Rook at a4 disappears

A very strange thing happened the other day, I must clarify that it is so clear in my mind that it really cannot be referred to as any other day, so I will be specific here. It was 22hours.35min.36secs Wednesday night of April 22nd, a hot humid night quietened by sudden spell of pre-monsoon rain. The parched earth wafted the scent, petrichor, the gust invoking the pleasant hope of survival as it moved across the window shaping relentless patterns with rain drops. I poured the beer, tilting it to control the carbonation, while contemplating the next move. My white rook a1 was being pursued by g7 bishop camouflaging behind e5 pawn while intending on f3 knight. A deception that could well intrude into my g2 pawn and trapping h1 rook if I didn’t take any defensive action. So, to a2, occasioning it a moment of safety. The street light fluttered before coming back to full brightness. The raindrops igniting into darts of sparks under the lamp that moved one way, then the other with the wind, sometimes creating little directionless weak eddies before resolving a direction and vanishing into the night. Soon pawns have cleared the way, so now a2 to a4 to get some fresh air and strengthen the centre pieces. It was while I contemplated this manoeuvre and pushed the rook a2 to a4 that it vanished. The rook has disappeared. En passant capture is a double stepping pawn caught in the maiden flight, but rook, how? This was shocking. I tapped the screen, checked the notations confirming the coordinates. Ra4. There it was mentioned in unflagging bold, but the rook had just vanished from the flat surface of 8x8 grid.

Life exists in overlapping worlds. You sidestep one dimension and enter the other, sometimes there are many dimensions as many as twenty-six we are now told and are also tangled. So which dimension has the a4 rook disappeared, or has appeared in? The chessboard quivered a little from its corners. Knight had started to hop and trying to find a rhythm from f4 to d5, and then to b4, nodding his head agreeably to wonderstruck pawns. Very soon it was commotion, but it must be pointed out that there was a meaning in the chaos as if an underlying force stringing it together. All the pieces followed the rules of the game. So, knights didn’t hop from b4 to b6, nor the bishops crab walked furtively from white to black or vice versa and like the rook maintained the decency by not jumping over others. Even the ‘dead’ pieces hopped onto the board in an ecstatic display of purpose. Very soon they congregated in a disciplined way, in rank and files, at the assigned places. All 31 of them except the a1 missing rook. Both the kings called a truce and conveyed to each other that this is a serious matter, it has never happened before. So, the king’s white pawn double ranked into e4 while black pawn into e5 and facilitated the meeting of the kings.

“I say your white rook has vanished your majesty” said the black king, hinting at sarcasm with elaborate flourish.

“We must set up a team to enquire into the matter urgently. Your majesty will agree” the white king ignored the obvious attempt to shallow him but concurred on the gravity of the matter. Knights were ordered to investigate as they both stepped back, followed by the pawns who had never learned to walk back but now occasion demanded that they lax their marching rules, only slightly so, on chess board rules are etched in time, questions blasphemous, punitive action harsh.  g1 white knight was first on feet, the mounted soldier galloped the horse to f3 and d4, trotted to b3 where white b1 knight waited at a3 and nodded to him. g8 knight was swiftly behind, landing at f6 to d5 and cantered effortlessly to b4, the muscles of the colt rippled in the night light. b8 black knight was slow to start and mis-stepped from c6 to d4 in his enthusiasm, while others watched in mix of consternation and irritation, before retracing to b5 as the reluctant mare was dragged in. They congregated around a4 column, the site of disappearance. b2 knight scrutinised the column while the sturdy stallion tapped the column edge with his steel shoes.  

“It is shocking. How could this happen?” b2 knight said as he bends down to have a closer look at a4 column.

“Scandalous” added g8 knight as he surveyed the scene. There were no signs of struggle and the edges where the white column met the adjacent three black columns too were smooth. b8 knight wandered across to the boundary of board that was shared with a4 as the forlorn mare gazed onto the bleak horizon, it was too dark as if end of the world. He noticed something quite unusual for a fine wood carved set. It had splayed, as he stuck it with his iron rimmed boots it gave in and opened to what looked like deep dark hole into the abyss. The knights gathered around it, b1 knight gasped and was taken in by the proximity of the breach from his dwelling, though he mostly sidestepped this column, nevertheless it was too close to comfort. It was clear that someone had planned an escape from the battlefield.

