An incident on a Monday afternoon

Yellappagowda Nagabushna was a reticent man who had recently retired from a government bank. Since he was known to be extremely courteous and meticulous in his dealings he was placed at the overseas clients and account section of the branch of the bank that was located at the posh part of the city. He rose the rank and eventually retired as the department head, respected and liked by his colleague he was considered role model for employees. He took pride in his achievements. He had also attained some dexterity in counting currency notes, he always found excuse with the counting machine and prefer to do it manually. He licked his finger lightly and separate 50s from 100s, taking care to position Gandhi face up and towards his wrist any change in this pattern disturbed him, only after arranging and rearranging the currencies in the above said manner he would count. He then dropped it to the table, tapped them even and arranged into neat packs, cleaning the space with his palm carefully before placing them. He liked the notes to be new, the soiled ones were relegated to the bottom of the pile. It was while he was carefully arranging 5s over 10s that were handed to him by the shopkeeper that it happened. A man in black coat sneezed. One might ask what is so special about someone sneezing?. It so happened that it sprayed on Yellappa. He froze in what he was doing and slowly with deliberate exertion turned to face the violator. The man in black coat seemed ignorant of the agitation he had created and took out his crumpled much used kerchief from his wide pocket and swiped his face and laughed to someone he was chatting. A wave of fury rose through Yellappa he grit his teeth and shouted “hey you should apologize”. It wasn’t loud enough and the noise of people in the shop and passing vehicle drowned it further. Yellappa confronted the man with sternest stare he could muster. The man caught it with an expression of momentary puzzlement before he resumed his conversation with the other fellow. They had started to walk and waited to cross the road.

Yellappa stood there transfixed not sure what exactly he should be doing next. He cautiously took out the neatly folded handkerchief out of his left pocket and discreetly polished his temple gradually working it downward reaching the folds of his neck. He decided that the misbehavior shouldn’t be allowed to go unchallenged. So he resolved to accost the man. Meanwhile the man in black coat had crossed the road and was walking at brisk pace all the while conversing with his companion. Yellappa found it difficult to cross the road, a minivan screeched and stopped, a bearded man craned his head out “you find only this vehicle to kill yourself old man”. Yellappa curtly accepted his mistake and apologized to the disinterested driver. He managed to cross the road vehemently shaking his raised hands to all the oncoming vehicles, most slowed down others avoided him. Finally he was on the other side of the road but couldn’t locate the insolent man. He was tired by the effort so decided to have a glass of water. As he poured water into his mouth, carefully avoiding the rim of the glass, a new determination was setting into his bearing. He decided to sit down for a while. He contemplated charging a criminal case against the man. He realized he doesn’t know the man also whether court will accept trivial cases forced him to abandon this chain of thought. He muttered to himself “There must be decency. What has the world come to? Don’t they have some manners?. Not even respecting an old man. I have to stand in the queue all the time I don’t complain. I am pushed in the crowd still don’t complain. Someone spits on me and gets away with it. What has world come to. What more this old man has to take?”. For a long time he sat there, he squinted through his thick glasses, he felt drained and decided to go home. As he reached the isolated part of the path, next to the park where children had stopped playing as it got dark, he thought he saw a man in black coat. Yellappa’s agitation returned, he breathed heavy and try to increase his pace. He approached the man and shouted with all his vigor. “You don’t know how to behave do you?. You think you can get away with it. I will teach you some lessons. You have to apologize now”. He proceeded to catch the man on the collar. The man avoided him by ducking and laughed to his friends who joined him “Another old man gone mad. There are too many of these kinds nowadays”. This incited Yellappa further he swept his hand to no direction in particular. It hit one boy on the shoulder. He mocked pain and howled aloud. As instantly the boy slapped Yellappa on his cheek, punched him on the other and snarled “Take this you old dead meat. Never want to see you around again. Get it”.

Something in Yellappa broke at that instant, he stood there eyes shut to the surrounding. His mind had gone blank, his body numb. In that state he dragged himself home. His wife questioned him about being late, where he has been and how he is causing trouble to others. He ignored her. He sat on the sofa looking just above the TV screen his grandchildren were watching. At dinner he mumbled not being hungry. He went to bed with his shoes on. He didn’t get up.

An empty sheet and a blue pen

It was another cold orphaned day you encounter in the winter of the northern part of the country, streets enveloped in fog and all movement labored. At about noon sun showed its mercy and lit the sky with warm tender rays. I decided to get out of my damp dark room and go to the nearby park where the sun was bright and air fresh. It was an isolated spot on the far end of the park where rows of bougainvilleas were planted next to solitary neem tree. A dog had occupied the place so I had to shoo it away. The weary dog grumbled in protest but my persistence made it get up, lazily survey the scene and vacillate on whether to go back to its sleep, I gave indications of firmness in my resolve to evict it so it finally ambled reluctant few meters, all the while giving me an accusing look. There it surveyed the ground, thought of settling down but instead rotated the spot for some moment. Then as if by some centrifugal force slumped on the ground and instantly went to nap.

I was carrying Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful, a book written almost three decades but still as influential. Some books have capacity to change your worldview, this book is one of them. I was immediately absorbed in the exciting ideas the chapters unfolded, writes Schumacher “…the development of production and the acquisition of wealth have become the highest goals of the modern world in relation to which all other goals, no matter how much lip service may still be paid to them, have come to take second place. The highest goal requires no justification; all secondary goals have finally to justify themselves in terms of the service their attainment renders to the attainment of the highest. This is the philosophy of materialism, and it is this philosophy which is being challenged by the events. There has never been a time, in any society in any part of the world, without its sages and teachers to challenge materialism and plead for different order of priorities”. I thought about these lines and agreed to what he had written, yes the catastrophic events right from global warming or financial crisis to opportunism in daily dealings can be traced to these. He continues “Today, however, this message reaches us not solely from sages and saints but actual course of physical events”. How true, I could not stop marvel at his insight. A chilly breeze shifted my concentration and I realized that sun had moved and I was in tree shade, so altered my position so as to get maximum sun rays, and continued reading “needless to say, wealth, education, research, and many other things are needed for civilization, but what is most needed today is a revision of the ends which these means are meant to serve”. I was immersed in the book for a long time must been an hour or two, I was shaken out of it by a meek almost whispering voice, I tried to shrug it but was insistent.

“Hello sir do you listen to me?” It was a boy in his pre-teens wearing a torn grimy khaki shirt and a black oversized short, he looked severely malnourished. Clearly he was trying to catch my attention for some time as he had placed his belonging (small cloth bundle) in a safe corner next to the tree and had come quite near me in order to get noticed. The moment I raised my face towards him he moved back almost as a reflex action. I dismissed him as a beggar and showed some exaggerated annoyance and pretended that I was busy reading and therefore he shouldn’t be disturbing me and that if he tried again my reaction would be much severe. He discerned my intentions and said with a raised voice “no sir I am not a beggar. I don’t beg”. His belligerent voice gave indication of a boy who had experienced rough side of life more than his tender age suggested but has not lost self respect, and so would resist any attempt on what he thought was a dishonor. I though was still dismissive, maybe a ploy to get attention- a new way to beg, I thought.

“No I don’t beg I don’t want your money. I earn for myself. I don’t beg”. He asserted. I gathered maybe I was not dealing with ordinary situation here and so closed my book and turned my attention to him.

"What do you want?” I asked.

“I saw you reading, you can read and write. I want you to help me. Will you help me?” the boy said.

“What is it about?” I asked getting cynical.

He took out a neatly folded paper from his pocket and a blue colored pen-that shined and looked new.
“I want you to write a letter for me”. He said pushing the paper and pen towards me.

“To whom” I inquired.

“You write” he insisted.

After a momentary disinterest I took the paper, that seemed to have been torn from a ledger book, and used my book for support. I asked him to sit down but he refused.

“Alright then” I said attempting a smile to make him comfortable.

He began “dear father you have to come and take me back. They make me work all the time. They are not nice as you told me. I have to work from morning six to night ten, my finger hurts with sewing all day, it has swollen. You have to come and take me back dear father. They beat me up if I don’t get it right. I promise to do all work at home, help you in the field and never complain. Even if you beat me I won’t cry and do all the work. I will eat less but I want to be home. Come and take me back dear father. They beat me all the time and give stale food to eat. I sleep with others in small room where there are twenty like me. They don’t let us out. They are no good. Please take me back from here. They are no good. A big man with stick beat us on the legs if we don’t do the work fast, my legs still hurt father. We sit all day and sew and sew, it hurts all the time. I am tired take me home father. I am tired, I promise to be nice. Take me home father”. He started to sob, I tried to reach him but he shrugged away. He seemed to have lost trust on people. He wiped his tears with back of his palm, and appeared shade embarrassed as if disappointed with himself for exposing his frailty. He straightened and pretended nothing had happened.

