The Liquor-lover’s Gift

 

Once a nicely sloshed farmer was seen lumbering zigzag in the muddy street. The mud on his clothes proved his difficulty in managing his vertical. Anyway, he approached nearer and I saw that he was holding a banana sapling in his hand. Whether he really meant to carry it on purpose or it just got into his hand after a fall, I’m not sure. In any case, he seemed to carry it on purpose as he would grab the article again while getting up from the latest fall. He must have loved bananas.

Face to face, I smiled and he laughed. I stood awestruck by the majesty of his gaiety and he gyrated with full spirits as if mocking at my colourless life. Then God knows why he turned abusive and gave a full display of the choicest expletives. Even my well-poised demeanour was shaken a bit, forcing me to give a mild rap at the back of his head. It coincided with his next fall. He would have fallen in any case even without my effort. But the timing of the mild rap and a hard fall matched to a class that made it look like the effect of my hit.

He thought he had been hit so hard that it dusted him in one go. He panicked. I saw the fear in his eyes as if I was a slayer of the drunkards. I got down to assure him that my proceedings in the matter stood ended. Then he cried. ‘You are so kind, you are almost a God to help me!’ he howled. I helped him stand to his feet—for the time being at least, as it was my duty to help him regain his vertical for at least once after contributing to the cause of his latest fall.

He would have again fallen if he hadn’t clutched me with full brotherly force. ‘You are my brother. You are for me while all of them abandoned me!’ he embraced me tight and sang a sluggish, frothy, smelly song of brotherhood in my ear. I tried to extricate myself from the claws of his drunken love but he won’t let go of the long-lost brother he had been looking for so long. I tried pushing him away but he was really hungry for human affection.

I had to push him, which I did to good effect and again he went down and cried once more for being stabbed in the back by someone whom he respected more than his real brother. I found it appropriate to take my presence off the scene. As I walked away, I felt his gift tucked into my shirt around the collar, a bit of it out grazing my nape. I pulled it out. The banana sapling! Maybe he was trying to crown me with it on my head and make me the King of all drunkards. However, he misplaced the item a bit.

I looked at the banana sapling. Despite the mistreatment and mauling, it seemed reasonably well in shape. The leaf would open up as the root was intact. Without thinking too much, I just allowed it to stay in my hands. So that’s how my dears the plant changed its master. I wonder if the banana spirit had a role in playing out this drama.

After changing the masters, the plant very well managed to get a new root-hold in a fresh yard. There it stood with its half-mauled single leaf. Drunk with the gay spirits of its erstwhile master, it blossomed up. From a kid to a boy to an adolescent to a dandy young man, it just sprinted towards claiming more of life and living. Its huge green leaves swayed to winds like majestic banners of the banana kingdom.

A couple of years after its arrival in my garden, the rains turned out to be very, very lenient. It just grew and grew through the rainy season. The lateral shoots from its roots grew forcefully to push out the bricks around. It wanted to become the king of bananas, I suppose. It was a big clump now and furled its leafy sails for a life well lived and enjoyed. It gave the unkempt courtyard a wilder look than it really was.

Well, then maybe a krait snake was also duped in taking it as a really wild place. It slithered in to stay in the clumpy banana encroachment. It had to be dispossessed of its free-hold with much fearful action. Then another little baby snake was also found.

A suspicious-looking neighbour gave his expert verdict that one day a cobra will also greet me. ‘Why do you have such an overgrown banana in your garden? It attracts snakes like a magnet pulls iron!’ he admonished.

‘Really!’ I nearly trembled and looked at the banana.

Snakes can surely put us out of our wits. My mother’s rusted wood-cutting scythe was brought out of retirement from a musty corner in the barn. I was expecting resistance from the resident reptilian tenants in the clump. My strikes were shaky. Thank God there weren’t any more snakes, or if there was any it must have gone out with its girlfriend to give her a kiss of venom. I decided to remove all the lateral encroachments and leave only the sleek central trunk to avoid the complete murder of a tree. I had to save my nature-loving aesthetics as well.

A banana is no woody mass. It’s a herbaceous plant, a mere layer after layer of the leafy fibre forming the trunk. The rusted scythe looked full of vengeance and easily cut through the soft juicy fibre like a knife does to the butter. Imagine, such a soft trunk would bear storms and high winds! It’s because nature hasn’t got sharp edges like us. It pushes and prods in a circular way that even a blade of grass would weather the mightiest storms.

The banana clump bore the sharp edges of my fear and insecurities and the bushy clump turned into a single sleek strand. It still smiled. Thank God, the trees aren’t vindictive like we humans, otherwise they would stop producing oxygen as we put them to axe. We survive because the rest of the creation is far more adjusting and tolerant than us.

These trees never miss their smiles. A gust of breeze ruffled the leafy banners. A big leafy overhang brushed my face and aired my perspiring face as if to say, ‘Why worry so much. You are all right and so am I!’ I think they forgive very easily. I took the consolation that a single strand of banana is better than no banana at all.

The Religion of a Common Man

 

Mere goodness in letter covers up for many a sin in spirit. Blind adherence to religion in letter allows one to commit many wrongs in spirit. Hypothetical lip service is very easily done. More importantly, it fetches very rich, luscious fruits.

The radicalization of religion is primarily driven from the ritualistic adhesion to customs and conventions on the surface, their meanings twisted to suit the ulterior motives. We have a painful history of Christian crusades to the modern day Islamic radicalization that have brought countless sufferings to our little planet.

The practitioners of the modern Hindutva have now taken a few clues from these aggressive defenders of faith and are imbibing some steely nerves in their Sanatan Dharma fabric. ‘If the Christians and the Muslims can slaughter thousands in the name of religion, we can at least create verbal rhetoric in stout defence of our religion,’ they seem to think. They rarely kill but then they have a pretty noisy sloganeering movement. It serves the purpose of all the political parties irrespective of who stands for whom.

All said and done, is it necessary to take inspiration from somebody’s wrong? Someone’s wrong can never stand as a justification to your own falling on the wrong turf. Why weigh your worth and value on the tainted, tempered scale of someone else? Only the yardstick of your own goodness will do justice to your real worth.      

Ramraj Pandit is a simple man at the pilgrimage town of Mathura. He feels very insecure on account of the belligerent Islam. The tales from the Middle East and Afghanistan—apart from the arch nemesis Pakistan—rile his conscience a lot. He speaks well in defence of his religion, contests for municipal councillor post and wins. He is genuinely concerned that radical Islam will slaughter meek Hindus if we don’t fight for our religion. Now the onus is on him to prove himself worth the salt of his faith.

