Deepak Thimaya

Bitter Coffee

2012-01-23T09:25:00.001+05:30

It is bad to overhear a conversation but one cannot help ifthe conversation is happening in the row of seats behind you in the waitinglounge of an airport. And I heard this conversation in Hyderabad airport.

'Excuse me, excuse me.' I heard a man say.

The voice was coming from behind and I turned to see whetherI was the object of his effort to draw attention. He was in fact leaning overthe seat next to him to reach his voice to a woman sitting four seats away fromhim who looked immersed in a book particularly because she had half of her haircovering the side of the face from him and me. As I had turned the woman turnedtowards the man who sought her attention, and I turned back.

'Hi, are you from Banjara Hills?' the man asked. There wassilence.

'I think I have seen you somewhere before.' he said.

'May be.' the faint female voice was heard.

'Tell me where is your office' there was eagerness in the man's voice.

'Why?' the woman asked

'I think I have met you sometime.

'I don't think so' the woman said

'What work do you do?'

'I am a consultant' the woman said.

'You get jobs for people? You do recruitment, right?'

There was silence

'What consultancy you do?' the man made his voice louder.

'We are into various types of consultancy.' the woman seemedto give a definite answer.

'Where is your office?'

'In Begumpet."

'Oh near the old airport?' he sounded glad

'No.' the woman said

'Then where?'

'Mayfair building.'

'Oh, now I know,' he sounded confident, 'I keep comingthere. I have seen you there. My office is close by. We have done a lot of jobsfor the consultants there. What is your consultancy called?

'It is ***** Consultancy.' she was barely audible.

'Hey, I know it.I have seen you there' I thought he jumped.

'But I am never there. I keep travelling.'

'Oh ok. Are you travelling on work now?'

'Yes.'

'Where are you going?'

'Bangalore.'

Silence

What is your good name, please?

Renita

Nice name, ha ha

We offer communication services, I am in ********

Silence again.

'How is that book that you are reading?'. He must haveleaned over at least two seats towards her that his voice sounded as distant ashers.

'It is nice.'

'Who is the author?'

Silence

'Ok, I think you are busy.'

Long silence

'Those people make good coffee.' He must have pointed atsomeplace far away because there was no coffee dispensing facility in thelounge were sitting in.

'Ok.' I heard say.

Silence

'I am getting some coffee for myself.'

Silence

'Would you like to come with me?',

'No, you have it.'

Silence

'Can I get you a cup? he sounded like a kitten.'

'No, thanks. I think you are not allowed to drink here.'

Silence again.

Silence continues.

Then I heard her in a louder and clearer voice,' Hey youwere supposed to go for coffee, aren't you going?'

I heard some murmur and some ruffle behind me and then...

a very long silence.

I turned to look and I saw the woman reading the book withmore hair hiding her face from me and I turned more and I saw nothing andnobody behind me.

I am sure the coffee was more bitter than usual.

The Horrible Citizen

2011-12-03T15:24:00.001+05:30

Climbing up the stairs on the outside, to my office in thefirst floor of the building, I heard the most horrible noise coming fromsomewhere from behind the building. It was a harsh drilling sound like someonewas making a hole through a metal wall and had a rock in between to take careof. The sound could have blasted anyone’s ear drum and certainly could bringheadache to any one in the vicinity.

I was really angry and upset. This was intolerable. I amalways against public nuisance and nuisance of this kind? My God, I could havestrangled the person who was causing it if I were the violent kind.

There are so many monstrosities being constructed around myoffice building and I looked around to take note of them. The constructedframes were so huge and indifferent looking; I was sure that anybody’s civicsense was not their bother. The sound was surely coming from such a menaceclose by.

I looked down and found some women washing vessels. Ithought they would know the story behind the sound and asked them about it.They said that the sound was indeed bad and threw their hands in the direction ofthe infinity behind our building. I made an expression of disgust which wasshared and reflected on their faces too and I was happy that my indignation wasunderstood by others as well.

I turned and saw my office assistant walking behind me. Iexpressed my anger with him saying how uncivilized people were, to be sounmindful of the nuisance being caused. Our business functioned the best in aquiet environment where every sound produced or heard was only as much asnecessary.

The boy was perplexed too because the sound was not justharsh and intolerable but also dirty, as it had somevulgarity in it. I made a snide remark about the sound and asked him to look forthe number of the municipality official whom I would immediately call uponentering the office, to complain about the crime of insensitivity and noisepollution.

I also debated about how someone would justify making suchsounds during the day to keep the nights calm and quiet. I was also troubled bythe fact that as construction was unavoidable; noise and dust were part of it,and how I could explain that a functioning neighbourhood on a working dayneeded peace.

I was obviously distressed and my mood was getting worse. I evenrefused to acknowledge the greeting of the person at the door, as all I had inmy mind at that moment was to find a way to stop the noise, and if possiblepunish the person responsible for it.

India

is like this, I thought, ‘no concern in anybody for anyone’. May be the worker wasunaware, maybe his eardrum was perforated after all these years of work, butwhat an ass that contractor or the supervisor must be! Or, did not the owner ofthe building, constructing such a glowering mess, have the civic sense to knowthat his activity should not be the cause of his neighbour’s misery? I had todo something.

Entering the office I could hear the noise even more anddefined. It was coming from the nether part of the building. The people sittingin the first room were working as if nothing was wrong. I felt sorry for them.

‘How can you work in this noise,’ I asked, ‘how can wetolerate this?’ I was furious.

The office was supposed to be busy with an important projectwhich required everyone paying undivided attention to their work. This nonsensehad to stop. Nobody said anything.

This was the way our people reacted to everything,tolerating every nuisance, be it corruption or pollution – some kind of moralimpotence. I would not take it lying down. I would do something about it. I would stop the sound – this time – forsure.

I walked further into the office and heard the sound moreand more. It was like the sound was just a few feet away. I rushed to the roomat the back to get closer to its source. Now, the sound was so loud andshattering, that it appeared like the sound was shaking my office by enteringit. Yes, it was inside my office. I opened the closed door of the room at theback and the sound was indeed there, coming from the heavy duty drill which wasboring a hole in the wall.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I asked, almost trying to shoutover the sound of the drill.

The office-in-charge came running out and said ‘Sir, it isyou who asked to move the air-conditioner to the corner of the wall and theseare the service people.’

The equipment had to be moved since it was causing a problemas the waft of the air from it was troubling the people who worked in thatroom. I wanted it done without delay and today. It was being done.

I walked out of the room and out of the office, into theopen air, still unable to espace the soundthat was all pervading at that moment.

The Second Coming

2011-09-16T09:36:00.000+05:30

Going to college in Kodag was a journey of experiences. I had to travel about fifty kilometers by bus traversing the arduous terrain and reach the college, definitely not missing to account the mile long walk to the bus stop.

In those days it was interesting to travel in buses for long distances with a sheet of rain constantly hitting against the tarpaulin covering the windows and the warm human huddle inside. The bus would move slowly and the journey would be always longer than necessary with infinite number of stops owing to people stopping the bus sometimes every hundred metres to get in or get down at a place nearest to their homes, avoiding slush and dirt on the roadside.

I used to always manage to get a seat and also play custodian for seats for my friends and teachers when they got into the bus along the way. To get a seat in an almost always crowded bus is not an easy job. All that it took was a kerchief or a bag or an umbrella during the rainy season. You could even just slip any of these through the window and if it fell on the seat then the seat was yours for the journey. That was the unwritten rule.

In my experience there were no disputes ever, unless you had put your seat-booking object on the seat of a person who was on an onward journey but had temporarily vacated his seat for a brief recess. The code was followed to such an extent that people would even stand stuffed in a broken back position while a seat waited for someone who had put a pen on it.

It was a routine that I was used to. Since I had classes almost every day of the year, particularly because I was in plus two and ensuring more classes was a way by which the college gave out a signal that it was serious with the exams that we were supposed to write, I could have done this routine in a state of deep sleep.

The day started with me almost always getting up a good half hour later than the set time, in most cases with a good shower of scolding from my mother and hurrying to the wash room that was almost always occupied and then wearing the clothes that was kept ready by the doting mother, who I had to be extra nice to, to enjoy a hassle free life. \

I went by the radio at home and the radio was always on. It was a time when the tv signals did not reach the remote corner of my existence. The radio functioned on both electricity and battery. When power was cut off, which as more often, the battery mode got switched on and all the set programs on the radio would play as definitely as the markings on a clock. That is one thing about the government radio, the programs start on time. While I woke up for an advice on the radio, and brushed my teeth for the English news, and bathed during the counseling for farmers, got dressed during the Kannada news and picked up my bags and paraphernalia during the songs, it was time for me to run when the Sanskrit news started.

It took me exactly under seven minutes to reach the bus stop and there were very few occasions when I walked to the bus. I was so certain of the bus and the bus was so certain of me. The bus turned a corner and I saw it, as always, every day and if I was late the driver would wait even upto a minute. That is the relationship one builds in a routine in addition to the routine being a synonym of boredom.

From the stop in the next small town the bus provided enough opportunity for someone to keep the seats reserved. Though now I would think of it as unfair, in the days of everything seen as a challenge and achievement , even something as being able to keep seats reserved for one’s friends indeed looked like no small deal.

I regularly kept seats ready for a teacher, and five friends in different towns. In some cases I would allow some people to sit with the warning that they had to let go of the seats the moment my wards boarded the bus. Everyone obliged, perhaps only to not get into a tussle with a 17 year old brat.

I remember the long journeys spent with the teacher when in the sparse light seeping into the bus, I would read from books and discuss literature, endlessly. But that was only when the teacher was in a good mood and also when I did not have a reason to escape her attention in the class, during the day. A good relationship in the bus certain helped in maintaining diplomacy in the class. An excuse was easily swallowed by even a tough teacher like her.

One rainy season, I had started keeping seat for a senior student in college, who was polite and affable. He always greeted me with a smile and exchanged pleasantries on boarding the bus. I confirmed to myself about the eligibility of this person to get a bona fide seat from me, and after a few days more, one day, I offered the seat to him. He traveled in the bus only till the next town because he said that he had to every day collect some stuff to be delivered on the way before continuing the onward journey to college.

This went on for almost a month. Every day, him getting into the bus, me giving him the seat next to me, us talking about the college and the lecturers and about other seniors of mine who were his classmates, and then him getting down in the town midway. This was a company I looked forward to every day. We never spoke anything personal and in spite of being most curious, I did not volunteer to know beyond what mattered in the journey.

It was a Monday and as usual I was ready with my seats and even some friends and a teacher were already in and settled. I waited for the stop where my friend would get in. The bus was crowded. The bus stopped at his stop and people got in and the bus moved. I craned my neck looking for my friend. He was nowhere to be seen. I stood up. This guy was tall enough to be visible so I knew that he could be seen even in a crowded bus. He was not to be seen anywhere. I raised myself on the bar behind the seat in front me and looked. I caught a glimpse of him standing on the footboard.

Silly guy, why was he standing on the footboard when I had a decent seat waiting for him! I waved at him and he looked in my direction and expressed a blank stare. I frantically called him to come, I called his name. He did not move. This was bad. I was hurt. Why was this bloody guy behaving like this, was he mad? It looked like he avoided me. Forget about avoiding me, he behaved like he did not even know me. Could it be that he was in a bad mood and early morning was not the time for friendship. I was sad but I did not do much. I sat in my seat and got lost in my own world.

The next day I was more eager. This time he moved a little closer to my seat but did not take the seat, though I offered earnestly. I asked him what was wrong, he did not reply. Today he smiled a bit but was serious otherwise. My mind was working overtime. Why was he not speaking, what bloody thing was wrong? I was more confused than anything else.

This is the way the world is, I decided. I ran the most of my memory with him through my moral scanner to see if I had said or done anything that would have warranted such behaviour from him. Nothing that I could remember, and even so what could have I said or done that could make a person go so cold and dry with me. If he did not like to be my friend he would have avoided me or turned away from me. But, why was this guy just not talking, and behaving like a complete stranger?