“I am going home” he said, reaching for his bundle of cloth.

“You left the place where you work?” I asked trying to engage him.

“Yes I escaped yesterday night. I slept under that bench whole night” he explained.

“It must been very cold and dark. You not afraid?” I asked, in the meantime contemplating how to help the boy, I should call up the authority, no that wouldn’t be wise I decided, or maybe I should call NGO like the one run by Swami Agnivesh who take care of rescued child labor victims.

“I am not afraid” said the boy meekly. I felt a surge of sympathy for him. It must been terrible to sleep through the night in a strange place, in a dangerous city where children go missing all the time. Some pushed to flesh trade while others are killed for their organs. It was a treacherous place and a boy like him was an easy target.

“How will you go home?” I asked with a growing concern.

“I will go. Will you post the letter for me?” he asked.

“What’s the address?” I enquired, realizing maybe I could be able to use the information.

“Gorakgarh village. Yes Gorakgarh village to my father Prakash”. He said and added “post it now” and started to walk to pick up his cloth bundle all the while looking around furtively.

“Where are you going?” I asked anxiously.

“Home. They will catch me and lock me up again. They will beat me. I have to go home to my mother”. He said impatient with himself.

“I can take you there”. I said to gain his confidence, an urge for vigilance on his behalf afflicted me.

“No you cannot. I will go on my own”. He was getting suspicious.

“Atleast I can come with you to the railway station. You know where it is?. You know which train will take you to Gorakgarh?” I asked.

“I will find it. Don’t need help” he said, his fragile confidence seems to have come from dependence on self in cruelties he faced, his assurance was self justifying, an act of primal assertion of his being.

My attempts on gaining trust was being repelled, I thought to reason with him and was contemplating what line to take when suddenly, like an animal sensing an immediate danger, he ran. Momentarily taken aback and puzzled I was immobilized, decided to follow him. He adeptly jumped the railings and darted into the busy street, in minutes he was on the other side. Before vanishing into the crowd he turned back for a moment. I saw a glimpse of amazing tenderness in the boy’s face that hastily transformed into fright, soon he dissolved into other faces.

My eyes fell on the empty sheet of paper and the blue pen. The sheet fluttered in the air for a while as if trying to extricate itself, a gush of wind blew it away into the vacant sky.

The Sin of Savithri

He had the urgent need to be the master. So took out his belt and beat her up. It was another day but today wasn’t the same, the sun was usual but she decided to leave. She stacked money in her vanity bag and sneaked out when he was in the toilet, the day was still bright. She took an auto to the railway station and not giving a second thought climbed the train. Inside it was hot and humid, she used end of her saree to fan herself and waited for the train to move.

“Where are you going?” The lady in the family who was observing her asked. She was trying to be helpful probably she sensed her edginess. Savithri hadn’t decided and hence a moment of vacillation. The woman repeated her query this time rather stern, savithri seethed in irritation though it wasn’t apparent in her demeanor. She concocted a name she fancied. Next to the woman sat two obese children who busied on the window making fun of vendors, the man read some document he wasn’t bothered by his children.

“It is getting warm these days. Are you working somewhere?” the woman continued “you aren’t carrying any luggage must be an emergency visit”. The man raised his eyes from his reading and ran it over her.

“Nothing emergency. Just that I like traveling…and like traveling alone with no luggage. It is much fun that way” she emphasized the word fun and said it little louder that the man crossed his legs few times. There wasn’t much interaction after that the woman studiously avoided her and kept her attention outside the window. A cool breeze had started to play on the canopies of the trees, it wriggles into the branches and swept the trees. Sun had set and the night readied for another unaccustomed summer rain. She felt a freedom she hadn’t experienced before, it was liberating. She was exhilarated. This time she initiated the interaction, she cleared her throat loudly and asked the man who was pretending to be reading “Excuse me. Where are you going?” she played with the word ‘you’, the man after a momentary astonishment (probably he hadn’t expected it from her or that he wasn’t used to these situations) and discomfort asserted himself by loudly proclaiming that he was going to Sirsapur. In the meantime the woman had started to glare at her.

“You mean Sirsapur near Shakarabad?” Savithri continued, she liked the belligerence in her tone.

“No the other one next to Sherbagh” he had purposely disagreed. She liked the way the conversation was working on the man. She hadn’t spoken to a stranger for many years except maybe the milkman or the odd salesman. Strangeness of the world that was hidden, silhouettes that melted in each other into an overwhelming forbidding darkness. But still she could see their nakedness and it had a peculiar empowering affect on her, she was being satiated. She could easily spot them from their hiding. It gave her the control as to how much to dress them and in what way. It is the control that she had lost for herself. Their every clumsy attempt on decency and façades of propriety made them more obvious, it was pitiable. It was the familiar world that had failed her, the hypocrisies of intimacy was bewildering. She walked around awkwardly stumbling almost every step. She had started to feel a strange relation with her body and lately it was entering her soul.

She studied the man as she probably has never done before. He in turn squirmed in her unabashed attention, he was diminishing and she could see that. A smile creased her face. She felt triumphant. She decided to get down at the next stop. She gave a quick brush to her hair and walked into the darkness.

Gandhi was not killed

The air was heavy with pre-monsoon humidity, daily power cut had made matter worse. I decided to go for a stroll and found my way to the beach. There were some dark clouds but it didn’t threaten to rain atleast not for now maybe late in the evening. I found shade under the coconut groove just ahead where huge rocks protruded the sand as if reminding some abandoned ancient settlement- the kind you see in grainy pictures of school texts, beyond it the rocks gave way to fine white sand and restless ocean. From where I sat I had a clear view of balcony of a luxury hotel, where an old man sat on an easy chair, he was so thin that you could easily miss him if you don’t look carefully, a scrawny man with huge eyes that seem about to fall of from the socket. What made me give him my attention was the way he gawked the sea, he had astonishment frozen in his expression. Probably it was his maiden visit to the sea, I conjectured, few months back I saw group of Rajasthanis scrambling out of their tourist vehicle in varying level of bewilderment and disbelief.

Much later the man was still situated on the balcony, his forehead shone in the reflection of noon sun. Clutch of snow white hair on his pate was held captive to ocean breeze-they enacted its wishes, his clothes fluttered at the sudden gush of air, he looked surreal, maybe he was lost in some disturbing thoughts that he has lost track of time or he was too feeble to move. As I was thinking these his face turned slowly without him moving his body as if it were rotating on a hinge. It locked on to me, his piercing eyes couldn’t be ignored, very soon I felt awkward and cramped so thought of moving from his sight. Just at that very instance he raised his hands and waved. I looked around to make sure whether it was me he was trying to catch his attention. There wasn’t anyone around, I pointed finger towards me as if to ask “is it me you are calling?”, he nodded vehemently and indicated to come over. I vacillated. Why should I go? I don’t even know him. What if he had malevolent intentions? But then I argued, an elderly man may not pose much physical threat it is quite likely that he wanted some information or help regarding the place. What finally clinched my decision in favor was the prospect of visiting the interior of luxury hotel and maybe an offer of drinks (I will ask for beer, I decided), respite from heat. He waved again, and so I walked towards the main entrance of the hotel making sure not to hurry.

