Empty Nothings (Part 2)

(Continued from below)

Something changed. I could sense her presence; I could sense her absence; I could sense her presence in her absence. For no apparent reason, a whiff of her perfume—up until then just another scent in a city that was an assault on the olfactory senses—made fleeting, surreal appearances; when she did actually walk past, I felt a jolt in my insides, my limbs knotting in tension; when she smiled, I smiled too, but fractionally later than usual—I had to keep telling myself to act normal.

Stranger still, when she came in the nights, she behaved like nothing had transpired between us. We continued to speak as usual—she with her coffee mug, I with my chipped tea-cup— discussing our days, our lives and our ideas. Truth be told, nothing happened that night: nothing tangible, even remotely momentous.  

I never stared at her in the manner I did that night. Sometimes, however, I let my eyes linger on her for longer than usual, hoping to gather a reaction of some sort. I never got one, not once in all those following weeks. 

*

We once spoke about dreams. I spoke about the changing face of my nightmares. As a child and a young adult, they were full of ghastly images, gory fates for loved ones. More recently, my nightmares seemed to be less dream-like, less direct; they were non-linear and plot-less, but far more powerful; subtle and lethal, they never failed to hit me where it hurt the most.

For instance, I wanted to tell her, consider the dream I had last week. I didn’t say it, not because she was saying something in response to what I had said previously and it was rude to intervene, but because I couldn’t bring myself to talk of my dreams.

… What do you mean less direct?, she was asking me.

Previously, I said, I would have dreamt of getting run over by a bus—my stomach would lurch as I sensed the bus near; I would emerge from sleep, screaming and kicking like a baby.

And now?

And now?, I ask pausing to buy time,

Now, I want to say, I can only watch from a distance, watch me wither, but not die. Like the headmaster in the movie I watched repeatedly in my youth, I can only stare helplessly at a situation I can neither comprehend nor resolve.

“Now”, I lie instead, I dream of dying in pieces. For instance, I dream I die like my friend—Daood, the Dhobi— slowly, painfully, coughing his way to death, unable to get rid of the wretched beedi that’s his Rajdhani-ticket to heaven. He always slept with a half-burnt beedi in his mouth, he died with a half-burnt beedi in his mouth … One day, he slept and never awoke. But he is in heaven now, in God’s hands.         

I see a palette of images, seguing into each other.

Sometimes you walk past me—deliberately, slowly— you turn to face me briefly, but there’s no glimmer of recognition, no familiar smile.

Sometimes, as you look over my shoulder when I make my tea, my elbow brushes against your breast and I look at you, but nothing comes off it.

Sometimes, you pull me close by the scruff of my collar, so close I can smell the coffee in your breath, and as I stare into your eyes, I realize I am no longer the man next to you, but actually a few feet away, watching you lunge passionately at the pretty young thing who comes over every so often. Someone is laughing, I cannot tell who.

I have dreamt of wearing space-suits and walking in space for much of my life, she said, I don’t think it means anything.  

*

You may laugh when I say this, but I have never raised a finger on anyone in all my adult life: never beaten my wife, nor my children or even the shy robber who once asked permission to steal.

She came home very late one night, clinging to a pretty boy like a creeper. For a long while, they were in their car, he was at the wheel. In the dim light of an insipid moon, I caught fragments of his face: long, thick hair that tumbled over his forehead; big, black glasses that hid his eyes; a lit cigarette that he held lazily in his free hand, one that seemed to contain more than mere tobacco; with his other hand, he stroked her hair easily. He was what she would call an intellectual.           

They seemed to talk for what seemed like hours; ever so often, they would move closer and the darkness would envelope their silhouettes: my mind dared not think what transpired in those moments; the wind picked up, then went still; the moon disappeared behind the adjacent apartment, the skies grew darker.

Finally, I heard a series of horns and some laughing. I ambled out and opened the gate. She barely looked at me as they drove past to her empty parking spot. I closed the gate. Something within my ears grew chilly, my saliva tasted metallic, my stomach felt heavy. As they walked, his arm around her waist, I walked up to them. I could smell alcohol and perfume and deodorant—their body odours seemed to have merged.  