The more the bloody tales of belligerent Islam trickle from outside, the more his nerves get on the edge. He is ready for the protection of his faith and values. He needs errant Muslims to substantiate his fears and justify the remedies of law.

Four people stay in his locality in the basement of a garage. Taslim is a ragman. Abdul is a bangle seller. Rashid is a vegetables hawker. Ali operates a dosa vendor cart. They are all migrant workers and barely pull their humble cart of survival and sustenance.

Taslim, the ragman, collects trash and scrap items and keeps them for sorting out in the corner of an empty plot of land behind the garage. A fencing of gunny sacks defines a few yards of his space for which he pays to the plot owner. The plot owner gets double benefit as the ragman works as a kind of watchman for his property also.

This morning he is collecting the disposables strewn around a wedding party site. His big garbage sack on his carrier rickshaw is bulging at its seams with scores of disposed items of festivity. Who won’t be happy to get a big lead in his line of business?

His pleasant reverie is broken as he gets pushed from behind. A loud abuse follows. ‘Chant Jai Shri Ram!’ Pandit says.

Then he carefully scans the contents in his cart. Blasphemy! An empty packet of incense among the trash. There is an image of Lord Ganesha on the packet!

‘You guys cut necks if someone merely says anything about Koran! And here you are putting our Gods in shitty trash!’ he roars.

There is a little crowd. Jostling, shoving, an altercation and the trash cart is toppled. Nothing serious happens. But the incident’s video will go viral by the evening. 

A forlorn looking, stick-wielding policeman arrives on the scene. Ramraj is inconsolable. He yells and shouts well, enough qualifications to be a successful politician. Deep imprecations follow.

The rag-picker is booked under IPC Section 153-A (promoting enmity between different groups on grounds of religion), 505 (2) (public mischief), 323 (voluntarily causing hurt). He has no clue to these imposing clauses. Most of the time, the heavy tomes of judicial clauses hardly have any clues to their own meaning. Everything is subject to interpretation. No wonder, the judicial process can stretch till eternity.

The nights in the lock-up are very busy. ‘You must be cooking fabulous mutton,’ a relaxed policeman asks. So the rag-picker gives his best in cooking mutton. Multiple skills are always welcome in this big, bad world. The cooking comes out amazing. A tongue can bite in verbal exchange but nature primarily means it to taste nice food. In this way, many tongues are happy and no longer bothered about the weightier issue of saving religions. They are contended with his service and treat him well. It goes for three days. On the fourth day, the Hindu plot owner gets him out on bail. He will adjust the money owed to him in little monthly instalments. The real sufferer I think is the Indian judiciary at having one more petty case that will sit on its breast, suffocating it under its weight along with the millions of other ongoing cases.  

But it seems that the local councillor is on a spree.  

Very soon the affable and friendly Abdul is booked for inappropriately touching a teenage girl. The girl says a firm ‘no’ and insists that she didn’t feel anything of that sort as he tried to fix a bangle around her wrist. ‘You are too young to feel these predatory ways, we know better,’ they tell her. So there are many who say they can feel it and know it for sure.

The social media is the hub for the newly emergent tiny celebrities. Again the video goes viral in the city. The bangle seller is arrested. His five days in the lock-up prove that he indeed has very deft and caring hands. He works, cooks, brooms and massages calves, thus putting all the menial staff at rest. The Hindu bania who supplies bangles to him is worried. The hawker owes him some money, so he pays for the bail, carefully adding the bail charges to the previous amount. When Abdul walks out, it causes a lot of inconvenience to the police station. He proves himself almost indispensable. But they cannot keep him anymore even if they like him on account of his great utility.

It’s easy to come out of difficulties if you retain your smile and do all you can do without reacting. Give your best with a pleasant mood and there you are. You step out of the troubles one fine day.  

Very soon Rashid’s vegetable cart also gets into the eddies of the storm in the tea cup. He is very mildly beaten, but shouted at terribly, by a vigilante group, of course led by the effervescent local councillor, for failing to produce his adhar card. They allege that he is using fake identity to pass off as a Hindu hawker. The case doesn’t go too far as a gentleman helps the poor vegetable seller in getting cleared off the scene without further complications.

Ali’s dosa cart is vandalized now. The crime is naming his stall after a Hindu deity. The board that reads ‘Ganpati Dosa Corner’ is torn apart. The mere fact is that he has purchased the cart from its previous Hindu owner without taking care to change the name. Of course, its video is uploaded on the Facebook and many ‘likes’ follow. Ramraj is very vocal in accusing Ali of waging ‘economic jihad’ by depriving Hindus of job opportunities. They then move onto chanting slogans to ‘purify Mathura’.

On his complaint, the police registers a case under IPC section 427 (mischief causing damage) and some section about hurting religious sentiments. Ali can count his stars lucky for having worked as a masseur in a saloon at one time in life. His palms and fingers ensure that his few days in the jail turn out to be full of action for his hands. Everyone at the police station is more relaxed after a nice massage. Other inmates also get better treatment as the policemen carry much soothed nerves.

Ali’s three friends bail him out. Then they hold a meeting at their place. It’s a serious issue. Either leave the place or try not to fray the nerves of the ebullient, pudgy councillor who is aiming to get an MLA ticket, encouraged by the little storms his videos have raised on the local social media.

They understand the reality better than any hardcore mullah baying for kafir blood far away in a masjid. A common man’s life, irrespective of religion, is sustained by compromise, acceptance and adaptation. These are the religionless credentials necessary for the survival of the underprivileged of any caste, class, creed or religion. A reaction born of religious rhetoric from their side would mean leaving the place and start an innings somewhere else. That would amount to making life further burdensome. They choose prudence. They decide to greet their customers with ‘Jai Shri Ram’. It’s a masterstroke of marketing by the common men just like it’s a masterstroke of political rhetoric by the power-aspirant politicians. Using it the former can see through a normal day and the latter can go to assemblies.  

They do so. After a few days of this greeting, they don’t feel lesser Muslims. The initial apprehensions are allayed. Now even strangers smile at them. Surprisingly, with more open heart they feel more focussed in their prayers and nearer to Allah than before. Malleable hearts are very near to all Gods in all religions. 