Soon I was in his presence. He lay on a comfortable large bed and appeared much older and pale. The room had many mirrors so that I could see him many times in different angles, I found it intimidating as well as oppressive, instantly I rued the decision of coming. He indicated with his eyes-that was much bigger and covered most of his face, to sit down on a chair that was placed to face him. It is as though everything was arranged and I was getting a sense of being trapped, a feeling that didn’t augur pleasant. He coughed and cleared his throat.
“I will be dying very soon” he said, despite discomfort his voice was strong and purposeful.
“Oh” I panicked “should I call an ambulance? You need some medicine?” I tried to get up to accentuate my concern.
“Soon is not now” he attempted a smile that vanished at the very instant “I want to tell you something that I haven’t told anyone, something that I have kept as a secret for last sixty years”. He seemed to be in a hurry to get to his concern. “I don’t have much time”.
“Why me?” I enquired. He nodded “I will tell you”. He spoke in a steady measured tone that hid the fact that he was in some physical pain.
“Because I don’t know you. You are a stranger. It is a promise that I shouldn’t be telling anyone, I have to keep it a secret. Telling you will lighten me, it has been burdening me for last many years. Since I don’t know you it’s like telling no one. I have spoken to myself many times but I still feel heavy with emotion. You will have to listen to me. Anyway nobody will believe you if you tell anyone, this secret will die with me”
“Really” I was getting interested and tried to make myself comfortable. The room was brightly lit and had every indication of luxury and opulence.
“Mahatma Gandhi did not die” his voice was heavy and betrayed an emotion that he seemed to hold back with great effort. His lips quivered, his eyes glistened and his face glowed as if he was in some revelation. “Mahatma Gandhi did not die” he repeated and immediately gasped for breath.
So there, I thought, the man is insane. I took pity on him and tried to appear sympathetic and mentally planned my exit from the place.
“Yes our comrades also believe that Subhash Chandra Bose is alive, hale and hearty sipping Russian tea. Some people even think that he lives as a mendicant in Himalayas. Investigations on these matters are still going on” I tried humor.
He gave a stern look, vein on his temple throbbing, his eyes almost maniacal, but when spoke he was very calm and controlled
“Don’t try that. This is not funny” he warned and continued “I am an old man, a very old man. Why would I be lying? I will die soon. Believe the man who is dying. Trust me. I have nothing to gain. Why would I lie I don’t even know you? What I am saying is true. Mahatma never died. This is what happened, the world doesn’t know about it doesn’t mean it is not true. If history has been written doesn’t make it true. I was witness to what happened on January 30. There is a history that is not written and only I know about it. I want someone to know about it before I die before it is too late” he steadied his voice that had started to bray. His finger shook he clutched them into a tightened fist.
These words had immediate impact on me and I sobered and was attentive to what he had to say, a sense of compassion had overcome me though I still harbored the thought that he was senile.
He cleared his phlegm filled throat and said
“I was one of the assistant of Mahatma Gandhi. I was a volunteer in the ashram from 1928. I was influenced by his thoughts and left home and became his follower. Like millions I believed in each word he said. I wrote them all in my notebook. I followed him on dandi march and spread his message to each village we visited on the village, to everyone around. You can see me in the film taken during dandi march, I am few feet behind mahatma with bag across my shoulder. You can look for me next time you watch it”. He stopped for a moment and asked me to open the cupboard next to where I sat, and take out a box. I was instructed to open the box. It had bundles of photographs carefully stacked-all black and white.
“You go through them and maybe you will understand me better” he said while he relaxed, continuous talking seemed to have tired him.
Almost all pictures were that of Gandhi taken on different occasions with different people over a period of what looked like about two decades (I am guessing this on account of association of different events and people in Gandhi’s life that is public memory, like many photos were taken around dandi march while some just about after independence) but one face popped up in each frame with constancy. It was a young man with bright eyes, wavy hair and pencil thin moustache.
He nodded “Nobody will believe that it’s me. Well you can say that I have seen what all life has to offer”. His face was half submerged in pillows, his thick eyebrows couldn’t hide the bulging eyes that looked grotesque. His lips were permanently sucked inside his mouth, his skin hung from his body as if it were melting. He struggled with his speech while I was engrossed in the content of the box. They were all there Nehru in deep thought, Patel with grim face, Sarojini Naidu managing a tired smile, Maulana Azad about to twirl his moustache, Mountbatten aloof and alone with a fake laugh…Most of these luminaries we have seen so many times in same photos on different occasion that it is etched in our collective memory, these photos shook them up a bit as if they came out alive for a moment changed their position and froze.
“For a follower of Gandhi you have adapted well to materialism!” the sarcasm was evident in my tone.
He was ready with his answer and said almost instantly “that is because I am a Gandhian, I am guilty of being a Gandhian” he was apologetic and anguished “It is the easiest and comfortable way to usurp Mahatma’s thought for personal gain, I plead guilty. We have made lot of money and influence in the name of Gandhi. We sold Gandhi”
“Yes recently even the grandson of Gandhi was found peddling a luxury pen in Gandhi’s name. Quite an audacious scoundrel, it is only getting crass and crude” I couldn’t help express my disgust.
“Gandhi has to be experienced, it is a way of life that seeks truth, learns and understands” as he was saying these my attention was back to the content of the box.
The box also contained postcard that were used for correspondence. It was unmistakable Gandhi’s handwriting- the familiar haphazard hurried way he wrote like doctor’s prescription, they were precise and to the point, some sentences curved at the end as if he wanted to save the space. Some had Sevagram Wardha scribbled on top right with dates. One postcard read “We can learn many things even from the spinning process. Real education is the development of character spinning is applied translations of Gita” another one chastised “Handwriting good but spinning not enough” while another was written with certain care “Internal cleanliness is the main thing to achieve. Love Bapu”. There was one that intriguingly read “You have written in a beautiful hand. I am surprised to hear from you that you don’t feel benefited by tub baths. I do not have any such case with me”. There were many more like “Keep a regular diary and jot down in it your ideas. Hiding one’s idea is also a theft”, “when the struggle is about to be launched I would like you to be present here: I shall call you at the earliest” and so on.

By now the man had gained my tremendous admiration. Here I was talking to someone who was a disciple and close confidant of Mahatma Gandhi himself, it was exhilarating. Suddenly I felt like having a closer look at him. He coughed, saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, I cringed. He looked at me and smiled, his features were tender and soft “body deteriorates when you get old, it is the law of nature. Old gives way for young” he said and relapsed in his thoughts, I regretted my initial detest towards him. He coughed again took a deep breath and continued with his main deliberation
“Mahatma did not die he survived the bullets. I was there behind him at Birla house on that god forsaken day. You know he was never late but that day was different. He was unusually sad, all the killings and riots had affected him seriously. He would go silent for days and meditate. That day too he was silent for a long hours, and when he it was time for evening prayer I observed a faint smile on his face, he decided to walk barefoot in the grass instead of usual path to prayer ground. It seemed he knew he will be harmed but could not believe it. He never could understand violence. Reasons for violence were alien to him. I was behind him all the time, people folded their hands and crowded as he walked, they wanted to see him touch his feet. And then bullets were fired by someone- didn’t see him, my concern was mahatma. And I can say with no doubt in my mind that he said ‘ram hey ram’. I was one of those who held him, and I felt warm blood, we took him inside. People were all crying and nobody could believe that he was dead”. Here he took a long pause. His eyes were moist, he turned his face towards the open window. The ocean was flaming in the last flares of dipping sun, it seem about to explode.
“Are you all right” I asked his long pause had got me concerned. He murmured something and continued with some effort
“Mahatma did not die. People think he died but he did not. That night I was the one who was guarding his body. Late into the night when everyone was either half asleep or lost in mourning in the next room he got up”
“You mean Gandhi got up from dead?” I tried to confirm what I heard.
He sounded irritated “you are not listening. He never died. Late into the night I heard a voice ‘kalayanamoorthy you think I am dead?’ it was the Mahatma he had got up and pressed his fingers against his chest and said ‘I feel a terrible pain here’ and sat down against the wall ‘mahatma are you feeling fine?’ I asked. ‘Yes I am fine. I will not die yet. I am to live till the age of 125’ and asked for a glass of water. He drank it and walked away into the dark. He has visited me many times after that but told me to keep the visits and his whereabouts secret”
“But we know that his body was taken to rajghat in a long public procession watched by millions, I too have seen the video his body in funeral pyre and ashes taken around the country to be dispersed in sacred rivers” I confronted him with these facts.
“That was not him. He had walked away, he is alive. He has visited me many occasions through these years. He said he stays in the hills”
“Why would he stay in the hill?” I couldn’t help asking
“Because he wanted to get away from power from politics. India was now independent and he felt he had no use of himself in Delhi. He wanted to travel around the country and be with people. The government should start from the village he said ‘my work will be finished if I succeed in carrying conviction to the human family, that every man or woman, however weak in body, is the guardian of his or her self-respect and liberty. This defense avails, though the whole world may be against the individual resister’”
“You said he visits you?” I asked
“Yes every now and then just about midnight he appears from the dark ‘moorthy have you slept?’ ‘No mahatma I was waiting for you’ I say and feed him some fresh fruits. He always ate less”
“What do you talk?’ I was getting inquisitive.
“He spoke less and sat in the dark with eyes closed, deep in meditation, in contemplation. Sometimes he spoke few lines. A thought arising out of contemplation must be told, it reflects truth, truth must be told. It makes understanding easy. It makes world a better place” he halted to sneeze and wipe his face “mahatma told me once ‘there are not many fundamental truths, but there is only one fundamental truth which is Truth itself, otherwise known as Non-violence. Finite human being shall never know in its fullness Truth and love which is in itself infinite. But we do know enough for our guidance. We shall err, and sometimes grievously, in our application. But man is a self-governing being, and self-government necessarily includes the power as much to commit errors as to set them right as often as they are made’. He is aghast at growing religious intolerance around the world in recent times. He cannot understand why people would fight in the name of religion, he said ‘After long study and experience, I have come to the conclusion that all religions are true, all religions have some errors in them, all religions are almost as dear to me as my own Hinduism, in as much as all human beings should be as dear to me as one's own close relatives. My own veneration for other faiths is the same as that for my own faith. I exercise my judgement about every scripture, including the Gita. I cannot let a scriptural text supersede my reason’. He also considered lack of religion and materialism threat to humanity ‘there are some who in the egotism of their reason declare that they have nothing to do with religion. But it is like a man saying that he breathes but that he has no nose ... even a man who disowns religion cannot and does not live without religion". He also said ‘I reject any religious doctrine that does not appeal to reason and is in conflict with morality…man for instance, cannot be untruthful, cruel and incontinent and claim to have God on his side’”.
“You know Gandhi never died he is dying. Every time I see him he has diminished and has become very fragile. I cannot help wondering where the world is moving. Gandhi is dying everyday around us. You will tell everyone this will you not?. Will you not do that?” he wasn’t pleading, I didn’t know how to react so gave a feeble affirmation.
He sighed and turned his face. I was asked to leave. It had become dark and started to drizzle. My immediate concern was to avoid getting drenched. The traffic had become chaotic with power cut making the traffic signals dysfunctional. There were some skirmishes as drivers try to squeeze into the available space, invectives were exchanged. Solitary neem tree shook in gush of sudden wind, it made a noise that sounded as though it had let out a wail and hundreds of tears dropped down at one instance.