You cannot go up to her flat, I said in an even tone, looking at him.

For a second, they didn’t seem to notice, so lost were they in their own bubble. And then, he looked at me—in the faint light of the basement’s only zero-watt, his perfect jaw contorted in confusion, then broke into a warm half-smile. Her initial surprise gave way to anger.

What? she asked.

Your friend, I said flatly, cannot go up.

Have you gone mad?, she snapped in a manner I had never before seen her do. There was more than a hint of condescension in her tone.

In a fit of righteous delirium, I kicked him where it hurt the most. And, as he bent over, his hands over his balls, I punched him across his head. He was knocked out cold, lying flat on his back. I turned to find her mouth wide open – she was screeching soundlessly, tears streaming down her face.

I held her hand tightly and said, first softly, then, as she struggled to find her voice, increasingly loudly: What do you think you are doing? What do you think you are doing?

Her silence provoked me, her helplessness made me want to hurt her more. She tried to walk away, but I followed her, never letting go of her hand, mouthing the same words. I wanted an answer, a response. Her words, however, seemed to inhabit another universe, failing to respond to her summons.

Stop, she finally managed to shriek. Her lips pouted and quivered, her tears had wiped her cheek clean.

I turned and sprinted. I scaled the gate and ran into the lane that led to main-road. My footsteps echoed, a cat’s brilliant eyes streaked across the darkness. As I reached the empty main-road and sped into dark patches interspersed with neon-islands, I raised my arms out wide and was awash in the pleasant chill of the pre-dawn air.

Under a setting moon, my madness evaporated.

*

When I had returned from my run, they had both gone. The car was still there, however. I packed my belongings and left before dawn crept.

*

Nothing matters. In the beginning, with her, nothing mattered. Then, after the strange night, nothing mattered. With time, even the pains of nothingness dissolve, leaving behind nothing: no traces, just an inertial numbness.

I moved across the city, to watch over another apartment: it is quieter and smaller. I avoid people’s eyes and make conversation only if forced to. I go into the main town once every six months, to catch the bus back to my village. Otherwise, I stick to one lane: the one that borders my new apartment.  

Every now and then, down my lane, a man maybe twenty years older than I, makes an appearance. In some ways, we are the same age: time ceased to exist for him some decades ago. He is thin and tall, much like a lamp-post with gangly limbs. He slings a sloth-bag around his shoulder, wears a long, faded kurta. He always looks clean and the little hair he has—all white-- possesses a sense of order that would make Nature proud.

Standing at the corner of my lane, he makes speeches to families of pigs that waltz by, passers peeing on the wall, their backs turned to him, and gossiping auto-drivers; the sole person who notices him is Shiva, the gudangadi owner, who turns on his mobile speakers to full volume every time the man begins to talk.

The old man is a captivating speaker, his style fluent, his voice modulations precise, arguments crisp. He speaks of everything, but almost always returns to the Chief Minister and his sycophantic ways—he accuses him of constantly pandering to the “mad woman” in Delhi. Like a dog, he would bark, this Devraj Urs follows Nehru’s daughter.

He speaks of everything and yet conveys nothing.   

I listen in often, sitting on my hunches by my gate and paying close attention to his lips for otherwise he would be lost in the din caused by the blaring music. When he’s done, he pauses to soak in the non-existent applause, smiling triumphantly at nothing in particular.

He’s made his peace with nothing.  

I dream of space-walking a lot nowadays. I don’t think it means anything though.    

*

Concludes

Empty Nothings (Part 1)

I sleep with my mouth open. It was a running joke in my family. My father would tell my mother in the morning, as he left to work in our Yajamana’s farms: ‘don’t feed the little one— he had two ants and a fly during his mid-night snack!’