I spent a sleepless night, thinking about the whole saga and my helplessness to find a plausible explanation. I woke up a little late the next morning and had to rush through the chores. It did not miss my mind to remember again about the pain of losing a friend, and more so when someone considered a friend suddenly became a stranger. I decided that it was time to move on and to take this too as a lesson in life. It pricked my conscience so hard that I even started thinking whether it was time to stop being good to anyone and consider anyone a friend at all. But for now, I decided to put it behind me and to think of better things. And finally, I was firm that for at least some time I would stop keeping seats and stands for anyone.

When I reached the bus stop the bus had been waiting. Look, another example of someone doing something for someone, out of the way. I got into the bus but not before thanking the driver with a wave at him, which he rightly acknowledged. I sat on my usual seat by the window and continued a quiet journey. As the bus stop where my moral anguish would commence I stayed motionless to avoid looking around. The bus continued its journey. It is common to make mistakes and I too committed mistakes and this time inadvertently looked around. Before I realized my mistake I saw this fellow, my former friend, standing leaning to the pole behind my seat. I looked at him and he looked at me. The same cold gaze but this time from both sides. I immediately turned back and looked out of the window and in a few moments had forgotten him. He was out and done.

I felt a strange sense of peace. Throwing him out of my mind and my own suffering at being treated badly was forgotten. Mind can make peace with itself and time heals. These are not cosmic secrets, I am sure, but mechanisms that we perhaps forget to put to use.

The next day the day started as usual, fresher and brighter. I was in the bus and the innards of the bus was full choc o bloc. In the town next to my stop an old friend got into the bus and sat next to me. We had a good chat and discussed many things as he went to college in a city and of course there were a million things I wanted to know. I did not even notice all the stops the bus stopped at and was brought out of my chatter mode only when someone tapped on my shoulder.

I was shocked and angry. The friend who had become a stranger was bending over my seat and had placed his hand on my shoulder. He had a broad smile on his face. “How are you?” he asked. What would I say? I had the urge to say “Yes, look I have become an asshole and how does it make you feel?”, but I didn’t say anything.

I turned my face and continued my conversation with my friend. The stranger, tapped on my shoulder again. I ignored, but my friend from the city was now curious. He looked at me in askance and I ignored that too and continued to talk about something else.

The fellow was calling my name now. I looked at him and since I had no reason to consider him as anything but as someone who needed urgent medical attention in a medical facility, I raised my finger to my mouth and signaled him to keep quiet. I could have hit him, if that was the right thing to do. What did he think of me? I did not want to be part of his games.

There was another tap on my shoulder and now I was really irritated. I did not want any truck with him. When the tapping continued I threw my last glance at him, almost meaning that one more tap and he it would be a war.

“Let me please explain to you” he said. With my friend sitting next to me feeling uncomfortable, I thought I could put this off for a while and told the stranger “Ok, let us talk later.” He looked serious and looked like he was going to indeed give me an explanation for his folly and antics.

My friend from the city regaled me with his stories about his college and his life in the city. It was like a breath of fresh air in the already stagnant routine life.

In a few minutes, my friend got ready to disembark from the bus since the bus was reaching the town he was to go to.

As he was getting up and going out I saw my friend turned foe trying to get into the space. I hurried to see if I could get someone else to sit there, but by then this guy had already put his bag and the seat was reserved. Since the unwritten rule had to be followed, I kept quiet. He came and sat next to me with a heavy thud. The thud itself sounded like a sigh and it took my peace away.

I sat motionless. I could feel that he was looking at me. What was there to look? What was there to speak? What was there to be understood? I would not speak to this guy ever. That was my decision.

“Hey, I know, why you feel like this.” He said. “ This is not just you, so many people feel like that and many have stopped talking to me after that”

Oh what a thing, so he is crazy and he behaves like that once in a while and the whole world should understand. How funny. I am not amused, Sir. I rattled off in my mind but did not speak a word.

“I am sure you will not forgive me, but I cannot be sorry too” he continued “because I have not done any mistake”

No, Sir. You did not do any mistake at all, it is my bloody fault, I thought you were a friend and thought that I would be treated like one. Can I please punch you in your face and pay back, please?

“I know you will not understand but I want you to know the truth, though it is hard to believe”

Come on, of course it must be some earth shattering truth about amnesia, some split personality, some possession something, I am sure. Do I look like a sitting duck? The only audience in a freak show, the only person you found to regale for your circus?

“Please believe me” he said, pleading, but with a smile on the face. I was looking at him now, like I was going to listen to the last words from him.

“It was not me.” He said in a soft voice.

“Yes, I know it was your ghost.” I spoke for the first time.

“Not my ghost, but my brother, my twin.” He sounded like he had said this so many times. “Didn’t you notice that he had a different hair style? That is the only thing that is different. He is my identical twin and everyone mistakes him for me and me for him. This has been happening from my out childhood.”

I was just looking at him.

“You believe it sometimes even our mother gets confused when she sees us from a distance. We have stopped explaining to people. That is the reason he goes to a college in a different direction altogether. Last three days I was unwell and you know I need to reach something to a shop every day in the next town. Since I could not go he came in my place. I am sorry I had not told you earlier about my brother. I am sorry.

“But he could have told me?” I protested.

“Yes, but he has to do it so often, explaining to people and people think it is funny. If he starts speaking to them, they will talk things only that I know and he ends up looking like a fool. So, he does not even open his mouth when people seem to recognize him and when he does not recognize them. I am more outgoing and I can handle it better, but he is more reserved in behaviour and disposition and he finds it difficult. I cannot say anything more, but I hope you understand.

I had nothing to say. I understood. I also understood that how it was not him but my overactive mind that had given me the double trouble which most often perhaps is the cause of everyone’s misery.

Lost, for sure.

2011-07-07T22:01:00.000+05:30

I am not very comfortable when I am asked to check in my luggage at airports. That is the precise reason I travel light and most often I end up buying clothes in the places I visit. It is just those few extra tiring and anxious minutes that you need to spend at the conveyor belt that makes me avoid checking in my baggage.

I had also heard from many that sometimes it is the most comfortable thing to do because once you checked in your luggage you were free to roam about the airport, go hands free to the security check point and then even saunter into the toilet with a free hand and heart, if need be.

Traveling to Coimbatore recently for some reason on the spur of the moment, I asked the lady at the check-in counter to take my luggage in. She looked like she was glad with the additional job. As my bag went in on the black belt my heart started sinking. Anyway, you need to try things once in a while. It is not that I have never done this before, but those times before when I put the luggage for check-in were justified because then I had the kind and size of luggage that could certainly not go into the cabin even if I wished to take it with me.

This short flight to Coimbatore was safe. Since I knew that the airport in Coimbatore is a small one compared to the ones with many many conveyor belts where one had to scurry around looking for the luggage in the arrival area, I was sure this airport would be easier. I felt free for once, without the trappings of my luggage around me. Even disembarking was a less cumbersome deal.

I got out of the plane in Coimbatore, walked the short distance to the terminal like everyone else and hurried to the baggage claim. It was just one big bag, and the other fear I always have is about recognizing the bag and whether my bag is claimed by someone else before me. So I was all eyes and waiting for the conveyor belt which was already in motion, to display my bag. There was a crowd around the belt and the anxious ones were pressed precariously against the casing of the belt and looked like they could fall on it and start rolling any moment.

I waited and waited but my bag did not show up. It was a long wait of over ten minutes. Things were getting bad in my mind. The belt stopped and there was nothing on it and nobody around the belt except me. My heart was beating violently, threatening to come out of my chest. I looked around and saw a big crowd of people gathered around an airport official and a representative of the airline company. I ran there. People were talking about their luggage.

Now my heart sank from what I heard. ‘The luggage did not arrive’ the executive continued, ‘it is back there in the airport. It was not loaded.’ ‘What nonsense!’ I thought. My fear was bad enough and then this had to happen to me? I pushed myself into the crowd and now was in front of the officials.

“So what happens now?’ I asked.

She said ‘Please give your address, Sir, we will ensure that it reaches you wherever you are.’

‘How can you?’ I protested’ I am going fifty kilometers away from here and I myself don’t know the address.’ I could have cried, but I didn’t.

‘I shall wait, but when will it arrive?’ I asked.

‘By evening, Sir.’ She sounded cool like it was natural.

It was still morning and what would I do till evening and I had a meeting before lunch and it was important.

‘But, why till evening?’ I was getting restless.

‘Sir, it has to come from Delhi.

My God, Delhi! How did it reach Delhi? I came from Bangalore to Coimbatore and why would the luggage go to Delhi in such a short time? Or, was it that the luggage was mistakenly loaded into a Delhi flight and that was why it would come from Delhi?

What would I do now?

“How did it go from Bangalore to Delhi?” I wanted to know clearly.

“Bangalore?’ She sounded like Bangalore was on another planet, ‘The luggage was not loaded in Delhi.’

It was all very confusing.

The others were watching me keenly.

I asked my final question. ‘But, why did my luggage end up in Delhi.’

Now the executive smiled and said ‘Sir, if you came from Bangalore, your luggage is on that belt’ and showed another belt, still rolling, at a distance.

And my big bag, unmistakably mine, the only bag on the belt now, was doing its final rounds.

I ran to my bag with the thought that it was always better to lose one’s face than lose one’s bag.

Sweet Kitten, Delicious Chicken

2011-06-13T19:07:00.002+05:30

This actually had followed my tv show the previous night - I had a chat with an ecologist and in the course of the discussion had spoken about dogs and cats and how it had particularly become difficult for cats to survive in a city like Bangalore. The few things that he told about the hazards a cat faced in the city made me really worry for my favourite animal. Even before the show was over, I had decided that I would have to take care of at least one cat and alleviate its suffering.

The next morning, climbing the steps to an office I saw at a distance a cat lying on a gunny bag in front of the door of an outhouse in the compound, feeding five little kittens which sucked at its teats unmindful of all the sound and noise around. I was immediately drawn to that scene and climbed down and walked unto the cat family. The mother cat was indeed a scrawny famished female and the kittens too were not in the best of health. The mother looked like she had lost all her weight having fed the kittens even the last drop of milk in her body. A small bowl of milk placed a few feet away looked like it was consciously ignored by the cat and her kittens. I picked up a kitten that by now had finished her sucking and was stretching in the sun. The kitten looked clean, a tabby type. I wanted to take it.

I asked the lady who hovered around the scene and decided her to be the master of situation and asked whether the kitten was available to be adopted. She, for some reason only known to her, readily agreed and was in fact for a moment appeared hoping that I would take all the kittens and even the mother cat. I told her that I was interested in this particular striped grey tabby kitten. She said there were better ones and picked the two that were more acceptable to Indian mentality; a white kitten and one with orange stripes. One look at their faces and the next look at the kitten in my hand confirmed to me that the kitten I selected was neater, cleaner and really the one I wanted.

My kitten looked too small and did not resist much. It fit in my palm and I held it close to my heart. I decided that I would take care of it no matter what. But, I did not know when I could take it. Whether it was ready to be weaned, and whether it would survive away from its mother. I was told that the kitten was over a month old and could be taken. I did not even wait for a moment. I asked whether I had to pay any money. The lady flatly refused like, one less kitten out of the house was like one less burden and nuisance. I picked the kitten up and went to my office.

Not many were pleased with my idea of keeping the kitten in my office. Kittens are to be brought up in home. I did not agree. I wanted a kitten for my office. Why? Because my kitten would grow up in freedom and would have all the space for itself. My kitten would be my stress buster and companion in my office. I named it Simba and also gave it my second name so it was official. Though we had cats in our home in Kodag, taking care of a kitten after three decades in Bangalore was almost a new thing for me.

I knew that a kitten would drink milk. I placed a bowl of milk in front of it, which remained untouched the whole day till it got spoilt. I was worried, so I force fed it with a syringe without the needle. After a few doses of milk and glucose water, there was some activity and that pleased me immensely.

