Thatha's Little Walk

For a man of sixty plus, he was surprisingly agile. He had a spring in his step that even a ten year old would envy. Every time I saw him, I got the impression that he had just won a lottery or, probably, India had trounced Pakistan by ten wickets in a test match. His hair was oiled and neatly parted to the side; he wore a spotless kurta and pajamas that could easily pass of as those computer-generated advanced-white ones in the TV commercials. He hopped along the road jauntily and waved from a distance. I waved back and my eyes, habitually, focused directly at his shoes. I let out a sigh and silently thanked Saraswathi: they were muddy and dirty. Though he had never once failed to pay me a visit during his early morning walks, his pristine attire always gave me the goose bumps.

“Thatha” I called out.
“What Kanna? What’s up?” he asked.
He walked up to me, placed his shoe on the stand that I provided, drew a chair for himself and sat. He panted and said,
“Habbah, at least that’s over”
“What, Thatha! You look like the type who can do ten more rounds without tiring and you are thanking your stars”
“Age, my son—its age. You will know when you get to my age—though I don’t think you will even be able to walk when you reach there. Just look at you, all skin and bones! Don’t they feed you in that stupid school you go to?”
I didn’t reply for he made that comment almost on a daily basis, but began working diligently on his shoes. I am a cobbler-cum-shoe cleaner/ polisher. I am the latter only to Thatha. When he first came to our locality, two years ago, I was just starting up my business. He asked me if I would clean shoes for him and I said I would try—but there was not much cleaning I could do with those horrible modern sports shoes that he used to wear then. Within a week, he switched to Canvas shoes. I loved them. He paid me 10 rupees for cleaning his shoes—about 250 rupees a month.
“How do you get them so muddy?” I said, scrubbing his shoe diligently.
“Mm?”
“I mean, where do you go? How is there cow-dung on this shoe?”
“Oh, just here and there” he said distractedly.
I asked him that question regularly and he would either change the topic or give an uncharacteristically vague reply. I knew where he did go though—to the stream that lay behind his house. There was lot of muck around there. I wondered what Thatha would do there—he wasn’t the type who would sit around a stream listening to the twittering of birds or the roar of the water. That would appeal to him as much going to school does to me. Age hadn’t robbed him of his love for people, for company, for action. Probably he went there to smoke a few cigarettes. Yes, that was it! He did go to smoke—Pati hated that habit of his and it wasn’t too long ago that he had completely given it up for her sake. He probably didn’t want anyone to see him and what better place to go than the stream. It was as crowded as the graveyard; In fact, still better, for there were not even dead souls to spy on him.
“You seem to be very quite today, Kanna. What are you smiling to yourself about?”
“Oh, nothing. Actually—yes—no—I mean, I was just thinking about the funny way in which our English teacher talks. You must see her once, Thatha”
He looked slightly suspicious, but smiled indulgently.

The next morning, I woke up just as the goods train blew its horn out aloud and chugged past our station. It was the crack of dawn—an hour or so before my usual rising time. I cursed the train and tried getting back to sleep, but I couldn’t. It was with a sense of downright frustration that I made my way down to the lake to start my chores. And then, a mad idea struck me. It shook me up—I was no longer lazy or frustrated or sleepy. I laughed loudly and ran, shaking with excitement. I sprinted as fast as I could, didn’t stop at the tank but went further on. The morning was cold and a chill breeze, whose effect was compounded by the speed of my running, blew against my ears. I didn’t bother. I was determined.

In a few minutes, I spotted him. Thatha, dressed in typical white clothes, and a muffler around his ears, walked ahead, a few metres away. I slowed down—I didn’t want him to spot me. Given his age, Thatha was exceptionally brisk. I found it difficult to keep up with him for I had to be careful. The path gradually became narrower, the foliage thicker; the trees taller. It was easier to be unnoticeable now—my footsteps were muffled by the softness of the earth and the trees that were resplendent with birds that sung, shrieked and cried. I tried pretending to be the detective who comes in the TV show Thatha watches, running from one tree to another and then hiding behind them. I gave this up, feeling stupid and glad that there was no one to see me.

After some time of rigorous walking, I heard the roar of the stream—it was a violent, booming roar—like a caged lion roaring for freedom. Thatha was speeding up, and I had to literally run to catch up with him. The thundering of the water increased in decibels and I knew we weren’t far away. And there it was—pure blue, with white waves, flowing with a speed that was frightening.

Thatha made his way to the path that led to the stream. He was within feet away, when suddenly, he took a detour. I silently watched from behind a tall beech tree with bated breath. He sat down beside the muddy, brown, filthy muck that lay a little away. Aha! I thought, now for the cigarettes. He then removed his shoes and socks. He plunged the shoes carefully with his hands into the muck like a cook frying his papadams in oil; one after the other, making sure every area was equally dirty. He took them out and examined them and with a satisfied smile, put them on, and walked back towards the path leading away from the river.

*****
It was a little past seven in the morning. Thatha hopped gaily towards me, making me wonder if he had springs for muscles in his body. My eyes didn’t focus at his shoes, for I knew how they would be—Saraswathi was denied my prayers. He waved from a distance and I waved back, a little guiltily. He sat on the chair that I quickly drew for him and panted heavily.
“What Kanna—what’s up?” he asked.
I took his muddy and wet shoes and began scrubbing.
“I wonder how you get them so muddy, Thatha. Seriously, where do you go?”
“Eh?” he said vaguely, and then with a dash of his usually enthusiasm, he asked,
“Did you see Tendulkar’s ton yesterday? He’s back. I tell you, he definitely is back”
I smiled to myself and nodded my head in agreement. Some things never change…..

Bliss

"Come over to the edge" he called.

"No, we cant; We'll fall" they cried.

