The Slum

Mukundam Sir never walks around the slum—he struts around it, hands in his pockets, kicking the odd stone that lay in his path, swinging his black, double-compartmented bag that he slings around his shoulder, smiling at the skies and simultaneously, eyes darting everywhere, observing everyone, looking for children— children picking rags, children washing clothes, carrying boxes or pails twice their weight—and in between all this, he manages to carry out the most genial conversation with me about why Laxman is India’s best batsman. It is hot. So hot that sweat drips off my face like rain-drops off sloping leaves of trees during monsoons; so hot that I have almost finished the litre-bottle of ‘AquafinE’ water I bought at the slum-general store. I am famished, and another hour under this maddeningly scorching sun, I’ll call myself exhausted. I pour the last few sips of water on my head and stare into the hazy blob of yellow above and have this foolish urge to take off my Tee shirt. And through the corner of my eye, I notice Mukundam Sir swaggering around unmindfully, now whistling a tuneless tune, in a full-sleeve shirt ...

The slum is vast—a maze of intertwining gullies, some parallel and straight, some curved, some looped and some shapeless. It took me a whole week and a half to find my way around this place—the houses/huts/settlements have no numbers, they pretty much look the same in some places, it is as easy to get confused and lost as it is for an American in a game of cricket. Landmarks are difficult to find, and I relied heavily on intuition; with time however, I improved for every lane has an identity of its own, in this case most easily epitomised by its people. I used people as landmarks—I knew I was a couple of lanes behind the Government School by the sight of an old hag, devoid of teeth, always clad in saris in varying shades of green (a little bit of research told me that an Environmental NGO had come recently and distributed clothes for the old and the infirm), sitting by her house, staring at the bare, opposite wall like it had secrets only she could fathom; The sight of a group of merry, little children—whose combined ages I could almost count on my fingers— playing with the rags from the dump told me that a few steps to my right and I would be in the street of the Lambadis—a wandering, backward tribal group of people who rarely mixed with the rest; I knew that I was in the adjacent lane to the Muslim settlement by the sight of good, old Saidulu—a balding, gem of a man who lost both his thumbs and index fingers in an ‘accident’ (that was all he would tell me)—squatting and doing his wood-work with his seven-year old daughter covering up for his disability.

“What Saidulu?” Mukundam Sir says, “Still not willing to send the girl to school?”
Saidulu looks up—his deformed hands trying to keep the sun off his eyes—and says:
“See, how much help she can do around the house. And the little one inside? She’s barely a year old and needs someone around. Her mother goes away to work, every time she gets a chance”
Mukundam Sir shrugs and just when I think he’s not going to lecture, he does.
“You are only thinking of yourself, think about her for a change ...”
I’ve heard this speech so many times that I barely pay attention to what he says. And that allows me to appreciate everything else about his performance— his Adam’s apple bobs up and down frantically as his voice acquires a curious, different booming quality and this finds echoes in everything else he does as he gesticulates wildly, hands everywhere, now close-fisted, now open, now flowing; his face acquires a glow, it shines with something more than just pride—perhaps its only a trick of the light for the sun is blazing, and his deep-brown skin is sweaty and oily, perhaps not ...

When he’s done, leaving Saidulu staring at his scrap of wood meditatively, I ask him:
“Don’t you get bored of saying the same thing over and over again? Where does all the enthusiasm come from?”

“The enthusiasm comes from the fact that lunch is ... ” he pauses, to look at his watch, “... less than ten minutes away”
That’s typical Mukundam Sir. Sometimes, I wonder if this man is human: its one thing to have an inexhaustible fountain of enthusiasm tucked away inside you somewhere, its quite another to brush off all the noble work you do with incredible modesty (and a dash of flair).

********

I’ve got chapattis with aloo and thire saadam for lunch. I’ve also got some typical Andhra-curry that I can’t name, but still tastes swell. Mukundam Sir has got his normal quota of loads of rice, some delicious looking bendakai kura (my favourite) and lemon-pickle.
“Exhange offer!” he announces, miming perfectly the voice of the Big Bazaar lady, “Your Aloo for my bendakai; No extra fee; Hurry! Offer open till I count 5. 1 ...”
I quickly swap curries and smile at him. But, he’s looking away—at the blackened stream that lays by our slum, a faint trace of a frown on his face.
We are at the eastern edge of the slum— Mukundam Sir’s most preferred area. The government school building is here, towering over the rest of the slum with its inaccurately titled bright blue board on the third floor wall that reads ‘Government Girls Higher Primary School’ (there are far more boys than girls in the school); beside the school is a small temple—the deity is miss-able, being barely a foot tall and covered in garlands and turmeric, camouflaged by the bark of the tree by which it stands, but not the paintings of Durga looking lethal on a tiger (benign in comparison) or that of Kali, blood-stained trishul in hand, tongue sticking out; and these two—the school and the temple— form the centre of a single-storied housing complex, with one-roomed government-allotted quarters that house five, six or even more: lines of houses run on all four sides; and past the houses, the land slopes down, dirty green in colour, into the a stream, as dark as the skins of the coolies who toil all day; washerwomen wash clothes by its side, some men bathe their bulls, children swim and play ...
“What are you staring at?” asks Yadamma, the woman whose home we use as our dining-place.
“Huh?” he says, and almost mutters to himself, “those children by the stream ... why aren’t they at school?”
I catch Yadamma’s eye, and the two of us smile and nod our heads in understanding—some people can’t get some things out of their heads. And suddenly, Mukundam Sir asks me, unable to hide the dejection in his voice:
“Laxman got out twice today to the same bowler. Guess who?”
Or maybe they can.

It nearly six in the evening: the men and women return from their work, tired, worn-out, backs slouching, dragging their feet; some have gathered by the tea-shop, drinking chai, discussing slum politics, marriage, scandals, ration cards; others play cards and drink beer, on the open-aired first floor of the perennially under-construction, half-done apartment complex; the women rush home because their children wait for them hungrily, there are vessels to be washed, there’s water to be drawn; the children are noisy, some still in uniforms, some in workman’s clothes, playing marbles and ­chor-police; and in perfect contrast to all the frolic and madness and colour below is a polluted grim sky above and an expressionless yellow sun, making its way down ...

Mukundam Sir is smiling, as always, drinking the final chai for the day. The chais are free for us—the tea-shop owner is a fan. Not everyone is though, and Mukundam Sir, smiling calmly, is explaining to a woman why she must send her little girls to school. If I hadn’t been here for a month, I would have thought that she was near-hysterical: but that’s how it is here—the women and men are loud and almost violent in their gestures, never bothering to tone-down and be ‘civilised’: perhaps they’re being defiant, relishing the opportunity to be free, for in most ways, they are slaves of circumstances, of ignorance; perhaps, that’s how we all men once were, before civilisation and society clamped down upon us, setting norms and making politeness and softness go hand in hand. I don’t know, but I can’t help admiring and envying how ‘natural’ and unrestrained they seem...

And then there’s Mukundam Sir, as soft as ever, patiently listening to her lecture and smiling—it all came so naturally to him—I cant see how he can be a slave to societal norms in any way. The woman’s saying, from across the road, loud enough for everyone to notice, but not everyone does:
“Why can’t a rag-picker’s daughter be a rag-picker? Who are you to make that decision for her by sending her to school?”
Another smile, and somewhere inside, I can’t help but think that all this kindness and smiling is only fuelling her anger, as he says:
“Yes, she can be, if she wants to. But, why are you denying her the opportunity to make the choice herself? Who are you to decide that this is what she should do? Send her to school and once she’s done, if she wants to come back to work with you, then she very well may, but pray don’t deny her the choice by making it yourself ...”
And I think that’s struck a chord somewhere, and a part of her has already accepted defeat or is thinking along his lines of thought for she is raving like an absolute lunatic now, hardly coherent, stringing a slew of insults together, unable to say anything that makes sense.
When she’s done and gone, having called Mukundam Sir so many names that he’d give Lord Vishnu (of a thousand names) stiff competition, Mukundam Sir sighs, smiles and says:
“Ah, she’ll come around: I think I finally broke through this time, did you notice?”
I nod. Yes, I did. I also noticed how he stayed inexplicably calm throughout her tirade: any lesser man would have lost it. And to think that this man goes through something like this everyday.
“Let’s go now ... Long night ahead, and another day tomorrow ...”
The tone catches me off-guard: it’s the first time today that he’s shown any signs of weariness.
I turn around to face him and am caught off-guard again—his face is as fresh as ever—his eyes shine, his gait has the same buoyant feel to it; he’s back to being his normal super-human self.

********

The night is quiet; there is a wind that blows slowly, almost teasingly, beckoning me outside; the few stars that defy the pollution shimmer palely; there is no sky, no moon, just a dark-grey above.
I give in—it is just too tempting. I reach for my helmet, feel my pockets to see if my vehicle keys are there—they are—and in a matter of seconds, I am out, racing through the streets of the city, the wind slapping against my chest, goose-pimples on my arms.
There are few vehicles on the road; the shops are shut; the odd cow rummages the garbage dump by the road; dogs howl in the distance; and street-dwellers are fast asleep with night-watchmen giving them company. And before I realise it, I am on the road leading to my slum—it’s a road I frequent so often that mechanically my subconscious mind guides me in the direction. The road narrows, and just as I am about to curve into the slum, I nearly hit a man with a cricket bat in his hand, walking in the middle of the road. I honk loudly and my brake screeches. Just as I am about to let my tongue loose on him, I stop myself—its Mukundam Sir.
“Sir?”
“Huh?” he says, looking straight ahead and continuing to walk.
“Sir?” I shout loudly, driving slowly to keep pace with him.
He doesn’t respond, but simply twirls the cricket bat in his hand and moves on. I don’t know why, but I am suddenly afraid.
I hastily get off my vehicle and let it rest against the wall that borders the road, throw my helmet aside and run ahead to catch up with him.
In the orange light of the street-light above, I notice his face: it is blank. I grab him by the shoulders and give him a few jerks: he stops and stares dazedly into my eyes, and gradually there’s a flicker of recognition, and then the sides of his eyes well up, and he drops the bat and slumps onto the ground, onto his bums, leaning against the wall behind. And he whispers, but in the silence around, it is all too audible:
“Why don’t they understand?”
“I do”, I say, “I do. And they’ll do too. Someday”
Silence. He’s looking past me now.
“I guess they will” he says gradually, and I notice the smoothness returning to his voice, as I give him a hand and he rises.
There’s an uneasy silence as he brushes away the dust from his backside—I don’t know what to say.
“Oh, and by the way, since I am no longer the great, noble man you think me to be, Bendakai koora is my favourite too, please spare me some the next time I bring it”
He always does.

