, yessir, right amidst them. I am going there for my friends and because it's close to home.
What was I thinking?
Goa: where do I begin? We stayed at Calangute. A thriving tourist-town, south of Panjim, but nonetheless, more north-Goa than south. The beach at Calangute, like the one closest to it—Baga—is crowded in the daytime. It's still a wonderful beach: scenic, with hills on either side, waves that bounce up and down like a maniacal ping-pong ball; then there's the guiltless blue sky dotted with colourful parachutes; pale grey ships rest where the sky meets the sea; water-scooters race along the coast, with banana-boats and rocking circular thingies for company ..
The nights on the beaches are something else: the majestic roar of the sea and the relentless chilling thrashing of the waves contrast the easy softness of the sand; the sky is a blanket of black studded with twinkling diamonds; and, even at three in the morning, when most of India sleeps, the beach is alive: men, women, children even, dancing gaily, singing, drinking, lost, happy. One never tires of walking along the coast in the nighttime ..
We did what most people our age do: we rode through Goa, on Bikes of varying makes. The road-maps are precise, the roads perfect—the highways are large and spacious, the smaller ones are pot-hole free and beautiful. And every now and then you come across bridges, some so small and low that only the faint gurgling of the stream below is an indication of there being one and others so big and panoramic, that you can barely keep your eyes on the road: a ship on the horizon, an island with a solitary tree, a boatman makes his way silently across the river, a fisherman has his net spread out wide, a few bathers swim and near the banks, a colony of houses with typical sloped tiling roof ..
There are three things the Konkan coast has to offer in Goa which, though individually may still be found elsewhere, together is both unique and quite a heady mixture: escape, freedom and life. The fort of Chapora, for example, is atop a small hill. The climb up is through this rocky pathway that brought back memories of long ago, when Manipal wasn't all artificial green and prim and proper lawns. To get to the hill, we drove through thin roads, dotted with small shops, the odd petrol bunk, a string of tiled-roof houses, a couple of shops again, trees and farms. Once atop the hill, we were somewhere else. An escape in an escape. The fort is nothing much to look at, you don't feel the sense of history you feel in other historical sites. But, the fort has got something else—something indescribable, something I haven't felt before: I first ran like a school-kid from one end to the other, racing along with my friend and then fell into a deep reverie as I reached the opposite end of the fort and looked beyond. Maybe when I am a few hundred books older or when I take an entrance test that requires me to improve my vocabulary tremendously, I'll be able to do justice to the view from atop ..
And all the while the sea-breeze, that carried the faint trace of the scent of fish and salt, blew across—it gave me a distinct sense of floating, of going past the fort, beyond the hill that looks over the sea, clear of the tiny sleepy fishing village with its birds and rocks and waves and sands and above the infinite expanse of blue, below and above ..
And the picture of those white sea-birds, some settled happily on the stretch of land that inexplicably emerges a few hundred metres off the coast, some gliding above perfectly aimlessly was the one that symbolized Goa for me …
Pico Iyer once wrote this meandering, soporific, constrained novel called Abandon. It was only my respect for the man that prevented me from abandoning it half-way through. Maybe he should go to Goa someday …