Conversations-III

James Downie: I am working on a novel.

Me: Fiction? First-person?

James: Yes and yes.

Me: About?

James: About 42.

Me: Ah, the Answer to the Ultimate Question?

James: No, I am 42 now.

Anita: “Is all good writing personal?”

James Downie: “You’ve read a fair-share yourself. What do you think?”

Anita: “There is this intimacy to personal writing that no amount of third-person description can achieve”

James Downie: “That’s one reason—not, of course, the only one—why cinemas and plays are more popular than books. Okay, in a play, all conversations are manifestations of a single mind, right?

Anita: “The playwright’s?”

James Downie: “Yeah, the play—“

A: “That’s being simplistic”

J: “Maybe, but it doesn’t harm what I am saying. Okay, so where was I?”

A: “The playwright”

J: “Yeah, the playwright. But, when you watch a play, one tends to forget it. It is the characters who address each other, who address you”

Anita: “But I relate to characters in books just as strongly as I relate to actors in plays”

James Downie: “That’s not what I am driving at—there is this immediacy to a character in a play that no amount of words can achieve. Of course, an imaginative mind can overcome these hurdles … But—“

[Pause]

James Downie: “But there’s something unexplainable. And it draws from the same idea of immediacy that makes a first-person account more effective … Okay, let me put it this way: a book is more about the writer than a movie is about the director. A movie or a play has multiple voices—all speaking the same mind’s words, but adding their own highly distinctive styles. That is, in some ways, a more realistic depiction of … reality. On the other hand, the language, the style of a book is the sole prerogative of a writer. All background events are described in the same way—the words slot behind one another in a particular manner. The element of chaos—even the staged chaos of a play or a movie—that is so characteristic of reality doesn’t always come through”

“And a first person account captures reality more honestly?”

“Honesty! That’s an interesting choice of word, but that’s precisely why first-person accounts work sometimes. A first person account might be monochromatic in its style, but the character speaks to you directly through the pages; a good writer makes you forget him and remember only the character”

“And you are a good writer?”

“I’m a smart writer: I know what sells”

*****

Me: Back then, was James a good opener?

Pankaj Kishore: James had great skill and Zen-like patience. In those days, that’s what was prized above all else. He had a range of strokes for anything on the stumps—he was wristy, he would drive down the ground with aplomb, he would loft splendidly.”

[Pause]

Pankaj Kishore: But, he was a curious batsman: outside the off-stump, he would rarely touch anything.

*****

Text Message from James Downie: *Hey, What’s up?* [Sep 20^th]

Text Message from James Downie: *Up?* [Sep 22^nd]

Text Message from James Downie: *Pizza?* [Sep 27^th]

Text Message from James Downie: *Are you in Park Lane?* [Sep 30^th]

Text Message from James Downie: *What’s up?* [Oct 1^st]

Text Message from James Downie: *Taleb’s coming on TV—BBC Entertainment* [Oct 2^nd]

Text Message from James Downie: *Message if in town* [Oct 3^rd]

*****

Me: She called back?

James Downie: No

Me: Did you try tracking her down?

James Downie: I had her address—Pankaj whispered it to me over the phone that very night. But, I never went down to see her. I messaged a couple of times, tried calling more.

Me: Why didn’t you go over?

James Downie: I don’t know.

*****

Pankaj Kishore: I remember a three-day match we played, once. There was this bowler from Hindu who was serving up these innocuous, juicy half-volleys, a foot outside off-stump. Bish, James’ opening partner, was having a fine time cover-driving, picking up boundaries at will. Our man would see the ball up until the last moment, and simply let it go, with a great, grand flourish. Sometimes he would prod at those balls tentatively and get a single.

Me: That’s how most people played then, right?

Pankaj Kishore: No, no one let go off rank half-volleys even then. I was the guy who carrying the drinks—I carried a message from the captain asking him to be more aggressive. He simply pointed to the men in the slips and continued batting in his own manner. It nearly cost him his place in the side.

*****

James Downie: It was amongst the most inexplicable things ever. She simply stopped talking to me.

Me: Did you ever see her after that?

[Silence]

James Downie: You know, in Sputnik Sweetheart, the central character, this feisty, supremely intelligent woman, simply vanishes. She goes over to the other side, Murakami explains. I spent days mulling over that phrase: what could it mean? It had to be a metaphor for something. I also considered how it could purely be a means to take the story forward. The book is about loneliness—alienation— and addresses the theme in a fairly direct manner, as opposed to say, Ruskin Bond’s Scenes from a Writer’s Life. For a book to be lonely, you need characters to disappear—what better way to do so than to make them inexplicably vanish?

[Pause]

James Downie: Have you read Bond’s book?

Me: No, but I’ve heard of it.

James Downie: It’s a classic: an autobiography, the book chronicles the loneliness of a troubled childhood. But, not once does Bond state it explicitly. It has the most cheery, most compelling, most honest and the most beautiful prose I have come across.

[Pause]

James Downie: The beauty of sadness—and gloomy prose—is unparalleled.

[Longish Silence]

James Downie: Of course, I never felt miserable, or lonely. I think, after so many years of living comfortably alone, it’s hard to feel either. But, it rankled. Nostalgia was never the sweet poison that it was for her, but it would gently tug at the sleeves of my mind, like a beggar-child on a street, and things would be a little melancholy for a bit.

[Pause]

Me: Why didn’t you go after her?

James Downie: She’d made her choices clear, I figured. And what if I slipped?

*****

Me: You’d have to find a new table-tennis partner for the next month or so, I’m afraid.

James Downie: Why? Are you going somewhere?

Me: I’m getting married.

James Downie: That’s wonderful news! Where’s my invitation?

Me: Right here. My wife-to-be, Anita, specifically asked me to invite you over. It’s been a long time, she says.