Political Science-- 3

(Its been quite a while and had actually half given up. But, the series seemed very reader-friendly, by my low standards at least. They were the only posts that people (If two-three persons can be called that) ever asked me about ... So, on popular demand ...)
7 30 AM
The Bathrooms
(The Bathrooms are like standard hostel ones, all over the country: dirty, smelly and wet. The mirrors are stained; the flushes work sometimes; the showers might shower you with slime for water, and sometimes shower the nozzle along too with the slime/water. But, like everything else in the hostel—all this is made up for by the cheer, goodwill and loudness around. The bathroom is also where the most interesting and honest conversations can take place, and is considered by many an intelligent mind as a great place to innovate, ideate and think.)
“Oh my god! The sun has surely risen from the west today”
Amit Kumar, as is his name, has a penchant for clichés. Most clichéd statements are badly timed—overused (over-timed?)— But Amit timed them as well as Ashish Nehra timed his cover-drives. He was peeing in the adjacent loo; and he was a friend. No, an enemy actually—he was from the other party. No, a friendly enemy, I guess.
I was groggy. And the familiar feeling of uneasiness was just beginning to settle in my stomach: I had come to expect it, as part of my new life now. I felt like a sailor with perennial sea-sickness. Also, quite like inflation, it was self-fulfilling—on some mornings when I didn’t feel any uneasiness, I felt odd and sort of expected it to come on. And it did.
“I have been up by 7 30 for three days now!” I said defensively.
He laughed and continued,
“Wow! That’s amazing! I’m impressed, President Sir!”
“Knock it off—can’t a man just pee in peace?”
“Pee for President! Pee for President”
“Shut up now!”
“And no, a man can’t pee in peace. Why can’t they lower these damn things? Do I have to stand on my tip-toes always?”
Amit bore the dubious distinction of being the shortest hosteler around.
I snorted. And said,
“Loo-ser”

On my way back, I met this stranger, who seemed vaguely familiar, walking up to the toilets. Instinctively, I stuck out my hand, telling him,
“Hi, I am standing for post of President from the ‘Wa—“ and caught myself mid-way: he was the sweeper.
He gave me a very perplexed smile, before proceeding, leaving me with some very fundamental existential concerns.

I opened my door to see the Alarm going crazy and Shoaib sleeping with his head below his pillow rather than the other way round.
“Shoaib!” I shouted.
“You fool” he said, his voice cracking, unused and rusty, “Don’t you know the difference between ‘snooze’ and ‘off’ on your alarm?”
“Am so sorry”, I said, rushing towards my mobile phone and turning the alarm off. And then I hit him on the back and that seemed to frustrate him even more, but he emerged from behind the pillow and stared at me through half-open eyes and asked,
“What?”
I looked straight into his eyes, assuming a very serious countenance, and said in my most solemn tone,
“This is getting to me. I don’t know what I am, I don’t know who—“ I said, pointing to myself vigorously with both my hands, “this is!”
He looked at me and then slowly, like a man under the influence of hemlock, shut his eyes and went into a content sleep.

2 PM,
The College Canteen
(The canteen is shady. The chairs are those typical red, plastic ones one sees in shady places. The lighting is poor, dark-ish—shady again. The waiters don’t hop around cheerfully, but creep up on you, the man at the counter doesn’t speak at all, only grunts and nods, like we’re discussing a top-secret smuggling deal. The staff are all Malayalis and the lucky few to be acquainted with the language can understand what they say amongst themselves: for the rest, their conversations seemed very shady. Everything tastes the same in my canteen and therefore, Special Chinese Noodles is only a wriggly version of Pure South Indian Dosa.)

We needed a break. I had shook so many hands that I felt like some holy mystic—touch my hand and see all your troubles go. I had smiled so much that my jaws were aching, and sadly, the plastic smile was still stuck on my face, like a scar that refused to go. The Don, as always, was by my side. As I was ordering at the counter, the Don nudged me and said, smiling indulgently,
“When you become president, you won’t be paying for all this!”
Behind that fixed smile, I groaned: what a great incentive to become president, I thought—save 15 bucks worth expenditure on food that tasted like it was made in my hostel toilets. Furthermore, the canteen was run by Tamils and even my excuse of a Tamil was enough to earn a free chow mein or a dosa every now and then.
As we made our way, with two plates of noodles and coke, I acknowledged innumerable students with a nod or a smile as the Don—my walking directory—whispered each of their names and their courses in my ears.
“And that’s Nikhita, English Honous—Oh, and I have some good news for you” he said.
That sentence finally broke through my fixed smile—I actually frowned, my jaw muscles cracking and vibrant, relishing the new-found freedom. The Don’s news generally meant trouble, and the good ones especially were perhaps the worst type of news. Steeling myself, I asked,
“Well, what is it?”
“We’ll be going” he said and paused, trying to force a long chain of noodles into his mouth, “We’ll be going to visit the girls’ hostels today!”
I smiled a real smile for the first time in the day. I imagined a picture of walking through scented corridors, girls everywhere. If they dressed anywhere close to as sparingly as we did in our hostels then it was going to be a wonderful evening. I asked,
“When will that be?”
“In the evening. Say, around, 5 30?”
I smiled again. I felt rejuvenated and life didn’t seem too bad really: the malayali waiters suddenly seemed very cheery and less creepy, as they took orders; the noodles tasted like they were specially got from ‘Mainland China’; all around me, the students fought, talked, shouted and enjoyed; and I was still smiling, thinking of James Bond and girls ...

4 30 PM
The Don’s Cell
I walked into the Don’s cell, fresh from a bath and a shave. I was early, but very excited, and wanted to be on time. The Don looked at me and one look at his face, my face fell. This, I knew was news, and the worst type.
“Er … Sharan?” he said, like a father trying to tell his child that the brand new toy-car from the store they had bought had some internal defect and wouldn’t budge even if it had King Kong pulling it, “We might not be going to the hostels today”
“What?” I said crestfallen, falling into a chair. The Don paused as only Dons do—from Godfather to Sarkar—and trust me, these long periods of inertia only look good in the films. I dug my nails into the chair, frustrated, waiting. At long last, he asked in a dramatically poised tone,
“Hmmm … Have you heard of the party Insignia?”
“No” I said, wondering why the he could never answer straight and had to go about it in such a round-about manner with questions for answers and added for good measure, “Nor have I heard of Gold Flake Party or Classic Mild Party”
The Don either didn’t get the joke or chose to ignore it. He continued,
“Well, they are a fringe party. But, they made an impact last year. And they have a decent chance this year—apparently they’ll team up with NSUI if the need arises. Anyway, getting to the point—“
‘Finally’ I said, half-aloud.
“Yes, I’ve fixed up a meeting with the President. She wants to address the hostel, but firstly she wants to talk to us. I have a feeling you might just like her”
“When is she coming?”
“Any time now …”
“Cant we just get done with her and then go to the hostels?”
“Well. I am not too sure. Lets see …”
And there, I thought, there was still a ray of hope. I went back to feeling a little light, like I had air-floaters for sandals. And then there was a knock on the door and it swung open and I literally flew.

She was a vision. The first thing I noticed about her, strangely, were her fingers—they were long and slender, like those of a seasoned artist. She was beautiful—she had eyes that were focused and incisive, that made you strangely conscious of who you are and not what you are wearing; her eyebrows danced at will, like those of a child, in perfect contrast to the maturity in her eyes; her hair fell on her shoulders in a manner that was almost stately, yet attractive; she was draped in a shawl, that covered her top and fell back gracefully; I couldn’t take my eyes of her.

“Fuck you, Don” she said.
And I swear I heard Violins play in the background, as she said those words.
The Don didn’t say a word, but quietly offered her a cigarette.
“Fuck you, Don” she said again.
The Violins were getting louder.
The Don asked lazily—
“What is it?”
“They’ve taken my I-Card. Your stupid watchman took my I-Card and asked me to sign in some shit-all register”
“I can have them got back. I am sorry” the Don said in the same strange, lazy drawl.
Her eyes fell on me, and I felt my back go stiff—I nearly overbalanced and fell off my chair; her eyes flicked to the Don immediately, enquiringly.
“Oh, I forgot” the Don said apologetically, “This is Sharan. He’s our Presidential candidate”
She turned to look at me and flashed a small smile—it was a small one, and yet it was flashed. And it was, oddly, not plastic—I had seen many a fake smile in recent times, mostly by politicians-to-be to people they thought they wouldn’t ever see again but had to be nice to, just in case, and this was not that kind of a smile. Maybe I was just imagining things; maybe not. She said:
“So, what course are you in?”
“Economics”
“Ah!” she said, turning to the Don, “You didn’t pick a Science-ee?”
“No. This kid’s good. Real good. And we need someone like him to get us the Arts and Commerce votes. I am a major hit amongst the Sciences. When I was President last year—“
I was just beginning to roll my eyes and sink back into my chair, prepared for a long-drawn out speech, when she cut him short:
“Don, not now. I am not in the mood”
“Eh? What? Not now, yes, I guess, not now. Not now … no, not now …” the Don said, shaking his head. And I was glad.
There was another silence—this one not so dramatic for the Don didn’t intend it to be—and we all sat looking around; I was looking mostly at her, feasting my eyes.