Well, an imperilled Hindu, caught in similar circumstances, is also advised to greet his Muslim customers with ‘Allahoo Akbar’. Does hailing a flower in different languages insult the flower? We have different words for almost everything in different languages. So why don’t we understand that different religions use different words to connote the same entity.

A brainwashed mullah gives a blood-curdling yell against kafirs in a masjid. At the centre of the little storm, primarily his own influence grows, a few blindfolded souls get tricked, some killing or violence happens. Like a pebble is thrown into the pond and ripples move out. The littlest ripples at the centre turn broad at the outer margins and cover large spans of water. They touch the lives of the common man. Tiny undulations, softly shoving ahead. They just tug at the sleeves. It would be a folly to give them more consideration than what they are—mere tiny ruffles, often very silly. It’s advisable to treat them as something that just moves on, almost inconsequentially. Take them more seriously and they create storms in the minds. 

Poverty and deprivation are enough complications for the common man. Why make it further complicated by picking needles in hayracks. We, the commoners, are meant for raking and unraking big loads of hay, the actual movers of load on the broad stage of labour, sweat and grime. Let’s not stoop down too much into further nitty-gritty and stare around our feet for the invisible gems in the dust. If we do it then we get a kick on our ass by those who preach us to look into the dust for the smallest needle. As we do so, we get a hit and they gather their rewards.      

The Formula to become an Officer

 

He was born with the birth of the nation. So his farmer father, at a small village, had enough reason to spend the little money he had saved. That day, nearly a maund of choorma, the farmers’ delicacy made of chapattis meshed with ghee and jaggery, slithered down the digestive tracts of many a burping farmer. During those bucolic old days, the blessings for the host were directly proportional to the gastronomical pacification of the guests. So the newborn was showered with a torrent of blessings, the majority of which bordered on ‘become strong like Bhola—the sturdiest bull in the village—and also become a sahib, an officer.’

The proud father took the blessings very seriously. He kept it fresh by repeating it to the infant as and when he occasioned to hold the baby. ‘You have to become an officer,’ he would say. As the boy grew up, he was well aware of the fact that while the rest of the boys in the village could grow up to be simple farmers he had to be an officer.

He indeed turned out to be an officer long way down the decades. The old farmer didn’t survive to see his son becoming an officer though. The father passed away while the son was still pursuing his B.Ed. degree after completing bachelors in science. But by this time the old farmer had ingrained certain things that would keep his son steadily yoked in the mission. The burly son kept furrowing the plough to be an officer in the education department, first as a teacher to headmaster to district education officer to finally retire as deputy director in state education board. An officer indeed.

He himself is an aged father now and points out the four life-changing episodes whiplashed by his father on his young psyche. ‘Four things made me what I am today!’ he declares by holding out four of his thick hairy fingers and keeping the thumb out of the league by jutting it against the palm.

I think his father should have given him five principles to make it a wholesome and more emphatic hand spread. Anyway, we have to do with four only.

Number 1:

‘During those days in the village school we had to spread out our hand like we are taking an oath and declare before the entire class that I can no  longer hold my waters and hence need to go to the bathroom at the far corner of the vast playground. Apprehending public shame, I asked the teacher’s permission. He was busy in twisting the ears of the biggest tramp in the class, hence in a bad mood. He said ‘go’ without looking at me, being still busy with the naughtiest boy’s ears pretty spiritedly. Immediately I made a dash for the door. But then he harked back on second reflection. “Did you eat your father’s bull-feed today to be under such urgency to run to the corner?” his anger spilled over to me. He beckoned me to him. I approached with fear and he gave me a heavy slap that was too big for my face. I fell down and apprehending more to follow, I took to my heels and bawling with rage and fear I ran back home. There I told the episode in the spiciest terms, portraying the teacher as the biggest villain and me as the most innocent kid on earth. Father seemed moved by the tale. I was very pleased within, thinking that now the teacher was for a lesson because my father was a big man. Father politely took me back to the school. Then he suddenly changed colours. “Master ji your student had run away, I bring him back,” saying this he treated my other cheek with such impunity that the teacher’s strike felt a soft cuddle in comparison. “Never ever complain against your teacher and commit the sin of running away from school under any circumstances,” her thundered episodically. I had my lesson. The teacher is always right and holds tremendous might. Later, I expected the same from my students and printed the same lesson on their cheeks. As a result, many of my students turned out to be officers themselves.’     

Number 2:

‘I was in the eighth standard when he got me admitted to a school at the district town about 10 kilometres from the village. The village school looked all freedom in comparison to the town school. So sulking and sad I was one day fleeced by a naughty group to scale over the hostel wall and watch a movie at the only cinema hall at the town. It was a dream-like experience. It was a Dilip Kumar film. My boyish senses were so jolted that I saw the moving pictures around for a fortnight. The entire world looked a motion picture. I reached the climax scene of this real-life film when I came back to the village on the weekend after a fortnight. There he stood like the bulkiest villain in the movie and looked very stern as I entered. As I put down my bag, he followed my every step and then calmly asked me to fetch the bull-whip lying in the corner. I thought the bulls must have played truant while ploughing, hence required some remedial action. With a jump in my step I got the weapon and handed it over to him. He handled it with a deep reflection and said, “Son, films are a dream and studies mean real life!” Then he competed with his treatment of errant bulls while making me realise the hard fact that there is hardly any connection between films and real life. I think I underestimated his spying capabilities, thinking he was always walking behind the bulls, tilling the land. He must have deputed someone to keep a watch on my activities. Well, I felt bad at that time but now I understand how good it was to me. During my headmaster days I myself went into the theatres and searched for the vagabond filmi students with a torch and saved many careers with kicks and slaps there within the cinema halls only. In fact a few of those officers visited me later and acknowledged my kicking help inside the cinema halls to rectify the error. The lesson is: be a protagonist in real life instead of just a spectator of reel life. My dedication to real-life picture has enabled me to create many officers, the real heroes, not the made-up fake ones.’