[The End]

Conversations - II

2.2
[Me: What did you think of Gopal then?
James Downie: I didn’t think much of him.
Me: What do you think of him now?
James Downie: I don’t think of him too much]
Anita: “Gopal didn’t take too kindly to your joke”
James Downie: “Gopal?”
Anita: “I am not falling for that one”
“Haha .. You shouldn’t have told him it was my joke”
“I didn’t”
“Oh!”
“And he didn’t find it funny?
“No”
“Oh …”
“You’re totally judging him, now”Of course not! I am just thinking …”
[Pause]
James Downie: “I guess I know why he didn’t find it funny”
Anita: “I’m all ears”
James Downie: “A pun is all about context, you know, and timing. Punctual punning, if you please”
“Ah”
“Devoid of them, a pun might as well disintegrate: from punditry to punishment”
“Hahaha … You’ve been wanting to try those lines on someone for quite a while now; haven’t you?”
“You really don’t think I am very smart”
“I think you are smart, but not this smart”
“Actually, I think I am capable of much more. A couple of spontaneous puns and a pop-theory on punning uses up hardly a hundredth of my cranial capacity”
“Your confidence is disconcerting”
“Only disconcerting? Not disturbing or, perhaps, disgusting?”
“Insightful”
“You know, that’s why I don’t think I could ever have had a full-time office job”
“You are too cocky to take orders?”
“I’d be less harsh on myself: I’m a born leader—“
“—you’ve just equated less harsh with extremely generous”
“But I detest hierarchies”
“As in?”
“I find hierarchies revolting. I’ll illustrate: I once went to a forest guest-house near Mysore, many years ago. The caretaker was this jolly, but pointedly subservient, fifty-year old man whose name escapes me now. I was twenty-eight, almost half his age; and yet, he would follow me around like a faithful puppy, offering to carry my bag, bring food to my bed, polish my shoes; and when he spoke, he always addressed me as “Sir” and spoke softly, his back bowed, his head bobbing. It was disconcerting, but I was willing to live with it. But, one day I came back early and I chanced upon him by himself in the main longue of the guest-house: sitting cross-legged on the sofa, his arms placed magisterially on the sofa’s arms, his eyes fixed on the TV, his fingers playing carelessly with the remote … The image, somehow, left me with a feeling of deep revulsion”
“Because of what society did to him?”
“You could say that-- unless we are equals, we are always actors. Society makes sure of that”
“And you think that’s true of any hierarchy?”
“Of course—Reddy! Mukunda Reddy was his name”
“Oh”

[Pause]

“Anyway, I am a writer now, so that lets me get away from such nagging contradictions. No more feeling like I was born to enjoy being in power, but hating the very idea of power itself. In a sense, I have no leaders and no followers”
“No leaders, yes. But, followers? Aren’t fans followers too?”
“Maybe … But of a different kind. They aren’t answerable to me; On the contrary, to a large extent, I am to them. Whether consciously or not, a lot of my writing keeps the audience in mind”
“It doesn’t come across, you know. Most of what you write seems too personal—someone who cares lot about what people think of him would hesitate to put so much of himself into their novels”

[Pause]

Anita: “That sentence didn’t sound right, did it?”
James Downie: “Always on the button”
Anita: “Haha”
JD: “But, coming back to my writing—“
A: “—Pankaj was right; you really love talking about the way you write”
“Of course, I don’t. But, coming back to my writing … ”
“Haha”
“I don’t think I referred to content as much as style when I said I keep the audience in mind. What I say is for myself, how I say it is for the readers”
“Hmmm … And I think you write best when you don’t think of how you are saying what you are saying”
“Distracted?”
“Distracted!”

*****
James Downie: “You know why I talk of my writing so much?”
Anita: “Why?”
“Because it’s my job. Everyone makes conversation about their job, it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. I appear narcissistic because my job only involves myself”
“I don’t talk about my job”
“Everyone who loves their job will talk about it; I, of course, live my job”
“Breathe work every millisecond”
“Nanosecond”

[Pause]

James Downie: “And you don’t talk about your job because you don’t have one”
Anita: “Not for long, James; not for long”
“Why don’t you have a job?”
“Because I’d be a disaster at a conventional work-place”
“Self-deprecation— you’d make a great fisherwoman”
“I was not fishing for praise there; I was simply stating facts”
“Okay, why will you be a disaster? I think you possess, in healthy amounts, all the necessary attributes to make a fine consultant”
“You don’t know me too well”
James Downie: “I’d like to”
Anita: “You would?”

*****
2.3

[Me: Did you expect the call?
James Downie: I did. But, it’s somewhat like the time when people tell you it’s going to be a bright, sunny day. And it turns out to be a bright sunny day, except, it pours too. Simultaneously.
Me: Thank God for the rainbow?
James Downie: Thank God for the rainbow, however brief][Phone rings]

James Downie: “Hi! What a pleasant surprise!”
Anita: “Why?”
James Downie: “’What ‘why’?”
Anita: “Why did you write that short fiction piece?”
James Downie: “I write because I have to make a living”
Anita: “But, why a piece based on me?”
James Downie: “Did you not like it?”

[Silence]

James Downie: Oye, I’m sorry; but it was such a lovely piece, so happy, so true!”