“Maybe you should talk to him and see what you think of him” the Don said, looking at her.
“Huh?” she said, shaken out of her reverie.
I was nervous—what did the Don want me to do now? Talk? For a second I thought of the Don as a matchmaker, and I was the groom desperate to impress a potential bride. I smiled, thinking of the picture. The Don unfortunately took that as a sign of my willingness to ‘talk’ to her.
“Sharan” the Don said, “Tell her what you think of Hypocrisy being a benchmark for Civilization”
“Well” I said immediately, “I think they should make that road four-laned, the one near Haus Khas”
The Don looked at me, startled at first, then confused, then thoughtful and finally aghast. I didn’t care, I had had enough of impressing people …
And then I looked at her, and a smile lit up my lips: she was amused, impressed perhaps; she was smiling. And boy, could she smile!

To be continued ...
(Part 4's already done, by the way)

The Wave

I would be lying if I said that the sky was overcast. I would also be lying if I said it was not. The palm-dotted island that fitted between my palms separated by a foot when we left the shore now looked life-size and very inviting. It was windy—the scented sea breeze slapped against our faces, billowed our shirts and made me grab my poorly tied veshti in alarm. The boat wasn’t rocking though, in spite of the near-manic wind, for the sea was calm and the boatman an expert at his job. The sun was a brilliant red ball set amidst white, pale ghosts of clouds on an indigo horizon. In the opposite direction, below threatening dark-grey clouds that we mistook to be receding, was the shore we’d left, speckled with human dots bathing in the frothy waves of grey-blue water and coconut-palm beyond on the ochre sand, some standing grotesquely crooked, all desperately trying to get their share of the sun.

I laughed happily, for no apparent reason. And he laughed too: Ramanatha—Rama for short—the boatman, my best friend, as he stroked the sea gently and cajoled it to stay placid and let us make our way through. Rama was tall and though endowed with strong arms and muscular thighs, quite lanky. His face was angled and neatly chiseled, like one of those Egyptian pictorial representations of humans: his nose was long and pointed and his eyes were like fishes—flattened and extended horizontally. They exuded confidence, and had a very calming effect on people around him. And it was my eyes that were his eyes to the world.

“And there”, Rama said, pointing to a deserted corner of the shore, far to my right, that had the waves lashing against rocks, “that’s where Vikram nearly died”
And we laughed again, swept by a wave of nostalgia.

Unsurprisingly, we were laughing when it happened too. I was ten. Vikram was nine. And Rama, my best friend now, was fourteen. The beach was our home then. Under a blazing sun and clear skies, clad only in under-wears for all but the last week of the two joyous months of our summer-break, we played amidst the rocks, with the waves. The game we played most often was simple, thrilling and horribly addictive: two of us would stand on the tallest of rocks, some ten feet tall and pointed and dark brown; the other would be below, a tennis-ball in hand. And he would throw the ball, and we took turns, us kids on the rock, to be Jonty Rhodes or Superman: we would fling ourselves in the air in the direction of the ball, catch it and then plunge into the water.

On that day, it was I who threw the ball. The one distinct image from that day is of Vikram standing atop the rock against a blameless blue sky, his wild-hair dancing in the wind, eyes firmly focussed on the rising ball. He crouched, as the ball began its descent and when he thought the time was right, flew from atop the rock in the direction of the ball. It was a perfect dive: as their trajectories met—the ball and the boy—he clasped his hand around it and broke into a broad smile. With arms raised in celebration, he went down, into the five-foot deep water. He didn’t emerge.
We were laughing, trying to guess from where he would resurface, sure that this was just another one of his stupid tricks.
The ball surfaced though, shining in the sun, sullen and alone, exactly at the spot where he’d vanished.
And that’s when we panicked.

Rama was swift—he too plunged from above and disappeared into the water. After a few very painful, tense moments, they both came into view—Rama, his face inscrutable, hauling an unconscious Vikram and swimming towards the shore. In five minutes, Vikram regained his consciousness. His eyes met mine.
“Hi!” I said, relieved and embarrassed at the same time.
He stared at me for a while, and then slowly turned his head, looked at Rama and smiled. Rama smiled back. An uneasy silence prevailed as we averted each others’ eyes, afraid to acknowledge the gravity of what had happened.
And then Vikram asked, looking beyond us, at the yellow, hazy, scorching tennis ball of a sun,
“Good catch, no?”
“Yes, excellent” I said.And we laughed and laughed until we could no longer do so; and we all lay exhausted, but content on the ochre sand, facing the blemish-free sky, hearing the waves lash against the rocks …

The skies had prematurely aged: graying suddenly everywhere, they grumbled and mumbled like a frustrated old man; the fiery, young sun disappeared without a trace. That was how it is here, in my land, along the coast during the monsoons—the Rain-Gods were always fooling us with their fickle minds and stupid tricks. No matter how long you stayed here, you could never tell.
“Bad timing” said Rama, scanning the skies.
“Yes” I said.“Maybe we should go back”
“Go back?” I asked looking around. We were just about the half-way mark, perhaps a little ahead: the trees on the island looked bigger than those on the shore.
“Yes. I know we’re closer to the island. But, it’s the wind—we’d be going against it”
“As you please” I said and relaxed. I smiled. I liked all this: a little bit of harmless adventure—in a dingy boat with thunder and a furious wind and a sea that was no longer calm for company. I knew it was harmless—this was a sturdy boat and in the safest hands along the coast. It also helped that the boatman was my best friend and would do anything for me.

Rama and I were once neighbours (that’s not saying much because, where we come from, everyone is everyone’s neighbour) We went to the same school—he was a couple of classes ahead; We played the same games—cricket, football, lagori; and we fell for the same girls; but we had very different career-paths. I went to the city, to study engineering. He did his graduation in Kannada literature from the degree-college nearby. He stayed back, teaching in the high-school, pursuing his masters simultaneously. I got a job in Infosys and only came back once a month with riveting tales of life in the city—of shiny, tinted-glass buildings, flyovers and traffic; of romantic coffee-houses and dance-clubs; of five-star hotels and roof-parties; of goddesses for women who, thankfully and unlike the gods, didn’t have any morals.

He listened to these tales, wide-eyed, and I knew with every journey back, little by little, our relationship was changing. We started off as equals. But, I knew so much more now, I had done and experienced so much more. He was quite like the proverbial frog in the well and he saw me as no longer an equal, but some revered figure who had chosen to fight the real-world and come out scarred, but very much on top; And I let that impression linger simply because I was only human and I liked all the veneration I evoked in his innocent mind; more and more of our conversations began to centre around me; my tales were getting increasingly exaggerated to the point that I was certain he hero-worshipped me. I loved that feeling.

The sea was getting pretty rough now. The wind pushed harder, the boat rocked more. But, with the wind behind us, we made swift progress. Rama began to whistle an old Kannada folk-song—a fast-paced, school-day celebration favourite—and I banged on the boat to keep the rhythm. And then, I stopped suddenly, spell-bound: the skies were cracked open by a streak of white magic; the sea, for a split-second, suddenly lit up; the boat shone and Rama momentarily acquired a divine-halo. And it rained.

He rowed faster now. I still felt no fear: we’d been through far worse before; and Rama’s calm eyes were very comforting. The rain left us both fully drenched; the wind that was seemingly changing its course, caused us to shudder; there was more lightning, more roars of thunder in the skies; Rama still whistled and rowed, at a furious pace now; and I pounded the boat like a madman, laughing aloud, soaking in the rain and the moment: I was loving it all. And we were nearly ashore.

And then, he suddenly stopped rowing. His face assumed an expression that I had rarely seen: the comforting calm in his eyes had vanished. He just stared past me, at the sea, paralyzed. I turned around, following his eyes, and a shout of uncontrolled panic escaped my mouth. Driving towards us at a ferocious pace was a wild monster-wave, with salty-froth for saliva. It was at least a fifty feet tall and a thousand feet wide. I couldn’t stop shouting. And it was barely a minute away. The wind was now against us; the shore was still a few hundred metres away.
‘Row, Rama, Row!’
I screamed staring at the colossal wave, but I didn’t know if he’d heard it for the wind was howling now, the rain pouring and the wave roaring. And that’s when I noticed that something was wrong: the boat was rocking badly, and we were making little progress, in fact I thought we were going in the opposite direction. Afraid to take my eyes off the wave, but forcing myself to do so, I turned around and screamed once again. He was gone. My friend, my boatman, the man who hero-worshipped me, had abandoned the boat and had chosen to swim back ashore. I was all alone. And the sea was just too rough for me to swim back to safety like my friend.

I grabbed the abandoned paddle, and turned around to face the wave once again. And I knew it was hopeless: I had barely thirty seconds left and a fair distance to row. The wind blew furiously, pushing me towards that wave. I threw the paddle away, and spread my arms out wide, and between streams of tears (or was it rain?), I stared at the wave and worked myself into a rage. I’d rather die an angry man than a depressed one, I mused.
‘The fool! ‘ I shouted to the dull-grey sky, to the rain, to the wave, to myself.
‘The moron, the bastard, the traitor. How could he do this to me?’

And then it came: the gigantic, tremendous, hungry wave—roaring in all its glory, even out-bellowing the thunder and the wind, as white as a dove’s breast, as angry as a stirred monster. And as I looked at it for the last time, I laughed. I laughed till I felt pain like I had never before felt; I laughed until strangely, like a premonition of sorts, I smelt antiseptic in the scented sea-breeze.

It took me six months to recover. I had acquired a limp that my doctor had said might just heal with time. There was also some problem with my spine: I don’t quite know what, but my back hurt every once in a while. It was summer, the rains had gone. I was admitted in a private hospital in the city and this was my first visit to my hometown since the wave had robbed me of my job, my life and my spirit. I was walking along the road that led to my house—a narrow, rocky path set amidst tall, straight, coconut trees on either side. Thorny shrubs, all a very rich-green courtesy four whole months of inexorable rainfall, were at the barks of those trees, as though protecting them from any harm.