Next day they found the old man dead in his bed. He died in his sleep due to old age related causes, nothing unnatural in the death was reported. But what troubled me was the sentence which mentioned that he was found more than a day after he was dead.

Shuklam, the rebel

The year is 2147. It has happened. The country is now officially run by the Market, after a century of pretenses and denials the truth has been accepted by all and everyone. Gratitude is also due for a group that called itself “Common Truth to Common Man” for their incessant fight for a decade or so to bring the change. And so keeping in sync with the desire of the common people Parliamentarians in a rare camaraderie passed a resolution with overwhelming majority and standing ovation that filled the ancient building in thunderous rapture -some members were even seen hugging each other and hiding their faces in each other’s arms incapable to control their emotions in this momentous occasion. The resolution sought to change the name of the country with Market and people to Customers, something that has been accepted and applied for all practical purpose for over a century now is made official and enshrined in the constitution. Henceforth “We the people of the country...” will read “We the customers of the Market...” all other relevant changes on these matters were made by an executive order. Further keeping in with the desires of the Market, rationality was made illegal. It will affect the sensex was the argument, accepted without any question. The Ordinance pertaining to this already existed for years that too was passed by the members without any necessity for discussion. It is as if everyone has finally realised the futility of talking. In keeping with the mood of the occasion a school girl was asked to sing in the changes to the members. The girl sang and she sang with her heart out, such melodious voice that was rarely heard. The members later were found commenting on the texture and pitch of the tone as also about the confidence in her voice.

The values of freedom and liberty were being celebrated every weekend with get together and general hugging at retail shop discount fests. People were well fed, their wishes catered to and desires pandered. Still they always had a longing for something more, something that seem missing and only the new product that is yet to come in the market seem to have the capacity to fulfill this. That longing for no reason seems growing despite all effort. Technicians worked overtime to produce new products that would titillate senses for few weeks and left people asking for more. Competitive spirit was encouraged. There were impromptu dancing in meetings and values of working in team asserted through clumped formations. On the street people had forgotten to walk, they danced from place to place in magnetizing ecstasy, they sang, they sang about brands and installment payment on latest gadgets. Though air had become thick with dangerous gases, and many fell dead on the street every now and then (bodies collected and disposed off as immediately), people were generally happy “we have what our forefathers couldn’t even imagine to have” said one man on the street “we have our personal helicopters”. Years of watching market media and bombardment from every conceivable space on what to buy had turned people into happy accepting robots. They replicated what they saw, what their grandparents saw, what their children talked about all the time. Splurging was now a communal activity and elders relapsed into their days of splurging to give references to robust tradition that must be upheld. How product A made X happier than what product B done to Y, invariably the discussions in social gathering would veer into these subtleties.

Grading in schools was done on the ability to show various facial expressions at short notice as also the impact on other students were noted for final score. The teacher said “it is all right if the kid is not able to tell why does water evaporate or whether we breath oxygen or carbondioxide, it is all right. These are views. It is his choice not to answer. We don’t insist. At least he tried. That is what we want people who try”. She pointed to the class and told them not to worry about answers “worry about the expressions. Look at the expressions on his face”. All the students were asked to note their feelings. Each expression was meant for specific feeling and these were to be emulated. These were important steps that the school curriculum stipulated. It helped in transforming future citizens into friendly customers. At the level of higher studies care was taken to create conformers, sometimes these were packaged as ‘industrial requirement’.

The law against rationality also provided for confiscating material that asked people to question market, to apply logic in exercising one’s choice was seen as a major crime. For more than a century the method applied was to ridicule those who didn’t adhere to dictates of market various organizations were created like WB, IMF so on to carry out this work at the international level. Governments were asked to focus on GDP and Market’s well being, investor friendly society was a fundamental duty. Any other view was looked down as an attempt by loony left or bohemian utopia. A century later the fringe group is eliminated, there are no dissenters. Investor friendly society had given way to investor friendly parents and children. They have accepted market as the panacea for all ill happening, including children not doing well in school or things as mundane as a stomach ache (Doctor said “look at all the glittering and colour on the street. How could you have stomach ache watching such spectacular sights?). WB has replaced UN, and arbitrates on all issues. WB President is a regular on media asking for people to be more “tolerant and compassionate”. Advertisements are now seen as social work. Performers are not seen as performers but people genuinely interested in well being of people.

In the meantime a satellite named Free Market Enterprise circle the sky and scanned the population. It need be mentioned here before we go into operational aspects of the satellite that the decadal census has now given way to market survey. The government agreed that declining sex ratio has lesser significance than number of houses that has TV. In these market survey conducted all across the country skeptics as also those advocating rationality were noted and injected with a capsule that turned their skin pink. The capsule auto injected more of pink into the skin if the person showed aggravated signs of market skepticism. It was here that the role of satellite gains importance, it is used to spy on these pink skinned –their movements were cataloged and level of pinkness noted. Since market believed in freedom of choice (provided it is not rational) the pink skinned were given the choice to reform. Programs were shown that made actors and performers making emotional appeals, non pink skinned people that is market friendly people held hands and sang songs asking for compassion and tolerance. In extreme case as a last resort pink skinned were made to watch market sponsored discussions that left people with vacant mind and general feeling of goodness. Rarely did it fail but if it ever did then the pinks were declared as threat to society and incarcerated for life.

Since people with awesome expressions and those who could affect the customers with their emotional dexterity were the benchmark of market society, what began as a nascent attempt to bring into serious debate people who could emote and raise the emotional quotient thus make the event appealing has a century later firmly established. Performers particularly actors or anyone remotely connected with movies or entertainment acquired saintly stature, apart from traditional occupations of guiding people on what face cream to use or which cola to quench thirst they were now looked upon as people who not only understood how a proper mix of market, politics and entertainment could create a contented life but insight into nirvana. They held talk shows, wrote books, hugged people on the street and invited to recipe contests. They had sentiments on subjects ranging from nuclear bombs, inflation, easy ways to relax pelvic muscles so on and were listened to with utmost interest. Their views were held in high esteem for the reason of awesome presence. People noted their changing expressions, their embodiment minutely dissected –all in immense humour- and commented with gushing realizations. Sometimes speculations on their brand choices affected the Sensex (yes even after a century it still is as sensitive).