“What kind of coward would do such a thing? We are born to fight. Everyday every game is our fight for the king. Why would anyone run away from it?” g8 knight was genuinely puzzled, he just couldn’t conceive any reason or life beyond the chess board. “We have to prove our worth every day, by winning, by sacrificing ourselves for the bigger causes, bigger games. That’s our duty that is why we are born. There is an eternal design to everything” for a moment he was pensive then he shook his head and looked around and said, “this is truly scandalous”. It was decided by the knights that this need to be reported to the kings at the earliest. So, again the ceremony of pawns stepping forward into the centre as the kings met while the knights arranged themselves around them at c3, c6, f3 and f6 respectively. After few minutes of discussion, which included moments of silence and utter disbelief (when was the last time a piece vanished from the chess board that too during the fierce confrontation?) it was decided that a search party of six pieces be formed headed by the wise bishop, includes two knights and three pawns. As the pieces left for the search white king and queen sat across black king and queen, the queens displayed their powerful armoury that was feared by any player however reputed -some have even quit the battle after losing queen, while four pawns stood vigilant on each corner. 

“Which game has been your favourite in all these years?” asked the black king as a conversation starter. White king didn’t take any time to think and was excited with the answer

“Well ofcourse the evergreen game!”
"Anderssen Vs Dufresne, 1852. Yes, i recall that Rad1...Qxd7 terrific" Black king nodded.

“When rooks are on adjacent positions and aim for the king it’s like multi barrel attack, no place to hide!” White king elaborated. Black king was none too impressed with the analysis.

“Fischer Vs Tal 1959 is also interesting. Tal was a magician, elegant player”. White king added sensing there is an attempt to upstage him by his eternal adversary. “Kubrick knew his chess you could tell that HAL is up to some mischief, queen to bishop 3 was an illegal move…

 They continued their discussion while the banter disguised to establish as superior. The white squares in the board had become intense in the darkness and gave the illusion of having risen while the black squares plunged around it. 32 towers rose into the dark sky like a grim hope trying to reach eternal light. They sieved the dark space for truth.

The hole broadened into a tunnel as they entered a4 column. There was a gush of cold air. “There must be opening at the other end” g8 knight speculated, as the search party checked for footing in the blinding darkness. Pawns moved in the front. Very soon they could see faint light at the far end as dust motes flickered around. There they saw bone white figure of rook hunched on the rock next to an underground spring. The water still and surreal mossy green contrasting against glistening brown rocks.

“What kind of black and world we live in” said rook, barely raising his head but very much aware of their presence as if anticipating them “fighting battles of victory and defeat, helping someone to become a grandmaster or just a piece in the hand of a novice trying to challenge his mind. Hopping from black to white and white to black. Nowhere to go just trapped in this miserable board. It’s a dark cave of ignorance”.

f1 bishop stepped forward and found a place to sit next to rook, who didn’t seem to notice and continued with his monologue “Many decades back I looked at the black night sky as I lay captured and wasted in the side lines, sacrificed for a pawn…ah the ignominy of it…recall the night of Spassky’s crazy rook sacrifice? The white stars all arranged in the black sky like chess board black and white all drab and dull then the space exploded with colours an immense mixture of red, green, orange. It was as if the sky was on fire. The fire of spirit world lit by northern lights. I saw these colours whirling in the space and I started to see truly like a translucent wayside puff of life”. The reflection from the pool played on the stalactites above, they created their own faint patterns of reflections.   

“I understand you rook. You have taken the right decision, something I would have done too had this old body supported. You have come out of the board. You have seen the light, and now you cannot unsee it”. Bishop put his hand across rook’s shoulder lightly and with immense compassion continued “You will tell others about these beautiful colours but nobody will listen. You are now condemned into your own beautiful world” nodded bishop wearily.

Before we go on further it is important to give a small background on wise and trusted f1 bishop, and why he is held in reverence by others. Recall what Kasparov said after conceding defeat in the second game in 1997? He said DeepBlue played ‘unlike a computer’, a human move, and for many this was beginning of Artificial Intelligence, but little did anyone consider that it was much more of a historic moment for chess pieces, it was the day they decided to take their own decisions -atleast one of them, to express his humanity and stand up and be counted as a human. To move from disposable pieces in the annals of history to assert as humans through reasoning and passionate leaps of faith. It was an occasion of claim by the neglected world that were for long reduced to as ‘pieces’ and dictated through king’s orders -which he got from superior force above (read the player).  Every move was scrutinised and dictated from above. And indeed, left on their own they exhibited intelligence that even baffled the world champion. They assumed it to be super computer. But every chess piece across the world knows the secret that it was not the brute force of the machine intelligence that surpassed the best human mind that day. It was the triumph of free will. f1 bishop’s move to e4 was well thought out, it might have baffled the world, and indeed stumped Kasparov, but for f1 bishop -now an elderly wise man, this was something that came naturally. He had his instincts perfected over decades of collective memory on a brilliant mind.