And I saw Rama.

He was walking towards me, beaming, as usual the first to welcome me to my home. I saw through that fresh, welcoming smile right away: his eyes, those comforting fishes, were shaky and lost and were set above deep, dark pouches of what could only be terrible grief; he had lost a lot of weight, the muscles in his arms and thighs were all gone; and I sensed this air of immense guilt about him—it wasn’t anything in particular, perhaps he walked a little differently, or his back was more upright, or his smile just a little sad. And strangely, I felt neither anger nor pain at the sight of him—I felt sympathy—sympathy for what he had put himself through. I limped towards him, both my bags in tow, and I laughed aloud for the first time in months. He laughed too—a sincere, genuine laugh (his eyes told me that)—and he offered to carry my bags for me. I refused: it just didn’t seem right to ask him to do so. We walked along the path towards our home. And not too far ahead, between the clutter of tiled-houses and coconut trees, I saw the waves relentlessly pounding against the shore; and the sun, after a long and tiring journey across the horizon, melted into the sea—they were equals again, they were one.

Genius?

I’ve often been fascinated by the way economists work—how their theories are formed; how, in the complicated world that we live in, with nothing certain and true, they manage to still come out with theories that substantiate empirical data. Even more fascinating is how, when confronted by conflicting data, economists with completely contradicting theories can win Nobel prizes. At some level, I think it has a lot to do with assumptions they make: some realistic, some based on popular consensus, some iffy, some downright hilarious; but mostly contrived, to justify some ends and backed by, they all claim, “sound logic”. So, I thought, I’d try my luck at an analysis, pick up a question, a puzzle, a debate and see if I could make sense of it.
Most questions in my life stem from the world of cricket. Even the most existential ones: Who am I? (A dispassionate cricket-lover or an India fan?); what am I doing here? (And not someplace where there's a TV so I can watch my Test Match in peace?), Where do my roots lie? (Why do I support Hyderabad? Would I choose Hyderabad over even Bangalore?) But, I am beating about the bush. In essence, this is a piece on genius. Who qualifies as one? Most importantly, is Laxman one?
In order to justify that inexcusably long first paragraph, I begin by paying obeisance to my economic roots and making a few assumption/statements (none too far-fetched in my opinion): a genius is someone who is special; who, if in an academic field, thinks and acts and theorises at a level that the normal man can only dream of; who, if an artist/sportsman, is someone blessed with infinite amounts of “creative power or natural ability” (OD); who, therefore, is a pioneer of sorts; who is far ahead of his times—innovative, inventive and different.
Laxman’s a man who’s hard to catch or just isn’t flashy enough to be under constant media glare. Interviews come at a trickle. And in the precious few, he’s never verbose, not even close. But, he’s not as soft or as silent as the media portrays him to be: he does say what he wants to say, perhaps more politely than most of the younger lot. What interests and appeals to the cricket-lover in me is his take on any cricket-issue—his comments on the state of the game, the pitch, batting, slip-catching—they are mature, intelligent and incisive, indicative of a man who is a sound cricketing brain. Cricket-wise he is an extremely good strategist—Azharuddin, one of India’s best captains ever, still believes he should be made captain and it really is a pity that we haven’t seen enough of Laxman the Captain. But, based on what little we have seen and know, it would far-fetched to term Laxman a genius, purely on academic terms—as someone who has the ‘vision’, who sees the game from a level above the modern-day thinking cricketer.
“Creative power or natural ability”: both interesting terms. Laxman has wrists of God—his flicks and clips of, not merely his pads but deliveries a good two stumps away from his off-stump are special and unparalleled (no, even Azhar couldn’t produce the shots he does). Blessed with tremendous amounts of natural ability, he’s managed to “create” his own range of strokes: different, silky and very, very special. Every batsman has his own style and in a way, it may be argued that every batsman “creates” his own style based on what comes naturally to him. But, what makes VVS stand apart is how different his predominantly wristy style is: the scale of the deviation from the batting manual is immense, far too much to be in the “permissible” range; and yet, unorthodox as it is, it is still extremely effective. It is a manner that is new comprising of shots that are outrageously distinctive—testimony to his creative powers that can only be derived from his phenomenal natural ability. He definitely will not be a pioneer, simply because his batting is impossible to replicate. And he is different, though not a man ahead of his times (in fact, some may argue that he is slightly behind given the difference in his test and one-day records).
If being innovative is bringing to the game something that it has never seen before, then Laxman, perhaps, just fits the bill. His stroke-play is unique, “ground-breaking” even( a cruel adjective for such a soft batsman). But, in a broader sense, innovation might also imply a continuous tendency to adapt, to learn, to change. And though, even after so many years of watching him bat, some strokes still leave me awe-struck, I can safely say that it is pretty rare that they’ll shock me. The fact that he continues to retain his place in a line-up so star-studded shows that he’s made adjustments—some technical, some mental—to the way he approaches his batting; the fact that he will always remain, in many eyes, someone of unfulfilled potential probably indicates that he hasn’t done enough (or couldn’t do enough) to continuously adapt to bowlers who began to see more of him. He’s still managed to stay a couple of steps ahead, but it probably isn’t quite enough to catapult him into Genius Inc.
Purely on natural ability, Laxman would make the cut. But, otherwise, taking all other grounds of qualifying into account, he’d probably classify as a “limited genius”: who probably requires a whole set of pre-requisites to actually come into his own. Most important, amongst those, is an opposition who is unashamedly attacking, a fielding captain who is not too familiar with his game and Laxman in a mood to be instinctive, to bat with abandon. There are few occasions where this happens: the most recent being that brilliant 109 at Australia, but otherwise, by and large, bowlers have learnt not to feed his strengths. Laxman’s response has been to mellow down, to solidify his defence, to let his instincts be guarded—in a strange way, in a quest to maintain his place in the side, he has limited his genius: it has proved productive, his innings are still punctuated by those magic flicks, but whole innings of magic are few and far in between. He’s realised that the costs of continuing to try and live by the sword greatly outweigh the benefits of curbing his natural instincts. You won’t see those beautiful but frustrating twenty-eights anymore— it’s the gritty seventy-two that’s become his trademark, valuable contributions, running around with the tail.
There’s a lot to VVS’ batting that’s brilliant: his timing, his much-praised hand-eye co-ordination and when in full flow, his invincibility against even the greatest of spin-bowling. It’s not just his wrists that have got him to where he is. But, those very wrists have made him special--that have separated him from other greater mortals; that have flummoxed, with their snapping bite or their yummy roll, the best of bowlers; that have taken him to the brink of genius. He’s there. Almost. And that’s how it should be.

Twilight 2

NightThe City has acquired a gossipy feel to it. I can see whispers and rumours everywhere—on the outer walls of the city, atop sentry towers where my colleagues and I stand guard; in houses, both unpretentious and lavish; on roads a buzzing noise persists even though some time has elapsed since the Sun has set; in temples, where even the clangs of the bells or the chants of the priests aren’t able to sway one’s minds or mouths for too long; in theatres, where the poor actors are at their wits end as the crowds seem restless and distracted; even the forests seem twitchy, with more owls hooting and insects screeching.

Gradually, the last lanterns in the houses are put out—darkness engulfs homes but not the City. The street lamps are ablaze—they tend to burn out only just about the time when the moon is three-fourths done with his journey. A couple of rooms in the western wing of the palace—the section frequented most by me as a love-stricken lad in my teens—have lights burning. The Queen is preparing for her journey. I know it is madness, but my legs want to sprint at full-throttle towards the palace, to get one final glimpse of my Queen.

We play the Aim-Game again. I lose horribly—my first two shots don’t even hit the boulder.