"Come over to the edge" he called.

"No, we cant;We'll fall" they cried.

"Come over to the edge" he called.

And they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

Chapter Two

I squinted at the clock. I knew that it was at least an hour since day-break. A stream of glorious morning sun-rays seeped through my window making a part of the room unusually brighter than the rest. The room was cold and, though well tucked into my rug, I gave the faintest of shivers. The clock struck 7. I immediately jumped out of my bed, threw the rug into the corner of the room, and sprinted to the bathroom. The morning-rush had begun. It was the same routine--brush, switch the geyser on, sip hot piping tea, read the newspaper, curse the clock and bathe. Then followed breakfast (bread or cornflakes or sometimes, both).
The only thing that is remotely interesting in my life is my journey to my school. I own an old Bajaj scooter that, somehow, has managed to keep itself going all these years. The school is a good 5 kilometres away, right in the heart of our small sleepy town. I live a little off the town in my ancestral house--a structure that once housed many a great person. I am one of the few living descendents of the great Kuluru Basavaraya, a lawyer, scholar, architect, Diwan and one of Karnataka’s most prominent luminaries during the British Raj. I tilted my Scooter and after a somewhat complex manoeuvre that involved some smart balancing and quick footwork, performed with the grace of a seasoned man, I kick-started the Scooter. The engine shot into action with a roar that one wouldn’t generally associate with one so old (It was the country weather, I always insisted) and within seconds, I sped along, solemn-faced and silent.
I reached my school at five minutes to eight. I parked my vehicle in a corner specially reserved for teachers, nodded to the school peon, and strode along to my office. Five minutes later, I walked into my class, stifling a yawn. The students rose in unison and chanted a greeting. There was a time when I felt tremendously proud of myself when seeing a class stand up out of respect for me, but now I barely realized them standing. Mechanically, I said "Sit down" and began calling out names from the register. I walked up to the first bench, peered into someone’s book to check where we had left off the previous day, and perfunctorily explained. Words flowed from my mouth without as much as a pause—my thoughts were given a free rein—for the whole teaching process was completely involuntary.
I had always wanted to teach. It was a dream that I harboured since the age of 8. It was one of the reasons why I had volunteered to stay back in the village while almost the entire family had migrated away. I wanted to stay back and teach children—not for money, but for pure love of teaching; for love of children. I was terribly over-qualified to be a high school teacher and sometimes I wonder if that is the reason for my progressive decline in my interest in the profession. There was a time when I posed intriguing questions to the class and begged them to think. I would collect things for the class, prepare for them. I would sing, draw, dance and do everything to entice those in front of me. Yes, there was a time when I would do all that and more—a time when every class was a performance, an experience for both the teacher and the taught.
The bell rang and I walked away. Some students stood up and said a half-hearted "Thank You". With the merest shake of the head (another unconscious action), I carried on. Little by little, I was becoming a machine-- mechanical and boring. I was getting sucked into my routine and I could do little about it. The main concern was that I made absolutely no effort to prevent myself from getting sucked; A part of me felt comfortable with the repetitive pattern that my life seemed to take—feeling falsely comfortable in a seemingly safe system that somewhere inside, I wasn’t happy with. I wondered if there was an ounce of humanness left me—something that would distinguish me from a robot. It wasnt that I was unkind or inhuman, but, I was so well settled with my schedule,that I rarely gave much thought to anything that happened around me.
**********

That evening, I went for my usual evening walk among the acres of farmland that I owned. The day’s newspaper in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I wandered aimlessly. I waked back home, with at least an hour before sunset. As I sat on my rocking-chair, reading the newspaper and waiting for one of the servants to place my tea on the table beside me, I heard someone call out—
"Ayyah?"
I peered over my newspaper and was surprised to see four weary but expectant little faces staring at me. With one look at me, they let out a squeal of excitement and one of them exclaimed—
"Arrey! Namma Mestru!" (Our teacher)
I was momentarily taken aback, but asked with a smile,
"What do you want?" in Kannada.
They held some farmland tools in their hands. Their clothes were patched, dirty and some, well oversized. They were sweating profusely, but none of them seemed to be remotely bothered by it. I had a vague recollection of one of their faces.
"We were wondering if you had some work for us" said the oldest among them.
"Work?"
"We can work hard" screamed another, puffing up his chest and the others nodded their heads in agreement.
I didn’t know what to say.
"What are your names?"
"I am Manju"
"Kamal"
"Srini"
"And you?" I asked the youngest and the meekest of them all.
"Karthik" he said in a barely audible whisper.
"Karthik!" I echoed.
He smiled weakly. My heart melted. I felt guilty for some unknown reason. I felt as though I was somehow responsible for their pitiable state, as though I lived without caring for anyone but myself—a selfish and self-obsessed life. My servant placed my tea on my table and I sipped on and told him to get the best bananas we had. His face gave the tiniest of frowns, before it relaxed, and he went about his way, without questioning. I was glad he didn’t ask why, for I myself wasn’t sure. I turned my gaze towards them and immediately looked away. I was never a brave man and the sight of such suffering was intolerable on my delicate eyes that were brought up on a dose of lovely green trees, rich farmers and farmlands. Staring fixedly at the ceiling, I asked—
"What does your father do?"
" We have no father", said Manju.
"Our mother works in the farm nearby" said Srini firmly.
I didn’t prod any further. They didn’t seem to keen on discussing their family matters.
I whistled softly to myself—a tune that I had picked up as a child.
Just as the silence was getting uncomfortable, my whistling out of tune and the children, a little fidgety, my servant arrived with a plateful of Bananas. I unpeeled each of them with care and handed them to the children, starting with the youngest, Karthik. They ate in silence and at once. Ripe Bananas were indeed a luxury. I offered more and they devoured them, greedily.
"Does anyone want water?" I asked to the ceiling.
It was a poor question. I had never seen heads nod so vigorously in unison. By the time I turned towards him, Sathish(my servant) had already gone. Without turning my head, I looked at them through the corner of my eyes, and drew my tea-cup to my lips. Karthik called his brother and with one fleeting glance at me to make sure I wasn’t looking, asked,
"Meshtru Orey Kannaa?" (Is Master Squint-eyed?)
*********
In fifteen minutes, the four children trudged back home, their tools unusually spotless.Their stomachs were somewhat full and they had got enough money to last them a week. I had pushed into the eldest’s hand, a couple of 500 rupee notes, much to the annoyance of Sathish who said that they would become regular visitors. I hadn’t even allowed them to work, he complained.
Just as they were leaving through the front gate (which is at a fair distance from the door) the children heard a loud honk. They turned around to see me with one of the biggest smiles that had ever adorned this face in years.
"Coming?" I asked.
The older ones looked unsure. Karthik however, walked straight up to the scooter, stood between me and the handlebars, and with one superior look at the others, said—
"Go"
I smiled at the others and asked them to sit behind me. They sat and I asked—
"Readiyaa?"
"Ready!" they yelled as one.
My engine roared like never before, I accelerated until the wind nearly blew my scarf away, the roads seemed wider than ever, the children cried at the top of their voices, the woodpeckers on the tall green trees pecked on noisily, I whistled shrilly, the sound being swallowed up in the din around me, and amidst all this, my mind that managed to stay amazingly clear, bellowed in unmistakable exuberance, enthusiasm and supreme satisfaction, "I am human, I am human!"