Number 3:

‘As a consequence of the filmi misadventure, I was taken out of the hostel and asked to commute daily to the school from the village. During those days, public transport was almost zero, just two or three buses to and from the town and those were crammed like fodder husk in a barn. He surprised the entire village in pulling out the last farthing from his purse inside a clay pot buried somewhere in the house, barn, dung heap or God knows even cremation yard. The brave act resulted in a brand new Atlas cycle for me. It instantly raised my status to the clouds. Going to the school on your own bicycle made you a prince. I felt princely. And princes don’t give too much of trouble to their legs. There was this tractor that plied between two wood markets at almost fixed hours daily. I would stop and wait for it about a kilometre from the village and take the help of the tractor trolley to make a motorbike of my bicycle. I would hold some log with one hand at the end of the laden wagon and allow myself to be pulled smoothly. It was extreme fun. It became a routine both ways as I managed my timings more smartly than I managed maths problems. But I should have remembered that it was not the era of motorbikes. One day, as the mammoth lurching bus raised dust and overtook the prince on his motorbike, two eyes really-really appreciated the commendable feat. If I was the prince, my father was the king. So the king saw his son’s feat from the window of the rickety bus. I had indeed misused the privilege. Quite naturally he had the authority to impound the misused property. He punctured its tyres and said, “It stays airless till you learn to use a bicycle as it’s meant to be.” He spared the air in me this time, keeping himself to putting out the air of the tyres only. In any case it was a big punishment, the fall in grace from a prince on a motorbike to a sweaty nonentity crammed in the cursed bus for which one had to wait till eternity and that too for the tiniest of foothold. The lesson here is: never misuse your bicycle by treating it as motorbike. I myself used the principle to great effect in making officers later on. I convinced many foolish parents who gave motorbikes to their boys coming to the senior school. I got them demoted to bicycles, telling them it will add muscles to their thighs at least. A motorbike just gives you wings to fly wrongly. And those who had bicycles, I got them cut down to their real size by getting them taken away so that they walked to their destiny. One boy, whose bicycle I arranged to be taken away from him, daily walked from his village five kilometres away. As there was no public transport on the dirt road from his village, he had to walk. As he walked, he got late usually. So I used my palm on his back very effectively during the morning prayers publicly. He thus ran to be on time and save his back. His stamina increased to an extent that he was soon playing nationals. He also became an officer on sports quota. There are sure-shot definite ways of producing officers.”

Number 4:

‘After completing my B.Sc., I opted for pursuing B.Ed. at the district city 40 kilometres away. There was no option of bicycle, motorbike or daily commuting in the rickety bus service that plied twice daily. So my father arranged a modest room near the university and giving me a long list of primarily not-to-dos left me alone with plenty of apprehensions in his mind. “Without plenty of milk you won’t be able to become an officer. Almonds and milk are the foundations of an officer’s mind,” he said. So he left plenty of almonds under my bunk. For milk, he arranged with a milkman in the bazaar. “Brother, swear that you will feed him as good milk as to your own son. I will come every month-end to clear the account,” saying this he left for the village. Those were rainy days. The milkman didn’t seem to keep his promise. I found a tiny baby frog swimming in my three litres that he supplied in the morning. He must have found mixing the tap water with milk to be too expensive, so he went for pond water most probably. Other issue was about accounts. He said I owed him far more than what I had calculated as per my mathematical skills. When Father came, he listened patiently to both sides. I tried to stand my ground to pay less. “No son, this we have to pay. In future, you either manage it in a way to keep both parties satisfied or stop taking milk from him. All this depends on you,” he gave his verdict. “But what about pond water in the milk?” I tried to turn the scales in my favour. “Are you sure it’s only pond water, son?” he asked me. I said yes. “I’m happy that you didn’t mix gutter water because there were no worms in it,” he patted the milkman on the shoulder. The milkman was visibly ashamed and lowered his eyes. With his slow, steady and cautious steps, Father walked away to get back to the village. There was a marked improvement in the milk quality after that. I think he wanted to tell me that you have to help others to keep your trust in them. It helped me a lot in becoming an officer later on. Despite all the bullshit sprayed by rascally seniors, I kept on giving them more chances to retain my trust in them and I had hassle free rise in the ranks. Using the same principle, I managed many criminal-minded students in a way that they at least didn’t go to jails as convicts and became petty employees, if not officers.’

Well, the farmer died while his son was a mere teacher. The demise was unexpected and sudden, given his sturdy constitution. But then one can’t help it. His last words to his son were: ‘Son, come whatever may, you have to become an officer one day.’ He became one later on. These four anecdotes carrying four formulas, he says, are the building blocks of his becoming an officer.                

A Lesser Death

 

A very beautiful former actress died in the last week of February, 2018 of cardiac arrest in Dubai. Dying at 54 seems too premature for someone whose lively eyes and trilling voice enthralled millions for decades. The news was shocking and there was genuine outpour of grief. Death the darkest mystery stumps us. The actress but stays alive through her brilliant characters in 300 movies she starred in.

So what we do with this life matters more than anything else. We leave a tiny trail of memories for those still alive. Let’s at least try that we leave behind a bouquet of pleasant memories. Well, ‘some nice memories in a few hearts’ must be the hallmark of a successful life. It definitely makes death ‘lesser’ in magnitude.

However small is the arena of your life, the stage set up for you by the forces beyond your control, to dance on it or cry is fully within your prerogative. We can at least try to dance well with joy, of course without stepping on the feet of others doing the same. 

And to remind me how ubiquitous its tentacles are, death ruffled its feathers around me also. A puppy died under my little old car. It wasn’t a bloody death. The little thing must have been sleeping under the vehicle. I simply started the ignition. The wheels rolled for a few feet. I heard muffled sounds. I stopped and found the poor thing struggling for breath with a rattling death sound. It surely was my fault.

One must be considerate for the smaller world that we find almost non-existing around our feet. We take it for granted that the higher world of we humans is all that matters. We shouldn’t forget that to the bigger forces in nature there is hardly any difference between a microorganism and a human being. Both get tossed with the same nonchalance by the forces of nature. We just feel, cry, blame, act and react more. Other than this, there is no qualitative difference between an ant being crushed under a human foot and a human being getting crushed by the circumstantial wheels.  

Well, the writer is completely in acceptance of the responsibility of causing a death. With a bit of more awareness, it could have been avoided. The little thing would have been playing with its itchy siblings in the village street. All of us have our quotas of sins of omission and commission. And acceptance of a fault definitely puts one on the path of betterment. It adds a nice positive element to life.  

Beyond the apparent causes, death drives its own forces. It’s not, as most of us may think, the effect of some accident, disease, crime, happening or mishappening. It itself is the primary cause. The means of death are in fact the effects of death. Its surety, inevitability, the absolute truth behind it, makes it the cause in itself. Had there been an exception to mortality, maybe then it could have been taken as the effect of the apparent means of death.