[Silence]

James Downie: “I’m sorry”
Anita: “I don’t ever want to be reduced to a public spectacle. I like my life the way it is and I wish there was a copyright violation on persons. I should sue you”
James Downie: “But, I spoke of you in such glowing terms. I even—“
[Engaged]

*****
3.0

[Me: She called back?
James Downie: Yes
Me: And?
James Downie: She apologised; she was sweet, warm, funny. I remember thinking it was a distinctly pleasant conversation
Me: I see
[Pause]
James Downie: But now, I don’t quite know if it indeed was. Some of the pauses seemed odd; and she did seem in a hurry to finish the conversation. Maybe I am imagining it; maybe I have gone over the memory so many times and from so many angles that I’ve lost all sense of objectivity”
Me: What happened next?
James Downie: You know she told me this queerly profound thing once about nostalgia: she called it ‘sweet poison’. In fact, I wrote it down somewhere … Let me get it for you]
James Downie: “Good memories are like costly wine, they get better with time. And like wine, they leave just a little sourness in the mouth; an overdose can lead to an overwhelming sense of sadness”
Anita: “That’s quite some impromptu passage”
James Downie: “It’s not impromptu. And I didn’t write it. Some random student whose essay I’m judging”
Anita: “He must win, for that passage alone”
JD: “I want him to; but most of what he says has nothing to do with the theme of the essay. Beauty needs no context, but, unfortunately, victory does”
Anita: “That’s so true of the world at large. Everything needs a context, a space, a history, a trajectory that chalks its path into the future”

[Pause]

A: “And nostalgia is not good wine, its sweet poison”
JD: “Surely you didn’t say poison?”
A: “I most definitely did”

[Pause]

A: “I’ll explain. Nostalgia’s a very strong presence in my life, at once my greatest strength and weakness. I am overcome by nostalgia in waves, in short, strong bursts, that transport me to worlds long forgotten. This is where she is sweet—“
JD: “Who?”
A: “Nostalgia. This is where nostalgia is sweet. But, sometimes she is everywhere: in the wooden panelling on the floor; in the medals hung on the wall; in the blooming Gulmohar in summer; in the darkest depths of the nights. And every scene is a memory, and reality merges seamlessly with remembrance; certainty and chance are twined to form a strange, almost cosmic puzzle that leaves me completely drained … And these are the days I sketch; just like it is for you, intensely personal art is an escape”

[Pregnant silence]

JD: “It sounded good—and dark”
A: “But?”
JD: “But it also went over my head”
A: “Mull over it. After all, most of life leaves your cranial capacity untouched”

*****
3.1

[Me: It’s cloudy
James Downie: It’s been like that for some time here. I find, increasingly, that the weather mimics my state of mind. Grey, with occasional rays of bright, mad light … Maybe I am the weather God.
Me: Been reading the Guide lately?
James: The Guide’s the book that keeps me happy]
Pankaj Kishore: “James! A distinctly inopportune time to barge in—you are true to form, I must admit”
James: “I’m certain you’ve realised that I have not barged it; that it is pouring where I stand now, and I do not have an umbrella and am as wet as a whale”
PK: “Am I supposed to invite you in, now?”
JD: “Don’t tell me you have a woman who is not your wife in there with you and you need some privacy”
“My wife’s here; she’s up and fuming. She hates being awoken at ungodly hours”
“Exactly why I came; now move aside, I need to go in”
Meena: “James! My children are sleeping, so I need you to be soft. And get out as soon as possible”
JD: “Could you make me some tea, Meena?”
Meena: “Tell him to get lost, Pankaj”
PK: “You can tell him yourself. This is as much your house as it is mine”
M: “Get lost Downie and good night. I am going to bed. Pankaj, get rid of him fast”
[Sound of footsteps receding]
JD: “She never got over the fact that I asked you not to marry her. Dude, it’s been fifteen years”
PK: “What do you want, James?”
JD: “I want her address”
PK: “Anita’s?”
JD: “No, Surpanakha’s. I have forgotten what street Ravana’s palace is on”
PK: “Gopal is a second-cousin of sorts to my wife, James. I don’t want to have to do anything with this”

[Pause]

JD: “Okay”
PK: “Okay?”
“Thanks for helping. I knew I couldn’t count on you”
“What happened?”
“She isn’t answering her phone; it’s pouring outside”
“For how long?”
“It’s been pouring all week; she hasn’t answered her phone for almost a week now. No reply to messages, no nothing”
“I’ll see what I can do”
“No wonder you’re such a champion government official: I’ll see what I can do”

*****

[Me: Are all artists escapists?
James Downie: You mean, are all of us escape-artists?
Me: Haha!
James Downie: I think most non-artists are escapists; the world is an escape from within. Immerse yourself in reality and forget who you really are]

[Me: Are all artists escapists?
Pankaj Kishore: All artists are border-line mental cases; James is not. He crossed over a long time ago.]*****
[To continue]

Conversations

1.0

[Me: Why the Coffee House?

James Downie: Well, you should ask Pankaj that question—he loves that place. I am not too particular, distance and traffic—not time—being my only constraints. And this place is close by; also cosy, quiet-ish and serves fantastic coffee. Plus, Pankaj, being Pankaj, knows the Manager and we always get a table, even in rush hour.

Me: And what did you think of her then?

James Downie: I thought she was pretty. Yeah, very pretty, and quiet. Wonderfully-- almost mysteriously— so!]