As a child, I slept soundly. Outside, the clouds would rage—lightning streaking across starlit skies— and it would pour. I, however, would sleep through it all. Rain and gunfire, death and celebrations— nothing ever disturbed my sleep. After dinner, I would swagger like a drunk towards my mother and, before she could raise a word of protest, plonk my head on her lap and shut my eyes. She had vessels to wash, a house to wind-up and a husband to tend to. And yet, uncomplainingly, she would stroke my head, until sleep drifted in from wherever it is that sleep does.

Ironically, here, in the city, a thousand miles from where I was born and three lifetimes away from the life I had lived as a child, I work as a night-watchman. I still sleep, but sleep lightly. Even the footsteps of a cat, suffused with the quietness of their species and the magic of the night, would make me take notice.

However, curious flies are still unconsciously consumed— perhaps the only link to a childhood from another world.  

*

My wife and children are still in the village, though I am trying to get my eldest to come to the city. I have just about enough money to send him to a private school here. If I had spent less on frivolous things when I first came to the city thirteen years ago, perhaps I could have brought them all here. But, when you are young and new, everything is light, lovely and joyous; everything is about the today and the now.

Once, I went to the same film six times straight, not because the hero was a superstar or the heroine, an import from the north, ravishing; nor was it for the predictably comforting underdog tale. I went because (as I came to discover on my third viewing) one of the characters—an old headmaster of a dying school—reminded me of my father.

I gambled, but never drank. Some while ago, a friend of mine calculated and discovered, much to our alarm, that had I saved up all the money I had spent on beedis, I’d be thrice as rich.

*

This friend was special: she is not like me at all.

‘But we are like each other’, I can hear her insist in my head.

Okay, here are the facts and I’ll let you decide: she is half-English (or American or Australian), I can barely speak English (half-English?); she is tall, with long, sexy legs which she lets the moonlight lovingly caress, I am short and fat— my hairy legs are barely contained by my bulging khakis; she is white as milk, glowing in mere starlight, sometimes I am invisible at twilight; she rents an apartment and lives by herself, I sleep under the skies.

You are an intellectual, she would always say, cupping her coffee-mug, her head resting on her knees. Had you been born in my world, you would have been wearing big, round glasses, smoked a pipe and spoken about the Big Things: God, Life, Religion, Cultures.

But, what is your world? I would wonder out aloud, What is this world to which we have no keys?

See?, she would say, that is precisely the kind of thing an intellectual would say.

*

She came nearly every night. She was remarkably unselfconscious, but the night was also kind: no surreptitious eyes ogled at her lovely legs, no jealous women made comments on the sly. She brought a mug of black coffee: dark, steaming, mysterious. She would talk and watch me make my tea, a necessary indulgence to wade through the night.

We often traded histories. After all, most conversations flow through memories’ windows.

I came to the city because I grew tired of singing at weddings. We were descendants of the Nagas. Like the snakes, I would tell her, we virtually lived underground, in darkness, in a hamlet away from the rest of the village. And just like the snakes, we briefly emerged from the darkness every now and then, to be faux-revered, but quickly banished. We were invited for all religious ceremonies—weddings, festivals— because music was in our blood, our voices could scale notes that none else could imagine.

My father rebelled against his mother by choosing to work in the Yajamaana’s fields—at least, he argued, we don’t have to wait for people to get married to fill our stomachs. I rebelled against my father by leaving the village altogether.

It was remarkable how differently she and I viewed the city: for me, it symbolized progress and freedom. For her, it was regressive and constraining; but, equally remarkably, for both of us, it was a land of opportunities.

In my line of work, she would say, this is a gold-mine. There is so much to do, so much to develop!

What if these people don’t need your development?, I would argue.

Why wouldn’t anyone want more schools, better schools?

My father never went to school. I think, on the whole, he was happier than I was. But that is beside the point. What I really want to say is this: why can’t schools teach what we want to learn? Why should my son learn what someone in the capital—thousands of kilometres away—deems fit? I have so much I could teach children: my music, our way of life. Why should everything be so complicated?     

I know you have a point there, she would counter, but what you are saying is impractical.       