The Flautist

My legs kicked up the dust from the earth as I walked rather briskly. I hummed a tune and my footsteps, with their regular pattern, provided a steady beat. The road was long, winding and soul-less. The fact that there was no one in a kilometre’s range didn’t bother me; on the contrary, I was glad that I was alone. I am somewhat of a loner-- the type of person one would rarely come across nowadays. I detest the mad rush that one associates with city-life, chatting with people, waiting in bus-stops, shopping in markets. I enjoy long walks around the hills with only the trees, wild flowers and birds for company.
My destination was less than a kilometre away.

Within minutes, my eyes rested on a sight that I never tire of. The spectacle of a river in November is something else. It isn’t brimming with water as it usual is in the monsoons nor does it go dry as in mid-summer. It is just right. I made my way to my favourite spot and sat down--my legs being tickled by the lukewarm water of the river. The river sparkled in the sun's glorious rays; the kingfisher scouted the water-surface waiting to plunge, the white birds played about in gay abandon and the boatman rowed along peacefully. The sky was a myriad of colours--violet, blue, with streaks of bright orange and yellow--- as the light faded and the sun sank. It was time to go.

I got up, wiped the dust off my backside and turned to go. The silence was stunning; the nocturnal insects were yet to exercise their vocal chords. And through the silence, a flute played the raga Kalyani--the most melodious Kalyani that I had ever heard. Everything seemed to stay still for a moment, captivated by the mesmerising tune and the purity of sound. I stood, rooted, listening to the flute in the distance which went flawlessly from one note to another. I had heard several flautists in innumerable kutcheris, but none had been able to enchant me in the way that this one had done. Probably it was because the sound was natural, not amplified by speakers and microphones or probably because there weren’t several hundred persons around me, but only an expanse of blue, both above and below.

Kalyani was followed by Chakravaka, one of my favourite ragas. I lay down on the banks, closed my eyes and listened. Initially, he tinkered with the mandharasthayis*, rarely rising above the gandhara**. Then, all of a sudden, like a spitting cobra raising its hood, he leapt majestically to the higher notes. I imagined dancing patterns that rose and fell with the svaras***, but soon gave up---he was just too quick for me. He would produce the most intricate of gamakas with as much difficulty as a fish has in water. I felt myself soaring away into the skies, flooded by the sheer force of the notes. He had gained complete control over the ocean of my emotions with just his flute, like a boatman conquering the seas with his oars. The man was a genius and had it not been pitch-dark, I would have walked along the banks and not rest till I found him.

The next day, I set out well before dawn, with only the stars for company. I had rarely been to the river this early, but the flute's enchanting melodies had given me no sleep the previous night. I had vowed to come back at day-break and find the flautist.
Soon, it was twilight-- faint light seeped through the clouds and the early-rising birds stirred into action. The world was painted in a dull orange; the chill of the night had just begun to wear off.

By the time I reached the river, now dullish grey in colour, a deep-red Sun had just risen. The birds twittered noisily as if in applause of the arrival of the master in the horizon. I scanned, intently, the banks of the river, hoping to spot somebody. At the far end, the boatman prodded the water with his oar, trying to gauge the level of water. He made his way towards his boat, untied it, and rowed along towards me. He stroked along gracefully and with ease. There was a lazy charm in his movements that I loved watching. It gave me the impression that nothing ever troubled him--as if he was one with the world.

Presently, he was metres away from me, and I gave him a smile. He returned it, slowed down and asked--
"Shekhar! What are you doing here so early? Sunrise at dawn, eh?
"Yes, you can say so"
"Well, I must really be going along, I don’t row about this early in the morning, you see"
"Okay then--- Wait!"
"Yes?"
"When I came yesterday, I heard someone playing the flute. Do you know who it was?"
"Oh, him! I don’t know who he is. But he spent the night in that deserted hut over there. I think he played through the night. In fact, he swam over for dinner with us"
"Swam over?"
"Yes. Poor chap, he seemed to be terribly hungry. I fed him with whatever we had. He seemed to love my wife's cooking. Said he had never had such stuff in years. I told him he could stay with us for the night, but he insisted on going back to the hut. Said he loved a swim in the river in the night-time"
"Is he there now?"
"No, I checked in just before I saw you. He seems to have gone. I am quite sure he didn’t drown though, for he played the flute nearly until dawn"

I was aghast. I searched every nook and corner of the hut for some clue that would lead me to him. The stunning clarity of the flute, the grace with which he played kept coming back to me. There was a certain rustic charisma about the way he played—it was untouched by other influences. In short, it was pure Carnatic music. I went back everyday for at least a month, hoping that one day he would return and once more entrance me with his flute.