 
Pankaj Kishore: "So, what are you working on?"
James Downie: "Nothing, nothing really. I am trying to write a novel, but I can't seem to string a hundred words together"
PK: "That's odd; brevity's never a feature of your speech"
JD: "I think that's a bit rich coming from you. You who— oh well, I'll save it for another time"
"Ah, see? You have to rein in yourself to stop talking. Brevity was never really a feature of your speech"
"Come on. Someone in the media once told me you converted a whole bunch of presspersons into practicing somnambulists after a three-hour press conference [Snort]. And Dr Ray told me he prescribes you for insomnia. His prescription is, in fact, a Youtube link: the one where you talk in five instalments about earthworm regeneration and farm development"
"If I were Dr Ray, I'd prescribe your Catalysts. I couldn't get past page twelve"
"I am proud I got you to read eleven pages of fiction"
"I have no time for stories; the world is too real for stories"
"But I doubt your non-fiction credentials too. Barring the Constitution, which you mugged for your Civil Services entrance exams a decade ago, I think your reading is largely restricted to office files and newspapers"
PK: "You obviously do not know me very well"
JD: "Okay, name three books you read recently"
"Okay, wait: I read Devdutt Patnaik's compelling retelling of the Mahabharata, Jaya. I read a book on the emergency by this young chap—Giridhar Bhat— who sourced recently released white-papers and other private documents of Indira Gandhi; and, I read The Monk who sold his Ferrari"

"Oh, I am going to love dissecting this; to me you are like Abhimanyu, defenceless, open to attack from all sides. First, a minor technical point: the Mahabharata is a work of fiction"
"Correction: historical fiction. It is rooted in history"
"I won't argue— to each his own. But, I think, at best, it is fictitious history. Second, I am certain you know the epic well, so I don't really think you "read" the book. You bought it, and then you skimmed through for a couple of hours—perhaps on a flight—and then put it in your library to show off. Of course, you will not agree, so we will not debate this point either. Third, I think the same applies to the Emergency book as well, it's a well-known event, you must have read the blurb, perhaps the first chapter, then skipped to the juicy bits and let it go. In fact, this is my theory on most of the vast collection of books in your library. Fourth—or was it fifth— I pity you if you did indeed read The Monk. Such pop-philosophy does not befit a mind as sharp as yours"
Anita: "Antilibrary"
James Downie:"What?"
Anita:"Taleb—in the Black Swan—calls it an antilibrary: a library stacked with books that one hasn't read. As a constant reminder that there is so much one doesn't know"
Pankaj Kishore: "Ah, yes. He was referring to Umberto Eco's library, right? See? That's another book I have read"
James Downie: "Is it in the first chapter?"
A: "What?"
JD: "Is the idea of an antilibrary introduced in the first chapter?"
A: "Haha—I am afraid so, yes"
JD: "Yes, that's another book you have read in your own distinctive style"
Pankaj Kishore: "Ask me anything from the book"
JD: "I haven't read it myself, maybe you can ask her. She remembered the concept, so I'm guessing she has read the whole—"
[Phone rings]

PK: "Excuse me. I need to take this call"
JD: "Sure"

 
Awkward silence.


 
James Downie: "So?"
Anita: "Hmm"
"I am guessing you have, umm, read the book?"
"The book?"
"The Black Swan"
"Yes"

 
Awkward silence II.


 
James Downie: "It's quite a long phone call"
Anita: "Yes"
"You, umm, liked the book?"
"Yes. Very nice"
"You don't talk much"
"No, that depends …"
"Depends?"

 
Awkward silence III


 
Anita: "I liked your book"
James Downie: "Really? Which one?"
"The latest: Calling Courtesies"

"Thanks, that's nice to hear. Did you like something in particular?"
"I liked the style: it was sort of, like, distracted"

"Diffracted?"

"No. Distracted. It's almost as though your mind was elsewhere when you wrote the book"
"And that's a good thing?"
"It's a good thing for you"
"Go on. And try and be elaborate"
Anita: "Let me try and draw a sporting analogy, only because my fiancé is a tennis freak and I have spent a considerable period of time watching and following the sport. A lot of the sport is, at least at the highest level, played in the mind. Some players are advised to forget the scoreboard, to play the ball and not the opponent or the situation. It's a tough act, but an enormously handy attribute to possess. Others—and these are a rarer breed—need the scoreboard, only because when they are down they play better. Adversity spurs them to greater heights"
"And I belong to the latter category?"
"No, the former"
"I meant the former, sorry"
"Yes, you write best when you don't think about the fact that you are writing"
"Distracted"
"Haha, yes … Of course, all this is mere hypothesis. Only you know what is right"
JD: "Distracted"
Undefined silence.

James Downie: "And how did you come to this conclusion?"
Anita: "What?"
"How do you know what novels I write distracted?"
"Well, you can tell"
"You can?"
"Your distracted novels, like The
Advocate's Devil or And are meandering, verbose and full of loose ends. But, they are also the funniest and the most endearing; most importantly, the words flow. There is a seamless, almost unthinking connection that binds words together"
"Fantastic"
"Am I right?"
JD: "What does it matter? It's a fascinating hypothesis, whether perceptive or not is another issue"
A: "Thank you"
JD: "Fascinating"

 
Pankaj Kishore: "What did I miss?"
James Downie: "Your young friend here is entertaining me with stories of alien invasion"
"Alien invasion?"
"No, perhaps not as far-fetched, but equally captivating"
"Let me guess, you guys must have been discussing you—or your latest book. I can't imagine you finding much else captivating"
"Some, umm, people can be captivating"
Anita: "You know, I am really beginning to doubt if you guys really like each other"
James Downie: "We don't"
Text Message from Pankaj Kishore: *Dude, she's talking. She hadn't said a word all day*
James Downie: "I come to see him because I need my monthly fix of acerbic banter. Also, I need some ridiculous perspectives on life: my writing tends to get too dull, too uni-dimensional otherwise"
Pankaj Kishore: "His ridiculous perspectives—that's why I come too"
Text Message from James Downie: *I tend to have that effect on people. How serious is she about this fiancé?*
James Downie: "Perhaps the only thing we agree upon"
Pankaj Kishore: "Perhaps the only thing we agree upon"
Text Message from Pankaj Kishore: *Dude, stay away. And stop looking at her like that*
******
2.0

[Me: Did you ever consider calling him?

Anita: No.

Me: Were you surprised he called?

Anita: I was, but I shouldn't have been.

Me: And you said yes?