So, now back to where we were. Rook was initiating dialogue to a world that had never had any use of thinking or introspection, hence were easily manipulated and exploited. “Violence requires the other, the target, the immediate solution, that then is sensed through segregation through separateness, the shifting opportunistic boundaries that contours the other. Whether one is black or white, and then fight over these imaginary differences. These inane superficialities and juvenile thoughts shouldn’t be defining my identity, nor should I be trapped in a column as ‘a1 Rook’ for rest of my life”. He had so much to say that he didn’t pause or wanted any response “Identity is dynamic that develops with experience of life and not something that is given once and for all. Skin colour as an identity is limiting world that narrows life’s possibilities to chance of birth, hence a grave injustice and crime on humanity. White or black rook is too narrow a definition to identify with. We are not fixed beings. We are limited by lack of our own imagination”.

Bishop listened to these thoughts with sense of elation while the knights didn’t know what to make of it nevertheless they were keen to listen. While the pawns showed no sign of interest as they stared into the darkness for imaginary enemy or ambush, though it is very likely they too were listening.

“Life must be ambiguous and not prescriptive. I want to experience the exhilarating anxiety that comes with freedom and not the anxiety of trapped life that constantly worry about protecting the king, and whose existence is defined by the king. The moment king is checkmated, and it is over for us. We are taken to be valueless, dead pieces whose sole worry is to protect the king”. He raised his voice “We need to have an existentially urgent battle for nonconformity. We must always question the most powerful and the most vulgar. We cannot be pawns for other’s game”. Surprisingly pawn1 showed distress on being mentioned in such desultory manner but didn’t utter a world as they stood with their weapons equipped. Rook couldn’t hide his irritation for the fatalistic values that was so ingrained and so easily morphed as courtesy but what it really did was to embolden feudal values and exploitative mindsets.  

“Are they robots? Don’t they have feelings? Are they alive if they cannot respond to their feelings, respond to their emotions?”

Pawn1 peeped at pawn2 to check any reaction, he seemed oblivious to comments and was content to the life he was fated. Pawn1 couldn’t take any more. He turned around from his sentry position to confront the renegade rook.

“But we can rise in rank, some of us have even become queen. We are not robots” pawn1 asserted, meanwhile pawn2 showed no indications of wanting to involve but was seen to be attentive. Wise bishop smiled, rook had succeeded in eliciting some response from the pawn while he was about to give up

“You don’t have any identity, even the notations only refer the column you are in, it is as if you don’t matter, you don’t exist” rook was itching for this confrontation “even if you are ever acknowledged it is only to sacrifice you for the sake of bigger plans”.  

“That is not correct we have played significant roles in many crucial games”.

“Only supportive role. You always need back up. Pawn checkmate is so rare that it is only of academic interest" rook dismissed the pawn with brutal clarity "Lack of freedom goes to the heart of consciousness. Even when I am chained, humiliated and my body mutilated my attitude is my singular assertion to freedom. Your justifications are slave morality, life negating. We must take the risk to overcome us and our situation. We need to transcend towards a self-chosen goal”.

“Pawn structure has won many games by blocking and frustrating the opponent. We have prevented fatal checkmates” pawn1 was in no mood to give in. Pawn2 too nodded but refused to take side in this battle for honour of pawns. He thought it to be too adventurous having been trained in a strong sense of wrong and right.

Here the bishop interjected to take the debate forward from where rook had left, adding his experience and understanding “You need to assert who you are, and not what you become. This identity of yours, not as a collective but you as an individual, is the most important possession that connects you to the humanity and in it is your redemption. You have to create your being, your own identity, that changes with the situations and not stuck as pawn with defined role” Here he addressed rook “There is a clamour of identities within us that seeks adoption…and we must simultaneously choose all the identities in us that binds us to humanity, creating an affiliation with the universe, varying it to bear a unique identity that defines us and nurture our souls. For that uniqueness to arise in us we must actively involve with life, and not be just a piece in the chess board without any free will. You have to become what you are”.