It is in this market society of 2147 that Shuklam attained puberty in the month of July, and immediately decided he will not fall into the emotional trap of market. He avoided TV and other multimedia gadgets that were alternatives, meant to affect decision to buy. There were gadgets in the market that could auto order a product through the sensors gauging the user’s emotional response to an advertisement. So the emotion created was not wasted in waiting for the person to go to the shop and chance to stumble upon the product. It was too risky and the delay bred vacillation, an unwanted emotion. Shuklam had saved his mind from contamination, he was ably guided by his grandfather in his childhood thus he used ear plugs while in school and college. He was a member of clandestine chain of library that had bunkers under anthills. He read through the bluff of market, he had all the views collected from pre market period of 1990s. All these were in vain since in his pre teens his questioning methods had alerted the Free Market Enterprise within a day he was injected the capsule. Though he increasingly got pink but a cream from the market that promised to lighten the pink kept him away from trouble. He was tired of living this stealthy ways and so decided to come open. He therefore displayed on the busy street corner a large scribble “man is rational”. The incident captured by Free Market Enterprise and relayed to all station, within seconds he was surrounded by men in suit. They carried no weapons (market is against physical violence) nor looked angry. They patronized him with looks of someone gone astray. In the market society of future another important land mark event was that policemen were replaced by PR men. PR1 put his hand on Shuklam’s shoulder and said

“Is it necessary son?”

Shuklam shrugged and tried to get the hand off his shoulder. PR2, PR3, PR4 chatted among themselves at a distance, they kept an eye on him.

“Rebel is a waste of time” PR1 explained patiently “the earlier you understand market the more you realise that market is human beings second nature” he took a deep breath “all that is human emotion is what market is. It caters to your desires and needs. Market is here to make your life fulfilling. Embrace it”

“What makes you think being a rebel is not an emotion? It too is basic emotion” Shuklam countered

“Sure it is but a negative emotion. You are wasting your energy...see how much positive energy could be used to spread the word of market. Spread a new brand that could make someone happy somewhere. Isn’t that what we all want? Your emotion is disruptive, it doesn’t help the team, so in effect the society. Why not use your energy for market friendly issues, least threatening cause? You have a chance to playact rebel without any harm done” PR1 reasoned

“You think people are emotion driven dimwits. Your whole foundation takes common people for suckers. Is that ethical?”

“Nothing is ethical or unethical these are creations of human mind. Market at the end of the day unleashes entrepreneurship, the competition that fuels innovations”

“Market favours few at the expense of others. It is an erosional competition of few that aims at acquiring more. Also understand money making entrepreneur is not the only entrepreneurship that defines human society. What makes me human is the culture and values. And yes money too but that is secondary to my being, it may be primary to my basic needs. You cannot run a society on market needs. You cannot put utility on everything, to decide what is useful and what is not. You cannot create market friendly robots in schools and college”

“What is your problem? Why so much anger? Learn to enjoy more. You need to relax. Close your eyes and release your bad karma” PR1 seemed to use patronising demeanour to gain control over the situation “you need to learn and experience”

“I am always relaxed so don’t worry about that. I am angry because i want to know where is my garden, where are my trees, where is my sky? Where are the seasons? What happened to the climate? Why some islands have vanished? Why people keep dying on the street? You have more than fulfilled the desire of people and even created more desires. You have created a machine to feed the craving and you call it development. Your consumption has eaten into the resources of the land and eaten into the soul”

“So what’s wrong in that? We live to consume” PR1 was showing signs of irritation

“That is the problem here. You have taken primitive needs and emotions to build this edifice. The edifice is thriving on misery. Perception of opulence through overstuffed consumer goods in mall cannot fool people for long. Now you have usurped democracy. You are the new dictators”

Deep in the sky Free Market Enterprise eavesdrop the conversation, and a signal was send to PRs from the command center that the target is found to have lesser of emotion and more of rational in his mind therefore needs to be under constant surveillance, hence be taken into correctional custody.

A minor incident

Grandmother had become adamant this time and why shouldn’t she be she has been insisting for about a year or two that she wanted to visit the temple. The temple that was famous for the miraculous power of its deity, repertoire included a man who was wheel bound for a decade, a darshan of the deity he was reported to have start showing extreme signs of ecstasy, next he was seen leaping out of his wheel chair and dancing in frenzy before collapsing and shouting in praise for the lord, an old woman who has been blind for all practical purpose, a visit to the temple she was seen guiding people even on moonless night. Another case was of a boy who never could read despite all kinds of allurements –like feeding him his favourite dish, allu poori in this case, if he read atleast a line aloud or even a word, the boy refused and kept his mouth clenched as if he held a secret, and not trifle concerned about threats –including leaving him alone in the dark room at the far end of the town that is known to be abode of mysterious old woman who it is believed broke fingers of children who don’t listen to elder. Needless to say nothing worked so here he was brought to the temple as a last resort, it is quoted by the witnesses that the moment the boy entered the sanctum sanctorum he insisted on thickest book available, which quite naturally happened to be Mahabharata, and read it aloud for one whole day to the consternation of people around. Some said he is an incarnation, others insisted this is just another of the miracles of illustrious deity. Then there were other small miracles like for instance a man who lost all his savings in stock exchange after a visit to temple went back home to find gold biscuits in his fridge and so on. The name of the deity spread to faraway places.

What annoyed grandmother the most was that they stayed about four hours from the temple town and still hadn’t visited this powerful god, and not that buses were not infrequent –there was one every half an hour. Sure they only shifted to the town from the village a year back after his son got a job. Kuttappan was always busy and with a new born in the house his wife too had less time even to feed other two children on time. It had become grandmother’s task to remind, Vijayamma replied “oh mother why don’t you feed them, can’t you see i am busy with the baby”, so finally it was grandmother’s task to round up the children. Sanal was manageable it was Sindhu who had become naughty “that rat of a girl” muttered grandmother in exasperation. What finally restrained the girl –as always- was an offer of exciting story. So grandmother had to invent something new, or as she did innovate the oldest one’s and recycle as fresh, perpetually she would mix up the ending probably she became complacent as the last few bites of food were left and she was in a hurry to finish the story and be done with it. Mostly her stories were from puranas sometimes she included modern elements to make it palatable for the children, though she avoided it recently after a particularly unsavoury incident. It so happened that she was telling one of the stories from Ramayana, Sanal insisted to know how could bow and arrow that lord Rama carried could be that powerful to kill a demon with ten heads. Grandmother explained that the power of divine and force of truth cannot be defeated by evil. Sanal wasn’t convinced “that is fine but how could he with bow and arrow!” his mind still focused on the mechanics of warfare and not on celestial. Grandmother tried to avoid but he was insistent so she said “bow and arrow have the power like guns”
“You mean like machine guns?” Sanal was ecstatic, and howled “trrrat trrrat” pointing his hand to the roof as if he was holding a machine gun. Later that night while they had dinner Sanal demanded that he wanted a gun like the one used by Rama before he could start eating
“What gun?” asked a very perplexed Kuttappan
“Like the one used by Rama” said Sanal animatedly
“Who told you this nonsense?” asked the angry father with his face clenched.
Sanal knew that he has crossed a line here, afraid he moved close to his mother.
“Sanal Kumar I am asking you who told you this” Kuttappan’s voice was steady and controlled the kind that hid smouldering rage that could explode any moment.
“Grandmother told me” Sanal’s eyes were brimming with tears
Kuttappan glared at grandmother, grandmother in turn glared at Sanal. Sanal in the meantime sneaked behind his mother.
So that was it no more modern analogy of mythology from grandmother.

Coming Monday was Janmashtmi and so a long weekend and grandmother was adamant on visiting the temple. Vijayamma too was keen, what added the credence was the auspiciousness of the days. So it was agreed that Saturday morning they will leave and return by Monday evening, apart from temple it was decided to go to the nearby hill for a picnic. Children were jubilant “We are going for a peecneec. We are going for a peecneec” shouted both of them running around their parent in circles. Mother told them to stop the ruckus and go finish the homework if they wish to come.