Death stands alone as an absolute entity. Only the means vary. There are as many possibilities of the so called ‘reasons’ ascribed to death as there are thoughts in mind.

Given the ease with which death picks up its timing, it makes it almost a supreme force. This nullifying interlude is a great push in the cycled movement of things and phenomena.

It picks from the grossest to the easiest routes. All that we can pray for is a painless, simple, aged death—a fading away, a kind of ripened drop, a finely graduated trailing off, a reasonable sign off. A dull gaze of the old, almost blind eyes into the future. A centurion. A kind of lesser death.  

A Full-baked Sense of Security

 

The boy is from Bareilly in Uttar Pradesh and sells coconuts on the pavement at Sonipat in Haryana. There is an awning of polythene sheet and bamboos, a rickety wooden diwan and the heap of coconuts. He wields the big cutter knife with throwaway ease.

He is a nice talker and offers a free conversation as you sip the coconut water. He talks pretty intimately, so much so that the next time you visit his set-up, you come as an old acquaintance even though it’s your second visit only. Well, that is the hallmark of a good salesman. These are inborn traits beyond the reach of business school logic.

‘Life is far better here. Less crime. People don’t bother you too much. I have taken a cheap room on rent nearby and go there just for cooking, bathing and toilet. I sleep here on the pavement and there hasn’t been any problem during the eight years of my stay here.’

Little does he realise that of late Sonipat has almost overtaken his home state in mischief and tumbles on the wrong side of law. But then one’s sense of security and comfort about a place is driven by the weight added to one’s purse by that particular place. All is well as long as you feel the weight in the wallet. So he is right in his judgement as one can see a few customers around him.  

He is dark with taut face muscles on his eager face. His hairstyle gives an inkling that he takes himself seriously to a decent limit. His caste, creed or communal identity is clouded by his primary identity of just being one of the struggling millions who pack their bundles of deprivation and move outstation. They treasure their little vial of happiness. Their eyes always looking at the pleasures of the relatively better offs, which acts as a big driving force enabling them to keep pulling the heavy cart.

We are talking about the gems of hard work and the inherent richness of economically poor people who dig a well daily to drink water. He holds the pavement strugglers in very high esteem.

‘The rich people are very poor in afterlife. All that they have to see is finished in this life only. Their quota of rewards, pleasures and happiness lasts during this life only. Nothing is left for the other world,’ he points to the sky.  

‘The poor are very rich after their death. A poor man will get compensation for his sufferings in the afterlife...there...in jannat!’

Well, for me it would be swarga. Now I get a clue to his religious identity.

The idea of afterlife surely helps the poor people in pulling the cart. This world may not have enough for them. They then take a huge leap of faith to shift the destination into the unfathomable depths of the skies.

‘Did you ever feel unsafe here? Some incidence or happening?’ I ask him.

Now he looks even more confident as he replies. ‘Never, it’s a very safe city as I told you. There is a very kind policeman uncle in the neighbourhood. He is very helpful and always asks me to tell him if anyone bothers me. What a nice man he is! I really like him. Coconut water is really good for one’s health. And such good people must be kept healthy so I offer him one coconut every day before he sets out for the thana. He also understands that I give it to him out of genuine respect so he doesn’t insult my feelings by offering money. I will make him the fittest policeman in the city.’

‘Oh, you are lucky to have a friendly policeman,’ I congratulate him.

‘True. Especially an honest policeman,’ he enthuses.

‘How do you know that he is an honest one?’ I ask.

‘It’s very easy! He has told me that he has never taken a bribe in his career. And I fully believe in him. He is such a nice guy,’ he is all praise for his protector. 

Well, I also believe him. A free coconut every day must be enough to fetch contentment to the policeman. And anyone would feel safe after becoming the part of a fit policeman’s book.                                          

The Rich Princes of Poor Ghettos

 

The laundry man, the fruit seller, the shoe mender, the juice maker, a pan and cigarette stall, a subzi puri booth, a chhole kulche cart, the roadside barber, the coconut seller, the key maker, a sugarcane juice crusher, queues of autos, more juice makers, rickshaw pullers, tea stalls, tiny carts laden with mouth-watering spicy samosas and the changing faces of the people as they pass through this dense urban spot.

The list of its constituents is almost endless and makes it an intense spot of struggle and survival. Life here is static as well as in a flux: static in terms of the very same old struggle, weariness and challenges to make the ends meet by these little protagonists of this tiny stage; in a flux also as the squeezing urban behemoth continuously pushes in and pushes out scores of people through this small spot. Life is slow as well as fast simultaneously. And so are the undercurrents of pleasure and pain. There is a smoky tension in the air. Everyone is on taut nerves. A massive heaving of effort is going on to somehow survive in the urban jungle.

It’s a journey where hundreds of steps count to just one of those in the bigger world. You huff and puff for miles after miles, while in reality you are still at the same spot of your misery. Happiness, the dream puller, is forever cajoling millions after millions. It’s very easy to get seduced by the thoughts and notions of happiness. Sadly, we usually ditch whatever little we possess in the present to avail happiness in future.

These institutions are built upon the pavement with gunny sacks, wooden planks, plywood, plastic and iron sheets. The rickshaws, carts and bicycles constitute the battle gear of this fighting band. They have their own poorly contrived, self-made signboards. Tired labourers, who are the small soldiers of a big battle, sit on rickety stools, chairs and benches and eat the cheap servings to continue fighting for another day.

Two pensioners talking about pension hike. Targets and goals rarely meet an end. It’s always about more money. Your own journey may be ending, but it crosses over to the next generation. You have to grab more of this world to hand over the baton to your progeny. Even though you come across hundred reasons when the ones for whom you are holding out the battle front, even in the old age, make you feel redundant and obsolete. You have but already ceded your life to them. ‘You’ means ‘they’. They may not understand it. However it doesn’t matter. You simply cannot hate them enough to stop worrying about them. Just like they cannot love you enough to help you take less painful steps on your rickety joints.

A rickshaw puller comes, mops his face with the corner of his head-cloth and gets busy in finishing his cheap lunch. He eats heartily. Hunger drives you like the best teacher. It guides you and misguides you at the same time. Poverty makes you devour your frugal pieces with a peculiar nonchalance. You chew more of your worries, hardly giving attention to what exactly you have on your plate.