I spent the rest of the day or two by taking care of the kitten all the time. The kitten spent more time on my lap than on the floor of the office. My kitten was not very active. First I had to get it the anti-rabies shot and also because it had some infection in the eye, I had to get it treated. It was taken to a government veterinary clinic close by and the doctor cleaned its eyes, checked it thoroughly and gave it the shot too. The kitten had fever that night.

In the meantime I was soon becoming its foster mother. Simba would crawl up my pants and settle on my lap and in a better mood would crawl up my shirt and settle on my shoulder and have a sleep. I had to sometimes sit still for an hour to allow it to have an uninterrupted sleep.

It would respond to my calls and would do my bidding like – eat, go, come, sit on my lap and all that. I was getting attached to my kitten. Whenever I was in the office, I was either feeding it, talking to it or cleaning it. It was too small to know much. I had to make it happy.

Me and my friend went to a pet store and bought it a litter facility, a sleeping pad, toys and cat food. To watch it play and eat and move around was giving me immeasurable delight. It was becoming difficult for me stay away from my kitten. I beseeched the watchman in the building to take care of the kitten and also the assistant in the office was given specific instruction to spend most of his time for the kitten’s welfare.

The office space is on the fourth floor of the building, is quite secluded and is seldom visited by strangers. With very few people having access to my office and the kitten, I felt safe for the kitten as it was secure.

The remarks that I heard about my kitten made me happy as well as scared. Happy that I had a cute looking kitten, liked by everyone and scared that a cute little kitten would end up in someone else’s house sooner or later and all it took was a bag and the sleight of hand.

I started spending more and more time in the office and most of my time was spent training the little one, feeding it or cleaning after it. In fact I feared the whole association becoming an obsession and that is when I started fearing about going away even for a day or two without having access to the kitty.

In between all this some matter came up that I had to leave for Mysore and had to stay away for a day and a half. Even that felt like a huge plan because the watchman in the building had left for

Nepal

, to his hometown and as it was Saturday and Sunday the next day, even the office assistant would not be available from afternoon on Saturday. This became a head ache. I had heard that kittens could survive without much food and water for a day or two, and I did speak to a few people who pretended as cat experts and gave me an awful lot of advice which I carefully stashed in a corner of my brain.

I, with an unwilling mind left the kitten in the office and went to Mysore. For the sake of the kitten, I ensured that the trip to Mysore started only towards evening much after sufficiently cuddling, petting and feeding it and ensuring that enough food and water was placed all over the place that there would be no dearth of anything for the little fellow.

Through my journey and during my overnight stay and till the next day evening, I had nothing much in my mind apart from the welfare of the kitten. I had no way to know the condition in my office. The office and the building were closed for Sunday and one particular floor though would be open for a few hours, I had no contacts there.

I had every opportunity to stay back in Mysore with friends and have a good time, since I was there in that city after almost a year. It was a time to enjoy and to forget problems and office worries. But, my mind could not be taken off from my muse, my kitten. I was just waiting to return. Me and the others who had come with me; after enough convincing by me, started back late in the afternoon, with my plan to reach before it was too late in the night to see my kitten.

I had not told anyone the real reason but through the journey I was worried about my feline ward being hungry and going feeble without water, food and companionship. I was quiet and thinking. Reaching the city, I wanted to be on my own, so after dropping off the others at their homes, I headed straight to my office. Me and my driver. It was 9.30 in the night. The moment the car stopped I did not even look for the lift and ran upstairs, four floors, as I thought running up the stairs was faster than taking the lift.

My kitten always came to me the moment it heard my voice. I ran into the corridor that leads to my office, screaming my kitten’s name and waiting for it to come running to me with its feeble meow and tiny claws scratching at my pants. There was nothing. No kitten, no scratching, not even a sound. I had made a small hole in the wall for the kitten to come out whenever it felt like. It was nowhere. I opened the door. There was no sign of the kitten. I looked around. I looked above, below, inside, outside, every nook and corner. I even peeped into boxes, and opened the drawers. I screamed its name and pleaded it to come out. I went out and looked in the open space around the office. I looked in the toilets and in the lift well. I called my office in-charge to tell me whether he knew its whereabouts. The guy never seemed likely to love cats, still managed to sound concerned. And I was desperately making phone calls and since I had not charged both my phones, both had their charge completely drained off and the phones were dead.

I peeped over the parapet and called out to my driver and asked him to come with his phone. I went back to the office and kept looking. The lift worked and it does not take fifteen minutes for anyone to come up even if someone were to come up crawling. I was still searching for my kitten and when even after fifteen minutes there was no sign of the driver with his phone, I went and looked down. The driver was standing there next to the car and was saying something which was clearly unintelligible. I was out of my patience now. I ran down the flight of stairs and reached the ground floor and there the driver was standing in front of the grill shutter unable to come in. The main entrance to the building was locked. The driver told that in some way the part-time watchman who was in some corner of the building had come out exactly after I had entered and had locked the shutter without being aware that I was up in the fourth floor. There was a big padlock sitting pretty in the fix and there was no way anyone could even break it.

I immediately decided that since I had to stay the whole night in the building, perhaps sleeping on the sofa, I would reconcile to the fact and search for the kitten to my heart’s satisfaction. I ran up and looked for the kitten. I was crying. I found a charger and charged one of the phones and made a few calls. I was hurt and it was heard in my voice and I made it clear to everyone that it was the saddest moment because my baby cat was missing and it was impossible for me to imagine it gone. It was a little sick a few days ago and though I had arranged for some food and water, there was no sign of anything. Even the food bowl was overturned. A thorough search in the open area around my office showed some scary signs. Someone had fed some biscuits to the kitten and I was now sure that someone had taken it by trying to feed it. My grief knew no bounds. I had to shut my mouth with my hand to stop a loud howl escaping it. I ran up and down the building looking for any trace of the kitten. Who would tell me and what would I see at eleven in the night! I with all sadness closed my office and came down. To my surprise the watchman was traced and brought, and he had opened the shutter.

The watchman said that he had seen the kitten around afternoon and he had even given it some food. He said something else that shocked me. According to him my kitten would walk up to his pad in the other corner of the building and play with him whenever we were not around. I know how people place demands for nice kittens and how sometimes watchmen and maids can easily pick up kittens and deliver them to some house.

I sized his height and width and came to a conclusion that he was the first suspect.

He did not show much worry on his face and told me that he would look for the kitten. He stared looking for my sweetie under the watchman’s table and around the doormat. I was getting irritated.

I knew it was getting late and whatever could be done would be done only in the morning. With a stern warning that I would bring the police and help them flog anyone who stole my kitten, and after ensuring that atleast there was a streak of worry on his face, I left. By then, I had many calls from friends and family members assuring me of my kitten’s safe return. I did not believe them one bit. It was impossible for the little kitten to return from wherever it was because it had not stepped out of the building even once, apart from the time it was taken in a bag to the veterinarian.

I even refused to seek help from God because I knew it was useless.

I went home with a sad heart and a sadder face. My mom who by now had measured my agony tried to console me. I had my heart crying silently. I reached out through facebook for some solace and many posted comments praying for my kitten’s safe return. I just needed a good night’s sleep. I slept. Somehow I had a good sleep, probably also owing to the tiredness of the journey earlier in the evening.

The moment I woke up, the first thing that I did was call a person whom I trusted to do things right, and asked him to go to the building before anyone went there and to ensure that he would wait in the premises till anyone arrived and would broadcast my warning to everyone that whoever stole my kitten would have to pay in may ways for it. The reason was, that if anyone had any other plans for the day they would not have a chance to change it. This guy asked me the reason and I told him about my loss. He said he would look for the kitten. I said it was useless. I was half hoping that he would either get some clue about the thief or some reason to console me further.

People found it funny that I would complain to the police, but I was getting ready with a complaint. I am one person, who has always believed that an animal has as much right as a human being on Earth. I don’t know about other places.

I had concluded that the kitten was gone and was even thinking of how I could fill the loss and the space that it left behind. Then I wanted to call the guy who had already reached my building to see what happened. I saw a notification of a message that had come in. I opened the message and the message was from the guy, I had sent to prepare my investigation. The message read, ‘Sir, your chicken is safe’. I called his number. I wanted to know what I had told him and what he had found. I asked him, ‘What?’. He coolly said ‘Sir, your chicken is here and playing. It is fine.’ ‘Hey pal, are you talking about my kitten, or something else?’. He continued to be cool, ‘Yes Sir, sorry, your kitten, not chicken, is safe. Don’t worry.’

The news was more delicious than any chicken dish I had ever had.

Love without a voice

2011-04-09T23:09:00.003+05:30

My grandmother told me that I would grow up as a zoo keeper. Even I thought so for a while. Not a bad idea, but I did not know whether someone could become a zoo keeper by just loving animals; especially wild animals.

Growing up in Kodag, savouring the beauty of a verdant landscape, watching and enjoying the company of domesticated animals and wildlife, I was being schooled in biology better at home than in school.

My earliest memory of a pet is of Moti, a tall lean dog with a lean and long face. I remember that it was a friendly dog, and it remained a favourite of everyone at home till its death, of which I have a faint memory since I was a little kid when it died. Then came Biligiri. Biligiri meant a mountain of white and the dog was a furry, happy white dog, with a fluffy tail. Biligiri was most loved and cared for by the family. Biligiri lived for years, through most of my childhood till one day it was killed of poisoning.

I was never too close to dogs because of a few bad experiences I had with some dogs in the neighbourhood. I remember the bad experiences were- either being chased by a pack of dogs, to being mauled by another, to being scratched on my legs by a dog that I thought was safe and friendly. All this had made me very wary of dogs. I could never trust a dog after that.

In fact I took to cats. Cats were safe and less eager to do anything once their stomach was full. I was impressed by their apparent indifference and the careless attitude. All the inhuman traits in cats got me attracted to them. A cat rarely bothers about how much love you give it but when it decides to need your company it comes to you no matter what. A cat takes care of itself and allows you have a non intrusive petting whether it is eating or sleeping or even playing with its kittens. The apparent insensitivity of a cat to your petting and offer of love makes one feel that whatever love you have given is not sufficient enough and you keep giving more and more. Even a small reaction from the cat could ensure a great sense of gratification.

We had many cats and in a big house to keep tracking cats was not an easy thing. So often me and the other cat lovers in the large family, that was ours, waited for the feeding time when a big bowl of milk attracted the cats from every corner of the house. The circular assembly of cats around the rim of the flat bowl with their tongues dipped in the milk on top of the cooked rice, was such a delight to watch. Though the cats growled at each other, unlike most dogs they allowed an eager person to pet even while eating or drinking. Some playful ones even licked the petting hand in intervals between the business of licking milk in the bowl.

Many cats in the house over the years did not die a natural death but were mostly killed by rogue dogs and some of the dogs were our own. It was the most depressing thing for me to wake up some mornings to see the dead body of a cat or a kitten on the yard in front of the house and a dog walking carelessly as if celebrating an achievement. It was the turn of the servants of the house to drag the dog in a chain to the dead body and forcibly poke the dog’s snout to the dead cat’s body and to beat the writhing canine till they believed that the dog had learnt its lesson. That was the only solace to the cat lover in the house to comfort oneself amid a tearful outpouring of grief at the loss of an insensitive but lovable pet.

My love for cats reached its lowest point sometimes after I started showing interest in other pets. Every Sunday or a holiday were days for me to put together a small band of bold children including my sister and other children from the estate labourers quarter, to go and fish in the only stream that ran in the middle of our village. After a day long fishing trip which was mostly an act of setting out with a cane basket, a big bottle with water in it and a sickle and going all day on the edge of the stream by shoving the basket into the water at the brink of the stream under the grass and other green growth and then pushing the basket once clockwise and then anti clockwise and then slowly lifting the basket to find some tiny fish, a few tadpoles and sometimes baby crabs and some exotic worms and insects.