Anita: On a whim, yes. He's famous, writes well and seemed interesting. Plus, Lodhi Gardens is a nice place to walk in]

 Anita: "I am surprised you called"
James Downie: "I am not surprised you came"
"It's funny; you don't come across as cocky in your novels"
"I am not—I am just speaking from experience"
"That statement was cockier: if that's an English word"
"It is, I guess. Though you don't hear people going—he's the cockiest around"

"Haha"
"I am not cocky. I just don't mind calling a diamond a diamond"
"A straightforward writer—it has really got an oxymoronic ring to it"
"I can be straightforward in my private life and still write about complicated characters—just like you can have extremely gentle fast bowlers"
A: "Or hangmen with a heart of gold?"
JD: "Or hangmen with a heart of gold! "
"So …"
JD: "So?"
"So, why am I here?"
"Would you like to have a go? Since you have such fascinating theories about me"
"You find me attractive, mildly smart and sufficiently liberal, the fiancé notwithstanding"
"Like most of my critics, you seem to know me better than I do"
"Was I being too harsh there?"
"Perhaps"
A: "So, why am I here?"
"I found you interesting"

"Interesting?"
"Interesting"
A: "As in?"
JD: "Ah, you would have made a fine fisherwoman"
"What?"
"Nothing"
"Don't give me that superior smile"
"I am not smiling. My face is as stern as a headmaster's"
"The mirth in your voice is a dead giveaway"
"Like a silver-lining on the cloud"
"Beautiful"
"What is beautiful?"
A: "What you just said"
JD: "Really?"
A: "Fisherman"

 *******
2.1

[Me: Did you like the movie?

James Downie: I loved the pop-corn]

 Anita: "Good movie"
James Downie: "Good …ish. Yeah, goodish, I guess"
"You didn't like it?"
"I decide how much I like a movie only few days later. My favourite movies haunt me. I know I really love a movie when one fine morning, days later, I wake up thinking of a scene, or a character or a dialogue"
"I think one of the characters in Catalyst said something similar. In fact, I am almost the polar opposite. For me the viewing experience is the key: I need to be sucked into the movie, so deeply engrossed that I forget all that is around me. That's when I know I truly loved a movie"
"Cinema as only a medium of escape"
"Yes, you could say that"
[Pause]

Anita: "Your favourite movie?"
James Downie: "Stardust Memories"
"I watched it only recently and I loved it so much"
"I watched it first twenty years ago and I have watched it many times since. You know how I realised that it simply had to be my favourite?"
"You dreamt about it?"
"No, even better: I was reading the newspaper one afternoon, when I was suddenly overcome by a strange scent— a mix of water-sprinkler on drenched, trimmed lawns, French perfume and cigarettes. I immediately recognized it as from the long-shot of Isabel—Marie-Christine Barrault— striding confidently down the pathway of Stardust Hotel, her bags in tow"
"Remarkable"
"You talk of the movie sucking you in, here was a clear case of the inverse: I had internalized the movie so strongly that I could smell it"
"I can't quite believe what you are telling me"
"Oh, but you must— why, hello!"
Pankaj Kishore: "Hi!"
James Downie: "Hi"
Anita: "Hi"
Gopal: "Ani, I thought you were with your friends watching a movie!"
A: "I was—and I bumped into him on my way out, and we got talking …"
G: "And you are—"
PK: "Pardon me, gentlemen, let me do the introductions. This is James Downie, the famous writer of amongst the most brilliant prose of the past decade and more; and this is Gopal, hot-shot investment banker and—"
A: "And my fiancé"
JD: "Oh, nice to meet you"
G: "My pleasure"
[Pause]
G: "I must say, Mr Downie, I am not one for reading books. As my guru here says, the world is too—"
JD: "—real for stories. Yes, I've heard that many times"
Text Message from Pankaj Kishore: *Dude, WTF. Back off. She's getting married*
Text Message from James Downie: *Guru? You're his Guru? I'm loving this*
JD: Guys, I better get going. Inspiration has struck.
PK: Yeah, run along now. You mustn't keep her waiting.
A and G: See you!
Text Message from Anita: *Later?*
Text Message from James Downie: *Later … Quick Quiz: what happens when Gopal is on a farting spree?*
Text Message from Anita: *What?*
Text Message from JD: *Gopal Gas Tragedy*
 [To continue]

Past Fast-- II

(Continued from here)
The next morning, Thatha refused breakfast. I entered the kitchen to find Amma muttering to herself furiously—strangely, it reminded me of Pati in her final days. Half-deaf and increasingly disinterested in daily affairs, Pati spent the bulk of her waking hours in a peculiar state of quiet frenzy— she perpetually chanted Lord Vishnu’s name under her breath, ordering Him to show Himself. She would rant about His continuous absence and question His very existence, all in an understated yet angry manner. Amma today was just like that, except her mantra involved largely the following words—old man, senile, fool, waste—interspersed with other choice expletives.

By noon, lunch was served. And Thatha’s leaf was still friendless. Amma’s frown had grown set; she still didn’t say a word to Thatha, showing a spirit of passive resistance to open confrontation that matched Thatha’s own.

Thatha on the other hand, spent the bulk of the day writing and hanging a banner outside the house that said, in big, bold, black Kannada letters: “Indefinite Hunger Strike. We want Bus”. The first curious onlookers were children, all around my age, who stared and stared at banner that might as well have been in Greek. I took upon the task of campaign propagandist, explaining in grand detail Thatha’s motives.

