A Rainy September Day

 

The night was surely tired as the pre-dawn hour slowly approached. So were the crickets after a licentious night-long song and revelry. Their throats had given up and they had fallen silent. A couple of katydids, however, still carried on with their periodic bleep-bleep, breep-breep sound with so much regularity that it could be easily taken as the bleary beeps of medical instruments by a patient’s bed in an ICU. ‘Probably a new love-couple that isn’t still tired of each other’s song,’ I thought.

Then the night decided to extend its stay as dark clouds marched in, bounteously aided by the streams of swift winds. ‘We will help you in hijacking the day,’ they said with rumbling, lightning mischief. The day’s march was stopped at a sultry, wet, gloomy dawn. The sun seemed on a holiday on this Saturday.

The sky surely had rainy diarrhoea on this day, September 11 to be precise. It started raining at five in the morning and the day would remain stopped at its early morning grey till noon. The katydids lost their song, preferring to save their lives for the day and make love some other day, if they survived. A few rockchats, who like to gossip heartily while others are asleep in the pre-dawn darkness on normal days in the neem tree nearby, kept their tongues well in check and huddled among the branches.

We are no longer used to heavy rains. Monsoon has lost its sheen over the years in the north Indian plains. But climate has ruffled feathers, thanks to global warming, and we can expect drought or flood with equal probability anywhere in the world. So dear readers, it started raining cats and dogs. The clouds rumbled, lightning flashed and the wind blew. A kind of cyclonic, stormy rain it was.

It hummed and drummed among the tree canopies and gave muffled drumming sounds like a massive umbrella was under the watery onslaught. After half an hour, there was a brief pause that lasted for a couple of minutes. A tailorbird let out its accusative tittering, probably angry at the skies for spoiling its breakfasting hip-hops among the bushes. The clouds punched back with an angry growl and a full throttle cloud burst followed. Definitely the tiny bird must have peed out of fear.

It rained on and on till noontime. I even got worried about a watery deluge. It was just one watery fountain. The kittens ran in, scared to their wits, their tails and hair up. They must have thought someone was trying to kill them with watery hits from above. A cat simply hates getting wet. It has to give its tongue a lot of effort to make itself presentable again. The kittens ran in so speedily and went into hiding among the things put in the veranda that they would have beaten even a snake in its slithery sneaking into a hole. I hardly had any clue where they went.

You have to bow down to rain. It carries its unique majesty with easy pride. Our admance might turn it prejudiced and then we are up for it. The trees stand in mute servitude as long as it’s raining. A peacock did the same. It sat on the terrace wall and hid itself among the overhanging branches to avoid direct hits by the rainy catapults. It looked funny because it was shedding its plume. Only two long feathers were left apart from some shorter ones. There it sat for a sunny day and full plume when it would again be able to woo the ladies with the fantastic display of colours of its jingling tail-fan. And the rain went on drumming.

We are no longer used to big-time rains. Looking at the stormy roof drainpipes we become worried of some mishap. The houses leak, the snakes creep out of their flooded holes. Earthworms give the best of their sprints and move towards higher ground apprehending the mythical flood. I nearly killed one with my slipper, mistaking it for a baby snake because it was almost sprinting in panic. I had to give many a careful look to confirm its status because it had some serious urgency and purpose in movement. The mice and rats also jump from the sinking ship of their bushes and sneak in like the kittens do. The errant and foolishly gallant monkeys also get thoroughly bashed up by the rains. They look so funny when they sit all soaked up and have to settle for good behaviour and consideration for others.

Hundreds of baby frogs romp around the yard in gay abundance. They come hopping into the veranda like jubilant children after the school. There they hop around to go still farther from the rain, that’s into the rooms. A lot many manage to occupy the rooms in fact. They are almost domesticated frogs. You cannot afford to have an unkempt courtyard and its charm to yourself only. You have to share it with many of the gardening and wilderness ilk. I have to be careful not to step over baby frogs.

I remember this frog feller who had made a comfortable home in the kitchen. That was before the rains started, when there weren’t many frogs. It stayed indoors, hiding behind baskets. It would hop out and have a tea-time snack of flies while I had tea. It really considered the kitchen of its own. One day it was on an outing and found the door closed. It knew what it was up for. I found it hanging by the wire mesh of the door frame, peeping in with a surly look. I had to allow it in. After that it behaved well and got back well before the closing time. A nice frog it was. Then the rains arrived and it too came of age. A young frog has to woo its lady. It went out in all excitement and never returned. Probably a lot many of these baby frogs are fathered by him only. His children occupy the house now. 

A stray dog howled in the street. Probably its patience was wearing thin very rapidly. So it howled its imprecations. The rain meanwhile looked set to improve its all time statistics for the month of September in the region.

Around noontime, the sky thought we earthlings had enough of bathing, so it relented. The show of life that had been overtaken by the rain slowly crept out to take a look at the wet slippery stage. One kitten came out and I saw it going towards the flowerbed to relieve itself. It gladdened me that it behaved well and held the urge till the rain stopped and didn’t mess up the place it was hiding in. A monkey staggered out of the neem branches and sat on the balcony fence of a neighbouring house. It raised my spirits to see the foe so thoroughly soaked and well beaten. It will take an entire day for it to reclaim its foolish spirits, I reckoned. The birds arrived with their usual song, delayed though today. The peacock too shook its royal blue coat to expel the extra load. It looked surly and walked around the yard. The kittens looked at it with suspicion and fear from a distance. The peacock shed even the couple of last long plumes in its feathery gear to look less funny now because now it had a few shorter ones only. A peacock feather is a treasure. I ran to collect them and put them in my room for faith and aesthetics.