The day would end with the bottle full with a veriety of tiny fish swimming busily inside the bottle. Though I don’t know the species of the different varieties of fishes that we caught from time to time, the only three varieties were what I called the colour colour fish; because of the colours, blue green, red and purple on its body, and morante menu, and the common fresh water eel. I still don’t know as what the first two varieties are known in biology, but the last one, the eel, I was able to particularly remember after one eel cut through my hand and escaped into water after I tried to hold it clasped in my fist.

The bottle had to be guarded in the night against the curious visits of cats, lest I find the fish disappearing into the hungry bowels of my feline friends. Though sometimes I would tease a kitten by keeping the bottle in front of a naughty kitten which would curiously look at the swimming delicacies for hours, I always knew that one hand at the top of the bowl with a claw hooking the top and a tug from the bottom would have all my tiny fish flapping on the floor.

The morante meenu with their fat heads resembling tadpoles- but different from them with their streamlined bodies- were the survivors. I had enough experience with them- from getting my grandmother to make curry out of some bigger catch to putting a few in the well, which grew into a foot-long friable variety, to putting a few in the bottle to wait and watch them do nothing. Yes nothing, only if you waited till morning, this fish would have jumped out of the bottle and would have reached some corner of the floor, and would appear to be breathing even in the absence of water. It was a marvel. The fish is one of the best built kinds, and while all the small fish would die in the bottle in a few days, invariably, morante would live forever or end up in a cat’s mouth, if the cat found it lying on the floor before I would.

The stream that was about twenty feet across when my mother was young, had now become under ten feet. The water was slushy and with pesticides from the adjoining paddy fields and effluents from the coffee curing units in adjoining areas being let into the water the first casualty were the fish. I was told that there were many big fishes in the stream decades before and other creatures like crabs, waterfowls and other animals in and around it. Unscrupulous poaching and attack by greedy human beings had indeed left the flora bereft of most of its fauna. We children were most importantly warned about human contributions floating among other things and sometimes a site of such a thing made me sick.

The place I was brought up in was not a great wildlife sanctuary, since almost every inch was cultivated. Even the bits and parts that were called as forests have now completely got transformed to coffee plantation. The shrubs, thickets, grass patches are all gone. But, during my childhood there were still those virgin zones with unseen elements lurking within.

On a sultry afternoon walking on a forsaken road one could get to see a large snake coming out of one hole and getting into another on the freshly cut slope beside the road. It was a frequent event to watch a fox standing alone at high point, poignantly watching the lonely walker. It was a time when there were not many vehicles plying on the roads and the population was as thin as ever. A mongoose scurrying across the road or a wild fowl or hen with company hurrying to some place were common sights.

I particularly loved cows and calves. It was a time to rejoice when a cow calved. Though the calving and the after show were always happening away from a child’s eye, the first look at a calf made most of us run to it and want to play. Calves spend a lot of time at the mother’s udder. Whenever the calf is weaned away and is tethered at a distance, that is the time for little children to play with it, in the watchful gaze of its mother. A calf is good to touch and feel. The smell of milk around its muzzle and warmth of its body are most inviting for any child to feel a sense of attraction. Even a very young calf can be very active and strong. A human child can be easily thrown a few feet away even with a little shrug by the calf.

It was only a few days after I had watched the Kannada actor Rajkumar riding astride a buffalo in a movie. It was late in the evening and everyone at home was busy. I think some relatives had come too. I was not older than 8 years, if I remember right and I had a companion, a child of my age, to play with. He was a quiet child more of a follower than a leader and since his parents worked for us, the feudal rules were understood by children even at that age. A calf of around 6 months was left to play around the cattle shed and the the images of the buffalo ride by the actor was still fresh in my mind. I asked my friend to hold the calf tight, which he did by putting both his arms around the calf’s neck. We dragged the calf to a stone nearby and I ordered the calf to be held still. For a moment the calf was still. I stepped on the stone and threw a leg over the back of the calf. I felt that I was secure on the back. I asked my friend to release the calf.

The calf with me on its back was more happy that the contraption around its neck made by the tight hug by the other boy was released, walked a few feet, steadily, obviously oblivious of the weight on its back. Then it realized. There was a jerk in its body and as if startled the calf jumped, by first bending its forelegs and then straightening them suddenly. The next I knew was that I was on the ground. I had landed on one hand and had rolled over. For some reason, I could not get up. I was screaming. My alarm woke everyone at home though half a mile away from the slumber of hospitality they had slipped into serving the guests.

I was writhing in pain and I was being consoled. My grandmother ready with her home remedies brought some oil and rubbed it on both my hands. I was given a painkiller tablet. By then I had found out that the whole family was setting out to go the nearest town to take a family photograph. With unbearable pain in my hand I still posed my best and I looked nice though with a sad face.

By the next day morning, my hand had swollen. After consultation from the family doctor I was taken to another town with a facility to x-ray. It did not take much time after the x-ray to find out that I had fractured a bone in my right arm. My hand was in a cast for the next many weeks. And that was the end of my interest to ride a calf or a horse.

Parrots are beautiful on trees but for a child like me, a parrot in a cage was more beautiful. I did not like to clip the wings like most others did but I really had believed that a parrot could be taught to speak so I could have long conversations. I remembered buying parrots from some tribal youth for some paltry sum. People did not eat parrots so they sold. I was told that under the feather cover the parrot did not have much flesh and you needed at least half a dozen parrots to feed a family of few. Maybe that is why parrots did not end up in cooking pots but in cages.

My first parrot was put in a bamboo basket and I felt sad because I could not even see the parrot properly behind the weave. A parrot sits comfortably perched on a wooden stick placed across a cage and can sit in the same position for hours and even sleep in the same position, until it gets hungry. I have not seen very hungry parrots. In fact a parrot in captivity is a frugal eater. I was not aware much about the species but I was told that a parrot with a red beak was more valuable and upper class than a parrot with a green beak.

For the rest of this story, please wait for the release of my book. :-)

Future Perfect

2011-03-23T13:01:00.001+05:30

It was in the early 1980s. The Commissioner of Bangalore Municipal Corporation then had a guest in his office, a friend from Hubli, a senior doctor. The doctor had come to meet the commissioner with a problem and had the hope that the Commissioner in his position of power and influence would do something about it.

The doctor was a respected and no-nonsense medical practitioner from Hubli and had known the Commissioner from the officer’s earlier stint in Hubli as the official in-charge of the twin cities of Hubli and Dharwad.

The Commissioner was glad with the doctor’s visit and readily offered to help him in any way; even before listening to the actual problem. The old man had come with a strange problem. His daughter was happily married and had two children. Her husband was employed in a company with not less than ten thousand rupees as monthly salary, which was a big amount in those days. But the man, the doctor’s son-in-law wanted to quit the job and start a company.

The father-in-law was terrified by the idea. The problem was that his daughter did not seem to object to her husband’s decision. The business scene was not excellent and the field was not for people who wanted secure lives. Both, his daughter and her husband, were well qualified and could look forward to a comfortable life together working for good companies. He did not know where, when and why the ghost of entrepreneurship had entered his son-in-law’s mind and he was in search of someone who could successfully ostracize it.

The doctor knew that the Commissioner was a man of influence and was also a person who had an immense network in the business space. He had seen the street smartness with which the officer had handled many issues and was sure that he was the right person to advise his son-in-law.

The Commissioner readily agreed because it was a small thing. He just had to tell the right things and with his overbearing influence would put sense into the person and expel the bad thought. The officer agreed with the senior citizen that it was of course not right for a person in a good job with a good background to try something as uncertain and impractical as starting a business in a new field. The Commissioner saw the good doctor off and asked him to come back soon with the son-in-law whom he was eager to meet.

It did not take many days before the doctor was back one day at the Commissioner’s office. He had come with a young man with an average build. The man appeared to be decent and well behaved. After the initial pleasantries the good officer asked the man about his work and other things. On receiving the answers the officer asked a few more questions. The man had a big dream but not the kind of money to match the dreams and in addition there were other friends who shared his dream and they too were ready to quit their promising positions. The Commissioner was totally aghast. Why on earth would someone quit a well paying job to start a company in a new field, just because he had a big dream! It sounded preposterous.

The officer offered tea and snacks and lightened the atmosphere as a prelude to the brainwashing session. He told the doctor’s son-in-law about the dangers that lurk in a new field, he told him how risky it was to leave a secure job in a good company, he advised him about how with a good job he was more lucky than the others, he urged him to think about the security of his family and listen to his father-in-law, a man with a high credibility in his society and profession. He also told the doctor’s son-in-law how as an IAS officer he was earning only three thousand rupees whereas he as a professional in the private sector was already earning ten thousand rupees. He promised on the basis of his experience as to how much more as a professional he could earn in his job with promotions.

The son-in-law was determined and it did not look like he was going to heed to any advice. He continued to say that he would start the company and the company would do well. Even the commissioner was worried towards the end of the meeting because he had not made any headway in convincing. The father-in-law too joined the convincing bid half way through with examples from the life of the Commissioner to put sense into his son-in-law’s head. Nothing worked.

The doctor and his son-in-law left just like they had come in, the old man grumbling and the young man sticking to his decision. There was now a new person in between, the Commissioner, sitting worried.

The father-in-law Dr. Kulkarni’s son-in-law went on to start the company with his friends. The field was new and the risks were huge and the number of nonbelievers and detractors aplenty. The company became a global success. The man came to be known as the face of the industry he was involved in; the software industry. No one can doubt that the father-in-law was in the end indeed proud of his son-in-law, N. R. Narayana Murthy, the founder of Infosys.

In the meantime the IAS officer, J. Alexander, went on to become the Chief Secretary (the top bureaucrat) of Karnataka State.

Temples, Gods and Predictions

2011-03-12T12:19:00.002+05:30

Every summer during Yugaadi festival, an important event occurred in my village; the pooje in the Basaveshwara temple. Nobody knows why it was called Basaveshwara temple but everyone worshipped the Ganapathi that was placed in the sanctum sanctorum. There was also a Basava idol in front of the Ganapathi idol which made things a little confusing. It was a quaint temple without any construction beyond the sanctum sanctorum. The temple had the beautiful tiled sloping roof and a narrow flight of steps leading up to the temple door. An awning of leaves erected on wooden pillars was built around the temple for the comfort of the devotees and people who acted like devotees under the summer heat.

Though Kodag is pleasant in winter and wet in rainy season, the summer is as hot as anywhere else. Though many people who visit Kodag during summer say that Kodag is like a hill station and cool in summer, they are perhaps those who come from the arid planes in the rest of the country. I remember the smooth soles of my feet crying when placed on the hot soil of the temple courtyard on so many Yugaadi afternoons.

This was one occasion for the whole village to gather. People came from every home in the village and some times people brought their relatives and friends too. As women gathered under a tree to gossip, tell tales and exchange tips, men found some recreation like shooting coconuts, talking about crops and rains and some even smoking by moving in the leafy covers of the coffee bushes.

The last time I went there was two decades ago and since then I know there have been many changes not just with the temple but I heard that even the deity has been changed. Though there were reasons very human, the blame was put on astrologers from Kerala who with their tricky questioning of gods had given a solution by asking the patrons of the temple to change the idol and with that, the deity. Perhaps that is what the villagers wanted because nobody knew the connection between the name of the temple and the idol that was worshipped.

The temple is so ancient and refurbished so many times that no one could exactly tell the whole history of the temple. Every temple has a history and the devotees of this temple (I cannot exactly say that they were the devotees of the god because they allowed the god to be changed) tried to cook up some history and since they could not arrive at any consensus in fabricating a history they decided that nobody would talk about the history of the temple and only stick to the present.

The most important and the attraction of the occasion was the event after the mahamangalarathi, the big ritualistic oblations to the deity. Everyone would crowd in from of the temple door and the priest inside would make all the elaborate movements with every paraphernalia he had at his disposal to make the devotees feel pleased enough to tip him generously later. I used to always eye the filled up bags which came in empty with the priest in the hands of the assistant but would need some vehicle to carry them with their swollen shapes.