By dusk, Appa was back, tired from his work in the fields and dinner was served. And refused. That finally broke Amma’s spirit: her upper-lip stiff, on the verge of tears, she told Appa of his father’s madness. Appa listened, initially with amusement, then with increasing alarm and did something I had never seen him do in my presence—put his arm around her. It was a brief, abrupt hug, but long enough for me to turn away embarrassed. And Amma, oblivious to all, let out a barely audible sob. Appa turned to me, smiled wearily and said: where’s Thatha? Mutely, I pointed towards the door and Appa went outside and I followed.
Thatha sat by the stairs outside, apparently nonplussed, staring into the distance.
“Appa” Appa addressed his Appa, “What are you doing?”
“Watching dusk give way to night; watching the sun make way for the moon”
Appa sighed, clicked his tongue, looked down, stretched his feet, and said:
“What are you doing, Appa?”
Thatha looked at Appa and smiled:
“This village needs a bus”
“So?”
“So, I am fasting to death to ensure this village gets one”
Appa sunk his head in his hands.
“And” he said, eventually looking up, “How do you think that is going to help?”
Thatha looked at Appa—his eyes excited, his voice acquiring a strength of its own, and said:
“I have written letters. One to the District Commissioner, a couple more to the Transport Office in Haladi, one to the Municipal Corporation in Bangalore, one more to the Transport Minister of the State and finally—“ he said and paused for dramatic effect, and I could sense something big was coming, “to the CM—Chief Minister!”
I tore my eyes off Thatha’s face—flush with delight—to Appa’s— unimpressed, weary eyes and a drooping jaw that let words out cautiously:
“Saying what?”
“Saying that I will go on a hunger strike—indefinitely—for a bus”
Appa’s face had at least five of Bharata’s nine emotions running through them—surprise, shock, amusement, disappointment and mirth. It was the last of those that stuck and he burst out laughing.
“You’re crazy” he said, between chuckles and continued, “Enough of this. Come, let’s eat”
Thatha laughed too, but said, in a firm yet kind way:
“No”
Appa sighed. Eventually, he said, more harsh than weary:
“Do you really think the Chief Minister of the state cares about an old man in an obscure village five-hundred kilometres from Bangalore?”
“If he has a conscience”
“Conscience?” Appa burst out, and he clutched his loin-cloth firmly to vent his rage and continued, “Who cares for us, Appa? We have no schools, no hospitals here! No electricity, no roads! One government falls, another takes its place, does anybody care? Every five years one official comes to take down our names and promises some grain. Where is that grain? Where is that rice? I walk through jungles to sell my produce, lugging them on my shoulder, my feet bare. Does anybody care? It has been twenty-five years since the British left—or so you tell me—and has it made any difference to our lives?”
And Appa stood up, furious, and made to leave, but not before he had one, final parting shot:
“Tomorrow, when you die, I will write a letter to the CM inviting him to your funeral. He will surely come!”

Thatha remained stone-faced, silent. And when the first owl-hooted, he turned to look at me staring at him—my eyes fearful—and winked and said: “Sleep-time”
That night Thatha sang Vachana Number Twelve and repeated, until sleep wrestled the last ounce of consciousness from of my eyes, the same line: “Then again, what can I do? I am but a poor man”
*****
By the third day, Thatha had become the talk of the village; Amma had become a nervous wreck; Appa was largely quiet, but obviously unhappy; I was afraid, but also proud. I had heard—from Thatha, of course—of Gandhi and his miracle fasts that moved nations. And here, in my very own house, I told myself proudly, we had his modern-day avatar!
The villagers always had tremendous respect for Thatha’s knowledge, but they also thought he lacked basic common sense. He had invoked in them not the kind of passionate introspection and subsequent action that Gandhi did, nor a thirst for blood like the communists; indeed, they were untouched by neither the fear that gripped Amma or the saintly reverence that I felt. For them, it was a curious, amusing, a little sad sometimes, but exceedingly interesting act from someone’s life—looking back, I think they sort of thought they were watching a play. Gripping—the stuff of legend, even—but somebody else’s problem.

As for buses, the villagers couldn’t care less. Thatha’s speeches on bus-stands and petrol and lives changing inspired at best, fantastic flights of imagination; at worst, they were dismissed like his views on untouchability.

*****
Every meal, Amma placed an empty leaf and filled it with rice and saaru. Every meal, I ate twice.

One day, Appa procured, from God-knows-where, at God-knows-how-much, some payasa. Its aroma filled a house unaccustomed to its presence. Amma smiled for the first time in days; Appa seemed to relax a little too. I was delirious with joy. Thatha, however, slept through lunch-time.

*****
Appa was born in the ‘40s and grew up, largely, on his own. Thatha, a freedom-fighter and a staunch Gandhian, lived away and would send money at irregular intervals; at even more irregular intervals, he would make an appearance in the village—gaunt, unshaven, rag-clad, his eyes sleep-deprived, he looked like he was seventy-five. Appa and Pati would nurse him back to health and within days, he would go away. He only came back for his son, Pati would tell me much later, and would always bring books—story books, comics, children’s novels and suchlike. That was Appa’s only education.

Appa did like his books, but he loved his village more. The blue skies, the tiled roofs, the dew-drenched grass, the eucalyptus trees, the tadpoles in the puddles, the great, golden fields, the green-blue, algae-ridden tank by the temple and the crocodiles within, the vast hills in the distance, their tips swallowed by the clouds—he so intensely cared for these that despite Thatha begging him to do so later on, he refused to shift to Haladi. Instead, he asked Thatha to move back with him.

Thatha did and never quite settled down, but never complained either.

*****
On the seventh day, Appa had all but given up when Amma announced, much to his shock, that she was going on an indefinite counter-fast. To her credit, we had exhausted all other possible options—they had pleaded and begged, appealed to his human side, asked him to live for me—his only grandson whose free education in the city ran on his goodwill; they yelled at him, called him names, even chose to completely ignore him for a couple of days, hoping silence would help him come around. Many years later, Amma admitted to me that they had even tried force-feeding him—the very thought brought tears to her eyes.