Last week, during the annual celebrations, several renowned musicians came to sing and play. After one particularly masterful performance by a great performer, one of my friends remarked
“Scintillating. Superbly scintillating. I don’t think I have heard anything like that before”
I smiled, and said with a heavy heart,
“When you have seen the Everest, no mountain looks imposing enough”
“What does that mean?"
“You see, one evening, not too long ago, I made my way to the river….” I began and couldn’t help feeling like the mythological golden mongoose for whom no sacrifice was as great as the Brahmin’s.

*Lower notes
**Ga(Third of the seven svaras)
***notes

Thambi

Ravi stood beside the door, a smile extending from ear to ear. He was no more than 4 feet tall, but wore a bag that was twice his size. His well-oiled hair was neatly parted on one side and he held a smaller bag that had his Tiffin-box and his water bottle.
“Go quickly”, his mother told him, “You might miss the bus”. The last bit that his mother had told him, he knew, was something that was as unlikely as him getting a prize in the quiz competition that he was going to attend the very day. Missing the bus and going to school by car was a distant dream, a luxury that only his brother was entitled to. His brother knew exactly how long to stay in the toilet (thereby missing the wretched bus), an art that his brother assured him would come only with experience.
“And where do Muslims go to?” his mother asked asked, hoping at least something she had taught him the previous night had gone into his little head.
“Mosque” he screamed and sped away, his little bag swinging from one end to the other.

His teacher guided him into a room filled with students of all ages. She told him his number and he made his way to his seat. He sat between 2 girls, both at least 5 years older than him. They looked at him and giggled; he distinctly heard the words “Cute boy” and felt terribly annoyed. He shuffled and shifted in his seat, determined not to look at either of them. He removed his pencil-box and sharpened his pencil wondering where the invigilator was.

Before long, he was given his “Question paper” and an adjoining sheet where he had to mark his answers. With an air of confidence that would have given Vivian Richards a run for his money, he looked at Question 1.
Who is the India’s Minister for External Affairs?
He scratched his head and bit his pencil. He knew just one Minister and that was the Prime Minister. And as far as he could remember, the country had just one minister and a President. He looked at the choices and he smiled. Option ‘b’ was ‘Manmohan Singh’. He calmly circled the option. One down; 49 to go!

The next few questions were a cinch. One asked about some Minister in Punjab and he wrote Yuvraj Singh; the answer to the next one he was sure was “Eyeball”, the question being “Which part of the body is most affected by smoking?” and another asked about the author of David Copperfield and he guessed “Uncle Pai”. After a few more questions he stood up, his head barely clearing the top of the table, and asked
“Madam, I think you have given me the wrong OPTIONS”

The invigilator peered at the tiny figure from behind thick, teacher-like glasses, and with a superior smile that had sympathy and a touch of frustration written all over it, she asked, “Oh, is it?” Wrong options indeed!
Within a few minutes she was back from wherever she had gone looking slightly flustered. “I am really sorry,” she said, “That paper wasn’t meant for you. It was for the sixth standard students” and handed him another question paper.

*****

“So, thambi, how was the quiz?”
“Very difficult”, he said and dug out the question paper from his bag and placed it in his mother’s outstretched hand.
“Now, let me see. Who is the king of the forest?”
“Tree!” he screamed. That was probably the easiest question.
“….And the father of the nation?” she asked, with a slight frown on her face.
“God?” he asked uncertainly. He didn’t see her shake her head in displeasure.
“Name a faithful animal.” She asked hopefully.
“Fox. F for faithful, F for fox” he chanted, running around the room, pretending to be a train.
“And where do Muslims go to?” Did her forget that too?
“Church” he yelled at the top of his voice and sped away from the room, tired of his mother’s incessant questioning, leaving her to her own thoughts.

Bluto To The Rescue

The sun was at its radiant best, heat waves scorching everything around. I didn’t mind it though; 12 years in Manipal had given me enough courage and skill to withstand the mid-afternoon sun or even thunderous showers, for that matter. Furthermore, tall trees towered around me, all welcoming me to their side and shade was plentiful. The tiles were burning, but my corner was on the cement platform above the kitchen. My books, ranging from "A text book of Social Science", to Tintin comics were all sprayed around me. I formed the centre of the mess, my head on one branch of the tree that came into the platform, my ears plugged into a Walkman, a schoolbook in hand. It was my "Room on the roof", a corner that belonged exclusively to me.

It was just then that I heard this noise. If Kumbarkarna's tummy had ever growled, then that is how it might have sounded. It was a sound that I knew well but wasn’t actually expecting; it was the sound of footsteps on the tiles. Shit! My worst fears were confirmed. The roof, in fact, didn’t belong exclusively to me; it was also inhabited by some insects, a couple of worms, mongooses in the night (I have never spotted one), and MONKEYS.

It just sat there, a few metres away, staring solemnly at me, scratching its head. Black-faced and furry, with a tail that reminds one of a burnt Lanka, it waited. My immediate impulse was to run, to jump of the roof and make it to the house. But, my legs didn’t move and I didn’t want to leave my books, least of all my Walkman behind. I tried pretending that it didn’t exist and returned back to my books.