Just as the priest would finish the rituals one would hear a sudden growl and groan and as the most regular feature, every year, the old man (that is how I saw him first and that is how he remained till his death) belonging to one of the well-to-do families of the village would get possessed and make his way to the space in front of the temple steps to the clearing made by the earnest devotees standing with folded hands. He would swing his arms front and back as if sowing something imaginary and would loudly whisper the word shishu which means child and would look appropriate in the environs of a temple uttered by a man seemingly possessed by a god.

People have heard of some gods possessing human beings, but this was strange. Nobody knew which god it was and the priest too was silent about it. This was the time for the priest to pack his stuff and he looked like he would not care whether it was a god or a devil that possessed the man. Since the spirit that possessed called everyone as shishu or child everyone thought it must be god because only god considered everyone as children.

The possessed man with buck teeth and a frail body would swing his body and arms continuously for what would seem like a long time and then would resort to a slow movement where the arms would swing only a few inches from his body and the body would tremble. This was considered as the right time to ask for an oracle. The man who had teeth all over his mouth and some even hanging from behind the upper lip and resting on top of the lower lip, any way had trouble speaking clearly even when not possessed. Now with a god inside him and all the hissing and puffing he was anything but speaking. Everyone seemed to make out his words. Questions about rains, prosperity, cattle, crop and everything else concerning the whole village would elicit answers from him. One salient feature was that the old man in his possessed state would predict rains. I remember from the time I can remember, how none of his predictions have come true, and how he nevertheless had continued to predict. The devotees too with most of them being of above average intelligence had never questioned the man or the god.

I, though was frightened by the sight of the so called possession as a very young child, as a little older child saw it with more amusement. I would be one among the crowd that ran around the temple three times with the possessed individual and in many cases though the man kept his perfect count of three rounds, we the young and the enthusiastic would run an extra round having gained momentum in the process of running. Nobody made fun of the old man but nobody took him seriously too. Most people thought of the possession, the hooting, huffing and puffing, as nothing more than a part of the ritual and the moment the people exited from the temple premises the whole thing would be forgotten. Nobody asked the possessing spirit any serious questions nor did the man say anything properly in his possessed state for anyone to take note of it.

Normally the event ended with a good meal followed by a lotto cleverly organized for profit by an obese village aunt who came from a wealthy family and everyone left with loud laughs and promises to visit each other’s homes in the near future.

I remember that particular year. I must have been about ten years old. It was an unusually hot summer and the sun had started scorching the earth from early February. Yugaadi the lunar new year fell in the month of April and one can imagine the heat, dust and the dry landscape. It was a year when rains had completely evaded our area for a long time and the water in the village stream had become a trickle.

As usual the Yugaadi celebrations were organized in the same monotonous way and as boringly predictable as possible, the possession occurred just after the final oblations. By now I was emboldened enough to be watching the person by standing just beside him from the onset of the first tremor in his body to the full blown possession that was announced with a loud huff and puff. This particular occasion though the usual questions were asked one smart man asked a smart question. He wanted to know from god when exactly it would rain in our village. The possessed man forgot his possession for a few seconds and after a few seconds following restoration of his business, he tried to avoid the question by talking some unintelligible nonsense.

The person who asked the question was determined to get his answer. He went close to the possessed soul and asked his question loudly and clearly. The question resonated in the ears of everyone who heard it and got immediate approval and everyone wanted the answer. “When will it rain? Tell us exactly when will it rain?”

The old man who was almost at the end of his performance perhaps thought it was better to escape than to be getting into a serious trouble. I am sure that he knew well that the trend was to forget the whole thing after people went to their homes.

He increased his speed at which his arms were swinging back and forth and turned his eyes up into their sockets, gave a thorough shudder to run through his body and in a loud voice, as if to make a final statement said “Within seven days, within seven days, it will rain and my child will be happy.”

As always, the man swooned prostrating in front of the steps and the temple priest rushed out more like in a hurry to run for lunch than to save the man and sprinkled some holy water on the old man who was now quickly returning to normalcy before anyone else would ask him any more questions.

The day ended the same way like every time and everyone returned to their homes. Nobody seemed to have taken the prediction seriously because even when after two weeks it did not rain, nobody accused the old man with the possessing skills but only blamed their own fates. The situation became worse.

I was deeply disturbed. One day many people were waiting at the village bus stop for one of the very few buses that plied via my place to a small town close by. Even the old man was there waiting, quietly sitting on a concrete bench. Most people were quiet but some were talking about rains and crops. I reached the bus stop and seeing the old man started directly towards him. While everyone went silent to see what I would do, I stood in front of the old man and with a raised voice, asked “You said that it would rain in a week. Why hasn’t it rained yet?” The old man started looking in all directions and looked confused. He surely did not look like he wanted to be known as the man who has predicted it in a state of possession.

Elderly onlookers came to me and told me that it was not proper for me to ask the old man because it was god who had told by getting possessed in his body. I really wanted to ask the old man how as an experienced person he could allow a god to lie through him. I did not get my answer but I decided to keep my watch.

The next year onwards I could notice that the old man would stay away from me as much as possible and even while rolling his eyes upwards would avoid meeting my gaze. I must tell that the prediction part slowly became briefer and briefer and soon within a few years the act got restricted to possession alone.

I heard after many years that the possessing god too escaped after the old man’s death and thereafter nobody has heard either about predictions or about possessions. The thing that I did hear is that the temple called Basaveshwara temple in my childhood has now become a Ganesha temple with a god change. And still nobody has found out the exact name of the god that possessed the old man.

Experiments of Generosity

2011-03-06T16:49:00.000+05:30

Rajam is a small area in Srikakulam district of Andhra Pradesh, bordering Orissa. That is the home town of the GMR family. I know a lot of people who have taken Rajam as their surname. I also know a pioneer in the computer hardware industry who is linked to this area and has Rajam as his second name. It was an opportunity to go to this place during a summer that gave me the insight into a few aspects of the Real India.

This is a dry area with irrigation facility and people living in abject poverty. You can see stretches of land well watered and green, but the owners of those lands live in cities and far away places or are building infrastructure projects to develop the nation. There is a big engineering college and other colleges but apart from a few buildings as such and some palatial mansions, all one can see is thousands of houses of the lowest quality and people who looked and behaved like they really needed a better living.

Me and my crew were in Rajam to film an occasion. A rich man was celebrating his birthday and it was said that he would feed about thirty thousand people in one day; his birthday, and give a few gifts to everyone who came.

By the time we reached, it was the morning of the day before the big day. People had started coming in. By evening, and to the delight of our cameras we had the sight of a huge multitude of motley crowds pouring into the area. It was told to us that people came from far and near and some had even traveled for weeks on foot to reach the place.

By evening there were thousands of people in an area cleared and barricaded to contain the crowds . The place was becoming unmanageable. Most people struggled to even find a place to sit or sleep. All facilities were intact and the volunteers and students of the colleges owned by the organizer were pressed into service to keep order in the area.

I saw thousands of people. It looked like the only purpose they had in their mind was to eat the good meal the next day, take the handouts and go away.

Most people appeared so poor that I really wished that they would be happy with the good meal they were told would be fed the next day. Most women had just a saree wrapped around them and it did look like many, either out of choice or lack of resources, had not worn blouses. I had heard about poor people and had seen poor people in Karnataka but had never really understood what real poverty was till I saw these people.

All kinds of people had gathered in large groups all over the place. Mendicants, peddlers, sanyasis, old people, very very old people, children, people with animals, people grouped around a bear, some people grouped around a monkey, snake charmers, people with cattle, people sitting in circles, people sitting in rows, people sleeping in a heap; people people but poor people everywhere.

Women chewing tobacco, women smoking indigenous cigars, women walking around with exposed breasts, unclad children, children in loin cloths, , men in loin cloths, people with skin diseases, people with physical disabilities, people with heavy loads on their heads sitting with the loads firmly balanced on their heads. Women huddled together singing songs. Dogs, cats, goats. Dogs nudging at the backside of its owner, cats tied to walking sticks growling at any dog that came close to them.

It looked like a lot of people with physical deformities or deficiencies had decided to stay together. One particular sight made my stomach crawl. There was this woman sitting and talking loudly to a group of beggars who looked like people with disabilities. The woman talking looked normal but I wanted to see why her voice sounded hollow like she was talking through sheets of paper. I slowly went around the group to the other side and saw the most scary thing I had ever seen on a human being. This woman did not have much of a face on the other side. The skull on the right side of the face was bare from below the eye till the chin exposing the hollow of the nose, the denture and the hard bones of the cheek and the chin.

My God, how did this woman live? This woman; because she was dressed in a saree, and had combed her hair in a plait and had even placed a short length of stringed flowers on her hair, was laughing and enjoying telling a joke, regaling her audience. Oh my god, I thought for a moment that I would take a photo. I am sure I looked like an alien to them; in jeans, sports shoes, an expensive jacket, shining wrist watch, peek cap, sun shades and a clean shaven face.

The woman turned to look at me. Then everyone in the group turned to look at me. She smiled and turned back to her audience and continued her jokes and laughs. My intention to take a photo of hers felt out of place. Did not know who looked more strange than whom. I am sure I did not belong there.

The day of the feeding was unusual and something that I had not seen anywhere and ever before. In a large area cleared and leveled for the occasion, thousands of people were made to sit on the ground and all were fed a good meal. It looked like the biggest congregation of poor and hungry people who would be satisfied with one sumptuous meal and a few handouts. A South Indian Andhra style meal, with many side dishes, a packet of sweets in the end, and gifts of dhothi and shirt piece for a man, and a saree and a blouse piece for a woman. I think that a bed cover was also given to everyone, though I don’t know why. There was a huge clamber after the meal when people who found out that an item among the gifts missing, were pleading and begging with the organizers to give it to them.

I walked around the ground and tried to look at the faces. Some looked happy, some were smiling, some laughed, while some looked worried, some walked about listlessly, while some were going around craning their necks as if searching for someone missing in that big crowd. Tens of thousands of people in one place. How would they stay stuck in their groups when they could not afford even basic needs let alone mobile phones and other communication devices to keep the social network?

One thing I noticed after the big meal was over was that the place was as clean as it was before the people were made to congregate on it. Why? No food was spilled and no litter. When people were there for the only purpose of the food and came there with their meager belonging what excess did they have for anything to drop and litter? The place was absolutely clean but for the spillage of some water here and there. It looked like every grain of food was scoured and swallowed and appreciated.

Someone told me that having come from Karnataka it was rare for us to see a sight like that in Karnataka. Now I know that there are some areas still in Andhra and Orissa where you can find examples for abject poverty.

Me and my crew and other members in my team were given good food in a guest house far away to which we were taken in air conditioned vehicles. In addition to the kind of good meals that were provide previously, this time we were also given some extra items marking the big occasion in the area; the birthday.

I heard from people that the multitude of poor people I saw in the ground was a regular scene every year during the same time on the same date and the people who came, came only not to miss it. It was more of a loyalty program where though it was a just a meal and a few gifts, the poor people who came considered it a kind of pilgrimage. I was told that most people considered it the biggest display of generosity and goodness and found it appropriate to partake of the kindness being expressed by a great man.

We had to continue our filming and we had to procure some footage. We wanted to show how the area was being developed by philanthropists with a keen interest to improve the facilities for the poor in the area. It had to be shown that the poor people had the dreams, and the rich would help the poor to realize their dreams through their altruistic activities.

We had to use a few children and adults and show the various activities supported by the foundation that had employed us. On the way back to the town of Rajam from the guest house some big distance away, I noticed a nice patch of green fields with a few really dilapidated buildings. We stopped there and looked around and also filmed the beauty of the landscape. Then I thought it suitable to film a scene where we would show a poor girl reading a school book in the confines of a poor home. We persuaded a girl from one of the ramshackle houses to act for us.