Saturday came as soon and the family was ready by seven. They carried a small suitcase while grandmother picked up her pair of cloth in a plastic carry bag that had advertisement of electric equipments on it. She also carried a whole coconut enveloped in newspaper that she wanted to break in the temple, it was meant to ward off evil. Children though bleary from sleep were excited, holding tightly to their parent as they waited for the bus while the baby slept suckling its thumb wrapped under mother’s sari. Sanal wore his favourite shirt that was red colored with green chevron running across the breast. Sindhu on the other hand was wearing pink colored frock that had mauve yellow flowers imprinted all across, she pressed her fingers over the flowers to straighten the shrivelled ones. They occupied the seat somewhere in the middle of the bus. While there was a minor scuffle by the children as to who will sit next to the window. It was resolved rather swiftly by grandmother occupying it as she felt nausea while travelling. So the protesting children were made to sit between mother and grandmother while Kuttappan occupied a seat behind. By the time the bus hit the main road it was already eight. It was a bright mild summer morning, cobalt blue sky spread across the horizon filled with patches of fluffy clouds that stood still. Children immediately insisted on the comics and an annoyed father had to search it out of the box. While Sanal read Superman, Sindhu’s book had collection of Jataka tales. It was a flat straight road and the bus seemed to have attained a constant speed, the engine made a soft droning sound broken by piercing noise of oncoming vehicle that faded as instantly. Occasionally when they came across new buildings grandmother said “now that really is quite a big building” shrugging Sanal to look, who made a cursory glance and said “oh i have seen bigger, stop disturbing me” and went back to his story back
“There are too many vehicles these days. Are they not?” grandmother spoke loudly apparently for mother, who was patting the baby back to sleep. The baby made a wincing face as if it was going to cry. Vijayamma told grandmother to not speak loudly, grandmother arranged her hair and asked mother to hand over the baby. She knows better than anyone else how to handle children she claimed. The baby instinctively clenched its hand as it was unceremoniously navigated across. While the baby was being passed Sindhu covered her nose with her fingers in an elaborate gesture and asked Sanal to do likewise, who refused and said he thought she was ugly. Sindhu pinched him on his thigh. Sanal gave out a yelp that shook the baby, it instantly started to yell. Grandmother went into control-the-yelling-baby mode dexterously, shaking it patting it and smothering with kisses. The baby momentarily stunned by the tactics tried to raise the pitch but was quelled by another series of urgent kisses across the body, very soon the baby seemed to have been convinced against approaching calamity and was seen smiling. In the meantime Sindhu had started to sob, mother seemed to have dealt with her misdemeanour. Grandmother pointed to passing sights to the baby “see the tree seeee” “see the man on bike seeee” the baby looked at these with not much interest, sometimes she blankly smile looking exactly opposite to what grandmother was trying to point. The sibling exchanged their books. Sanal has been thinking and he asked Sindhu “So what do you think Superman is stronger or Hanuman?”
“I think it is Hanuman” said Sindhu evincing mild interest
“Superman can do all that what Hanuman can” Sanal countered
“Hanuman carried whole of sanjeevani mountain did he not” Sindhu had now taken it as a challenge, she blamed Sanal for recent mishap that left her sobbing “can anyone jump across ocean? I don’t think anyone in the whole world can. Hanuman is definitely stronger”
Sanal was not to be cowed he quoted all the instances from different comic series as also movies that he happen to see on cable where Superman is known to have accomplished similar tasks
“But superman cannot grow in size can he” Sindhu placed her trump card “Hanuman can grow in size to be hundred feet. He can even make his tail heavier than the heaviest thing and use it to burn whole of lanka. Your Superman cannot do all that can he? He is no super” she laughed. Sanal was furious but vaguely convinced. Yes there is no instance where superman grew in size, he doesn’t even have a tail. He still had his doubts, he queried grandmother. “Who is superman?” Grandmother asked. Sanal took it as an insult and refused to speak to her again.

By noon the bus was at the bus stand of the temple town, people came out of the bus drowsy and disoriented from the travel as if tumbling down from a sack. Mostly families they reorganised to chalk out their plans. Some went straight to the temple for immediate darshan while others looked for lodges to stay overnight still others rushed to the nearest restaurant for a quick bite. Kuttappan and family stood in the shade to gather themselves, siblings were asked to hold each other’s hand as also one of them should clutch grandmother tightly, under no circumstance anyone should loosen their grip. They were to follow their parents closely. It was decided they will have light refreshments before looking for accommodation later after getting fresh towards the late afternoon visit to the temple was planned. Though grandmother had some reservation on this as she wanted to visit the lord the earliest “without much delay” she said otherwise it may be seen as discourteous by the god. Vijayamma vetoed that saying “we need to make ourself presentable before the god”, and she really wanted to wash herself and the baby -who now looked around with increasing consternation also attempting some monosyllables and occasional clapping. Sindhu insisted on masala dosa first before anything else. Since grandmother was thirsty they decided to have some lime juice from the nearest shop. Happy children held each other’s hand, Sindhu even tried skipping and simultaneously straightened the flowers on her frock that were shrivelled during the travel –her immediate concern seem to be the one on the stomach, while Sanal clutched on to grandmother who in turn held wrapped coconut on one hand. Grandmother had started to say silent prayers. About a minute later a dull explosion was heard followed by mushrooming brown smoke that rapidly rose into the sky. There were screams of people “there is a bomb explosion run run” shouted someone while people scrambled away from the scene. Sindhu’s half charred body still was clutching to Sanal who had most of his missing –it was just a lump of mass with smoke coming out of it. Kuttappan was thrown few meters away his body lay gruesomely twisted. The mother and child were slumped against the wall, the baby holding mother’s breast, one would have thought they were alive. Grandmother was missing.

It was reported that there has been a mild explosion at the small temple town located at the southern part of the country, five people are dead including three children, all it seems -though not confirmed- belong to the same family, few are injured. For about an hour it was ‘breaking news’ in most news channel. Later in the day it was confirmed by the experts to be improvised IED but of mild nature. It was also reported by the TV channels that a great tragedy was averted as the bomb couldn’t explode to its maximum capacity due to some malfunction. In the end it was classified as minor explosion and by the next day was no longer on the main news and relegated to small column in the newspaper. A week later grandmother who was grievously injured by the flying shrapnel on the head –she had miraculously escaped the impact -and was in the ICU too died. Not many people knew about it.

The matter of keenness

Mr Santhanam was observing the ant quite keenly this morning, he had all the time in the world from now on having retired from the government service only a month back. He worked in the income tax, in the same office - in the same building as a matter of fact – for forty years without a break. He was known for his disciplined and meticulous nature, never late to the work nor any absentism or any negative remark against him. All the work from his desk proceeded in a clockwork precision. Every morning he came out of the main door of his home and wait for his wife to bring the lunch box at the porch that was then lowered for him to grab, he left the gate at sharp eight. It took him forty five minutes by chartered bus to reach the office, earlier it used to take half an hour but increasing traffic caused the delay nevertheless he was well before the office time. His first task before settling down for the day was to order hot coffee from the canteen, the coffee dutifully finished in about five minutes, he was preparing the agenda for the day, underlining outstanding issues and grading into matter of importance. At sharp one o clock he is standing to stretch himself and maybe few words of courtesy to the colleagues as he washed his hands for the lunch. During lunch they exchanged their thoughts on the matters of the day or some events in the newspaper or almost always some gossip about other sections of the department and so on. Santhanam contributed his thoughts wherever needed but mostly he kept to himself. By two everyone was back to their respective desks. Any doubts and clarification on the matters of work were almost always directed to Santhanam who in turn was ready with an elaborate reply. In one instance he was even specially acknowledged by the Director. He recollects it as if it happened only the other day. He had spotted a serious case of tax evasion that went unnoticed for years. Director came all the way to his desk to shake hands and say “we are proud of you”, that probably was his most memorable day in his life. Sharp six he is back in his home, a coffee later he goes out for a brisk walk. An hour later he is going through the daily newspaper or some magazine, subsequently some pending office work. He is having dinner watching Television while his wife narrates to him the happenings of the day at family front. Their son is settled in US so any news or mail would be discussed. By ten he is fast asleep.

For last few weeks he has been having trouble sleeping. It became natural for him to get up late into night and sit by the books and hanging photographs. Sometimes he slept on his chair woken up by morning crows so he sneaked back into his bed. He was ready by eight and sat at his study table not knowing what to do or anticipate. He shook his legs cleared the speck of dust on the table with his hand kerchief and fold it back neatly to his pocket. That is when he spotted the black ant- a solitary black ant, probably stranded from its colony or on a probing mission. It stretched its body towards him as if sniffing. Santhanam carefully guided it to his hand and to his palm, and brought it closer very near to his eyes. He was fascinated. The skeletal legs rubbed against each other and the antennae as if the creature too is trying its best to sense its surrounding. Santhanam took out the magnifying lens from the inside of his drawer. He held it against the ant and saw it grow into a giant. The sight was beholding. The ant resembled an alien, mandible sharper than he imagined. Next few days Santhanam was studying about ants, he bought all kinds of books from every store in the city on ants he could lay his hands on. He scribbled few notes in a book that he thought gave significant insight into the understanding of ants. Next afternoon he was in the garden searching for them, later he was tracing the trail of ants to its nest. He was out late in the night with his torch searching for ant trails in the neighbours’ compound. Suspicious watchman apprehended him, not knowing who he was the watchman tied him to the pole and raised the alarm. When residents surrounded him he was in his crumpled pyjamas scratching his body and mumbling “its ants all over me”. It’s been a year since that incident Santhanam gets up every night complaining of ants all over his body.