Pretending to be oblivious of something only makes you more aware of it and that is exactly what happened. The first thing I noticed, for instance, as I stared at my Social textbook was that the picture on the cover had 3 monkeys, all with long and bushy tails. The first name I saw was a certain Mr.Hanumanth Baliga, one of the members of the writing committee of the text book. And really, it is near impossible to read when someone stares so unabashedly at you from a distance of 5 metres.

With all the slyness that I could conjure, I turned my gaze, ever so carefully, in the direction of the monkey. I looked and immediately turned away, my eyes tightly shut, and stifled a scream. Indeed, for a second, a picture of a 5-foot monkey-magnet in my place flashed before my eyes, for there was no longer one, but three monkeys! They all sat in the same position and one of them even had a baby clinging to its stomach. I didn’t dare look again.

I carefully picked up my books, again superbly conscious of every move I was making, like a thief trying to steal from a super-mall with cameras all around him. I planned my get away quite simply. There was a guava tree that I could hop on and then with some deft footwork I would make my way onto the compound wall and jump beyond the bushes and run like crazy. It seemed liked the Indian batting line-up on paper, extremely promising but terribly unpredictable.

And while I was completely immersed in this line of thought, I felt a gentle tug at the wire that made its way into my ears. This time I knew what it was before even looking. The baby monkey, as mischievous as ever, seemed to be fascinated by my Walkman and had calmly strolled across to have a look at it.
"HANUMAN" I fittingly screamed, and I heard noises beyond the tiles from the asbestos. More monkeys.
"ARREY BOLSHANKARS, HELP ME. AYYO, HELP"

And somehow, since Hanuman himself couldn’t come in his usual form (that would have made me faint), he sent a substitute. 15 feet below, running at the speed of knots in a whirlwind of dust encircling it, ran Bluto; his head raised in my direction, tail wagging frantically and barking in a frenzy. My prayers had been answered; my Hanuman had arrived. He climbed the roof in the very manner that I had planned to get off and landed right in front of me.

What happened next on the roof, I still don’t know. I gathered all my books, hopped, jumped and ran. In less than a quarter of a minute, I was home, panting hard, but terribly relieved. And all I had to show for my adventure was a shirt that had torn somewhere during my frantic run.

That evening, as I made my way past my neighbour's house, I saw Bluto. It had a brand new shining collar.
"Bluto has lost his collar again" said my neighbour, an amicable old man, well into his 70s.
"Actually, Uncle, I think I know where it is, but I don’t think I will be going there in a very very long time" I said, and with a wink at Bluto, I ran past the house singing praises of the Lord Hanuman.

Riots

The night wasn’t silent; the streets weren’t dark. The lights weren’t put off, the owls weren’t hooting. The moon hid behind dark grey clouds as if unable to witness what was happening below. Dogs howled; women and children cried. The earth shook, unable to bear the weight of the stampede above. The wind whooshed past at a frightening speed carrying with it the dust, the flames, and everything else that dared to cross its way. Pandemonium prevailed.

It all started with the sound of footsteps. A group of people, all hooded and armed, galloped across the street. Then came an ear-piercing scream and the sound of wreckage. A house was blasted open and set on fire. Within minutes, chants were heard and someone sobbed loudly. More people, all armed, arrived.

And in the midst of this chaos, beside a heavily paan-stained wall by the street, he lay down. He could hardly move, and yet he tried.
"Help me" he screamed.
But there was too much going on, too much noise. And each man had his own life to take care of.
'Help me" he cried again, his voice now going down a few decibels. He could feel the darkness engulfing him, his life slowly ebbing away.

They moved through the panicked crowd with unusual finesse, cutting across people like a scissors through paper. They were all armed, as if forewarned of the likelihood of something of this sort happening and they were all similarly dressed. One of them spotted him, lying beside the river of blood that now flowed by the street and alerted the rest. They waltzed across the crowd, against the flow of people, and made it to him.
"Baba" said one of them, the moment they reached his side, kneeling by him.
He opened his eyes. There were 6 of them; all wearing grim yet determined faces. He couldn’t smile, but there was the slightest shake of the head.
"Baba, what is your name?"
The question brought him back to his senses. Everything came into focus just then. He stared into those deep-brown eyes that reflected the dancing flames all around, and realised that it was now a matter of life and death. He thought he spotted a streak of greying hair below the hood on the lower parts of the jaw and the cheek and with that much of a pause said,
"Abdul. Abdul Khan"

They immediately rose, eyes showing not any hint of pity for the man through whose stomach was pierced a bloodstained sword. As swift as ever, they turned and merged with the crowd not once looking back at the blood splattered shirt or the almost-still body.
"Bastards", he bellowed after them," the name is Hari Gopal".
But they had gone-- gone too far away and he was left all alone.

Swades--a masterpiece

It was way past 11 in the night. All was silent, still except for the TV in the living room that Amma was watching. I was working on my maths. My eyes were growing groggier with every passing second and my head was sinking. And then I heard this tune-- a tune that, for me, was more than just a tune--an anthem, a prayer. My head gave a sudden jerk and popped up, my limbs felt a new flush of energy flowing through, my tired eyes shone like the Buddha's after enlightenment, and my ears went upright. I ran to the living room, looked for hardly a second at the TV screen, and then asked a question that I had already known the answer to, "Swadesaa?"