I could sense the mild exasperation in her tone. I would stay quiet, watching my tea-leaves swirl in the yellow light of my lantern; the glorious violet fire below evoked the feathers of a peacock. The gas connection was a gift from her; the cart was the dhobi’s who had died last year, leaving behind all his savings for his only son. He gave me the cart because we had been old friends and he wanted someone to ‘treat it with the love it deserved’.

We’ve become so complicated, I would soldier on, an eye still on the tea. We can’t even tell people what we do without resorting to an explanation. You work with—what do you call it—policy advocacy? How does that tell anyone you work for children? Tomorrow, we’ll have fifteen words for walking, twenty words for the kind of hunger we feel. Actually, maybe that’s not true: only you rich people have such lush vocabularies and hunger is not something you feel as intensely as we do. Come to think of it, you don’t even walk as much!

What do you want us to do?, she would ask, turning her head towards me, become milkmen and night-watchmen?

It was a rhetorical question, meant only as a counter-barb. I poured my freshly made tea into my chipped tea-cup, one I got twenty-five years ago as part of my dowry. I sat across her, my head against the compound wall of her apartment and asked, quietly:

How was your day?

*

She never brought anyone. On the days she had friends over for the night— posh girls, good-looking men—she’d usually not turn up; sometimes she would come, later than usual, with a sheepish grin and explain: he’s asleep; clearly I am not good company!

She once asked me about sex. It was a windy night—the kind when you could taste the dust on your upper-lip; the world was hazy, beautifully so, especially in the bright headlights of the odd truck that cantered by. The tea had been made, my head rested against her apartment wall and her thick, dark hair swayed sensually with the wind. I was telling her about my last visit to my village, when she interjected:

You haven’t seen your wife in ages! Don’t you feel like sleeping with someone?

It was a question like any other: gently curious, but casual and easy.

I stiffened. It is odd—I talk sex to myself constantly; during the day, the topic is a favourite amongst my best friends, the sex-starved Manja, who runs a liquor shop and the promiscuous, boastful Kalla, who owns a gudangadi down the road. And yet, those conversations are mechanical, illusory: the tone is light, the banter good-natured, the humour detached. I—we—talk of sex like we talk of cinema stars, like it is somebody else’s problem.

I stood up abruptly and walked to my cart. I picked up the lantern by its side and placed it between us: her bright eyes shone in the soft, orange light; her nose-ring—a speck on the bridge of her sharp, impeccable nose—glistened softly; the wind made her tee-shirt cling to her breasts, accentuating her curves; and the shadows of her slender legs were thrown across my own.

I stared at her, my mind stunned into calm silence. She looked back, her delightful eyes questioning me playfully. I could sense my imagination leaping out of my self, scampering wildly along the dusty, dirty lanes of the city. She was toying with me, fully conscious of the impact she was having on my senses and revelling in it.

In minutes, she finished her tea, her eyes never quite leaving me.  She stood up and left quietly, her windswept hair bouncing gracefully.   

Our conversation wound up in the absence of words; the electric silence, however, was anything but empty.

I had not felt more alive in a very long while.

(To conclude, in three days)

Finding TB -- I

                                                                                I

My wife wanted to watch a movie in a theatre. I told her I had work to do. She made a face that could have meant either one of “I work all day too” or “You always say the same thing” or both. Maybe it meant both. Perhaps I should ask her.

When she’s in the kitchen, her brow furrowed, her hair bundled, her neck smelling of soap and sweat, I walk up to her from behind and, clasping her waist, whisper in her ear: “What does that face mean?”

“Leave me alone”

“Ah”, I say, and withdraw, gently unclasping my hands. Two years with the woman and I can barely read her face, I muse. As I am leaving, she turns and asks:

“What face?”

I make the face and say: “That face”

She laughs and, in a voice chiming like temple-bells says: “I don’t make that face”

“Clearly, I am not the one with the acting skills here”

She makes the face at me and asks:

“That face?”

I nod my head in assent.

“It means: why did I even bother” she says.

“Ah”, I say, and then again, “Ah”. I was this close, I tell myself. Two more years and I’ll get there.