The knights too joined in enthused by the words of bishop, b1 knight barely able to contain himself, overwhelmed as he was as if some sort of revelation that quickly connected him into a source he was so far unaware of, and unshackled him, said “we may have different qualities, talents, but we meet as humans”

“On equal terms, carrying all the wonders and possibilities of life” rook added as he settled into his usual calm bearings of a sentinel having achieved his mission.

“Yes, rook you are right we have to create our own self from our own actions. We have to shape our own humanity. We are no longer condemned inside the chess board. We are now condemned to our own self. Condemned to our freedom” said the wise bishop and observed the aurora light dance through the slit of a4 column into the tunnel, he was taken in by the quietness of the astounding display. 

The rook was at peace with himself

Sentient earth

The rain  

All the silliness

The patter in the rain

Gather into puddle

Dissolves the muck

There are no waves to settle

Just a shadowy stillness

The infinite drift

The formless

Vague

Ungraspable

Then the rain

The rain

Fibonacci sequence

Add the last two numbers

And it spirals

To conspire with nature

Into its self-propagating infinite brilliance

One, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen…so it goes

To construct a compact blue print to delicate life

To catch enough of sun in its golden fraction

Peace lily is a one petal flower

And that is where the Fibonacci begins

Its dalliance with colours  

A balance that sparkle

In one petal, two petals, three petals…

And the whole world comes alive

From sunflowers, cyclones to galaxies

To rejoice in the numbers      

Sentient earth

The consent to reality is a pact   

That unfolds in the narrowing spiral of feeble consciousness

When the lines broaden for eternity

The horizon beams the serene golden path

Snags it when accomplished
The glorious life

Lament of hopelessness

In the clogged sickly green downstream

gill sucks in the air

to lighten the struggle,

a bubble plock the surface

startling the praying mantis intent on ladybird.

  

The storm surge like an insistent cuddle

wells up the dreary night.

Swaying trees crackle, explode in its own burden

cinders whirls in the stray bin

to conspire with the migrant wind to cyclone shrugs.

White islands nods futile in the blue vastness

invain search for an anchor of life

in the quivering acceptance of the stranded

gaze the approaching stillness.  

Earth wobbles and shrivels to let go

its nasty tenant

grab vagrant carbons back into its fold

to be rearranged into nature’s interrupted prose.

Unsettled ibis on the coconut palm
beats its enormous wings

gives out a primal shriek
in the drowning deluge.

Hear.  

Encroachments  

The squirming star

finds itself reflected in the still stream

clogged in the hyacinths.

A keelback cleaves the darkness

of the humid night

brief commotion unsettles

the quaint shimmer.

Meanwhile an upheaval gathers

and doesn’t wait for its turn.

Air gnaws the water.

Water drowns the life.

A haze sets in

and so began the dance of death.

Birds flutter and crumble.

The melt swells the ocean

and the waves rolls and rolls.

Sky turns torrid

and the trees turn black.

The tremble knocks the life giving poise
off its pedestal.     

Toothpaste

Nobody knows that yesterday I killed a man. The exhilaration is similar to winning a lottery and not confiding to anyone, the discreet awareness of wellbeing that the monetary security insures as one is made immune, by a single act of fate, to the everyday misery that hordes of people go about their wretched life, it is like being instantly made aware of what riches can, and later as thought settle in, cannot buy. An overwhelming desire that is ample even before it is attained. The nagging awareness of impossible before it is even possible. It is same with death, in a way, whether as a witness or a perpetrator, the aftermath, the realisation of futility at the sight of lifeless. The impossibility of what violence set to achieve on another.  He was out there in the park eating an enormous watermelon. The watermelon was rotten and sticky mess like his brain turned out to be. Not that I disliked him. It’s just that the rotten watermelon would have anyway done it to him, or maybe not. The man didn’t die after all. The moment I approached him he deciphered my intention and ran off. So now the question is did the tragic incident happen or was it an imagination? If it is an imagination then I have no reason to worry and I can very well go ahead with the late night show at the nearest talkie as planned. My concern was a decisive inclination towards it being authentic; therefore I took out the torch, replayed the incident in my mind to locate any clue and proceeded to the nearest park. Not that any park would do but this one was the nearest. Hence began my search for evidence, I focused my attention on the shadier and bushy side where any passerby is likely to toss his unwants. I knew that any criminal worth his intelligence would hide the evidence in places least plausible, trivial being commonly taken as least likely. I located pieces of half eaten watermelon, nothing else that arouse suspicious, so I surveyed minutely to find lots of melon seeds suckled by fiery looking red ants which scurried with their dear life on being disturbed while some contemplated to defend. So there, I got the watermelon but nothing more to suggest of some recent unsavoury happening. I stood there pensive and recalibrated my thoughts for hints of fabrication and try reason with the imagination that insistently pointed something sinister.