I am, by nature, a person of stunningly strong likes. As a child of 10, I read Kamala Subramaniam's humungous Mahabharatha and immediately fell in love with Radheya (Karna). He wasnt the most perfect of charachters, Hell, he wasn’t even on the good side. And yet I adored him. Notwithstanding the fact that he was a mortal, I said my prayers to him daily before I slept.I have a fanatic's liking for VVS Laxman, who again, is not the most fancied of players in the Indian team. I love Kumble, for his unorthodox style of bowling and I love this lovely little book written by Ruskin Bond called "Scenes from a writer's life" that contains writings by him when he was young and raw at 16. And I love Swades, for its simple flow which is akin to Bond's style of writing or Laxman's batting.

Swades is my favourite movie. The storyline is amazing, the cast is brilliant and the director is one of the best in the industry. And yet, what draws me towards the movie like insects to light are the scenes. The scenes revel in highlighting the simple pleasures of life. Every scene is an experience; a piece of masterly craftmanship on the part of the director.And some of the them are so special and extraordinaly simple(yet happy) that one just cannot help smiling. The indescribable feeling of superlative elation after watching some of the scenes is something that I never have been able to draw from other movies, Indian or otherwise.
Mohan Bhargav,the main protagonist(played brilliantly by SRK), is not a person blessed with extraordinary brainpower or masculine abilities, but is a very real NRI. The characters, which are portrayed flawlessly, are genuine and exactly the type of people one would come across in such situations.

The movie also brings out the best in A.R.Rahman, another wizard. The maestro is at his best when composing from his heart and this movie has so much soul in it that he really brings up tunes that will stay for a long, long time. Swades has songs that are truly Indian and extremely authentic--vintage ARR. But, really, what is so truly marvellous about the music is not the songs, but the tunes that pop up when the scenes are in progress--the background music-- reflect every single emotion felt by the characters and enhance the effectiveness of the scenes.

Swades, however, is not the most perfect of movies. It has its drawbacks. The movie is stretched on both sides and, sometimes, the story seems to stay still. It sometimes reminds me of the Suvarna river, here in Manipal, in mid-summer, extremely picturesque but unmoving. Gayathri Joshi as Sita in "Pal Pal..." could have been avoided. And yes, the movie does, every so often, seem like Ashutosh Gowariker hasn’t managed to get over the Lagaan hangover.But,really, all this bothers me as much as Andy Roddick bothers Roger Federer. Shah Rukh Khan plays his most meaningful character in a career spanning a decade-and-a half, Gayathri Joshi makes a more than impressive debut, and Ashutosh Gowariker bears bravely the weight of the movie on his shoulders.

There is a beauty in imperfection, a beauty in the flawed. And this movie, though not the most seamless of ones is unique. It has captured my heart like few others have done(and sends flutters down every part of my body) and I cant help but applaud a director who explores un-trodden pathways in Indian cinema. A movie that is truly Indian. Simple, soothing and soulful.

The Convert

I was 10 then. I lived in a different world--a world that I can only dream of now; a world where my biggest responsibility was to rise before 8 in the morning and not say "Arrey, 5 minutes Amma"; a world where my only prayer to God would be "Swami (I always address Him that way), please, please bring such heavy rain that the roof of the school building flies away and we have a holiday for at least a week".

And one splendidly bright morning in the month of August (the clear blue sky would have sent a chill down my spine had it not been a holiday), I was entertaining my friends, all comfortably seated around the computer monitor, when, there was a knock on the door. I sprinted towards the door, silently hoping that it was a courier so that I could try out my new signature that had the 'S' all loopy and winding.

I couldn’t tell whose face was more disappointed. I saw no courier boy with a pen and paper in his hand and all they saw was a 10-year old who looked as if he had been told that he had to go back to school for an extra hour. The woman, however, smiled. I did the same, rather uncertainly. She looked about thirty and she had brought along a friend, a granny and a little girl.
"Yenu beku?" I asked (what do you want?)
"Ammey illva?" she asked back(Isn’t your mother there?). 'Malayalis' I thought.
"No, no one is at home" I replied, quickly switching languages. Better Malayalised English than Malayalised Kannada.
"Oh" she said, unable to mask her disappointment.
Then they had a little discussion amongst themselves while I practised some shots with the cricket bat that lay outside, getting restless with every passing second.
Then they suddenly stopped talking. She looked at me solemnly and asked,
"What is your name, kutty?"(Aha, kutty! definitely Malayalis!)
"Sharan"
"Do you believe in god?"
"Yes" (what is this?)
"Really? Which God?"
"Rama, Krishna, Shiva, Saraswathi, Vishnu..."
"You are Hindu!"
"Yes. I also like Brahma. He is my favourite. But we never pray to him"
"So, Shravan--"
"Its Sharan. And Oh! I almost forgot. I like Ganapthi too. I got prize for drawing him last year, you know?"
"Very good" she said, clearly unimpressed "Are you habby with your life?"
"Happy? Yes"
"Really?"
"Yes, umm...No” (Something told me she wanted ‘No’)
"Why aren’t you happy?"she asked, now clutching a cross that she wore around her neck.
"I don’t know" (You tell me!)
"I know, child. This world is so full of misery and zuffering. Even small children like you have so many broblems."
"!!?"(I had absolutely no idea what she was driving at)
But, do you wand to be really habby?"
"Mmm? Yes, I think so"(Please just let me go)
"Then read this bassage,” she said, extracting an old bound book that I immediately recognised as the 'Bible'.
"Okay." I said, and holding the book that was surprisingly heavy said, "Pasalm 23."
"Not Basalm, Psalm!"
"Psalm 23. A day will come when the tiger and the deer will live in harmony……………a child will put his hand in a snake's hole without fear"(I was beginning to get bored)
"Child, do you underzdand whad it means?"
"Yes"
"What does it mean?"
"Jungle book. I knew it was copied from somewhere. Was Kipling a christian?"
"Gibling? Who Gibling?"
"The author of Jungle book! It used to come on DD too! Don’t you remember the song? Jungle Jungle patha chala hey.……" I sang one full paragraph before I realised that she was not interested and quickly sang the first line again and stopped, looking slightly sheepish.
"But child, the paragraph is not about some Jungle book. It has a very deep meaning. It speaks of paradise on the earth. Where there exists perfect harmony and absolutely no fear. Do you understand me?"
"Paradise? I have been there. What ice creams you get! And the book shop next to it, what is it called? I forgot. Anyway, I bought an Enid Blyton there"
"No, No, child, Paradise is heaven. You get everything there. That is where He resides-- Jehovah, the father of Jesus. The ultimate supreme being....."
"No, Paradise is not heaven! That other shop, 'Muktha' is definitely heaven. You get better ice creams there and the choco-bars' I continued, looking mistily, " Only 5 Rs 50 paisa!"
"No, child. Its Jehovah-- father of Jesus Christ"
"Jehovah? I thought it was Thomas or someone like that"
She stood and just stared at me. Clearly it was a battle lost and it was time to go. I waited for her to make a move. At last, she fished in the back parts of her bag and handed over a small book that spoke of Jehovah and his son, Jesus Christ. She then added, somewhat tentatively,
"Son, I was wondering if you could give some monetary help"
"Monetary help? No, actually, I am busy now, and I am playing with my friends. So, I really can’t help. I am sorry"
"No, No, no help. Only some money"
"Money? I have no money"
"Actually, we give that book only to people who give donations...."
"Then, you can have it back. I have no problems"
"No, keep it child. Read it and become pure" she said sadly and turned to leave.
And then he came. My heart missed a beat, and I ran to the gate bumping into one of the three women, not even bothering to apologise. He smiled and gave me the post, a pen and the paper where I had to sign. I cracked my knuckles, practised writing the signature in mid-air and then with a flourish of fingers and ink, signed on the sheet. And the loopy and stylish ‘S’ came out just perfect!