The spring sun is getting scorching with each passing day. Its swiftly lays its hot fingers to absorb the leftover coolness the air still has. It devours it hungrily. Of course you wish less of the sun now at the beginning of summers, like you pray for more of it during winters.

The bigger world is just at an arms’ length but it’s miles long in distance if you measure the gap between the best dream of the people of this little stage and the normal day realities of anyone in the bigger world. There is impressive Wave City Centre Metro station, part of the world class metro rail system. Then you have an elegantly imposing tower, an ultra-modern shopping mall. Then you have a noteworthy underpass nearby. There are more impressive cars on the clogged road than any other vehicle.

Irrespective of what time of the day it is, you have a heavy throng of people. Young, middle aged, old, students, beggars, rich, poor, fat, thin, crippled, semi-crippled—a tightly squeezed bale of humanity. Their individual identities seem to be melting into a faceless commonness. The crowd colours everything with a swiping monotony. Poverty cuts your life’s meaning to keep it centred around a few bucks earned at whatever cost it requires. When you are pinned against the wall and just fight for a day, you automatically sharpen those instincts to prey upon any possibility or opportunity. The codes, principles and values constituting the great edifice of goodness get clobbered down, lose their value and go down the huge sewage drain whose foul odour fills the lungs with a marvellous continuity. After some time one finds it normal to inhale the obnoxious cocktail of motor exhaust, dust and sewage smell topped by the terribly sweating, smelly human bodies.

You have Audis and BMWs zooming past. On a garbage dump, almost in the middle of the stage, the cows and pigs that usually forage snout-to-muzzle and muzzle-to-snout are suddenly pushed out. There are intruders. A big herd of sheep, jutted against each other to make it one hungry jelly monster, is devouring the shitty leftovers. This is ultra-modern junk—cups, disposable plates, glasses, stale food, fruit peelings, plastic, plastic and more plastic. The Rajasthani sheep herder, roaming around hundreds of miles for the last blades of rapidly vanishing grass, stands pensively with his chin supported on the herding stick. He has his signature tight-fitting kurti, languorous dhoti and a huge shiny red headgear. He stands with the typical nomadic elegance from his part of India. He can have an eye feast. At a short distance, impressive towers having luxurious apartments shine under the bright sun. Many more are in the making. He is lost in their heights with a misty look in his eyes.

Inside the swanky super-mall, a stone’s throw away, it’s a completely different world. It’s not defined by hunger. It’s a replica of the dream after which the poor mass thronging the gates outside is running after. It smells of super elegance and style statement. You inhale a very condensed cocktail of luxury, perfume, spicy food, fine-soled footsteps, clothing, cosmetics, grocery and even Crossword bookstore. It has a heady aroma. A feeling of super-luxury seeps into your nerves. Utter want and hunger is just yards away outside. Many people feel hugely helped by just being a part of this luxurious dream for some time.

Grass is always greener on the other side. Thousands throng the muck to pick out morsels of survival. It’s a fight for more and more in the littlest of space. People leave the open countryside, getting bored with the smallness and feeling lost in the easy spaciousness, and run to get squeezed in the cage to feel a part of a bigger world.  

Learning a Worldly Grip

 

In two months time Sky, my nephew, will be two years old. What do we make of the world around us? It’s not the same world for everyone. To me the movie on the TV may have a certain meaning defined by relationships, love, jealousy, hate, anger and greed. To him the moving picture on the TV means the things he knows: water, car, ball and a few more things he has come to recognize. The entire drama being otherwise meaningless to him, his eyes light up the moment he sees any of these few items he is familiar with.

None of us can comprehend this existence in its entirety. There is always more to know, experience and feel. Just a part of the picture we see and draw out meanings on the basis of what we know, what we recognise and what we have experienced. The purpose of life then is to know and understand more of the picture. Know more, understand more, feel more. It’s no guarantee of happiness though. Some even say that the lesser you know, the happier you are. However, it cannot be helped. The quest stays. The pursuit remains.  

He has taken the first tentative steps to assert his claim to independence and free will. As usual, in an effort to explore the otherwise meaningless world to him, I find him wreaking havoc in the flower bed. And he does it expertly by doing the thing in totality by pulling out the entire branch.

‘Sky bad boy,’ I try to make him say, thinking it will somehow make him learn that flowers aren’t to be torn apart.

He looks at me, a finger pointing to his chest, ‘Sky good boy,’ making it plain that my ‘right’ is not essentially the same to him.

This happens to be the first instance of asserting his right to think of his own, instead of being guided by elders in each and everything from shitting to eating. A landmark indeed!

Another landmark follows. He gets congestion in chest so the doctor has prescribed nebulizer. Now he gets irritated like anything when these vapours engulf his face. He gets scared and howls. Now he learns to bargain.

‘Ma Ma bhaanp de do...and chu-chu de do!’ he says.

It means, ‘I will take steam without any fuss if you let me watch chu-chu TV.’ Needless to mention, he is fond of this animation program to the craziest limit.

There is a little set of picture books. Whenever he sees me reading a book, he grabs the set of picture books, dumps it on my lap and stomps his feet to be immediately taught.

Even when you reprimand him, he repeats your rant word by word as if practicing his tongue for the bigger verbal battles in future.

Then he ignores your presence completely because he is absorbed in watching cartoons on chu-chu TV. Things are now beginning to make a sense to him in the ways and manners of we grown-up humans.

He is scared of aeroplanes. When he is playing in the front yard, the moment an aeroplane’s droning sound reaches his ears, he runs inside saying, ‘Aeroplane, aeroplane!’ Sometimes it’s a false alarm, as he mistakes a vehicle’s sound as an aeroplane.

On a flight from Bhopal to Delhi, he continuously kept a few old passengers nearby on tenterhooks by repeatedly saying, ‘Papa this plane is going to fall!’

This afternoon an aeroplane’s silhouette flashed silvery bright against the blue azure of the sky. I held him in my arms, made him look at it with his little finger pointing towards the metallic bird.

‘Aeroplane good boy,’ I made him repeat many times as he stared at it on the border of curiosity and fear. Hope he finds the metallic bird a bit friendlier now.

He is scrawling every nook corner with whatever object he can accomplish the deed. The walls are his big canvas to draw his sketches and stamp his authority.