Appa was livid. In his own quiet manner, he threw a few of his prized possessions, my books and some clothes, into a bag, caught me by the hand, and staged a walk-out. “I don’t want to live in this mad-house” he thundered. Amma wailed; Thatha, who could barely walk now, sprang out of his bed and put his hand on Appa’s shoulder and said: “Stop”. Appa looked at him—frail, wiry thin, unshaven, sunken sleepy eyes, only his giant ears stood out, its size accentuated by the shrunken dimensions of all else. Appa dropped his bag, let go off my hand and looked down at the floor, rooted, unmoving. Amma, taking that as a sign that the coast was clear, proceeded to, in her own efficient nature, unpack Appa’s bag and replace my books; Thatha went back to lying down on his charpoy in the veranda, his eyes fixed on the spectacular sky, unblinking.

Much like Thatha’s eyes, Appa stood, motionless—the sky changed colours, the sounds of the day gave way to those of dusk, but like the sun standing still watching the world go around, he remained, immobile.

*****
A Satyagraha, the Mahatma once remarked, usually passes through five stages: indifference, ridicule, abuse, repression and respect. Going by that yardstick, Thatha’s campaign barely got underway—the village didn’t even care enough to ridicule it. Inside the house, however, the success was resounding: if the campaign survived repression, the Mahatma said, then ‘it invariably commanded respect, another name for success’. And, whether grudgingly (as was in the case of Appa and Amma) or openly (as was with me), he had earned tremendous respect within the house. The leaner he grew, the stronger became his resolve, the greater was his aura—even in moments of grave doubt, when it dawned on him that his was a cause beyond his fellow-men’s simple minds, he never went back on his word.

For Thatha himself, his Satyagraha’s success was, at best, questionable—indeed, towards the fag end, his very definition of success changed. His initial enthusiasm briskly wilted, giving way to, by the third day, deep introspection and consequently, deeper disappointment. In fact, when the house chose to win him over with its silence, Thatha himself receded into a quiet phase. When he emerged, Thatha was a different man—no less stubborn in his denial of food, but unsure of what he actually wanted to achieve.
“In the olden days” Thatha told me, “the old King would give up all and go away to the forest. Eventually, if he wasn’t eaten by animals or consumed by a forest fire, he would give up his body too, by fasting to death”. “My fast may be a public failure”, he told Amma, sipping pensively his glass of salt-water, “but privately, it has shattered the very foundation on which my life had been built—it has harboured a great phase of unlearning in my life. The only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing”

******
One morning, I awoke to find Thatha and Amma bellowing at the top of their voices: another fight, I presumed and hid myself under my blanket, willing myself to go back to sleep. It proved futile: a fresh day laden with infinite possibilities, a bright new sun, clear rays streaming through every open space, light playing with spots of shadow, light dominating shadow—these proved too heady a concoction for even sleep to overcome. I sat up to stretch and Thatha hobbled in, as lean and bent as a creeper, but he was smiling.
“Fighting again?” I asked.
“No” he said and added with a wink, “practising. I think I’ll be seeing your deaf Pati again soon”

*****
“When Gandhiji fasted, a nation prayed, millions mended their ways, countries shook” Thatha said and added drily, “The only thing my fast inspired was another one”.

That night, the tenth since Thatha began his campaign, Thatha sat with us for dinner. Bursting with energy, whose source could only come from the oxygen he breathed, he laughed and joked and even sang a couple of lines from a Vachana he had recently discovered in one of his older notebooks. Appa and Amma, in uncharacteristic fashion, bowed down before him after dinner and told me to follow suit. I followed Thatha’s advice instead and stood next to him as my parents lay sprawled out in front and blessed them as he did. Thatha ruffled my hair and let me go.

As we went to bed, Thatha, like many nights during the past week, felt he was too weak to sing for me. Instead he lay down in his characteristic fashion—straight as a rod, his right hand on his stomach, his left wrapped around his head like an inverted ‘L’, his legs a little apart.

Thatha never woke up—he died a peaceful man, one whose final act was a failure, but only left him infinitely wiser.