Application for Transfer

Dear Mr. Raviteja,
All is not exactly well here. I do not get sleep in the nights anymore. I am afraid I am becoming an insomniac. The weather, the silence, the isolation, the nights do not agree with me at all.For the amount that I am getting from you to go through this hell I can stand all this. But, what I cant stand is the animals.
I have been afraid of animals since I was 4 years old. A kitten I was petting affectionately scratched me. I still have a scar on my left hand. When I was 11, I had a liking for doing cycle-riding. This liking(which now I think is madness) once made me to get up in the morning at 6 A.M and go around the town. There was not much light anywhere. While riding I saw two dogs lying and doing something that I cannot write about. I was getting scared but I bravely rode past them. And then they started to bark and chase me. I rode as fast as I could, but one dog came near my front tire while the other went near my back tire. I began shouting 'Help, Help' and then thinking that english speaking people might not be awake at this time, "Kapadi, Kapadi". My chappal fell of as I cycled for some distance. And then at the end of the road, a man saw me and threw stones at the dogs and made them scared. I didnt even stop to say 'thank you, sir'.I went home with only one chappal.
Here, it is very cold in the nights. I have asked for bedsheet from my servant, Ramu. But he is not knowing Kannada and I have learnt only third-language Hindi. I told him to get some blankets and he brought bangles. Sir, what will I do with bangles? But he is a fool and not understanding. He sometimes goes to jungle and catches mongooses or snakes. I say " Yeh govt. ka(or sometimes ki, ke etc) jungle hai. Yaha bete(hunting) nahi karnau(karnee, karna) hai" and he says "howdo, howdo"(yes, yes) shaking his head like he has some spring in it. I tell him it is not 'howdo' but 'houdhu', but as I said, he is a fool saying only 'howdo' like an Englishman.
In the nights I hear strange noises. Sometimes, I think it is only Ramu snoring. But can someone snore like a wolf howling? I have asked him from where the sounds are coming. But, he always repeats the sounds that he hears and says some strange things that I dont understand. Actually, if he speaks his Hindi a little slow, I can understand something at least. One day we heard a loud noise and he screamed and said 'Ye thi .....'. I am telling him that here is nothing called 'Yeti' and he is nodding his spring-head and saying 'howdo, howdo'. Sir, I am scared now. I dont know what will happen if the Yeti comes to my house one day.
It is 12o'clock now. Ramu is snoring loudly. The Yeti is also making noises. I am still not getting any sleep. I want to resign or get some transfer. I cannot stay here.Hope you can understand my handwriting.

Yours,
Chandrappa.ps-Here it is not raining, but I have a raincoat. The crows here are very bad and they like passing motion on me. So, I wear my raincoat and go to the river to do my sandhyavandana.My black raincoat is almost white now.

An Artist & His Art

The fast bowler began his sprint of a little over 25 metres; twice the length the ball would have to travel once it would be released. On the striker’s end, crouched with his piece of willow, stood a batsman, or rather an artist, for he was so gifted. The ball, a good delivery outside the off stump, wasn’t defended with a dead bat, or forcefully whacked through the covers, but was caressed with infinite tenderness--a flick of the wrists through mid-wicket. The sound of the bat hitting the ball wasn’t the usual ‘thump’, but a pleasing ‘chink’ (as Ravi Shastri puts it). The very next ball by the frustrated bowler was an average delivery on off stump that kept a little low. This ball, which even a number 11 would negotiate with ease, had this man playing all around it. The ball eventually found its way to the lower half of the off stick. The stunned batsman stood rooted to his ground. His face showed utter disbelief, but his eyes show fear—for the selectors’ axe isn’t too far away.

VVS Laxman isn’t just any other batsman. He is one who has the potential of being a phenomenon, one of the greatest the game has ever seen. He is one of the few who takes the skill of batsmanship to new highs. In fact, when he wields his willow, batting is not a skill, but an art. An art so pleasing that one becomes oblivious to all around oneself—the only desire of the heart is to see him bat.