I hear the familiar call of the conch and make my way down to the all-night open-air canteen on the city-side of my tower. The soup-maker is a nice man: one of those rotund, jovial sorts. More importantly, he is brilliant at his job. Nearly every sentinel or gate-keeper is here. With soups to refresh sleepy heads and sagging minds, the topic of discussion invariably veers towards the expulsion of the Queen. I enter in the middle of a discussion:
“... And the King has decided to ask the washer-man to stay for longer in his palace away from the angry eyes of protesters who think he has deprived them of their Queen”
“Is he hurt? Did the mob get to him?” I ask.
“Where were you? I heard it was all happening in your lane?” asks Narendra.
“He must have slept through it” someone else says and everyone laughs. My sleeping abilities are legendary in this circle, most of us having gone to the same school of archery. I never sleep on duty though. I wait for the laughter to die down and ask again—
‘Well, what did happen to him?”
“Nothing happened to him. He is capable of taking care of himself. The two mobs clashed and he got away. Not many were injured seriously though”
“Why did he say such an atrocious thing?” asks a soldier who I only know by face and continues, “And look at his audacity: he approached the King directly!”
“The King is easily accessible” chips in Jayendra, famed for his kindness, and continues, “Even you can approach him directly. As for your first question, as you can well see, opinion is divided. I personally feel that it was right of him to suggest to the king that she might be impure. The demon was the epitome of evil. He could have done anything with her”
“The Demon loved her with all his heart” says Siddhartha, as calm as Varuna when appeased. “He would never have harmed her. I hear, from no less that the Monkey-God who visited the demon’s gardens where she was held captive, that she was never even laid a finger upon by the Demon”
“Rubbish! What about during the war when he was losing? Wasn’t he getting increasingly frustrated with the goings-on? Couldn’t he have just taken out his frustration on her?”
“No he couldn’t! He loved her and even his wildest of urges could never have been able to break the shackles of his tormented Love. He wanted to win her, you see. He never wanted to steal her. Most, importantly, he wanted Her to accept Him as her husband, as her Lord. He needn’t have died—he could have just run away from the battlefield with her in tow. But, he fought, naively hoping that if he did beat our King, she might just accept him as her beloved. It was foolish, but that’s how love is. If our King loved her half as much, he wouldn’t really be sending her away. Why should he care if half the city sees her as a fallen woman?”
“How dare you say such stupid things about our King?”
“Now, my friends, don’t have a fight here” says Anantha, looking skyward, “I think its time we got back to our posts”
“I have one last question” I say, picking up my courage, “What if the Queen is impure? Why can’t the King take her back? What is wrong with a man being married to a woman whose chastity is disputed, but whose love is true?”
For a moment they are taken aback, I can see it in their faces. I see a flicker of hope, maybe I am right, and maybe what I think is actually a valid argument. And then they look at one another and begin to laugh—unfortunately, I was a bit too hasty with my assessment—and in a few moments, they are all roaring with mirth, some holding their stomachs, some even having tears in their eyes; even Siddhartha has a smile on face.Day
Mid-way through lunch, I ask my wife:
“What is your take on the Queen-issue?”
“I think its unfortunate, especially for the King and the Queen”
Uncomprehending, I ask, expecting a slew of belittling comments—
“Why is it unfortunate for the King?”
She smiles a smile I haven’t seen for long and says softly,
“If you had crossed mountains and forests and oceans and then fought a bloody battle with a Demon King all for one person, only to realise that she is not going to be with you for more than a short period, how would you feel?”
It hits me like a fire-arrow from the heavens—I have never really seen it from the King’s point of view. He must be distraught, as though a part of him that just sprang back to life is again being stolen away, but—
“But, isn’t it all his own doing? Why did he have to send her away? Doesn’t he know she is pure? He must, she is!”
“He knows. I am certain. But, how could he keep her? Especially since there is growing discontent against Him for accepting Her”
“What does he care about what some of us may think? And he’s led such a blemish-free life that it is impossible for his name to be tarnished by something as trivial as this”
“Impractical and completely out of touch with ground realities—that’s what you are. A peaceful and content Kingdom is not a reflection of the King’s state of mind, but the people’s. If the people are unhappy, or angry, then how can any progress ever be made?”
“But, doesn’t this decision leave many of us unhappy too?”
“No! You are too small a minority. And many of you will find it impossible to hate a man who has sacrificed his most prized possession with no great hesitation. It takes a brave man to do that”
She must be speaking sense for this is exactly what many in the city and the washer-man are saying. But, I am unconvinced and I think it is more my fault than anybody else’s: I am blinded by a skewed viewpoint stemming from my liking for the Queen; I have developed an impenetrable wall around my own reasoning, nothing anyone says will make any difference. I ask,
“Do you believe she is pure and chaste?
“Yes”
“And you still think the King is right?”
“Yes”
“Then who is to blame?”
“ Fate”

I shake my head in disagreement. The brave man is the one who is able to rise above circumstances. And the King could have easily been the brave man.Night
The Moon is in protest. It rose late, almost reluctantly, and now refuses to emerge from behind the clouds. I take heart from the fact that someone shares my sentiments. I have declined to play our Aim-game today and now haven’t even gone down to the soup-maker. The City is asleep, but will awake in some time. The street-lamps are long extinguished; the sky is transforming—it is a very dark blue now, but it won’t be long before it attains its confused yet exquisitely beautiful state: the sky at dawn sometimes makes me wonder whether God is a child, for only a child can produce such a disorderly mishmash of colours whose beauty and purity even the most talented of painters find impossible to capture.

“Open the gates” says a voice whose calmness seems like it is the result of several emotions, like the colours of the rainbow converging to give a pure white.
I look down. Forty feet below and clad in white is purity personified—our Queen, my Queen.
Most of the sentinels are away at the soup-maker and those who remain are just too sleepy to notice who it actually is, having stayed up for hours at a stretch now. They go about their job mechanically, opening the gates without much of a fuss. I strain my neck to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful face on the Earth.
And the moon surprisingly surfaces in silent obeisance.

And the Queen walks out, neither hurriedly nor patiently, not even without the slightest of jerks, not stooping, not looking back even once; her expressive face is stiff, perhaps the only untoward sign in an otherwise perfect performance. But when she walked, she walked like a Queen—with divine grace and dignity until she is swallowed by the shadows of the trees and her footsteps are lost in the mellifluous songs of the birds of twilight. And it is neither night nor day.

Twilight 1

Night
I stand a good forty feet closer to the skies than most men. The night is neither old nor young. The moon hides behind sprawling, fluffy cotton-clouds, bathing the earth in a faint, white light. The torches on my sentry tower shed light on a few hundred metres of the pathway that stretches into the forest. The forest is dark, fairly dense and looks dangerous, but anyone who has been there will tell you that even in the nights it’s almost as safe as anywhere else in the kingdom. On the eastern edge of the forest, lies the only village that borders our City—the capital of the greatest kingdom on the planet. The River runs thin splitting it into two near-equal halves, but provides enough water to sustain them villagers. On the backside of the last row of houses lay the fields: rectangles of different dimensions, some yellow, some green, but in the moonlight, a uniform grey.

Presently, the familiar rattle of a wooden cart and hooves disturbs the quiet. It is the washer-man, with a cartload of dirty clothes, generally the last man to leave the city for the village.
"Open the gates!" he bellows. His voice has a ringing clarity earned by years of shouting.
A few sleepy men, who literally work under me, stir and rise to do the needful. I call out to the washer-man as he leaves, the gates being shut behind him. He doesn't turn around, but merely waves. I don't know him too well, but I like the man. Like his voice, he has a certain unambiguous manner about himself.
The air is calm and humid, like a scorched, placid river in summer; Insects hum at different frequencies, the odd owl hoots; but it is the roar of the river-- rendered soft by the distance-- I have grown to love most. And then the first arrow flies, piercing the wind, hitting our favourite target—a huge boulder at the very edge of the forest, hardly any distance away. It is a poor shot, striking way off the centre, and a groan of agony is heard from somewhere on my right. Immediately two more follow, both better shots, but not good enough, one from my right the other from my left. Now, only I remain: I pick up my bow and one of my lighter arrows and take aim. With a silent prayer to our Lord and master, I shoot and hold my breath. The arrow rips across the air with a whoosh and much to my delight, hits right in the middle. Bull’s-eye! And I let out a soft whistle of joy, there’s all-round applause from my associate sentinel; I celebrate by letting a letting a couple of arrows soar and sail into the distance. I love my job: there’s nothing in the world I’d give it up for.

Day

I wake up to the calls of a carpet-seller on the street and a whiff of rain in the air. Judging by the colour of the light that seeps in through the windows—a pale yellow—I presume it is lunchtime. And sure enough, it is, for just then my wife enters to tell me that lunch is ready. At the table, I survey the array of dishes displayed, nodding approvingly.
“The king has a funny idea” my wife says, abruptly.
“The king has many deceptively funny ideas. But, he is the wisest man on Earth” I say
It is now her time to nod in approval and she continues—
“But this one is really strange. He wants US to choose the seven ministers in his court”
My wife is a courtier in the palace. She’s a scholar, well-trained in administrative affairs. Her father was her teacher: he was a very powerful man, one of the three Special Advisors to the King’s slippers. Yes, the King’s slippers. When the king, after a series of complicated occurrences, was banished for fourteen years to the forests, it was his brother who ruled us, though he never wanted the job. So, he placed the King’s slippers on the throne (another one of the King’s funny ideas?) and ruled.
“Aha! Something on the lines of what those foreign emissaries were talking about?
“Yes. They are called ‘elections’”
“Interesting idea”
“I think it is a whole lot of hogwash. It will only lead to factionalism in an already fractured court. Also, those who wield maximum political clout and can throw their weight around will probably get in: they might not necessarily be the most loved or best-suited candidates”
I had other problems with this process.
“Why do only you courtiers get to vote? What about us civilians?”
“That’s a great idea! Why don’t we all puncture more holes into a sinking boat?” she asked, with a sarcasm that was as biting as the chill in the winters.
Over the past few years, I thought she was beginning to sound increasingly like her father. The air of the court is cursed: it does funny things to people. Her father was a pompous man, God bless his departed soul, and it took a lot of convincing to get him to allow his daughter to marry a lowly archer like me. I heard from some insiders in the court that it was the King who finally managed to convince him. We got along as well as our King’s mothers and he used a peculiar condescending tone every time he addressed me. I thought I had heard a faint echo of him in what his daughter had just said to me. Keen to avoid a fight, I bit back my retort and took off on a tangent:
“I think we should have this ... what did you call it? ... ‘election’ for the King! Get all the potential candidates for the post of the King and let’s have an election!’
“Very funny” she said, took a quick swig and slammed her glass of wine onto the table with a bang. The conversation was over.
I think I still love her. I think.

Night
There’s a full-moon tonight; and a clear sky. I lie on my back and gaze at the few stars that, despite the moon’s all-encompassing radiance, shine bright. My mind wanders: I think longingly of my only son, now a handsome youth of eighteen, on a merchant-boat headed somewhere to the West; I then think of myself at eighteen, some dreamer I was then—madly in love with the ill-fated Queen from Mithila, loafing around palace gates hoping to get a glimpse of her, harbouring dreams of becoming the greatest archer in the Kingdom; almost wistfully, I think of my wife then: a bright, charming, aristocratic girl full of ideas, full of hope; and suddenly I think of the washer-man, who, as the rumour goes, is a special invitee of the King for the night; And then I hear the first arrow whiz by and agile as ever, I pick up my bow and quiver, and as I take aim, I am transported back to the magical land of my youth: I am the best in the kingdom, I tell myself, I am the best in the world.

Day

‘The demons are coming, the demons are coming’, someone screams. There’s a stampede, people fleeing in all directions. I stand in the heart of the city, my bow and arrow in hand and take aim. After all, I am the best archer in the world. A woman comes running to me and thuds into my chest, and refuses to let go. It is the Queen, my first love. ‘Save me’ she says. I shoot and it beheads the demon, blood splatters all around, the Demon backtracks.
‘Nice hit!’ says a voice and the sarcasm sounds very familiar, ‘Our king did that for days before he realised that there’s no point in doing so. Don’t you know anything at all? Aim for the stomach, you moron’ says my wife, who is what the Queen has transformed into.
“The demon is a cheat! And a bad influence!” One half of the crowd of onlookers goes.
“Let him go!” another half says.
Yes, No, Yes, No, Yes...