In the silence of the night

Mother insisted that i wear the sweater. The temple town was on a hill and it did get cold in the night. The room was spacious and had rows of hard wood panelled windows that overlook the street. The street was still wet with night rain and had puddles in many places. There were noises coming from every part of the street. Noises awaken my morning abruptly that i wide eyed stare at the street and try locate. I don’t like it, it’s not like home. Mother is happy she says if i pray well it will make me a ‘big person’ when i grow up. She hummed a song as she walked around the room and got ready for her morning bath. She bathed twice in a day –one in the morning and another in the noon, and followed an elaborate ritual of cleaning herself, so much so that her days were punctuated by her preparation for bath and aftermath. And the hours between these daily rituals she prayed, and prayed rather fervently every time adding new paraphernalia as offering and promising more.

The gopuram of the temple could be seen from the far end of the window. I had to stretch half my face through the parallel iron bars to get the view. They smell strange these iron bars, the coat of light green paint came out in tiny pieces as i scrape it with my teeth. It didn’t smell right this place. It’s not like home where every nook and corner had its own special smell that waft and mingle into my sense in recognition. It had started to drizzle; a light smoky curtain begins to envelope the outside world. The coconut palm fronds collected these tiny droplets into rivulet that stream through the stem forming a puddle around the tree. Mother says if the rain is going to get heavy we might not be able to go the temple. That is a bad omen. She prayed for the rain to stop. She looked out at the sky, and scanned the dark foreboding clouds and thought it will stop raining at the very instance. And it did. She had a knack for these things, predictions, premonitions or was it clairvoyance. She dressed me in my favourite cloth. The sooner we got out of the room the clouds seem to have burst, it poured the way i have never seen. Soon the streets were filled with murky water. I ran from one window to another to see how the rain fell from different window. Very soon the world will be filled with water, mother said. I laughed. She said it wasn’t funny. I told her i didn’t like it here and want to go home.

It kept raining through the evening and the night. Power lines had collapsed reducing everything into smoky silhouettes in the faint moonlight. Mother kept talking the whole time, i didn’t listen to her. She was like that when it got dark, she will talk. I couldn’t walk in the dark, the floor wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel familiar, there wasn’t any assurance in the way i sensed the ground. Everything was strange and different. Every step was like walking into an abyss. Even the rain wasn’t the same. It pounded the roof in some primal angst. I asked mother why can’t we go home. I don’t like it here. But she wasn’t listening. The window swung and rocked on its hinge all night. It was as though it was having a conversation with the night. I didn’t say a word. I watched the rain through the bleary sky till my eyes got tired. Water had filled up the streets and was rising at a steady rate. Soon the water was pouring into the room through the windows. It was water all around. Mother asked me whether i was alright. I told her i want to go home. The rain stopped at the very instance, the water gushed through the cervices for a very long time till it was reduced to drops. The ground had sucked up all the water. Slowly the world was heaving back and claiming its space. The moonlight sky was lit in extraordinary brilliance and radiated through every single drop clinging everywhere in the world. I was happy and told mother that we should stay here forever.

The hibiscus

There was something strange happening in the world that Bhaskaran inhabited. It was getting smaller. He focused his attention on the calendar hanging on the wall. Every time it got smaller, till he couldn’t see it any more. He decided to take the matter head on and write to God himself. So he took out a sheet of paper from his folder and put it neatly on his writing desk. Today was his birthday and he had turned seventy nine. A year from now i would be all of eighty, he said to himself and mentally noted to make this a significant point of argument. “After all a man approaching his eighty do need to be treated with some dignity” he argued. He looked out of his cottage window and noticed the hibiscus blossom in bright red. He still hadn’t got used to the laptop his son sent for him. It lay on the corner of the cupboard, stacked among other unused gadgets. Bhaskaran took up the phone and called his son. A voice at the other end sounded drowsy and extremely irritated
“What’s it? You should have some sense of time when you call. It’s almost midnight here”.
“I am thinking...” Bhaskaran stuttered for words. “The hibiscus has flowered”, he said. He was surprised by the vigour in his own voice.
What you need is a good sleep. The voice slammed the phone.
Bhaskaran came out of his room, lingered for few moment and bend down to observe the hibiscus flower. The hibiscus, vivid red as if fountain of blood frozen in moment, swayed in light breeze. He touched the petals and felt its vague softness. He sat there for some time. He heard someone opening the main gate. Two middle aged women whispered among themselves as they walked with unsure gait.
“Who is it?” asked Bhaskaran, trying to focus and locate something familiar in the approaching strangers. He took off his spectacles and wiped wetness off his eyes “Who is it i don’t seem to recognise you?”
“We are from the temple committee” said the woman who was shorter of the two. “You will have to buy the festival coupon” she insisted. The other woman opened a ledger on her palm and proceeded as if to write.
Bhaskaran gave a wry smile “ah it remains the same doesn’t it” he murmured to himself. His eyes wandered back to the hibiscus. “Do look at this flower” he said without any gesture. There was something in the sight of the flower that was quietening. It exuded a sense of calm “as if everything is right with the world” Bhaskaran was talking to himself “as if this is the way the world should be...everything arranged neatly and perfectly”.
“Its hibiscus is it not” said the shorter woman, loquacious of the two, quite unsure of what else to say. They stood there hesitantly, wondering at the old man scrutinising the flower.
“Why don’t you both come in” as he entered the house he kept the door half open.
“No that’s all right we are fine here” the woman insisted.
“It’s my birthday, you must come” he held the door firmly for them to enter.
“Well ...good to know that” said the woman, while the other woman smiled sheepishly “happy birthday to you”.
Bhaskaran acknowledged the wishing with an awkward shake of head. “Wait here” he said and laboured into the kitchen and brought a plate of sweet almost immediately. The colourful rectangle shaped saccharines were arranged tastefully. It was clear that effort and time had gone into arranging it.
“Here please have it” he said extending it to the pleasantly surprised women.
“Oh thank you”. They said almost in unison. “Thank you so very much. May you live longer” added the shorter woman.
For a moment Bhaskaran’s face was blank as though a gush of strong wind had caught him a second before his instinct could take control. For that short instance he stood there vulnerable to the world, his eyes wide open in a mix of fear and incomprehension. Next minute he was smiling and thanking the women profusely. He thought of hugging them but decided not to. The short woman rushed out “I will be back in a second” she said and returned with the hibiscus she had plucked.
“This for you” she said “..and thank you for the sweets. We will have to leave now”.
Bhaskaran took the flower, his hand shook a bit and he fumbled “do visit me once in a while if you pass by this way”. He wasn’t looking at them as they made their way out. He gazed at the flower and it seems to have sprouted out of his fingers. Its liveliness devoured him. He sat exhausted.

 This blog is abandoned.

Best wishes and thank you to all the readers.

 

The Cave People

They are people living in the dark. They have their rituals perfected to spread the darkness. If you scrutinize you may be baffled that these exist in contemporary world and will be tempted to dismiss these as children’s play or some elaborate juvenile deception. For cave people though these define their meanings of life and connection to the primitive cavernous depth of the cave. Centuries of dead habits and horrendous practices putrefy and waft from the deeper part of the cave that is considered sacred.  They cement these experiences through stories of faith and myths of grandeur. They come out of their caves dressed up as if for daily chores. They look normal and bear self satisfied smug, you wouldn’t be able to tell that they are cave dwellers. They share same mindset, express similar opinion and live an orchestrated way of life as if an invisible thread connects them and binds them to deep recess of the cave. Wherever they are placed they assiduously present template of cave with them so as to replicate it. They are herds that swarm out only to further their cave values that they ardently hold as being threatened by daylight hence seek protection.