His first attempt at telling a lie to fetch the situation to his advantage:

Whenever he sees me reading a book, he runs to grab his picture books. So here he is trying to slip out of my hands. ‘ABC...ABC,’ he is saying. I’m not in a mood to teach him at this point of time. He makes full effort to slip out. He feels my unwillingness to let him go and grab his picture books.

‘Nani pas, nani pas,’ he is trying to convince me that he wants to go to his granny. So here I let him go, taking him on his word. He has duped me. He runs to fetch his glossy picture books and dumps these in my lap. Here are his efforts to get attuned to the larger clatter of life with more impressive notes of the bigger world.

The Curse of a Monitor Lizard

 

The IT engineer’s encounter with the monitor lizard in Singapore, it seemed, changed things quite dramatically. From a bright, flowery, fragrant spring, he seemed to have entered an arid zone of thorny bushes and dry, sighing sandstorms.

The Indian software engineer stayed in a basement room on the outskirts of the bustling cosmopolitan hub. He was sitting on the bed and watching Indian news with dreams of again joining his family back in his homeland. It was an exciting moment after five long, lonely years of earning money for the sake of family. With enough money in the account, the softer side of life beckons, the longing to stay with one’s dear and near ones, for example.

He had been trying for an internal shift to some branch in India. His immediate boss here in Singapore, another Indian, was a tough nut to crack. So the subordinate had to pull out all strength from his skills to be in his good books. He served him to the limits of chronic professionalism in office. Then there was another side, the personal one. He brought himself to the level of a domestic help to pamper the ego of his boss. They sat down for a drink or two now and then and during those times the junior would ensure that his senior felt nothing short of a king. It bore fruits. The process had been completed and he was to shift to their Mumbai branch. Home, sweet home!

Then it got derailed or rather a monitor lizard got on to the track and being a more than one meter behemoth it derailed the engineer’s wagon from the track. He was sitting with snacks and a light drink, watching Indian news and the dreams of homeland beautifully suffusing the room’s air. The nightmare started. There was a rustling sound under the simple plank folding bed. He bent down to find out what it was and two fluidy eyes stared at him and a tongue literally came close to lick his nose. A big monitor lizard it was. It was seeking a safe home like he was seeking a better part of the world.

Out of sheer panic he started jumping on the bed, letting out weirdest mutterings to sound like a cruel predator to scare away the big lizard. The reptile seemed to lose its wits and scampered out only to sneak into the farther recess of the room where his suitcases and travel bags were stacked in a corner. The things got toppled. Then it was running around the room. With shaking hands and trembling legs, he picked up the baseball bat and beat more of the ground in his avalanche of an attack. It was a critical melee. The reptile got a few side-slipping thwacks on its back. But its skin being thick, the fumbling strikes hardly left any mark on it. The attacker himself slipped and fell many times. By the time the intruder was driven out he was sweating profusely.

It was a strange ennui after the war. Suddenly he felt chronically bored with life. And to beat the boredom he took a heavy serving of whiskey, as much as he would consume in an entire fortnight. It had its lulling effect. He felt victorious. But the driven out and beaten monitor lizard seemed to have cast a dark spell on his little plans.

His boss arrived after some time. Some drinks followed. The boss felt relaxed. The subordinate felt he had wings to make him fly after having more than quadruple of what he usually took. Then his tongue also flew. With fumbling words he mentioned that he was a great resource and another company in Singapore was offering him a far better package but he wants to go home and join the home office.

‘So you have been applying for other jobs while I made myself a fool to cross all norms to get you a home shift!’ the boss gave a cold-murdering mutter.

A professionally incisive mail was forwarded by the seething boss to his own boss in London. The curse of the monitor lizard showed its effects. The shifting was stalled and a severe notice was served in his name.

Not having enough clue regarding how to wriggle out of the situation, he shared his woes with a content writer friend who worked in India. The writer, true to his species, gave a pretty literary touch to the scenario and built upon the simple facts provided by his engineer friend.

The explanation, mercy petition rather, was drafted by the content writer and the imperilled software engineer sent it in a mail to the English gentleman. The mail went like this:           

‘Sir, I’m sorry I have to write under these circumstances. It may not mean much professionally but I hope I am justified in giving myself this option to write to you. I have had such a nice experience in the organization for eight years. This time covers the best of moments in my personal and professional life. For an employee, the world stands between the company and the family. I am no exception. My job and my family are both equally important to me. Even if I have to go, I want to go with honours because the organization is really nice and I on my part have always tried my best to prove my worth as its employee.

Is it a sin to have a job offer in hand even when the employee is totally satisfied with the current company and doesn’t intend to shift? I take it simply as a proof of my professional skills. Why do we read ‘a job offer in hand’ just as a design to ditch the current company? Why can’t we take it as the proof of an employee’s worth? Moreover, is it a sin to share the very same casually with one’s manager? There is a huge difference between ‘letter’ and ‘spirit’. That I had a job offer was in ‘letter’ only. A simple fact. I just shared it matter of factly. In ‘spirit’ I had no intention to shift. Had I some design in my mind to shift, I know it better than to share it with my manager. All of us are smart enough for that. I planned for an internal shift to Mumbai with our dear company only. If there is any breach of protocol, it’s only this that I talked to my manager beyond the boundary and casually told him that I have an offer here in Singapore by some other company. If I was serious about shifting to a company in Singapore why would I request shift to the Mumbai office of our own organization? I would have easily resigned here in Singapore and joined the other company. The mere fact that I simply told him about this option in Singapore before leaving for Mumbai proves that I hardly harboured any thoughts to change company.

Sir, it’s not about this or that company. What pains me is that I have to go under such negative circumstances, all born of a terrible misunderstanding. On my part, I still maintain that I want to continue working with our company at Mumbai office. The majority of my eight years with the company have been outside my home country. I am thankful to the company for giving me this great opportunity to be a part of its world class set-up here in Singapore. I would be the last person to let go of such a nice office. But sir, all of us have our own circumstances that sometimes force us to somehow leave the best option and settle for something less. In my case, it’s my family for whom I had to take this hard decision to request an internal shift to Mumbai.

I have ageing parents at my hometown. My old father manages the affairs despite his health challenges. Now it is getting difficult for him to keep the things going. My wife has been very outstanding in raising our two daughters. There are challenges for her also, especially because she is from Philippines and adjusting to a different culture and raising daughters in a traditional Indian family is a totally different story. She and my ageing parents have done their best to manage things and take care of my daughters. All along these great years here in Singapore, one thing is plain that my family is scarifying a lot for me. I managed till it could be managed and requested for a shift only when the situation became unavoidable.