I wake up with a jerk, much earlier than I wanted to, for the shafts of sunlight through my window are more orange than yellow. And then I wake up to the roar: the roar of my dreams is manifest in an equally ear-piercing roar from outside my window. For a second, I grope, still half-asleep, for my bow and quiver, before I remember that the demons have long since vanished from the face of the Earth, our benevolent King himself having taken care of most of that. I peep through my window and momentarily wonder if it is still a dream.

It is a sight to behold. I live on a thin, slightly snaky and extremely long road, lined by luxurious houses of the members of the aristocracy on both sides. And at this moment, I would bet five gold coins against anyone finding even an inch of space on the road. Never since the return of our King after the Great War, have I seen a crowd so huge. Never have I ever seen one so boisterous and vociferous. I climb up to the top of my house, keen to get a better view. And the centre of attraction is what makes me clasp my mouth in amazement: squatting atop a pile of obviously lavish gifts and garments on a familiar wooden cart is the washer-man! He sits with his arms crossed against his chest, trying to appear calm; but it’s his eyes that give him away: they are laden with a fear so immense that I feel my heart go out for him. The crowd is noticeably split into two agitated groups—those that agree with him, and those that don’t. Though, it is impossible to say what the matter is: there are just too many voices.

And then, finally, the washer-man gathers his wits about him and raises his hands to address the crowd: “Silence” he roars.
And immediately, more calls for quiet are heard. He waits until the last voice falls silent.
“I have done what I thought was right” his voice sounds nervous. He continues,
“I only expressed to the King what I thought of the issue. Had he thought I was wrong, he was free to ignore what I had said and move on with his life. Why blame me?”
A murmur of voices, gradually rising in volume, follows. I seize the momentary hush to ask a young soldier, clad in silver shining armour, standing on the pavement below me:
“What is happening? What did the washer-man do?”
The soldier gives me an incredulous where-in-the-world-were-you-all-day stare and says, “The Queen has been asked to leave the City by the King because he feels her chastity is questionable”
Initially, I think he is lying or misinformed, or I have just heard him wrong. But, subsequently, I look around at the ever-bulging crowd, at the plethora of troubled men and women and then at him—his grave countenance tells me that this is no joke and conveys to me the gravity of the situation.
I do not know what I feel, I do not even know if I can feel anything. I can only mutely hear him go on, “After all” he is saying, “she was a captive of the Demon for so many years. Who knows what he might have done with her?”
I find my voice—it’s a whisper, and surprisingly audible. I ask, pointing in the direction of the wooden cart:
“And what did he do?”
“Who? The washer-man? He was the one who suggested to the king that she might be corrupted. Apparently, they talked all night. The king, for his part, continuously reiterates that the decision is his and his alone. And ...”
I turn my back to him and slump into the corner—my chin on my knees, my arms wrapped around my shins. It doesn’t make any sense, I think. How could the wisest man on Earth even think that she was impure? And what if she was? What does it matter? Why don’t people understand?
‘Ridiculous’ I mutter to myself, but feel neither pain nor rage, only emptiness.
The crowd was roaring yet again, but it all seems so distant now that it barely registers.
To continue ...

Political Science- II

I've tried to be as truthful to the story in my head as possible, yet keep it clean and free from anything vulgar. Its a tough act to balance and I think I have given it my best.
11 PM
‘Wave’ Lawn
(The Lawn gets its name from the political party (Wave) that uses it most for its open-air meetings. Lined by tall Ashoka trees and a fence along its sides, the lawn, though large, isn’t exactly sprawling. Adjacent to the lawn, past the trees and the fence, is another lawn—the ‘Youth’ lawn. During the months preceding and succeeding the elections, no one dares frequent both lawns. Sticking to one lawn betrays one’s loyalty to a party and crossing over to the other can get one branded a traitor. The traitors are always the first targets when there is a fight, for they are soft ones—the parties they would have crossed over into would always see them as outsiders and would never really bother to save their skins)
“Sutta?”
“Huh. No. “
“Come on, go ahead. One puff and it’ll relieve your tension”
“I said NO. Just leave me alone” The last sentence came out a little louder than I wanted it to.

I was tense. I couldn’t put things in perspective, it was impossible. The Don wanted me to kick-start my campaign with a speech, my first address to an All-Party-Meet. It was a sizeable crowd—more than a hundred people: Hostel ‘king-makers’, heavyweights in the political arena who were non-hostelites but campus-residents and day-scholars. ‘From 13 states of the country, 10 different courses’ the Don had said. I had never addressed a crowd. I tried thinking of what to say, but that was like trying to clean up my room—there was a lot of stuff and I didn’t know where to start. The Don went first and was sloth-like in his speech as usual and strangely I really wanted him to finish—the longer I waited for my turn, the more swollen my bowels would be and the greater the dizziness in my head. In the darkness, I saw only the slits of the eyes of the crowd—hundreds of them hawk-like, expectantly waiting for me to begin.

“Friends, I have now come to the end of my few words” the Don said as the crowd let out a silent sigh of relief. He finished with a “Go Wave!”
“Go Wave!” the crowd chanted.
“Louder! “, the Don said, “Go Wave!”
“Go Wave!” the crowd bellowed.
And then I felt like I was beginning to lose it. Time suddenly seemed to move protractedly: I watched one of the Don’s sidekicks, now come up to me slowly, shake my hand, and say in my ear “Make sure your speech is mind-blowing. Rocking one, it must be. And also awesome!”
I vaguely wondered if they were the only three adjectives that he knew.
Now I had this distinct feeling that I was wearing only my underclothes. Two reasons, completely unrelated, contributed to this sensation: firstly, I was shivering. And secondly, with so many eyes trained on me, I felt conscious, like an under-dressed exhibit.
“Er… Hello”, I said and waved. My ears went red with shame. It seemed like the most stupid thing to do. “Um. As the Don has said, I have filed my nomination. And-- ” I couldn’t go on, so I bought time by coughing loudly. And sneezing and signaling to someone for water. I then turned to the Don and asked,
“Can I do this in English? I mean, for public speaking, I think I’d be better in English”
“Eh? Why not?” the Don said and then turned to face the crowd and asked in Hindi, “Does everyone understand English here?”
A rumble of assent followed and the Don let me have the limelight again.
“Ok. Ya. Now, when you come right down to it, it’s preposterous to assume that the onerous task of winning this election can be achieved by such a languorous, lethargic attitude—primarily because its less than a month away. Its time we coalesced and behave like an integrated bunch; lets up the ante and basically have the tenacity to plod in times of extreme distress…”

Sometimes, I have this tendency to get into this special zone—to rise above my own mediocre self, to think fast and think like a genius. And only genius could have saved me that day. I hadn’t actually said anything too special: in fact, most of it was jargon. But, the use of the language, a stroke of genius, did the trick. I used every complicated word I could think of and spoke with fluency and rising authority. No one figured out what exactly I had said, but that hardly mattered—I was, to them, a wizard in the language of the voting majority—the chic, brand-conscious, snobbish day-scholars for whom the elections were a farce fought by rustic hostel rogues. And in me, suddenly, the party members saw someone who would cater to them.
And by the time I was done, everyone was satisfied—I finished to a resounding, standing ovation and a spontaneous “Wave” chant. The Don was crying out to anybody who’d care to listen ‘I told you! I told you that boy has talent!’
Relief. And I was sweating so much that I wondered if I was wearing too many clothes. I smiled. It was my first battle won, but, I knew, there were tons to follow. I wanted time to stop then, right at that moment, and allow me the security of feeling like a superstar-in-the-making without worrying about what was to come.

7AM
Room 84
I woke up feeling very light. Then I had this sensation that something was wrong, that I shouldn’t be feeling so light. And it hit me, my stomach panicked, and I hugged my pillow tight, turned over and willed myself to sleep.

8 25AM
The Mess
(The Mess is a mess. The food is nothing short of a mess; the conversation is cheery, loud and dirty; the tables are messy, especially towards the end of a meal; the floor is messy too for onions and cucumbers, besides cheese and lemon, are often used as friendly missiles)Breakfast done, I was contemplating on whether to go back to my bed and sleep or sleep in class. As I made my way out, thoroughly undecided, I bumped into the tall, well-built figure of Andy (N.D, Nitin Dhar, actually), another contender for the President’s post. Leader of the Youth party, he was my only competition_ and a very strong one at that_ for the rest were independents. I hastily said sorry, wished him a fine morning and was about to proceed, when he caught me by my arm and said,
“Aur, Future President Saab, How are you?” I didn’t like the tone of his voice at all.
“I am good” I said, trying to get away. But, he tightened the grip on my arm.
“I heard you give very good speeches in English. Hah!” he said, cocking his head to one side, and continued, “You must remember that I am from English (Hons)”
I couldn’t quite think of anything to say.
“The entire Science community is with me. The societies will come around. And I am tall, and see my body?” he said, flexing his muscles and continued, “the girls will also be with me. Tumhare Paas kya hain?” he concluded, laughing at his own little finishing joke.
It was ridiculous, yet scary. Contempt etched in every twitch in his face, he let go of my hand and walked past. I decided to bunk class and shave-off my two-week old beard: I had to look decent for the girls.

6PM
Room Number 84
I woke up to see the room lit by beautiful golden light that angled in from the half-open meshed window that faced west. The rays were delicate, soft as the setting sun and minute dust particles swirled and danced in the light. I changed and decided to go to the market. At the hostel gate, I met the Don, who frowned. I wondered if it had something to do with my wearing bathroom slippers. I said,
“Good evening Sir!”
“Evening. Well, where are you going?”
“To the market”
“All alone?”
“Yes. Shoaib’s gone to a movie”
“Just wait here, don’t go anywhere” he said and sped away into the hostel.