Past Fast – I

One gay November day, Thatha decided to go on a hunger strike: Anna Satyagraha, in his words. The cause was, in hindsight, an important one. However, in our village of a hundred and seventy-two, Thatha had only one other supporter—me. I was sharp, smart and perhaps the best-educated in the village. Unfortunately for Thatha, I was eleven.
Thatha was everything the village was not—he thought ahead, sometimes years ahead; he liked to travel, to see the world; he rationalized—he argued for reason to be placed above all, even Lord Vishnu. The latter was a stand that brought him so much flak that he ended up preaching it only to me, well after the last lamps in the house were extinguished, in whispers so soft that the words wrapped around me like a cosy, comforting blanket, making my eyelashes heavy; At a time when most of the village could speak one language and read none, Thatha was trilingual— proficient in Kannada, English and Sanskrit, the latter being self-taught. Needless to say, the village thought Thatha was nuts, a view that was shared by all in the house except Amma and I; it was also a view that he didn't care much about; indeed, it was a view that he was completely oblivious to, that didn't affect him directly up until that November afternoon.
It all began a few months previously, when he received a letter from his friend—another old man with little to do—that rambled on about Basava's Vachana number twenty-three. I remember, very clearly, the scene: it was late-afternoon by the time the post-man got home, a little tired and extremely thirsty. Thatha had a look of controlled excitement on his face—he masked it well enough for a casual observer to not see any trace of contentment, but I knew better: his hands trembled, ever so slightly, as he held the letter; his eyes flickered with pride, his wrinkles a web of eager, dancing patterns. He took the letter and smelt it, an old habit that rubbed on to me so hard that I find it hard to explain to perplexed onlookers when they catch me with my nose plastered to my laptop screen when I get an email from old friends. He read out the letter—not because he wanted me to listen, but because he always read out aloud (which perhaps contributed in no small way to Pati's acute loss of hearing in the twilight of her life).
The letter was unremarkable but for the post-script tucked away in a corner, hastily scribbled but underlined thrice: "We've got our first bus that plies every second day, from our village to Haladi!" Haladi was to us what Bangalore was to the Haladi: a hallowed land of endless opportunity, of bus-stands the size of playgrounds; of schools that housed more children than a forest had trees; of railway stations where trains actually stopped and not merely flew past.
Thatha read the post-script out and paused. His eyebrows shot up. Unconsciously, he drummed his bald plate and muttered to himself, softly—'bus', 'Haladi'. He thrust the letter in my hand hurriedly almost as though it was a plate-full of meat that he had mistakenly presumed to be his lunch and began pacing around the veranda, his hands tied behind his back, pausing now and again to look at the clear, azure sky.
Thatha skipped lunch that day. He chose to eat guavas for dinner—guavas tinged with salt and khara. I asked for the same, but Amma gave me such an ugly look that I chose not to pursue it, though I shot longing glances at his plate throughout dinner. Appa noticed me and smiled wistfully when he caught my eyes, and pointed to Thatha and ran circles around his own head: screw loose. That night, Thatha sang Vachana Number Twenty-Three to put me to bed. I slept a few lines into his explanation of the depth of the song.
The next morning I awoke to a wailing cock and a spectacular sun—the rays bounced off our newly painted walls, their brilliance reflected, multiplied; the world, as I awoke, was bathed in white—not the faint, calming white of a full moon, but the coruscating one of a new dawn.
Thatha was gone, Amma told me, as she placed my milk on the floor. Gone where? I asked, still drowsy. Somewhere, she said from her kitchen, and the clattering of vessels and the gushing of water told me her mind was elsewhere.
Subsequently, Thatha went 'somewhere' quite often. It was not like he didn't disappear previously; it was just that he never did with such alarming frequency. His disappearances would last a couple of days sometimes, sometimes longer. I once asked Amma, I think after his fourth disappearance in three weeks, where Thatha went. She said she didn't know, and added, more to herself than to me: at least, it keeps him going. I didn't dare ask Thatha—don't get me wrong, I wasn't afraid, but it was disrespectful to ask and I didn't want to pry.
*****
My eyes flew open. But for a streak of pale yellow that crept through the half-open door of my bedroom, there was darkness everywhere. An owl hooted from somewhere nearby; I heard the hyenas cackle, secure in the confines of the jungle that bordered our village; insects clicked and screeched. And voices argued, in audible whispers. I snuck up to my door and peered at the figures lit by the lamp-light: in the hallway, under the shadow of my Thatha who stood in front, was Amma, her back to me, hands on hips, legs apart. Thatha was visibly tired, but was hunched in a manner that was at once defiant and apologetic. It was obvious that he had just returned.
"What if the hyenas eat you?" Amma asked, rubbing her forehead with her wrists.
"I have lived in this godforsaken village for an almost uninterrupted seventy-five years now. The hyenas and I have a very fine, working relationship"
"Why couldn't you wait till tomorrow to leave wherever you left from? What is the hurry?"
"I sleep best in my bed, ma. Ageing brings with it, amongst other ails, a fanatical rigidity in tastes"
I wondered if there was ever a time when Thatha had flexible preferences, but that train of thought was quickly put aside, for the conversation wound up and Thatha was making his way to his customary sleeping place beside me. I rushed to bed, shut my eyes as hard as I could, and pretended to sleep. For a brief few tense moments, there was darkness behind my eyes, and then it was gone, for Thatha had walked in, lamp in hand. I heard him unroll his mattress, pat the bedspread a couple of times and heard it puff as he laid it out.
In less than a minute, all the hyenas and the insects, the owls and the frogs were drowned by Thatha's snores.
*****
The next day Thatha called me over to his 'study'. The study, in essence, comprised a cane chair and a table, placed strategically in a corner of our bedroom. He partitioned it from the rest of the room with an old, off-white, plain curtain. The table was situated next to a window—one surprisingly large for our kind of houses—that when thrown open, accommodated a modest landscape: neatly partitioned fields, palm trees, languid cows and a lazy green everywhere.
"Do you see this?" he asked, pointing to a table.
On the table was a hand-drawn map, its shape unrecognizable, its names alien. I plodded through the Kannada words scattered all over the strange shell-shaped figure, looking for something familiar. Eventually I spotted one name, right at the centre, written in bold, black ink. I put my finger on the name and read out:
"Ha-la-di"
"Excellent" he said, beaming.
"This is our map. This is—", he said, tracing his finger north-ward from Haladi and stopping at a point, "where we live"
"What are these lines?" I asked. There were lines that ran from Haladi to various other points, lines drawn in blue ink.
"Excellent question, excellent question!" he said, and continued, excited, "They are bus-routes"
And Thatha explained what had possessed him all this while. Over the past few months, ever since he got that letter from his friend, he had made trips to a whole host of villages, taking buses, bullock-carts, even trekking on foot; he had been talking to Collectors and transport officials, weavers and farmers, school-teachers and village-doctors, labourers and activists.
He ran his fingers around what roughly constituted a circle around our village—the five closest villages on the map—and showed me how all of them were connected by blue-lines. Indeed, all but three villages of a total of over sixty had buses that plied through them. Ignominious company, he hissed. He went on to explain to me how buses changed lives, altered outlooks and livelihoods, about how people he had met from all walks of life told him glowing stories about shrinking distances, growing opportunities, greater happiness.
*****
The next morning, Thatha refused breakfast.
(To continue, in three days)