He is definitely not an orthodox batsman. His shots are not technically perfect, his footwork unquestionably not among the best in the world. But, who cares? The Don’s shots weren’t really appropriate for a coaching manual either. He is as unpredictable as the rains in India, getting out to rank long hops that Geoff Boycott’s mum would dispatch with a hockey stick. Sometimes even his defence leaves a lot to be desired.

In the summer of 2001, when Indian cricket, still recovering from the match fixing scandal, touched new lows, a messiah of hope arrived. On the third day of the momentous Kolkata test match, the Laxman orchestra got cracking. An orchestra that played a wonderful symphony never heard before; an orchestra that lasted, indefatigably, an entire day; an orchestra that single-handedly lifted a team that was down in the dumps; an orchestra of grace, elegance and class.

However, Laxman’s career has never really taken off. The great innings of master-class and substance have been overshadowed by scratchy failures. His career graph, with so many ups and downs, would look more like a series of road-humps. In spite of being an extremely aggressive test batsman (when in full flow), his omission from the national side in the shorter version of the game has become a common sight.

Why does this happen? How can a man so very gifted unable to live up to even the most modest of expectations? How long can one say that he is unable to take the pressure or, probably, is short of confidence? A man who has played nearly a decade of international cricket will know how to handle pressure and work his way out of lean patches.

And this is where the technique factor comes into play. Laxman is blessed with tremendous amounts of hand-eye coordination which, many a time, makes up for his extremely shoddy footwork, his penchant for prodding way outside the off stump. His unrivalled wrists keep in check other aspects of his faulty technique. But, cricket is a game that is fast changing. With the increased use of technology in all the aspects of the game, it is of utmost importance for a batsman to keep changing his style of play. Teams all around the world have a computer-literate coach and at least one computer analyst. Every player’s strong points and weaknesses are scrutinized and a well thought strategy is chalked out for him.

This is where Laxman falls short. He is one among a breed of batsmen for whom batting came as naturally as composing music did for A.R.Rahman. All the various coaches he had helped him develop his game without really tampering much with his style. Laxman’s greatest strength is also his weakest link. His unique and artistic style of play kept many a bowler lost for options. But now, well into his 8th year as an international cricketer, Laxman’s batting has been analysed; cracks in his batting have been figured out. The bowlers bowl according to a plan—they bait him. Laxman, sadly, is yet to find a counter attack—a master plan that will cover up for the chinks in his armoury. The fact is that Laxman hasn’t gone down as a batsman, but he has failed to adapt. He has failed to make those slight variations in his game that would keep his place a certainty in the side.

Ian Chapel was, once, asked to change his grip by the great Sir Don himself and this tremendously improved his all round abilities as a batsman. With some luck, Laxman too might pick up a tip or two from some great Indian batsmen and might be back among the runs again. With a few months to go before the next season begins, Laxman has some time to reassess his game. Hopefully, the coming season will see a fully rejuvenated Laxman, rearing to go. For as the proverb goes, “Form is temporary, Class is permanent”.

Naxals

"Be silent. There might be thieves around here"
"Or possibly even Naxals and..... AAAAAAH"
"What happened?"
"You would nearly have had my shirt burning. Hold that fire-stick a little higher"
"But, you didn’t have to shout--"
"Papa, what are nacsals"
"Ask Amma"
"Amma, what are nacsals"
"Shhh"
"Snake!"
"Where?"
"No, that was only your amma shhhing"
"Amma shhhed, not ssssssed"
"SHH, keep quite and walk on."
"Ahu, I want to see the snake"
"There is no snake, nana"
"But, amma, you shouted 'snake' just now"
"Don’t shout."
"I said snail, not snake"
"Oh, okay. Papa what are nacsals"
"Naxals, not nacsals"
"Whatever. What are they?"
"They are forest ghosts"
"Really? I want to see them"
"You cant see ghosts"
"My teacher says you can. She saw one when she was 5 years old and I am five years old now"
"Okay"
"Forest ghost. Ey, Forest ghost. Where are you? Naskul, come out"
"Keep quite, little rascal"
"I want to see forest ghost"
"Shh"
"How far is it from here"
"About 5 minutes"

*******

WHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOO
"What was that?"
"That was the sound of the forest ghost"
"Are owls forest ghosts?"
"That was not an owl. It was the naxal"
"Only Owls can make sounds like that. Not rascals--- sorry nascals. My teacher says.."

*******

"Do nusmskulls live on trees?"
"Ask amma"
"Amma, Do numbskulls live on trees?"
"No, only in palaces"
"Why are they called forest ghosts if they live in palaces?"
"They live in palaces in the forest"
"The 'Phantom' lives in a forest palace"
"Very good, Now keep quite. I think your father doesn’t know the way home"
"Doesn’t know the way, hah"
"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
"Keep quiet, will you?"
"I am calling the nascel"
"Naxals will come whether you call them or not'

*******

"Do you know where we are going?"
"Yes I do"
"Is this the right way home?"
"This is a short-cut"
"I think we are lost"
"No, we are not"

*******

"AAAAAAAAAAH, drop the stick. drop it now"
"Papa, the grass is burning"
"MY shirt is too"
"Run, Babu, Run"
"Amma, why is papa rolling on the ground? I want to do it too"
"He is on fire, damnit"
"He is on fire. The grass is on fire. Amma, don’t hit him like that"
"Run babu, the fire is spreading"
"I want to do rolling like papa. ROLL, Roll..."

********

"There is the house"
"Lovely shortcut you found"
"I guess it cost us one shirt"
"How sad papa, we still didn’t find a single muscle--sorry nascle"