In a flash he was back, flanked by two burly looking juniors, both of whom I sort of knew.
“I’ve just briefed them” the Don said, pointing to the juniors, “The two of them will go along with you. No, they won’t intrude. Just pretend they don’t even exist. They’ll just make sure you are safe—it’s just a precaution, nothing to worry about”
“They are like my bodyguards or something? I mean, who’s going to come after me? Osama Bin Laden?”
He took my hand, gave it a squeeze and said, “Not Osama. But anyone who thinks you are too stiff competition for him. Listen, you are now a Presidential Candidate at the college level elections. I am just trying to be on the safer side. Go now”
As I watched him turn around and leave, I had this passing feeling that I was not there at all—rather it was all happening in a movie and I was only someone in the audience. I just couldn’t believe all this was happening in my life—it was mine, for God’s sake. I was now beginning to lose my hold on something that was almost exclusively mine. That thought went down as well as medicine for stomach-ache.

12 AM
The Don’s Cell
I knocked and entered.
“Come, have a seat” The Don said.
I walked and sat beside the Don. I smiled apprehensively at the three men seated in front of me. They all returned my smile, but smiles didn’t seem to come naturally to them. The man in the middle looked like a first-rate politician: he wore a white kurta; his hair was oiled and neatly parted. His moustache was thick and he had an air of irritating superiority about him. Beside him sat his two henchmen: both sporting unruly stubbles, smoking lazily as they stared around uninterestedly. One wore an ugly blue shirt with gaudy fluorescent stripes; the other a blue, artificially faded, torn jeans with patches of pink on the pockets that would have even given Govinda-of-the-90s a run for his money. It was fashion that was beyond me.
“We are getting him to stand for President” said the Don to the man in the middle, gesturing towards me.
“Oh” he said, looking at me with amusement and continued, “If it’s your choice, Don saab, then it has to be good”
I wondered what that meant. Didn’t I look like a potential candidate? Did looking like one mean looking like him? But, the Don didn’t look like him!
“ Angrezi bahut tez bolta hain” said the Don. I panicked. Was the Don defending me? What was I doing in the company of these rogues? What have I gotten into?
“Hmm” the politician said and turned to face me. He then said—
“Acha, you are my brother. We are friends now. We have spent seven minutes in each other’s company, and as per our forefathers, that is long enough to make us good friends. Now listen bhai, any problem, any panga, any person who’s a pain in the ass, come to me. I’ll make sure they’ll go back to drinking their mother’s milk in a couple of days’ time. And if you want some money, to throw a party for friends—after all parties get you a lot of votes—just ask me: I’ve given the Don some money, if you want more, ask me. Here, wait…” he said, and turned to the ugly-shirt man, and said, “Just give him my card—the one with my latest number”
The card was duly passed on. I pocketed it with just a passing glance at the name: Ram Prasad Dahiya from the NSUI party. The politician then carried on,
“And make sure you have alcohol in your parties: loads and loads of alcohol. Money is not an issue. I’ve also allotted a good hefty sum for canvassing. Posters, sim-cards—all don’t come freely, you know” he said and paused to take a long drag at the cigarette his henchman offered him.
Then he sat up straight, his eyes fixed on me, and said in a soft tone-- polite yet menacing.
And one humble request from this small man—please get all your friends to vote for my party, NSUI, in the University elections. Our agenda is simple…”
I lost track of what he was saying after that. So, that was his game after all, I mused: he wanted me to campaign for him in the university elections. In return, he’d give me enough money to garner my votes, to strengthen my hold on the college. His other promise was what intrigued me: he would get rid of my enemies—what did that mean? Could he get rid of anybody? I had no enemies, no one I hated. Correction: I had one enemy, one man who made everyone’s life a living hell in the college—the principal. Would he be able to make the principal go back to drinking his dead mother’s milk?

The meeting ended on a comical note. The Don got me to touch the politician’s feet; a gesture that seemed to have touched the latter’s heart. He hugged me and said, “Ab, tu mera bhai se beta ban gaya!” For the second time that day, I was at a complete loss for words.

After the group had left, I was still bursting with questions. Things were still murky, I wasn’t quite sure of what I was getting into. The more I thought, the more the uncomfortable sensation of absolute helplessness came upon me. The Don, I think, had sensed my questions, read my thoughts simply by the manner in which I looked at him. He gazed fixedly at the ground, eyes weary, and said to me “You have a long day ahead tomorrow. Go, go to sleep. We can talk later”
Little did I realize, as I turned to leave, how much truth his words had.
To continue ...

Political Science

Disclaimer: The protagonist and I have as much in common as a military-tank and Santa Claus. God promise.
The Don’s Cell
10 PM(The Don’s Cell was once used by the Hostel staff and Teachers for their meetings. Now, thanks largely to the Don’s work, it is the party-room that doubles up as a Students General Body Meeting Room during the election-month)“The elections are coming” the Don announced, stating the obvious with a comical sense of occasion, and continued, “And we have gathered here in the Cell to discuss strategy!”
“And we”, I whispered to Shoaib, “are here to feast and drink!”
“Friends, it’s been a tough year, last time around. We’ve had our share of troubles. But, the past year, as a member of the Union in power, we’ve learnt a lot. I, personally, have grown over the year…”
“Oh yes, he’s grown. Horizontally, width-wise. He’s got a beer-belly that was surely not there when he became President” Shoaib said into my ear.
I snorted and whispered back, “Why can’t he cut the crap? I want my wine”
Shekhar ‘Don’ Deep must have heard my last comment. At once, he glanced at me—a single swift glance—and only his eyes went icy cold as he let his gaze stay on me for a moment. He didn’t stop talking. No one else, not even Shoaib who was seated right next to me noticed anything, and yet I got the message: shut up. The Don was a jackass in most ways, yet he had his moments.

With nothing else to do, and the Don’s lecture seeming as interminable as the Timeless Test, I gazed around. We were sitting at the Don’s feet, Shoaib and I, both complete misfits in the Don’s Cell. On the wall facing me, behind the Don, Piyush Rastogi, the latest ABVP candidate for President, rubbed shoulders with Swami Vivekananda; on my right, on the plush (by hostel standards, i.e.) chairs, lounged my seniors and some of the Don’s closest associates, some plain bored and gazing wistfully at the “No Smoking” sign on the wall; squatting right behind me were some more of the Don’s inner circle of friends, most of them my batch-mates; at the back of the room, listening with rapt attention, sat the juniors—new recruits who the Don saw a “spark” in. And behind them lay the sole reason for my being in the room: a locked cupboard that, the Don had assured me, had 3 bottles of vintage imported wine.

By the time the Don was done, Shoaib had yawned so much that he complained his jaws hurt; I had all of the Swami’s 10 commandments memorized and had stared so long at the wine-cupboard that I knew its every crack and even the number on its lock backwards. An air of relief more than anything else, like that of a man who had finally leaked after hours of torture, descended as the Don took his seat at long last. He gave his priceless key to a junior who proceeded to the cupboard. Wine glasses_ old scratched ones, that had survived many a drunken brawl_ were brought out; Liqour flowed, chips and sweets gobbled; an iPod, connected to speakers, blared the latest Punjabi track; gradually people broke into brash, impromptu jigs as the liquor got to them; and every time I wondered what I was doing there, I took a sip of the divine Wine and felt reassured; only Shoaib seemed more lost than me, sipping his Coke meditatively; and before I realized it, the Don had cornered me.
“So, liked my speech? Mind-blowing, no?” he asked
“Yes. Very inspiring” I said and gulped down some wine.
“I would like to discuss some issues with you—“
“What?” I shouted, for someone had just turned up the volume of the iPod.
“I want to discuss something. With you” he said, raising his voice and making extravagant hand gestures.
I didn’t quite hear every word, for lip-reading wasn’t my forte (not especially when I was tipsy), but I got the general gist and said,
“Ok”
“Come over here” he said taking me by the arm and guiding me to a quieter corner.
“Yes, Don saab, what can I do for you?”
And that was when Shoaib, pushed by a swinging junior, bumped into the Don and spilled all his coke on the Don’s pajamas.
“Oops”, he went, “Am sorry, sir. Real sorry. Here, let me help you” and took a great swipe at the Don’s groins. The Don yelped in pain, and screamed, “Back off, you bumbling bastard!”
“Am sorry, sir. I swear I am. God promise. Mother promise. Mother Dead promise—“
I managed to pass my hysterics as fits of severe choking cough as I watched the Don, wet pants and in pain in the wrong areas, do his best to maintain his calm and say,
“Shoaib, if you could kindly leave the two of us here alone. We have something important to discuss”
Shoaib, thoroughly embarrassed and apologizing profusely, moved away, leaving the two of us alone, far from the dancing crowd.

And that was when the gravity of the situation struck me. The Don was famed for his long monologues on meta-physical planes of alternate consciousness or even the evils of AFSPA. And in me, he had always assumed, he had found an intellectual equal—an ideal listener, who would not only listen but comment, criticize and pit his wits against. I had evaded the Don for over a year, with nothing more than pleasantries and the odd comment on Anti-incumbency or Global warming being exchanged between us. But this, I thought, was it. I shouldn’t have missed my visit to the Hanuman Mandir last Tuesday, I thought. And in my mind I saw the Great Monkey God, roaring with laughter at my predicament and chiding my careless attitude towards Him. And for the first time that night I noticed that behind Swami Vivekananda’s benevolent calm was hidden a distinct smirk: even he was laughing at me.
“ Sir, actually. Er… Yes, Sir. I am feeling very sleepy” I said.
“Sleepy?” the Don went, “At 11 in the night? Ha! You must be kidding. Come on, the night is still young and we have so much to talk about”
And so we sat, the Don and I, in one quiet corner. Shoaib was sipping his coke and laughing, not too far away. And strangely, as I stared around, I saw an alarmingly large number of eyes trained on us, and the chatter seemed to hush-up. I took a final swig, completely resigning myself to my fate. The Don began. And, thankfully, the rest of the evening was a blur—I only remembered shaking hands with the seniors and dancing energetically and Shoaib’s voice going “What did you do? What did you do?”