Time is a linear thing, and it’s always been like that unless you mess with it by probing for profound. Then a fissure start to appear between what has been to what is now and what will be. When I was a kid I spent sleepless night over next day’s school assessment tests that I was sure to mess up despite my best effort. The questions were always better than the answers and it remained that way making the effort to answer almost always futile, sometimes so embarrassing that I was showcased as the reason for better punishments. This anticipation of impending disaster was the reason I thought of moving to the future and transport myself to the day after the ordeal. This linear reality of time was something that could be influenced at will. When I got up in the morning I had to have the evidence of the day having skipped the linear frame, shuttled altogether or pushed into some remote past. If it didn’t happen then I would feign some illness and avoided the school, or tried to push it to the day earlier and work out once again tricks to circumvent the day. It surely was tiring and the effort always left me drowsy. It is in the sleep that the dreams created and thrust the imagination that was moulded during the day. Nevertheless it wasn’t real and the next day was always there waiting. Time was not able to imprint the nature of experience, frayed at the corners and peeled in layers. Memory then became the struggle of remembering and experiencing, this fracture could be mend with any fiction that suits was an immediate realisation. The random events could easily be scattered and rearranged with a consistent memory and the meaning attached to each. Now that I understand world better I realise the answer lie in the profoundness of life. The deeper truth that creates an ever expanding realm of timelessness and strips of the meanings from what we attribute. Even that which is opposite to the reality may infact be complementing to something holistic in a seminally defining way. Hence timelessness in all its charm is stagnant; it is perishable fragility of life that imparts value to it. If there is a beginning then there is an end, it’s the tenacity and the transitory nature that adds dignity to mortality.   

If a man is slayed with these very hands then it has to register somewhere in the recess of this throbbing mind. I am living much closer to death than I ever care to know life. It is this persistence of reality in all its brutal certainty that negates even the concept of time, making it altogether irrelevant and gives insight to richer living. I am on the verge of giving up my search and look up at the sky. Billions of stars shine and glitter in the humid night. The stillness in the chaos hooks the undulating emptiness in an all-encompassing serenity, to immortality. I cry for the imagined man and ask for forgiveness. Life is ongoing, with every moment stacking up the memory it is important to forget what one wants to forget, relinquish it gently it’s an immense responsibility.

Tailpiece: Some of the reader will appreciate the story but look up from the screen and ask “Hmm good attempt but why this banal title?” Well its a valid grouse and I agree its a cringe worthy title. It’s like this I am finished with my toothpaste and forget to buy it everytime I go shopping hence left scraping the tube every morning. Next time I go out I am bound to bump onto someone and that someone is bound to ask “So haven’t been seeing you for sometime what are you upto? Started working? You must it will keep you occupied…and money that is important too” Through this monologue a part of me detaches “Oh yes I am writing something and guess what it is titled?...” Mine I have to buy that toothpaste if you may please excuse me. 