The peacock must have felt bored because it invented a play to divert its attention. It went in front of the black glossy rain-washed tiles—shiny enough to give a reflection of the onlooker—by the side of the inner gate and used it as a mirror. The Romeo started kissing at the strange she-peacock in the reflection. It must have been giving it a lot of pleasure, for it gave continuous rapping pecks at the lovely lady who reciprocated in equal measure. The requited dose of love and kisses uplifted the peacock’s spirits and it gave an effort and lifted itself to the garden fence, before launching itself onto a larger tree outside the boundary. A peacock is too big for its wings. It’s primarily for colours, not flying. 

In the afternoon, I went out into the garden to check out the rain-mauled plants and flowers. The plants were thoroughly beaten but already there were signs of resilience. The branches were getting their business back on track. They have no business to complain against the rain. They exist only because there is rain. A potted geranium is sloshed with water. Its vase is still full of water. I get down to help the plant and a serious attempt is made at my life. The fighter scouts of the stinging hornets tried their weaponry at my head. Thank god I had overgrown my hair to make it look like the unkempt yard. Had I been ganja they would have gathered their prey very easily. There was severe, angry buzzing. I now found that my head was almost touching their new-fangled nest even though I was stooping to tend the plant. The rains had brought down the branch bearing the nest. It needed to be removed. Either they fly or I stop walking in the yard because that was right in the middle of the way. I am selfish enough to retain my unrestricted rights to roam around my courtyard. Here I declare war on the stinging hornets. I drape myself in a big chador like a Muslim lady in a hijab and wear my bike helmet on top of it. Then I pick up a long bamboo and walk out like a brave Knight to the battle field. The battle is quickly over and I win handsomely. The branch is broken in one clean strike. The enemy citadel falls. They are also reasonably angry and attack my helmet. I chuckle like a wicked witch from behind the helmet screen. They get their teeth broken also in the attempt.

As I came in triumphantly, the kittens but found me as an apparition. There they went hurtling over the garden fence, one of them even falling and rolling for a good few yards in panic. Only at night they could dare to peep over the fence because the memory and aroma of the cow milk beats all fears. But even while drinking the milk they took pauses and straightened their ears to look around for the ghost that had entered the house.

The Journey with fewer Extras

 

In my forties now, I realize that it’s not that important to go all the way. It just burns you out. It overheats you and you go panting like a sick mule on a treacherous slope. All that matters is that we take steps. There never was a final destination, nor will ever be. We just hold the baton for some time. Journey well dear readers!

The main cause of discontentment and unhappiness is that we are too hard on ourselves most of the time. We have almost ‘something’ of everything in us, but we are always looking to change that into ‘everything’ of everything. I should have that car, I should have that man or woman, I should have that designation, I should possess that much in my bank account, I should become a bigger star, my children should be world beaters, and scores of all and sundry matters that define our life keep us away from enjoying what we already possess. The proclivity of forever looking too far into the future gives many stumbles in the present and rewards us with many welts and bruises.

If you can’t have happiness and joy with what you already possess, believe me running after the mirage is a futile exercise. I am not saying one shouldn’t be competitive. Just compete with a belief and gratitude that you already have many things, that life won’t be a mess and tragedy if you don’t reach the intended target. Run after your goals but always remember that you already possess many things that allow you to even think of going further. Stay in gratitude.

Why be tortured to be a perfectionist when you have your friendly sweet-sour amateur self goading you on the path of life? A joyful amateurish clown may turn out to be perfectionist one day. It’s very much within the grasp of normal laws, nothing miraculous about it. Be a happy joy-rider, not a grumpy one. The latter only creates nuisances on the pathway for others as well.

Why think in terms of the best cook masters in luxurious homes and super-luxurious hotels and thus never give it a try yourself? Bake your bread. It may come near the funniest map of the weirdest country or region in the world. Does the tongue discriminate among shapes as it turns the best and the worst in the same saliva-saturated mass? Make it eatable to a degree first. Set your own parameters of improvement. Eat your funny bread with gratitude. Give half of it to the dirty stray puppy, mauled by the bigger bullies in the street, lying coiled up near your gate. I do the same. It makes up for the lack of taste born of my amateurish effort. Boil your soup, make your sandwich, fry your eggs, and prepare your vegetables as per the capacity of your hands and cooking aesthetics. Hold this slim chance in your hand. One day you will cook to the satisfaction of many people around you if not the entire continents. Isn’t that success?

Eat your food in moderation. Don’t hold your money too tight; let it be a nicely floating part of the bigger economic river. Don’t go crazy about your designation and authority. Don’t overeat any of these. It gives indigestion of both stomach and mind. I tried gulping down an entire litre of pure cow milk in a few sittings in a day and got to know that I need just half of it. An extra visit to the loo mutteringly reminding me the difference between ‘need’ and ‘greed’. So the kittens that have occupied the unkempt yard are the beneficiaries of this realization. Their mother doesn’t visit them anymore. Grown up as they are. They are learning the art of life in the courtyard before jumping onto the larger stage of life. Till then I can play a bit of part-time role in getting them still bigger. Looking at them cutely gulping down the milk, their moustaches having milky dews, the milk in my stomach gets an extra digestive juice to give me more benefit.

I am learning the art of giving away the extras of life. It stops the stomach from bloating up as well as keeps my pride and vanity within tolerable limits. If we disburden ourselves of the unnecessary extras, believe me we will have a far more joyful journey than we expect and will go several extra miles.

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.