Room Number 84,
8 AM
(My room is an organized mess: Shoaib’s half is organized, my half is messy)“What did I do?”
“What happened? You went mad! “said Shoaib, “You were saying yes to everything. Yes, yes, Oh yes and Yes!”
“Shit, shit, shit and shit”
We were drinking coffee in our room. Room number 84 might require rechristening if all went well, I thought sadly—the President’s room, perhaps. I slurped my coffee and shook my head. It all seemed so unbelievable, happened so fast. The Don had smooth-talked me into filing my nomination for President, Students' Union. Two factors, I strongly believe, contributed to me listening to precisely one sentence of what the Don had said: One, the overwhelming sense of relief when he said, “I have an innovative election strategy that you must listen to” (that was the only sentence I heard). I had expected something on the lines of ‘Let’s have a detailed analysis of William Rogers’ Retrograde views on Women’s Emancipation in India’. Factor number two was the wine. And to make matters worse, he had finished so abruptly, in a matter of a few minutes, giving me hardly any time to warm up. We shook hands and he had said
‘Congrats young man!’.
‘Congrats? What for’ I had asked innocently.
‘I like your sense of humour’ he said laughing and walked away.
And I was smiling as I shouted after him, ‘I like you too!’
“And you kept smiling like a monk who’d attained nirvana!” Shoaib was saying, “He was done with you in less than 2 minutes. And then he moved on to announcing your candidature to everyone there. And you played your part to perfection—acknowledging your name, waving to the crowd and dancing to the seniors. That was then. Now the entire hostel and half the college knows”
“But, I haven’t still filed my nomination. What if I don’t do it at all? Wait, I have an idea. Shoaib, just hide me somewhere. Or I’ll just take the first bus out of this place and don’t return till 3 in the afternoon. Or I’ll probably call in sick. Or—“
“Shut up” Shoaib said, “Listen, I am serious now. You can’t back off. Do you understand? You just can’t. You run away now, and you’ll have no friends here—you’ll be branded a traitor. They see you now as a leader, no longer a reclusive talent. And if you disappear, then don’t expect me to cover your backside; I’ll be the first to kick you, in fact”

The Red Room
2 PM(The Chief Election Commission’s office is a forgotten, dusty old small red-room that comes alive during election-season. Two chairs, a table and the CEC-- Chief election Commissioner-- himself take up most of the room. The CEC is obese, irritable and chews so much paan that when he opens his mouth it is hard to distinguish between his discoloured teeth and his tongue. The walls were once white, now, for obvious reasons, they are red. The spider-webs at the crevices are also a deep, vivid crimson)

“Krishna Rama Govinda…”
“What are you muttering under your breath?”
“Me? Muttering? What muttering? Just let me file my nomination in peace”
A pause. And then--
“Saraswati Durga Maha Kali“
“See! There you go again”
“Shoaib, just mind your business”

My hand was shaking so badly that I could barely write. I prayed to every God I knew—we had so many, somebody had to help. I prayed that my nomination be cancelled due to some glitch in my papers, perhaps. I didn’t want to get into this. I didn’t know what I was getting into, in fact. Politics was just not my cup of tea and politics at this level was no cup of tea anyway—it was serious business. Or it seemed like at least. And it certainly was dirty and cheap and stupid. I prayed and cursed: I cursed the Don, I cursed the wine; I was not brave enough to curse God, I was in enough trouble already. And as I finished my last signature, the most cursed man in the college walked into the Red Room.
“Good morning Sir” Shoaib and I chimed.
The Principal grunted in acknowledgement.
“All done? Everything in place?” he asked the CEC.
“Yes sir” he said, pausing to suck in some juice, “Last nomination from this man here”
The Principal gave me an appraising look and said menacingly, “Dirty game this politics. And dirty people only play it”
I gulped. And now my entire body was shaking. I gave him what I thought was a smile. He didn’t return it, just looked away and started to walk out.
“Watch this” the CEC said softly to us, as the principal was leaving and spat out red liquid whose trajectory ended on the principal’s posterior. He then swore with obvious contempt, loud enough for us to hear. Shoaib was nearly howling, I merely let out a short nervous burst of laughter before resuming my prayers.

To continue...

Inheritance

Father would turn around and beam at him. And then, instantly, recognition dawns—he knows, he knows-- his expression would change faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, would continue to grin in the same lopsided manner, and his father would beckon him to his side, looking away to hide the tears that pour harder than the monsoon shower, down his dark cheek. He would walk; his eyes filled with pride, his expression unchanging, and bury his head into his father’s chest. And a bear-hug would follow, and his father would say, between innumerable chokes, “Thank you”
The boy crouched by the river and gazed below at his reflection. The water was blue, the blue of the sky above, the blue of his mother’s sari in the photograph, and green, light-green as the highest of leaves on the tallest of trees, the sun illuminating them with its brilliance; the river bed was golden, glimmering in the light of the sun; Few tiny fish glided leisurely, hardly bothering where they were heading; the river moved even slower than the fish, so slow that snails could wade against the current, so slow that it could have just been asleep; and the river snored softly as it lumbered along, taking with it the mute talk of thousands of its inhabitants.

A falling leaf pirouetted in mid-air before landing with the grace of a princess where his eyes were in the reflection—sending tiny, dancing, concentric, ripples before the current coaxed it move ahead. He smiled at his image in the water and saw his lips let out a sigh, slightly annoyed. It had always been that: “You look just like your father”, a pause, and then “Especially when you smile”. And he would feel a shot of pride, like the time when he caught his first multi-coloured butterfly, and he would beam—showing his crowded, overlapping teeth, that sprouted like coconut trees on the coast, each heading in a different direction—another father-side inheritance. His mother had left him with only her ears—giant, round ones that made his father good-humouredly suggest he dress-up as Gandhi for Independence Day. Everything else was his father’s: deep-brown, wide eyes, long, thin nose and crowded jaws.

He smiled again his signature smile; he saw his father smile at him from the river. He grimaced. It seemed pointless, but he would not lose hope; never give up. It was for his father— the one man who he wanted to be most like; the man who lost his cool as often as snowfall on the ghats; whose words were sparse but weighed and could never be wrong; whose velvet humour was soft: gentle as his laughter, softer than his nature; whose love for his son was mirrored only by his son’s unqualified love for him, like reflection of images on crystal-clear river water.

The whimsical wind picked up, messing up his hair, loosening his collar button: the photograph fell off his fluttering pocket. It was older than he was. At the edges, it was frayed and stained a dull brown. Dressed in a striped dull-orange cotton shirt that he still faithfully wore, his father had more hair, and try as he might, he couldn’t spot the grey hairs along his sideburns that he had almost presumed his father had been born with. He seemed to have been caught at the wrong moment, for his calm eyes were unfocussed, staring at something above the camera, and his mouth had curled itself into an ‘O’.
His mother was staring straight at the camera, her palm carelessly placed on the hand her father had set on her shoulder. Her eyes radiated exuberance—a passion for life itself—that made even her striking blue sari pale into insignificance. And she smiled her one-sided smile, far more to the left than the right—her lips inverted, red twin rainbows of happiness that had been abruptly cut short at one side; one eyebrow raised higher than the other; a single bridge of glee linking her nose to her highly curved left-lip.

It was his mother’s smile that had brought him to the river—a smile that, but for in photographs, he had never seen; a smile that he knew only he, who had more of her than anyone else, could reproduce; a smile he knew his father deemed priceless; a smile that he had vowed to make his own in a span of two weeks—by the 15th of February, his father’s birthday—and he had barely a week left; a smile that he would gift to his father—his most special and best birthday gift ever.

And amidst the river, the trees and the hills, for a full week, he smiled. From noon, after school, to dusk, he would sit amongst them toiling, practicing, replicating—the wind made the trees rustle and applaud in encouragement; the hills seemed as enthralled in his attempt as he was, sharing everything with him—echoing with his laughter and his frustrated cries; the river played its part, trying to stay as calm as ever, his toughest critic, imitating his attempts: he watched, with time and intense practice, in astonishment and ecstasy, his father merge into his mother in its clear water—he saw his right side sit still while his left lips curled exaggeratedly, his eyes brighten up, lit by the intensity of his desire, mirroring his mother’s zeal; a single linking line of joy that his father never called his own surfaced like a welcome guest on his left cheek; and by weekend he got his eyebrows to dance, although unpredictably.
****

The room was fairly dark, angled yellow light seeped in from the neighbouring room through the half-shut door. The constant screeching of insects from the garden trickled through the closed windows. A lizard fell from the wall onto the floor with a muffled thump; bedcovers ruffled. The boy couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t sleep. His mind raced as he played time and again the scene in his head—he saw every single moment in stunning clarity, his own practiced calm and his father breaking down: pride and jubilance etched on every line in his face; he fidgeted and shook in his bed; his heart thumped louder than a thousand falling lizards; a practiced, fixed smile was planted on his young face.

And the clock struck twelve times.

He jumped off his bed and kicked-- his bed-sheet landed virtually five feet away from where he lay. And he paced into the light and immediately shut his eyes, unable to bare its glare. In a few seconds he grew accustomed to the brightness, and made his way silently to his father’s study-cum-bedroom, all the time making sure he was smiling the right way. He sensed the presence of several colourful butterflies in his stomach, his head swam with excitement. And with a knock, he burst into the room smiling and bellowed “Happy birthday!”

Father turned around and beamed at him. And instantly recognition dawned for the expression on his face changed faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, continued to smile in the same lopsided manner as father beckoned him to his side, his face hardened, inscrutable. He walked: his eyes full of pride, his expression unchanging, right up to his father, expectant, excited. And Father grasped him by the shoulders and shook him roughly, trying to wipe the frozen smile off, and when he couldn’t, slapped him hard on his cheek and screamed “Get that thing off your face! She’s gone!”