I walk up to my bike, a second-hand black Bajaj-Pulsar DTSI 150. It was my uncle’s, who bought himself a new one after his party won the previous election. I dust its front with a rag—a daily ritual. When it starts, it hiccups, then grunts, then roars into action.

Soon, I am flying along the pot-holed lanes of Seemanahalli, past dry cotton fields, cracked earth and thirsty roadside shrubs.

*****

II

I am in the middle of most things. Take, for instance, the official photograph at the Panchayat Office: I am standing in the second row, directly behind the seated Sarpanch. I am not a Panchayat official. I had merely arranged for the photographer—pocketing a small commission—so I had paid him in advance to position me there.

But, it was not as easy. When the official photograph was being taken, I pretended to stay away from the limelight, ostentatiously preferring to stay behind the photographer and directing proceedings from there. When the elders were seated in place—with the rest standing smartly behind— the photographer took one look at the arrangement through his lens and declared, somewhat ambiguously:

“Height arrangement is not matching in the second row”

He paused. Everyone looked at each other confusedly, some shuffling in the second row ensued. The photographer, his face fixed in an unsatisfied frown, looked at the skies, then at the trees in the background and pretended to capture the dignitaries in a hand-fashioned frame.

I was afraid he was overdoing it.

He finally turned to me and said imperiously, loudly enough for everyone to hear,

“Sir, you should be there. Second row, perfect height and weight—symmetry and balance are important”

It worked like magic.

“Arrey, Manjunatha”, the Sarpanch called out to me, “Why aren’t you in the frame? Come, come. You are a most important man”

And so, there I am, standing between ward member number six (Devi Naik) and ward member number eleven (Prasad Havadiga).

*****

Barely three kilometres along the muddy track, under a fierce dry sun, I spot a familiar sari-clad figure walking towards me. I slow down and turn around to ride alongside her, my engine gently purring.

“Where to?” I ask.

“To your village” she says.

Her name is Gulabi, a government contracted health-worker.

“To my village? Why? But, the Sarpanch is not there; and the office may be closed”

She stops walking when she hears it. I break softly.

“Jagannatha”, she says under her breath and curses her fate.

I sense an opportunity.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I want a TB patient”

“But, the Sarpanch is not suffering from TB”, I say, trying to buy time. My mind is racing along—where can I find someone suffering from TB in our village? There’s Meenamma’s husband, coughing all day, but he could just have fever. What about Kanaka’s mother? A thousand moons must have passed since she started having her bouts of manic coughing. But, the woman’s smoked a beedi all her life.

I surmise from a cursory look at Gulabi’s face that she’d just passed a comment on my pathetic sense of humour; I laugh distractedly.

“I know a couple of possible cases” I say, “But, I cannot be sure. Do you want to try?”

“Oh, I need just one more case. If I can find 3 TB cases in this Taluk, my job is done. The government pays a lump-sum for every three cases. I have identified two. I also know of an old man who has TB in Murki—but he lives by the edge of the stream. Six kilometres from the nearest bus-stand. By the time I find him, he might be dead!”

“I think”, I say and pause, gathering my thoughts, and continue, “I think I have just the thing you are looking for. Why don’t you meet me at the Seemanahalli  Panchayat Office—I’ll have a list ready for you”

Her smile embodies relief and gratitude in equal measure. I do an about-turn and calculate how much time I have—about half-an-hour at best—enough time for a little meeting with Suresh Anna.

*****

III

Suresh Anna has one thing a middle-man would prize above everything else—information. He is also unambitious, unassuming, uncommunicative and underestimated, thus ensuring that he would never graduate from an industrious lower-panchayat staffer to enterprising middle-man or local political player.

I park my bike by the flag-post and climb up the stairs of the Office. Huge empty black-boards, each reserved for its own specific government scheme, adorn the walls. The Office comprises three rooms—a large waiting room; a room for the computer operator; and a room for the Sarpanch and his secretary.

They are all empty today—it’s empty a lot these days. It’s simply too hot to work. There is, however, one man. Sitting on the staircase at the backside of the office, Suresh Anna cups a glass of tea and sips meditatively.

“Anna”, I say.