She spoke a different kind of Telugu, peculiar to that area (since most people who spoke Telugu in our team were unable to communicate to her comprehensibly). She did all we asked her to do and I was mega satisfied with her performance. I pulled out a hundred rupee note and gave it to her. She took one look at the note and behaved like she was seeing a snake in my hand. She looked scared. She ran to a lady, probably her mother and held on to her saree. I moved towards her and told how I wanted her to take the money. She did not even move. I was forcing her to take and she started mumbling something and her mother added her own words to the scene. Then a person in my team who made out their words told me that the girl was telling that she did not want the money and she would not take any money from me. I asked whether the mother would take. The woman started protesting and I was dissuaded from my attempt. I felt bad because even a hundred rupee note would have made some difference to the family for a day. I did not understand.

We then moved to the town of Rajam and visited some very poor areas. We filmed sufficiently in the basket weavers colony and then I noticed a very young boy with gleaming eyes but in a torn shirt and soiled short pants. He looked like the typical boy I was looking for to be put in the part where a poor boy would be shown dreaming of becoming an astronomer. The boy looked uncomfortable with the sudden attention but I got the local help to talk him into it. We arranged for the lights around him and laid the track and trolley and placed him in the background of slush and muck with an overflowing open drain few feet away behind him.

The boy did the right moves and made the right expressions. Moving his eyes slowly up towards the sky from the page in a magazine with the pic of a space shuttle in it. We finished the job with the boy and the boy was about to leave. I asked the local help to ask him what he did and where he studied. The boy was enquired accordingly. I was told that the boy worked in the fields and lived in a colony where people from the lowest castes in the area were housed. I felt sorry. I took out two hundred rupees from my pocket and offered the boy. Everyone around had a smile on their faces. The boy had performed well. He had to be rewarded and anyway he was a poor boy and he looked like he could do well with every rupee in that note. The boy started walking backward till his feet were in the slush. I rushed and pulled him forward. The boy tried to squeeze away. This was a strange. I tried to put the notes in the half torn pocket of his shirt. He put a hand to his chest and covered his pocket. I looked around and saw the intrigue in the eyes of everyone in my team. I asked the local help to ask the boy what exactly his problem was in taking the money.

The man went to the boy, took him by his hand, moved a few feet away and spoke to him. There was an animated conversation. After what felt like a long time, the man came back with the boy standing a little away.

“He does not want the money” the local help said.

“Why not ?” I asked

“He says he does not want to take it.”

“I am giving because the money will help him.” I said earnestly.

“Yes, I told him that” the man said “but he does not want to take it”

“Did he say what is the reason” I asked.

“Yes,” the man continued “he says that he does not feel that he has done anything that makes him take the money. He says he does not feel right about it. He does not want to take any free money.”

The boy was not older than ten. He was perhaps one of the poorest of the poor.

I remembered what my grandmother always told. She spoke about values. I found it hard to understand things.

I walked up to the boy, patted his back, tousled his hair and bade him goodbye.

The boy went away with a smile.

Bloody Love

2011-02-23T02:33:00.000+05:30

I remember it vividly, the first day in school. I was about four and a half years old and I was being taken to school. I don’t think it is a great deal to remember things if you make that little effort to experience things completely and cerebrally.

My mother says that she had to take the help of a teacher to find out the details about the process of admission but the moment she produced me as a candidate in front of the matronly nuns of the convent school; after a few questions and the customary polite demands for recitation of numbers and alphabet, I was admitted. I don’t remember all that but I remember my first day at school.

There were three women who were accompanying me to school. Not many were bothered to pay attention but the playing field and the driveway were teeming with school kids and I was too sad and crying. I remember I was held in each hand with one hand firmly in my mother’s clasp and the other in an aunt’s while a neighbour, a lady whom I was accustomed to calling as aunty walked behind us. It looked like she was there was additional security. I still remember that a new wall was being built and I am sure now that the purpose was not expressly for keeping me inside, because I behaved like a good kid. I perhaps knew the advantages of being a good kid or at least of appearing so.

I was taken to various places and various people were spoken to by my escorting band of women and then I was taken to a class. I did not know it was a class but I was being constantly told that this was to be my school and I would have to study here.

The classroom, looked more like a play room because more children were playing. It now reminds me of the joke in which people are made to choose Hell with the attraction of a great band with some star musicians playing at its gates.

I seemed to like the class because there were children everywhere and they were all playing with different things. There were wooden horses, seesaws, dolls, and many other colourful things. I was crying and did not want to be parted from my mother, and if I had known that she would be staying in a friend’s house for a few hours before I would be taken back, I would have not wasted so much of my tears.

I remember that there were many people consoling me. I am sure I remember a nun and a nice teacher. I call her nice because she spoke well and I am sure handling so many children, she had to be nice.

I did not do much. I just entered and then when I turned to see, my mother was gone. I started crying more. It was necessary for mothers to stay away from the kids to ensure that the kids got used to the class. I did nothing. Just stood there watching the activity accompanied by the cacophony. I am sure, whether you are a new or an old child in a class, someone who looked like a nice child had to be engaged, and my teacher took me and made me sit on one side of a seesaw (teeter-totter).

I remember the seesaw, made of wood, with two handles fitted to a wooden horse on two ends, a foot before each end. When the seesaw moved, it certainly made a child look like he was riding a horse and the movement in a rhythm gave much pleasure too. The seesaw was a first for me and I had not seen anything like that before. I just sat there and held the handle bars with both my hands and waited for things to happen. The teacher got busy with other children as I waited for some action.

Then some action happened. A good looking girl, a little plumpier than most plump kids came to me, looked at me and went to the other side of the sea saw. She without a warning, or maybe I did not get it, put a leg over the seat to the other side and plopped on to the seat with all her weight. I suddenly felt that I was moving up into the sky and I thought I would fly. I held the handle bar tightly but could not restore my balance. In the process my face hit the horse’s wooden mane and a loud scream came out of my mouth. Before I knew what all had happened the teacher was by my side and somehow my side of the seesaw was made to settle on the ground. The sweet looking girl on the other side was unseated and pulled away.

I took my hand to my mouth and realised that I had cut behind my lower lip in front of my teeth. Crimson blood on my mouth and hand added to my horror. I was screaming, also wanting to make it an excuse to go home sooner than was allowed. My mother was back, I don’t know from where. All children were shooed away and the first aid was a mouthful of sugar. I am surprised why they did not take me to a doctor. I think it was not a big wound and the sugar did stop the bleeding.

I was more eager to see what had happened to the girl. As I had stopped sobbing, the adults were speaking and then the little girl was brought to where I was. My teacher held her by her hand and said “Look Arpita, what has happened. You should be careful. Say sorry to Deepak”. She came close to me put her hand to my face and said “sorry” and ran away.

I had a good look at her, the pain went away, but I had fallen in love. Though she did not pay any attention to me after that for the next four years she was in school with me, I continued to love her. That pain was worse than the pain of a bloodied mouth on the first day in school.

Name changed for obvious reasons.

Washed Out

2011-02-19T17:51:00.000+05:30

The very idea of standing in front of a large gathering in the glare of the scrutinizing eyes of an assembly in front, could singe the life out of my entrails as a school kid studying in seventh standard. It was some transformation for a kid who as a five year old was invited to sing and dance every time there was a break during any function in school. By the time I was over ten, I had lost all confidence of doing anything right in front of a gathering of people, children or even animals and anything that had eyes and looked threatening.

I had a classmate who was an expert in delivering lengthy by-hearted speeches that she could infact close her eyes and start and open them only after finishing the ten minute long speech to a thunderous applause. I had sat on so many occasions with burning jealousy of how wonderful it was for her to get all the adulation.

Nobody called me to act, dance or to deliver speeches till I was in the seventh standard. This was the last year for me in my primary school. Eight years; from the time you joined for nursery, is a long time for a school to just send you away without making you feel important enough. It happened, and I was selected as one of the seven children who would speak on Independence Day. When the list was announced I thought I had not heard it right? When we were asked to line up in front of the class and given the briefing, I had my life bird almost fly out of my eyes.

What on earth made these people think that I could speak, let alone in front of the whole school assembly! There was something wrong. I quietly sneaked up to my teacher and told her that it perhaps was some other boy from some other class they wanted and not me. She was firm that it was me and also told me that the instruction had come from none other than the headmistress herself who was a cane wielding terror walking about the school striking the fear of God into the hearts of us little kids. Sister Olive was a great human being, she had a kind heart but believed that as the headmistress she was duty-bound to rap on the knuckles of the those dainty hands to make good citizens out of school kids. Offending Sr Olive was beyond my imagination and I had not option to even accept it because it was not even an order, I just had to speak.

I think I had a slight fever developing from that moment. By evening I was unwell. The star speaker of my class was one of the chosen ones and she was at the head of the list. My name was third. I tried with a little bit of pleading and acting and ensured that my name was put last. Everyone in the list was rejoicing whereas I was the only one who was the saddest.

What would I speak? What was there to speak about Independence when so many people had spoken for so many years now and there were six of them before me in the list who would speak about the same thing. What crime had I committed that I had to speak in front of so many people, standing on top of the steps overlooking the large gathering of hundreds of students in white uniform! I knew that I could not speak. I was sure that no word would be uttered from my mouth and I would become a joke. I could imagine the whole lot of school children in front of me on the said day devouring me with their eyes, ably guided by the teachers who laughed at the way I spoke. I knew about stage fright but this was terrorism. There was not much terrorism in those days, but if someone had asked me, I could have told them all about terrorism and how innocent people suffered from it.

I had not told anyone, not even at home. I did not want more audience for my speech, as a kid’s relatives are always eager to create a shock and awe scene when the kid performs.

Like any mother would ensure her child look the best on any special day, whether she is aware of the speech or not, my mother did make sure I looked the best for the Independence day. I came out into a gloomy day as it was cloudy. While my mother said bye to me as I left my house for the long journey to school, I really hoped a lightening would strike me and blow me into smithereens. I looked ashen, I am sure, and was dull in full.

I reached the school on time as the assembly was being lined up. The flag was tied to the flag post which was planted on top of the steps leading to a small play ground, overlooking the large space where children from all the classes were filing in columns with their class leaders at the front and the class teachers at the back. Even we star speakers were in the assembly.

The function as expected began with the unfurling of the flag and all that. The headmistress and the Mother Superior of the convent spoke about the importance of Independence Day and then announced that the seventh standard students would speak about the greatness of the day. The announcement was greeted with a loud applause. The boy standing behind me nudged me on my back and then a girl standing next to me gave me a glance of appreciation. But, I wanted God to be looking at me. My grandmother had told me once that God listens to childrens’ prayers. This was not the time to debate about the existence of gods but to invoke a god wherever he was to come and save me.

Now, a teacher had made her appearance next to the headmistress with a paper in her hand and it looked like a paper with my death sentence. I did not know what I was so much afraid about but I was indeed sweating in the cool morning with the worst fright I was experiencing. The teacher cheerfully called out the names one by one and said all of us would speak. Oh speak, not read. I crumpled the sheet of paper with my speech in it and shoved it into my pocket. In fact I had written a speech. A bad speech I am sure because I did not even know what I was writing, when I wrote; I could not see my own words. I did not even hear or watch the others speak. I looked up into the sky and saw the clouds.

I knew what to do. I forgot the speech. I started praying. I prayed for rain. I prayed so hard for rain that I did not even hear my name being called out and realized it was my time to present the speech only when was teacher was beside me and pulling me towards the steps. I was a known dreamer and anyway it was an excuse because dreamer children happened to be absent minded.

From the bottom of the steps, I looked up to the top of the platform. There were the headmistress, the Mother Superior and a teacher. Nobody else. I looked up at the sky. No sign of any god saving me. I slowly started climbing the steps, like a lamb to the altar or worse like sheep to a butcher. Then I felt it. The first rain drop on my neck. Then the next one on my hand. Now the drops were increasing in numbers. I still climbed. There was nothing much to climb. In under a minute I was at the top. I did not have the guts to look at the assembly.