Cave people are sensitive to light despite this they bravely venture to protect and spread their world. They carry the blue print of cave in ornate casket and try to sell to passerby while elaborating the virtues of cave values and savior spirit that protects them. While they eke in their caves holding to their cavely ways the world outside change tremendously. They partook in these comforts as matter of good fortune especially ordained for their well being by savior spirit meanwhile made sure to humbly elaborate miracles of cave traditions that made these possible. “Without the savior spirit that lives in the depths of caves not even a leaf can move”. They set out to eulogize cave tradition, wrote compelling narrations of cave culture, and sometimes if they felt specially threatened by rationale of modern world that point to the crude absurd self defeating ways of cave they zealously place themselves as special reference for multiculture.      

They wear impeccable outfits to fit in, and are very diligent about their diet and adept in interaction. They have worked language to its possible advantage without ever having understood the meaning, indeed ever be bothered. Every occasion is an occasion to sing paeans for cave culture and omnipotence of savior spirit. They pursue higher studies in modern institutions just to evaluate the possibility to fit in the cave template to contemporary setting so as to appropriate into cave tradition. They use modern gadgets with dexterity as if these were miracles meant to enhance their expressions. Lack of awareness makes them immune to hypocrisy while usage of words devoid of meanings reduces the hassles of critical thinking. They swarm as trolls in social media to elaborate on regressive ways of cave as unique expressions of modernity. Any sane scrutiny of these absurd claims triggers a swarm assault with cave dwellers emerging from darkest corners of deep net with spears and clubs shaped as words. Like hooligans they set about to destroy the premise of sane argument, stamping on facts, any logical extension of ideas, and sneak in bizarre assumptions based on equally wacky premise. They claim their benign savior spirit already knew everything that is there to know or to discuss or explore. Every reason therefore is the reason to humbly acknowledge the grand nature of savior spirit. We have to just believe in the words of savior spirit who once lived in the cave. It is all written in miracle codes kept safe in depths of cave. Cave people have their heroes and martyrs who furiously fought for centuries against daylight ever reaching the cave. There are now new age soldiers equipped with latest gadgets and wherewithal ready to take on the enemies of cave culture and keep the putrefying traditions safe. Sometimes during the storm when there is power failure they come out in large numbers to announce to the passerby that it is the end of the world. The world needs to repent their sin. Accept cave tradition and believe in the cave truth that has settled all question for eternity. During natural disasters and suffering they see signs of good omen and opportune occasion to elaborate the need to stop questioning the will of savior spirit. During the bleakest hours of humanity they celebrate the arrival of savior spirit.             

 

 

An evening prayer

The intonation gets deeper and louder as if spreading a circle of warmth. Soon it reaches crescendo and beats in the rhythm of the earth as if amplifying all life in its inhale and exhale. The life giving quotidian cycle. It quietens in its own echo, shortening and then the silence. The stage is set for the sun to light the western sky in its quirky brilliance. White Ibis emerge from the lit clouds to row back to her nest. The sky arranges colors to finally extinguish into grey. There is a meditative quality to the moment. The quaintness of the occasion seems to spread all across as every life form pause to relapse. There is an acknowledgment of an end, a loss that is felt with ebbing sun. The trees are still. The clouds are still. Waves intonate the deeper silence of the ocean in its churning lulling regularity. The world stills for the evening prayer. Prayers that articulate myriad language of silence. Tirelessly work to give appropriate form to this tranquil moment. Nature rarely fails to convey the subtle. There is an understated gloriousness in her expressions. Deeper meaning is for the witness. This moment that is alive to live, though aloof as eternal, is contingent to the response of each life to its situation. This moment, when all is serene and quiet, presents quantum possibilities to each life that capsulate billions of years of endeavor –from the absurdness of singularity to sharing atoms precariously perched on a spinning blue dot and all the struggles to assimilate and survive in the pre-cambrian soup, shifting continents, permian volcanoes, bombarding asteroids and bloodthirsty predators. To be finally present in this moment in time. This presence is a miracle. From the dark crevice coucal’s call resonate the scene in cascading boom as a final fanfare to the setting sun.        

The swaying coconut tree

Wind picks up pace by late evening, the forecast were dire, by night the gust whistled through the windows. The waning gibbous moon lit the dark clouds in grey that provide the background for the lamenting coconut tree. It swung its fronds here and there like someone in great distress. A moment the leathery leafs arranges on one side of the crown against the relentless wind the next moment it is splattered haywire as the wind decide to angle the other way or that the tree has swung to its extreme and ricochets in its momentum. The tree reacts to every move of the gust. It is precise in its calibrations so as to not allow itself snap. It is in a tango with the storm. It thrives acutely attuning to the surrounding and sets to work with awareness of natural forces and limitation it places. He though wasn’t conscious of the tribulation of the tree nor cared for the forces that work. The coconut yield is low, there is no value for the wood either unlike acacia or teak, isn’t it better to hack it off. The thrashing tree was like an angry demon bringing bad omen. Against the grey sky it sways like foreboding calamity. The sky was getting angrier these days. When it rained it poured without any intermittence for hours. The rivers were constantly breaching and claiming the bank while the oceans batter the coast with plastics and dead fishes. He knew gods where angry. People don’t follow rituals precisely these days. They have lost purity to deal. Only pure souls can understand the will of the god and lament for the sin. There are procedures prescribed to satiate the god and bring peace to the world. He knew what to do. He will have to build a shrine to atone the sins of humanity. Only he could appease the god. Only he knew how to appease the god. Enough of donating to religions and old sites that have lost their aura. The world needs fresh energy and optimism. People must congregate to pray that will spread positive energy. More people in the congregation more potent their pray. The world needs doers not thinkers, men of action who can exploit resources, create jobs, better the economy and win elections and contracts. Greater the economy more the money generated and therefore more power. A great nation needs to be powerful. A powerful nation needs blessing. He couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. It was a damp morning with trees drenched in overnight rain. Babblers rake wet sticky leaves on the ground to pluck stranded caterpillars. He set out to hack the coconut tree. The tree was useless the site was auspicious, and he knew the use of land. Land was a like a mother that provides for her children. Mother earth needs shrine. He will make a big shrine. The shrine should be grand. It must awe the people into submission to god’s will. It must make them believe in miracles. The world needs believers of miracle. He was the miracle creator. He was chosen, and knew deep inside him of his true calling as the servant of the god and virtuous guide to people. Not many are such fortunate. He set about to make grand plans for the shrine. The wide palm canopy and its arrangement of fronds is home to treepie and her hungry chicks, they sigh in relief having survived the storm. The tree was strong but resilient. The tree will protect them.                  

 

 Dead Bird Don't Lie

The dead bird had its eyes gouged out by ants. It lay in the bush next to the pavement. The ants streamed out like red tears, happy and satisfied. We were out on a walk. He was the first one to point out the bird. “It’s a jungle myna” he said. We examined the bird so as to get some clue regarding its demise. It seems the bird died of starvation, maybe it refused to eat. The white patches on the base of its primaries were exposed and sodden yellow with mud from overnight rain. There were too many dead birds that we see on our walks. In the beginning we didn’t think much of it. It was when she shows apprehension that I too became aware of it. Is it just the birds? I am seeing too many dead insects. They gather in great numbers, disoriented by the street lights and bright windows, next morning I see them motionless and dying of exhaustion. Insects carry no emotion, atleast I am not able to decipher; they bear the same expression of delight all the while as if dying was matter of delightful inconvenience. They are not even baffled. Sometime I pick them up to see any change of expression. It is the same appearance of gaiety on each insect. The moths, the beetles, the lacewings all seem to mock at my intrigue or maybe I am too self centered to read their intent. I sometimes get nightmares of laughing insects that comes out of dead as if it was just an act of deception. This nonchalance towards death angers me at times but I feel helpless. The moment I start seeing dead I see more dead. It is as if I was being attuned into vicious reality like you focus on a voice in the crowd and you hear it loud and clear over the ruckus. It though is not the right comparison I feel; it’s not the voice in the crowd it is the scream of utter desperation that one is habituated to look away, despite jostling crowd a great widening vacuum surrounds the person, and if you were ever to look at his way you would be sucked into a vortex of horror. When I walk away it brings great sadness of never able to fully understand myself. There are some parts of us we want to avoid, and the desolate man in the crowd opens up a mightier desolation in us. It’s on the horizon still we ignore the tell tale signs of things going wrong. The fishes plop up dead one morning along the lake as if conspired to kill themselves from some unknown agony. With every death I too die a little. Parts of my flesh detach and shape like a bird and fly away.  I bend down to put my ear on the earth, maybe I could hear something. Some say earth speaks. I am unaware of the language but I try. There is meaning for all of us if only we could listen.