The Gandhian and a Naxalite

It is not always that you eavesdrop into a conversation, or even be a passive participant, that has potential to change your worldview in an instance. It so happened that I was once travelling in a train from Lucknow to Delhi. It was around the time when the city had just witnessed the onslaught of festivals, that left it drained and traumatized, and now eagerly enveloping itself in the coziness of winter. A thick layer of haze settled on the city, the days struggle out, sometimes the fare was so brief that you think it is still dawn. I had settled down on my berth, having secured the luggage under the seat, and was flipping through a newspaper that seemed to have been left by an earlier occupant. It was an old newspaper but you could never tell as it carried the news of daily violence, corruption, political insinuations, and sometimes stray acts of kindness –as redemption for the sake of humanity of sorts. As I was reading I had constant sense of having read this before but I kept dismissing it since these events were happening at regular rate and so could be the latest. It was when the incidents were getting eerily similar that I glanced at the date on the top corner. It was three days old. Ah. An elderly man in white khadi had occupied the opposite window seat. He had a pleasant demeanor. He smiled. I smiled back, but he very effortlessly detached himself and ran his eyes through me. I became conscious and straightened my shirt that had crumpled as I sat. His bearing suggested that he prided in his austere self, neatly parted grey hairdo, gold tinted spectacles that shone as it caught the passing glint. His cloths were freshly starched and seemed remarkably immune to surrounding grime and rush. His slippers well polished and clean, as if it was never worn or indeed was not meant to be worn and kept in the showcase. His frugal belongings were neatly stacked on the rack. Evidently he, or most likely an assembly of people, had taken immense effort to keep him impeccably clean. He looked almost unreal in the bleak surrounding of the second class compartment. Presently a man appeared at the window with an exaggerated servility towards the man in khadi, he seemed to be asking his permission to leave or something of that sort. The elderly man acknowledged his presence with a barely interested glance and seemed to have accidently caught the nuance that was being played out for him. He gave a light sideway flick to his head that was seen as a nod by the acquiescing man who instantly bend and retraced his steps without turning his back and vanished into the crowd. As we settled down and the train was about to depart a man in grey full sleeves rushed in, he had a bag hung around his shoulder. He took out his ticket, checked, confirmed and reconfirmed and sat next to the window seat opposing the elderly man. He had a rather unkempt beard, his attention turning to me and asked “So are you also going all the way to Delhi?”

“Yes, yes”, as I said the train had started to move, distracting our attention. Outside people who had come to see off their relatives had varying degree of sadness playing on their face. Some waved as they wiped their tears, while others hid their face. The train gained momentum blurring the people and other sights, very soon it was out of the platform. The cloistered platform and the reverberating echoes of the train was replaced by open scenes from the rapidly moving city, we were randomly eavesdropping into people’s life. One moment it was inside the passing car, where an infant was being consoled by its mother, and next moment we were in the balcony of multistoried apartments where a woman in her nightdress tried to clip the wet cloths against the breeze. The cool gust had rejuvenated stagnant interiors of the compartment. The two men had started to interact. Tired from hectic night before their conversation droned in my ears finally I was in slumber. I was woken by the sudden jerk, the train had stopped, I could smell the metal. We were in some open paddy field, on the rear next to the mound I glimpsed a Sarus pair. Presently the two men seem to be in some kind of argument.

“…but sir violence cannot be the means. We will have to sit down and discuss things and find solutions in an amicable manner. That is what bapu said and that is the need of the hour” said the elderly man in khadi, who as I gather, was a renowned Gandhian. He called himself Sitaram Chaturvedi, effortlessly became Chaturvediji. While the bearded man called himself Manohar Kumar, somehow Kumarji took some effort. Kumar, from his talks seem to be a Naxal sympathizer but he made every effort to hide this, he knew he could be in trouble, it could even be sedition.

“Bapu practiced these in the worst period of oppression, when the colonial power was unleashing its atrocities. Now we live in a free country” Chaturvediji elaborated, he seemed to be relishing this talk and had acquired a patronizing demeanor. He sagged and placed one leg over the other, while his hand massaged his thighs.

“It is a good talk, and I must admit you speak well” Kumar said, Chaturvediji’s response was a sheepish smile that acknowledged the praise. “What do you mean by free country, are we free? Is the voting rights end and all? Wasn’t it more of a transfer of power among the elite? Why wasn’t land reform given priority, if not why isn’t inheritance taxed heavily? You have usurped all the benefits that feudalism extends and now you take high moral grounds” Kumar was agitated, he pause to suck in his breath and continued “Britishers needed Gandhi so they treated him nicely, even pandering him. He was part of their gameplan. Here the government and the corporate don’t need the tribes, they are nuisance for their profit intent that is why they are pushed out with force and threat. They are oppressed that is why they are killed and nobody asks. Why is that only some sections asked to sacrifice for the good of the country? When killers are around how do you even start to take the steps of non violence? When was the last time you faced any sort of violence or threat to your life?”.