Sir, I know this is not a platform for expressing emotions and sentiments. But I think we devote ourselves to our professions only because we have the roots, we have our loved ones for whose sake we work abroad. Jobs are mere means to a happy self as part of one’s family unit. Jobs are utmost important and one has to prove one’s worth to the source of one’s salt, but still jobs are not the end in themselves. We know every dollar we make comes at the cost of lots of joyful moments that we could have spent with our near and dear ones. But then that’s life. Salary, perks, professional excellence and job satisfaction are very significant factors, but equally important are my old parents, my courageous wife and charming daughters. They have a vacuum in their life. The hole left by my absence. I just tried to fill that by requesting a Mumbai shift so that I could be with them. I want to fulfil the role of a father, husband and son apart from my duties as an employee of a world class organization. In pursuance of the same I planned this Mumbai shift. 

Can you imagine the joy my old parents must have felt after hearing the news of my arrival? Can you imagine the feelings of my wife that her life partner is now on the way to help her cope with the challenges put forward by a different culture? Can you imagine the joy of my little daughters that their Papa is going to be with them? It was a festive occasion for my family. They have been looking forward to it for many years. My father had a new spring in his steps as he planned a little feast for our near and dear ones. And then suddenly this unfortunate thing happens. I don’t know what to say. I am shattered. All I can say is that this world will be better without a broken employee or ex-employee.

I want to continue working with the company but I want to stand by my family also. I know they need me. But they need me as a gainfully employed worker of a nice company. Please ignore if you find it sentimental pleading. On my part, I have shared truth, in fact more than I should have shared perhaps. But truth comes with lots of emotions also. Facts are mechanical. I have spoken out my truth, and spoken with emotions because my truth is derived from my emotions only. I leave it in your hands. If you give me this opportunity it really helps me, my parents, wife and daughters. If you aren’t somehow in a position to help me, then no grudges sir. I will keep pursuing my path balancing my personal and professional life.   

Looking forward to positive outcomes after this negative interruption!’

And the positive outcomes followed. The gentleman from London sent back the following mail:

‘How marvellously you write! I love the way you express your emotions. I really like the way you share your feelings. Now it dawns upon me that most of the time we miss the real talent in people. You seem to be a writer basically trapped in the ill-fitting shoes of a software developer. That’s a sin on our part to keep you deprived of your real talent. With the feelings you write, I firmly believe that content writing would give you far more job satisfaction. Your restlessness will go away. You will have better job satisfaction. So we hereby offer you the position of content writer in the company. You will be helping us on our blogs, news posts and other website content. Hope it brings a smile to you!’

Well, it brought tears. Usually, well-seasoned and experienced content writers get just a fourth of the annual package that a below average software developer gets in the initial phase of his career.

He finished the remaining liqueur in his stock, picked up the baseball bat and went out to find out the monitor lizard in the public park nearby. To beat the curse, to be precise.   

The Big History of a Little Garbage Piece

 

There is an invisible world lost in the glitz and glamour of a city. One just sees through it. Eyes are instinctively prone to pass through it like a piece of see-through glass. It exists and doesn’t exist at the same time.

Garbage, cows, dogs, pigs and beggars man this world. These have been abandoned by the fast-paced cartwheels of the mainstream society. There are homeless beggars, filthier than a garbage dump, and lunatics lying cheaper than the worthless specks of dust around a shiny shoe.

My eyes stop at him. A small, frail man, his skin vying with his torn clothes in the degree of being dirty, sitting on his haunches against a wall. You would easily count him as one more lunatic, a poor mentally challenged invalid caught in a rapidly wasting body, biding time before the bugs of decay chuck out the remnants.

I take a few steps towards him. I have a smile on my face and try to walk as harmlessly as possible to avoid scaring him. He hasn’t possibly taken a bath since the last enforced rain bath during the rainy season. His blackened skin and unwashed black tattered clothes compete in claiming the mainstay of his non-existence.

I’m the least intimidating type; many people have assured me on this. In fact, I myself appear intimidated by the rampaging bullies running around to conquer the world all the time. But he may have his own reasons to get scared of all and sundry in the world.

He stands against the wall as I approach him. His instinctive gesture is folding hands as if asking forgiveness for being so dirty to the limits of appearing a pollutant even among the rubbish scattered around. He just cannot expect someone from the other world to approach him with harmless intentions. He is scared as if I’m coming to hit him. As I come near, he takes steps to escape from the scene, looking behind to ensure that I don’t hit him from behind.

‘Please, please don’t run. I just want to talk to you,’ I add extra sugar in the softest tone I can manage.

He stops at a safe distance. He is holding his hands in that posture of submission. His beard has grown wild like a pristine forest with some human intervention like they do in clearing woods in patches here and there. A few locks have been cut from the side leaving others hanging like the aerial roots of a banyan tree. It looks a terribly bad amateur effort at trimming beard.

‘I just want to know your name,’ I almost entreat.

‘Manish,’ he speaks with a clarity that I hardly expect him to possess.

‘Full name please,’ I probe a bit further.

‘Kalra, Manish Kalra,’ he says.

So it proves that he isn’t totally lost to the world. He knows his identity. His brain has the pathways leading to his awareness of his worldly self.

‘Where are you from,’ I am emboldened now and take recourse to my normal tone after a huge effort at sugar-coating each word.

‘Old DC road. Our house there. We three brothers. They pushed me out. Took my share,’ he divulges the story.

A lot many whom we assume to possess no history at all have in fact a big one.

The mentioned place is just nearby across the congested shopping quarters. He points to his legs.

‘Truck accident,’ he says.

I now realise the poor destitute’s fate is far more bitter than it appears on the surface.

‘I am not a beggar,’ he says. ‘Sometimes when my brother sees me in the crowd he gives me 50 rupees and I eat.’

‘Parents died, brothers not like me,’ he tells.

So he remembers his story. I offer him 20 rupees as if to pay him for this interview. He politely waves his hand to say a firm no.

‘It’s for food,’ I try to make him feel not like a beggar.

Again he says a firmer no. From what I can make out, he may be eating leftovers from the dumps outside the eating points instead of outright begging.

There are stories lost within the bigger stories.

I’m not left with anything to say. His little story is both a question and an answer in itself. With a defeated look I retrace my steps. As I move away and look back, I find him reclaiming his place.