He turns around and smiles—there is rarely any malice in his smiles, only warmth.

“What’s up?”,  he asks and shifts to a side, motioning me to sit by him.

I don’t have time to waste on small talk. So, I jump straight to the matter:

“Does Kanaka’s mother have TB?”

He look at me and asks, a little apprehensively:

“Who is it? Someone high up in the health department?”

“No, no”, I hasten to assure him, “It’s one of those contracted health-workers. The poor woman has to find three TB patients in the Taluk. She has found two, but is struggling to find the third”

“Oh” he says.

Anyone else would have asked me what my interest in the whole matter was: was I getting any money out of this, or was it just the woman. No such thought crosses his mind. He walks into the office, pulls open a couple of drawers, before he finds a sheet of paper.

“Here”, he says, handing it to me, “TB patients—or people who show similar symptoms—in the past year. I’ll have it Xeroxed for you”

I scrutinize the list—six names, in addition to the two I had speculated about. This man was a warehouse of apparently useless information. And such neat filing too!

“Who is this Shambhu?”

“It’s our Shambhu—bendekai Shambhu”

“Oh—the poor man has TB?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not”

I make a couple more enquiries about people’s addresses. Needless to say, I am given perfect directions. By the time I leave, I am left wondering where I would be without this man.

*****

IV

“Mutthayya”, I call out, “O Muthayya”

We are standing by the tulasi plant that grows from a pyramidal platform at the centre of Mutthayya’s yard. His house has a worn-out tiled roof, his walls are faded and look like they may implode any time soon; a couple of hens potter about; a cycle leans against the wall. A woman comes out and as most women here, her hands are greasy and when she peers at us, her body is bent like a bow:

“Who is it?”

“Amma, it’s me, Manju”

“Who Manju? Are you the one who is Krishnappa’s nephew?”

People never ask about my father, always my uncle. My father was a hard-working, honest marginal farmer who toiled come sun or rain; my uncle moved from being a carefree, good-for-nothing young man to a callous family-man to a small-time political player.

“I am”, I say smiling.

“Come, come” she says, and throws a suspicious look at Gulabi.

“Amma, this is Gulabi—a contracted health-worker from the Taluk Office”

“Oh” she says, somewhat relieved and adds, “Do you want some water?”

We both nod our heads in assent. It’s been a fairly long walk and the sun is harsh. Biking it around is out of the question—she is a woman, I am a man. Muthayya’s wife draws water from the well, puts it in a steel pot and brings it to us. We gratefully accept it.

“Actually, we wanted to meet Muthayya” I said, getting down to business.

“He’s gone to the farm”, she says.

“Farm? With his health condition?”

“Why? He’s as fit as me; and if not for so much work at home, I’d be with him too”

I let my eyes traverse the length of her body—she’s as fit as an ox; what’s more, she doesn’t lumber along like one. 

“Ah”,  I say, “But, wasn’t your husband unwell?”

“He was, he was. The doctor said it was TB— but we got some medicines, and he recovered. Just like that” she says, snapping her fingers to indicate speed.

I look at Gulabi—her face wilts; she maintains the same sorrowful expression as she peers at the blinding sun above.

“What a pity” I say, instinctively shaking my head, and, without realising it, repeat my words, “What a pity”

It’s only when I look at Muthayya’s wife’s face that I realize I have said something wrong. Her eyes betray a potent mix of confusion, incredulity and anger. I turn red-faced to Gulabi, my eyes pleading. She comes to my rescue:

“He means”, she says, faltering and adds, “that it’s a pity … it’s a pity we couldn’t meet him. What a miraculous recovery your husband has had!”

The relief I feel manifests in the form of highly inappropriate laughter; it’s like I am mocking Muthayya’s recovery now. Throwing me an ugly look, his wife proceeds to explain to Gulabi the directions to Mutthayya’s field. Gulabi listens patiently, then thanks her gratefully, and, as soon as we are out of sight, turns in the opposite direction. 

The sun is merciless and our list is long-- the last thing we want to do is to pay social visits to men who were ill. 

*****

[To continue]

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.