The drops had become a mild rain. Children in the assembly were shuffling about but were still in their place. I knew that my prayer was answered. I was waiting for the moment to be told that I did not have to speak. Then I saw something horrible happen. Sr Olive the headmistress, was hailing for something, she was shouting at the top of her voice. “Bring an umbrella. Bring it now. This boy should have his chance to speak.”

The attender who had an umbrella in his hand was hurrying as the assembly was becoming a mess. The rain had become heavy. “Bring it fast, you idiot” I could hear the headmistress scream. Me and Sr Olive were soaked. The Mother Superior had walked away.

The moment she got the umbrella Sr Olive opened it, pulled me close to the warmth of her habit and said.

“Speak, my child.”

I looked up at my headmistress. Looked at what was once the big assembly which was now an empty place and started my speech. Only I heard my speech, in the clatter of the heavy rain. After two minutes Sr Olive asked me,” Did you finish?” I said “Yes, Sister”

That is a good boy” she said and put her hand on my shoulder and lead me under the safety of the umbrella to a corridor.

The two paise sweet was being distributed to mark the Independence. I collected my share and ran to a bus even as it rained more. I wanted to enjoy the god sent rain, every drop of it.

Buddhu Ram Chaatwala

2011-02-16T18:37:00.004+05:30

I am not greatly into chaats, but a good tasty preparation of some of the chaat items can make me drool over them and even force me to stand in queue and also risk a bad tummy the next day.

I was introduced to Buddhu Ram’s Chaat on Barkat Ali Road in Wadala in Mumbai by a friend who had tried the delicacies a few times and had liked, but was more impressed by the reputation it carried. I was taken to this roadside eatery which is not more than a five by five facility with enough place for two people inside; one sitting on a raised platform and supplying the items, and the other a young man standing and making the items, with all the ingredients spread between the two of them.

The crowd in front of the shop appeared like announcing the popularity of the chaat and me and my friend had to stand tip toed in the little space on the footpath to have a glimpse of the big spread of ingredients which looked neat, fresh and crisp. I did not mind trying something made from those inviting crispies.

We waited till the crowd thinned out and then asked for the most familiar and trustworthy chaat, the masala puri. I am always scared about the quality of the water and the ingredients used, though I am more ready to compromise with the eatable elements and not the water. However enticing it may have been, but a Paani puri was not on my mind at that moment.

The young chap, the maker of the chaats, perhaps in his very early twenties, took a piece of paper, placed a few dried leaves on top of it, dug into a few bowls, took out a few ingredients, placed them on the indigenous plate, poured a few syrups, put some shev, sprinkled some chopped onions, stirred something, twisted something, squeezed something and ultimately placed the delicacy in my hands.

Me and my friend shared and ate. Ummmm, it was tasty. So tasty that I wanted to try something more. I asked him if he could give something else, something that he thought was special in his shop.

He once again made a paper and leaf plate. Put some fried chips, put some of this and a little of that, added groundnuts, grains, dal, and bits of this and that of almost everything he had and finally gave something. I tasted. It was syrupy, crunchy and tasty. I realized that the young fellow had this uncanny ability to mix and match things and create his own brand of delicacies to the utter delight of his patrons. He did exactly the same with us.

He worked so hard and with commitment that it was a pleasure to watch him work with dedication. He wore a t-shirt on top of plain soiled trousers and looked industrious every bit. My friend started complaining about me spending too much time trying different things and started telling me in English as to how the ingredients could be of low quality and how we could have done without trying his experimental delights. Nevertheless we ate a few more things and paid the bill.

My friend, as a last effort to reassure himself, spoke aloud about how he was unsure that that the things that we ate were safe on our stomachs. It was obvious that he wanted only me to understand from the way he said it in English, uttering by muttering under his breath and also in an accent quite unintelligible to anyone who was not so familiar with English, let alone a chaatwala in a tattered t-shirt and soiled trousers. My friend completed his exasperation and turned to the young chaatwala.

Now the chaatwala had a smile on his face. My friend was a little perplexed and then the chaatwala opened his mouth and out came the words in chaste English “Sir, don’t worry, the items are good and hygienic. Nothing will go wrong with you.” I recovered and replied “No, it is not about your guarantee but we just were wondering whether your items go well with us, since we have some other engagements tomorrow.”

“No Sir”, he said, “don’t worry, ours is a well known place, started by my grandfather Buddhu Ram. We have a reputation. Try more items, nothing will go wrong”.

I had to make peace as my friend had already lost his face. I told the chaatwala, “You sound like you are educated well enough. How come?”. I knew I sounded naïve.

He did not even blink for a moment, but with a smile replied, “This is something I do in the evenings. I go to a law college during the day and I am in my third year. I want to become a lawyer.”

I profusely wished him the best in his life and realized as I walked away that the delectable chaats that I ate had a special taste and meaning in them, that I would relish for a long time.

International Astrology

2011-02-08T23:51:00.000+05:30

I think it was a Yahoo chat. The room discussed issues concerning religion. Not many were paying attention to the things that I was saying. Then, I started writing about astrology and it drew attention.

I wrote all kinds of things I knew about astrology and then someone pinged me privately.

‘Hi, I am male 24, would you like to chat?’ he asked

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘What do you want to chat about?’

‘I read the things you have written about astrology and I am interested’

‘Ok. Tell me.’ I replied

‘Teach me something about astrology’

‘No, no. It is not easy to teach.’ I wrote.

‘Tell me some basic things’, he insisted.

Here was someone who wanted to learn from me so I could at least feel great by teaching a few things.

‘Ok. Tell me your sunsign.’ I asked

‘What is sunsign?’ He replied immediately

‘I mean the the zodiac sign.’

‘I don’t understand.’ His words made me sure that he certainly did not understand.

I was in no mood to continue. ‘Then forget it.’ I typed.

‘No no tell me. What is sunsign?’ It did not look like he was going to spare me.

‘Ok. Let me explain to you,’ I relented and wrote ‘for example, I am a Piscean, what are you?

‘Oh oh,’ it looked like the answer was there and he had understood. ‘Is that what you want to know? I am an Indonesian.’

“Goodbye” I wrote and logged out.

Dentalonia

2011-02-03T18:29:00.000+05:30

This happened many many years ago, when I was a kid. I have almost forgotten the details of the incident, but the effect of it in my mind, even today, is as fresh as on the day it happened.

I was taken by my mother to the only doctor nearest to my village in Kodagu. I must have been about eight years then. Always curious but afraid, I had to find a lot of assurance and circumstantial confidence to gear up to the encounter with the doctor.

To me the doctor was superhuman. Nowadays I hear that the doctor was not even a qualified one, but like always even during those days in my part of the world , people judged a man by his work and not by his certificates.

There were two people already waiting in the waiting room as the doctor attended a patient and we, my mother and I, heaved a long sigh of relief , thanking God for providing a chance to get out faster.

Many estate labourers from the surrounding areas found the doctor good enough to trust their hard earned money and health with him. He was a funny man who cured most people by mostly talking than treating. And, only as I grew up I realised that a doctor talking to a patient was also a part of the treatment and sometimes the whole treatment itself.

As we were thinking about all that, the doctor came out with a patient, with whom he had finished. He was beaming as usual, and enquired about my health and the reason for me falling sick so often. This was one doctor who really didn't like his patients falling ill. Now I have strong reasons to conclude that because the doctor did not know the procedures and cure for most diseases and disorders, he was happier to find fewer people seeking his help. Most often his well-to-do patients were also his friends or relatives and that made his business more difficult for him.

After the initial and customary chat, as propriety required, he asked our predecessors to go in. There was nothing much to go in, because, infact, the clinic was not more than just a room, divided into a waiting and consulting cum treating room, by a thin sheet of plastic somehow indigenously made to stay stiff and serve as a wall. As soon as they went in I made my way to the so called entrance to the operation area and unashamedly started viewing the events unfold before my eyes. The doctor, well aware of my scrutinizing eyes just preferred to continue with his work and ignore my presence.

I made out that the two people who went in were a mother and her son and the mother was the patient while the son had accompanied her. The mother was being constantly assured by her son about how it is okay to get a tooth extracted. Now, this was a doctor who could do anything that a doctor was expected to do- from sticking needles into people's bottoms to extracting any tooth to delivering babies- he was just adept, or so we thought.

The old lady whose tooth was to be removed looked quite distraught and on the brink of misery. She probably was a Tamilian with hanging ear lobes with holes of one inch diametre in each of them, maybe. The mother and son spoke continuously and I thought it had something to do with the tooth more than about the doctor.

I observed the doctor display various emotions and I am sure he was just reassuring himself about his abilities. Though I have not all this while mentioned about the Doctor's assistant, his importance in the clinic was nonetheless emphatic and obvious.

The Doctor took a syringe with the numbing agent in it and pumped the liquid into the lady's gum without much fanfare, and the howl that came out of the lady's mouth could have put any wolf to shame. The wailing, sobbing and agony continued as the doctor put his extracting equipment in place. After a guarantee about the target tooth and the reconfirmation of the placement of the instrument he started pulling the tooth. The sudden cacophony that ensued with the pleading and howling by the lady, the reassuring and panting by the son, the gasping and heaving by the doctor and the moving of instruments here and there by the doctor’s assistant added enough special effects to the action.

After almost ten minutes, and even as my mother joined me as a spectator; drawn by the noise and action, to watch the event of the day, the doctor suddenly pulled out something. The force was such that the doctor staggered and fell backwards. He soon regained his balance and exclaimed his success. The lady suddenly stopped crying and put her finger in the mouth to look for the tooth. When she did not find it there she started to look for it in the side tray. By then the doctor too was looking for the tooth. He did not have it in the instrument and the tooth was missing. But where had it gone?

The whole chair was searched, the trays, the tables, the floor the buckets, the wash basin, everything was searched , the room was almost turned upside down and searched, but none could find the tooth. This went on for almost fifteen minutes. The doctor even forgot completely about my presence, let alone my illness. Even me and my mother were pressed into service. And, when everyone thought enough was done, and as we realized that the old lady too had gone quiet and we all moved to the waiting room.

An exhausted doctor made jokes about the missing tooth, told the old lady that she should be happy that the tooth was gone wherever it went. He wrote a bill and thrust it into the ready hand of the son. The old lady's son without much delay put his hand into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a few notes. As he placed the notes on the doctor's table the notes opened up and lo! there was the tooth, crimson at the bottom and old age written all over it. The Old lady was overjoyed. Everyone too.

We all understood that in the process of extraction the tooth had directly found its flight path into the son's pocket. Was the message that in a painful extraction a tooth had to be paid for with a tooth or was the tooth really worthy of the money the all knowing doctor charged ?

Only the tooth knows the truth.

Karmic Jaywalk

2011-01-29T22:41:00.002+05:30

This happened when I was studying in Mysore. I have always been bad with traffic and crossing busy streets. That must explain why I am a bad driver and why I would prefer the safety of other vehicles to me driving. I get totally confused when I am faced by vehicles heading towards me. I feel it is certain end for me and I would run in any direction I can find some space, to get away and that can look very funny sometimes. Since I don’t walk much these days, not many have witnessed such scenes involving me.

In Mysore during college days, I used to walk a lot, not just because I did not own a vehicle but also because I could think and carry my thoughts along. I was safe and happy as long as I was on the footpath and had to worry only when I had to cross a big wide road.

One day, in the afternoon I found myself faced with the challenge of crossing a long wide road which is like a main artery of the city always with some or the other heavy vehicle moving one way or the other on it. I thought it completely safe because it was afternoon and in addition a Sunday. I summed up the courage, looked to my right and tip toed to the middle of the road with eyes firmly on the lane . Sine I had reached the middle now it was my job to look to my left to cross the opposite lane.

I was confident now that the job was half done and I had only half a problem to worry about. There was a car approaching on the other lane and I had to slow my crossing exercise but just then I heard beep to my right. I saw a scooter coming in the middle of the road from my right.