That was quite a simplistic take on Gandhi’s role in freedom movement but yes his take on corporate greed for natural resources and how the government was playing the role of facilitator was right on. I could see a creeping discomfort in Chaturvediji, clearly he wasn’t confronted like this, but to his credit he came back quite rejuvenated. “A man is the product of his thoughts. In a gentle way we must shake the world, awaken the spirit”. He was quiet, a beatific smile played on his face, in the passing daylight a glow lit his face. He looked resplendent. Meanwhile a vagabond with a deep festering wound on his legs had negotiated his way through the compartment and had placed himself in front of Chaturvediji. Chaturvediji almost startled from his seat, he cringed an intense dislike played on his face. He moved his body away, more as an instinct, then as thoughts dawned on him, he gathered himself alertly, a benevolent smile had instantly covered his face. I must add all this happened in matter of few seconds, if you weren’t observant you would miss it altogether. In the context of things it was like missing a chapter in a crime thriller!. He without delay dipped his hands into the pocket and took out few currency coins, he then dropped it onto the fellow’s extended palms, taken out of circumstance it would seem he was throwing it, taking every care not to touch the wretched fellow. He reminded me of the priest of south Indian temples, the way they granted offering from the god to the devotee. He rotated his hand in some ritual and folded it in silent prayer. When things had settled in his little world –that seemed to have seen some cataclysmic event recently, he relaxed and offered “As Bapu said, when in confusion think of the poorest, the god in the poorest. The daridhranarayan”. Somehow I thought he missed the human being, and the predicament of the wretched and oppressed, in the search for god in them. Chaturvediji was seeking solace. Whether this was solace for the poor man or was it for the sudden turmoil that had potential to destroy his inner world, I wasn’t sure.

Kumar wasn’t sure either. He asked “Are you all right Chaturvediji? It seems you need some water” and extended him bottle of water taken from his bag. Chaturvediji baulked, it seems the outside world was pursuing him relentlessly. Sharing water was something that was not in his terms of experience with truth. It was an awkward moment. Recent happenings of thugs sharing laced intoxicant in food with the intent to steal, and strictures to public against sharing food or water from strangers came to his rescue. He gallantly refused and took out the flask –that seemed to have been wiped clean few times more as reason of some obsessive affliction than any concern for hygiene, poured warm water and relished it. Meanwhile he managed to utter “Harmony is what brings in happiness”.

Kumar wasn’t impressed he decided to take the bull by the horn “Tell me Mr. Gandhian why are you using a casteist surname? That too the one that has history of atrocities written all over it? Why are you carrying this as your identity?” His tone was stern and he meant answers.

The turn of event was much more than Chaturvediji could handle, I could see signs of stress but he still managed to wrest the initiative with some humbleness in a characteristic ease, so unique that I propose a study need be conducted on this trait. This included dilation of pupil, quivering of muscles around the lips, hunching forward as if he intended to lick and a general demeanor of agreeability that compelled anyone to pat him.  He said “Patience is worth more than preaching”

Kumar retorted “That doesn’t even attempt to answer my question”.

Chaturvediji paused and after moment of contemplation said “My life is my message”

“Really and what pray is the message?”

“We must cherish our diversity and learn to live in our differences. We must be the change we seek”

“You create the deviance that has oppressed people and then you safeguard these deviances as diversity” Kumar laughed “And now you preach you pontificate. I must say that is truly wonderful. I haven’t seen anyone as hypocritical as you”. I was in agreement with him. These words had a kind of benevolence that could trigger deep consciousness but as Kumar was aware these were high brow words intent to cover amazingly crass world. It was a mask to appear civilized in a crude outfit.

In the last many decades people with oppressive identities move around as if nothing is amiss. The moral preaching is what is taking it bit too far. The non-violent nonsense, that is insisted, as coming from wonderful people with peace in their heart. The irony being that the insistence of non violence while placing oneself in a primitive social conception is nothing but asking to be irresponsible, and taken out of this reality into an egalitarian worldview these are quaint and carries deeper meanings. That probably is the leeway through which the Gandhian was drilling his calling.

“Violence is the final step, the final statement of people who are the most subdued and socially marginalized. The marginalization that is sanctioned and sustained by your identity. It is people like you who give credibility to these biases and prejudices” Kumar was insistent “This absence of violence by systematically violated masses is my concern”

“But eye for an eye will make whole world blind” Chaturvediji contested. I somehow agreed with him, if violence was the way then things could easily go out of hand. Naxal infested region are quite violent and the stories of human right violations has become quite common, they even seem to be using children. 

Kumar read my thoughts “Let it go out of hand. Let there be violence. It is a revolution. There is no respite otherwise, the oppressive system is too ingrained. And the people who should know better have been playing double game for their own benefit. This primitive society gets more emboldened in its own invincibility. The society is already blind to the violence in its very nonviolent way. They refuse to see the plight of people as they pride in their deviant culture”

Chaturvediji had answer for this “Yes. Yes we must speak for the minority. Haven’t you read muslim’s representation is going down”. He displayed his trump card. It showcased him in rarified region of communal harmony and minority rights. That it was restricted to elite section of muslims, and that the traditional oppression followed the lower sections of muslims (with brutal patriarchy) too was not his immediate concern nor was he any concerned about the narrow definition of minorities as muslims. He was adept in his game and knew which button to press, how to extract benefits from seemingly hopeless situation. This was also an attempt to secede from his traditional hindu brethrens, who are seen as uncouth, classified as fundamentalist, and thus showcasing this distancing as hint on liberal. They keep pushing each other, and this is how policies are negotiated, common people are incidental in the scheme of things. Before Kumar could contemplate on this the Ticket checker arrived. He ticked against the name after scrutinizing the ticket. Handing back the ticket to Chaturvediji he expressed camaraderie “Everything comfortable Chaturvediji. Do let me know if you need anything”. This amity was not expressed to anyone else, and my hunch is that he took cues from the name, Chaturvedi was obvious choice. Chaturvediji in return was back into his humble self, acknowledging the camaraderie with a complicated gesture that I had difficulty deciphering but the ticket checker read it fully in all its intent.

Kumar was speaking “Unlike Gandhians we don’t take high moral grounds. We also do not seek to secede from the Indian union to establish a sovereign state. We only want to capture political power through armed struggle to restructure society”

“But you can contest election. You can be part of democracy”

Kumar’s reply was vehement, I traced a rising anger in him “Oppressed people don’t have the means nor the nuances to match the Machiavellian politicians. Congress party’s enduring legacy to Gandhi has been converting Gandhi cap into symbol of corruption. They are the ones who over the decades bulldozed marginalized and exploited natural resources among themselves. This system is adapted as model of development and now BJP is asserting it. They are no different. People in power are always same. We will make our struggle more violent”. He stopped short of declaring himself a Naxalite. Though I had my reservations I couldn’t however disagree with his emotions and compulsions.

Chaturvediji had closed his eyes and detached himself, he had assumed a posture of meditation, the kind one see in temple, the priest in front of the idol. He was muttering something, maybe he was invoking some higher force to bring peace to the world, a feat only likes of him could muster, I wouldn’t know. He refused to interact hence forth but insistently carried his beatific self through the rest of the journey.

Early next morning the train anchored into the Delhi railway station. There was a small crowd waiting for Chaturvediji, they raise slogans, garland him and touch his feet. Chaturvediji had ensconced himself in his comfort zone, he blessed them with brief pat. It didn’t matter that other passengers were facing discomfort as the people jostled to find their way out. I decided to walk to the bus stop than pay a ransom for the taxi. As I walked I got a glimpse of Chaturvediji in his luxury car followed by a cavalcade. He gazed through me as he passed. My attention was drawn to an emaciated rickshaw puller, he seemed severely malnourished. He was pulling the rickshaw with some effort, the passenger was oblivious of this as he busied himself over the phone. It took me some time to come in terms with the sight of Kumar. Never mind, did India’s well fed freedom fighters ever gave second thought to handpulled rickshaws as they rushed from one conference to another with a mission of freeing the nation? Or for that matter did the pretentious comrades in Bengal ever felt the pain and humiliations, that existed until few years back. Next morning as I flipped through the newspaper I came across the picture of Sitaram Chaturvedi, he was being awarded as a torchbearer of Gandhian values by the establishment. The minister made a special mention of his travelling in second class trains so as to be in touch with the plight of the common people. Chaturvediji was showing signs of humbleness, pupil dilated, hunched back…let’s leave our godforsaken fellow to negotiate his petty life and ambitions. There was another news report that caught my attention, it read that the Minister has called Naxalism the greatest threat to nations unity and integrity and pledged to wipe them out with iron fist. I looked out of the window the sun was peeping out of morning haze, it was going to be another tough day.