Now I could neither run across the road to the other side because of the car nor could I run back because there were other vehicles coming in the distance on the lane behind me. I did not know where to go. I thought once that I would run in the middle of the roadfront ahead of the scooter. But, then I was very scared. The scooter guy was in no mood to stop. He just wanted to go. I started moving front and back but just in a step or two. The scooter was very near me and I was trying to stop it and in the process thinking of my last moments on Earth.

I was now facing the scooter and for any onlooker it would have appeared like I was playing kabbaddi with the scooter with both my hands trying to stop it while I was maneuvering my body from being hit. This went on for a few seconds and the scooter was still in movement. The next thing I know is that there were vehicles on both lanes and I stiffened. The scooter guy came straight into me and dashed me on the right leg. I was shocked. I looked into the guys eyes not knowing what to do but happy that I was not killed after all.

It pained in my leg and I was holding the injured area pressed with my right hand. I wanted some sympathy. I looked at the rider who was there in front of me. I expected him to do something. He did, after all. He raised a finger, twisted his face and said “It served you right” and sped away.

I watched him till he disappeared at a distance and quickly walked across the road before someone else decided something else for me.

It was my bad karma, after all.

A Day and Night of Magic

2011-01-21T20:39:00.003+05:30

My interest in stopping to understand strange people has given me some worst experiences too, but the experiences have not stopped me from continuing my social expedition.

This happened many years ago. I don’t exactly remember, but I think I was about seventeen years of age. I had suddenly developed a great interest in the esoteric arts and had even started gathering books that ranged in topics from astrology to occult. I was in Kodagu those days. I did not have many opportunities to share my thoughts with anyone and the few I spoke to either were not interested in the subjects of my interest or were too involved in their own worlds. I had only a few occupations- either to read the few books I had collected, or to speak to the same people over and over on telephone or if nothing else to sleep for hours and hours day and night.

I would never lose an opportunity to have a good conversation with anyone who either came selling or seeking something to my house. People were a rarity. You met the same people in college, the same people in small towns; whom you met for years on end, the same people of your village and then your relatives. Any new comer, visitor or stranger was a delight to the eyes and the things he or she said were music to the ears. Those were the days when snake charmers, bear trainers, soothsayers and beggars came during Summer, not together, but at least once a day someone surely came.

Some just came to beg and some entertained and received handouts in return. I would break out of even the deepest sleep or most serious occupation to spend time watching or talking to the variety of visitors. A caparisoned bull from north Karnataka with its human companion was a weekly scene during the hot months and the bull was treated with more respect than the accompanying human being.

Our house stood on the slope of a hilly area. Nobody had seen the hill because there was no one point from where one could get to see the shape and structure of the area. The thirty steep steps to the house from the parking area about sixty fifty feet below would discourage most people to climb up and seek anything. Some interesting performers were coaxed by us to come up whereas beggars were asked to go away at the entrance from the road itself. I was particularly interested in soothsayers and people who performed with animals. My love for animals made my grandmother wonder whether I was growing up to become a zoo keeper.

It was a day when I was alone with an elderly housekeeper while all the people in my family had gone away to attend a wedding and were not expected till late in the night.

I clearly remember that it was about ten o’clock in the morning and I had just had my breakfast. I was somewhere inside and I heard the servant lady speaking to someone. Hearing her asking someone to go away and a man’s voice demanding to be heard and entertained, I thought it was some scene that required my intervention.

I ran to the door. There, outside in the yard stood an elderly man with a turban on his head, wearing a black coat and a dhothi. He had a large sack like bag and a cane with some talismans and threads tied to it. He looked like my ideal person of interest. I stopped the lady and told her that I would talk to him. She protested and muttered an unintelligible curse against the man and walked away into the kitchen, but not forgetting to mutter that it was dangerous to talk to that man.

The old man offered a wry smile to me and asked whether he could come in . I stood there looking at him.

That is when he started, “Why brother are you looking at me like that? Call me in. I want to tell your future.”

My ears stiffened. What future would he tell for a young fellow who lived in a house with no people around for at least a kilometer radius?

“Call me in.”, he said like it was an order and I would be damned if I disobeyed.

“I want to tell many things about you” he said and continued “ I want to tell you about studies, about your health, about the girl you love and about your future.”

I did not move. I was looking into his eyes.

The old man opened his mouth and uttered those words that caught me- “You are in one place but your mind travels all over the world. You have a great interest in politics and you will deal with politicians.”

Yes, I was interested in politics and my family was involved in politics too. My uncle under whose care I lived was an expert and most knowledgeable in politics and in many ways a guru to me in politics.

Though I heard all this standing on the threshold of the main door, I stepped back and called him in.

I heard a loud protest from inside as the housekeeper had been watching from within the house and was displeased by my action. I did not understand her reasons.

The man came in and sat on the floor asking me to sit opposite him.

He went on and on about many things about me and he sounded like a strange mystical music to me. His voice was sonorous and he said many things in an unheard of monotony that I was captivated. He told me about my childhood, about my family about the way I thought and about my interests. He told me about my classmates and particularly about the girl I was attracted to. The things he told me about my future were interesting and very far fetched. He also told me that he was consulted by some big politicians of the region and he was never wrong.

He also claimed that he was capable of anything and everything and I could test him for a fee.

The way he spoke and the manner in which he had got me listening to him caused a great deal of discomfort to me when I realized after a little self consciousness leaked out of the mesmerized self that I was. I said I was done with consulting him and I had other things to attend to.

He did not look any bit interested in leaving. He asked me to give some rice and told me that he would invoke some blessing. Why would I refuse a good blessing if it only cost some uncooked rice. I went in and got about a kilo of rice in a plate. He asked for a newspaper. The newspaper was spread on the floor and he drew a few designs on the paper with turmeric and vermillion. He then poured rice on top of it and flattened the heap and placed a few cowry shells in a circle. He dug deep into his sack and took out some strange items which looked like paraphernalia used during black magic. I was getting scared now. Then he took out a dried bottle gourd which had some folk diagrams drawn on its surface and placed it in the middle of the circle made of cowry shells on top of the rice. I was sitting on the floor opposite him in front of the ritual and was intently looking at all that was happening. The old man now asked me to get fifty rupees. I was a student and in the late 80s even fifty rupees was a lot of money for a college going boy.

He had already impressed me with his evaluation of me and the prediction about my future. I protested but went in and got a fifty rupee note. I placed it in front of him with a heavy heart and in my mind cursing my stupidity for having allowed him to come in. He asked me to pick up the dry gourd. I picked it up. He asked me to check it. It looked like an ordinary bottle gourd which was dry and light with its innards removed and sealed and with designs drawn all over it. He asked me to shake it and I shook a little violently though and there was nothing inside. He then asked me to place the gourd back in its place on the rice. I did as I was told. Then he told me that he would remove all the bad energies and evil eye casts and other bad influences to make me better. I agreed and wanted to be done with all of it.

He asked me to stand up. As I stood up the old man started some incantations and sounded like he was invoking some spirits. All that sounded so out of the world and I did not know why I was subjecting myself to this ritual. When it looked like all the mumbo jumbo was over the old man casually looked at me and asked me to cross the ritual area. The old man was sitting far away leaning on the wall and I was closer to the place where the gourd was. He asked me to cross by taking my right leg over the gourd followed by my left leg. I prayed and with an eagerness to finish the task raised my right leg and took it over the gourd that was below me. As my leg crossed over the gourd and when my foot reached the floor on the other side, just before I could lift my left leg something happened. The bottle gourd lifted itself from the ground shrieked from within and fell down in a spin. I had a shudder in my whole body.

The old man convinced me that everything was alright and there was no need to fear because all the bad energies were taken away. I was a student of science and a very inquisitive student at that. Nothing could explain the behaviour of the gourd. I was shaken but impressed in the same breath. The old man now was packing his things. He asked me how much I was attracted to the girl that I was paying attention to. I said quite. This was a girl I liked but not much in love with. I had this habit of instantly falling in love and in another instant losing interest. The old man smiled a genuine smile and asked me whether I could try his magic on her. I did not have the intention but got interested. If this man could make a gourd move he could make a heart respond, perhaps, I thought. He said that he could make her love me. It sounded so true. This girl was a nice and beautiful girl and I would be happy if she were to fall in love with me. I said fine. But, he said it would cost me three hundred rupees. Three hundred rupees for a girl to fall in love? My total travel expense for a month did not exceed fifty rupees. Why would I give three hundred rupees? He said he would show me unbelievable magic. The girl would fall in love with me or else he would return the money during his next visit. I refused but wanted to try. I got into a bargaining mode. Ultimately the deal was set at two hundred rupees. I had saved some money and with a tugging feeling all over my body I brought the money to him. He slipped the money into the coat pocket and fished out a small packet of white paper from some corner of his sack.

He gave the packet to me and said that I could think of the person and tie the little talisman inside the packet and within a few days the girl would express her love to me. He promised that in the night his goddess would come and help me realize my wish. By now the worker in the house was shouting at the top her voice saying that I was making a mistake and I had to finish my consultation or else she would complain to my people on their return. I put the packet in my pocket and urged the man to leave. He got up unwillingly but kept telling me that I could give him more money as he knew that I had more inside. I literally had to push him out of the house. He went but told me that he would come some day because there were more things to do. He also told me that he could help me do well in studies and make money too. I just wanted him to go and as a great relief he did leave and I heaved a sigh.

By the time my folks returned it was late in the night and by then the housekeeper had left for her home and I was alone. After talking to them about the marriage and other things, I was too tired and completely forgot about the packet. It remained in my shirt pocket that lay hanging in the shelf as I slept peacefully in a deep sleep through the night.

When I woke up I realized that I had one of the best sleeps in the night but was up only because of some commotion in the labour quarters below near the road. There was loud talking and some big discussion. I rushed to see what was happening. My aunts, mother and other people were already there and about ten estate labourers were making some big gestures and explaining something. I went and asked them to tell me what had happened. The man said, “ Did you not hear Sir, there was some strange thing that happened last night.” The word strange disturbed me. He continued looking at my expression of surprise “ We were sleeping outside because it was warm inside and a little after midnight we heard something similar to a woman wailing and running around this area. Sir, how is it possible that the voice was moving all around the area when there is not even a path around.” It was impossible for anyone to run around the area because the whole area was a big slope, rugged and fenced. The only access was the steps. “ Sir, we were very scared. It looked like it was trying to enter your house but something was stopping it from entering. We don’t know why nobody heard it inside your house. We were so scared that we ran into our homes and locked the doors and windows ” He looked terribly shaken. I did not say anything and went completely quiet.

In the evening I went to my grandmother and told her what had happened. She asked me all that I knew about the old man. I told her that he had claimed that he was a medicine man who belonged to the tribe Aane Kuruba (Elephant tribe) and had come from the forest. My grandmother said that it was my good luck and the grace of the family deity that saved me since an Aane Kuruba’s magic can be lethal. She said that these tribal people who controlled elephants with their magic could do anything to a chit of a boy like me. I took the packet, ran to the stream close to my house and put the contents in the running water. I had heard that it was the best thing to do.

After having experienced his spell, the show of magic and the aftermath, now I felt like I was literally trampled by a wild elephant.

Smell of Victory

2011-01-19T13:14:00.002+05:30

Flying in an ATR to Hyderabad could be a little tiring considering the short distance and the apparently long flight. I hate travel and there are many reasons; real and imaginary.

Sitting in the aircraft and not knowing what to do with a chattery co passenger on the right side and a couple to my left after the aisle who were a little short of making love in the plane.

It is my habit to look around and to feel the environment, any place I am in. To look at things surreptitiously and to make out one’s defenses can be a curious task. The couple drew my attention for many reasons; I had to avoid the person sitting next to me giving me a head ache and the guy and the girl who kept on adjusting in their seats so much that I was afraid they would bring the plane down.

After a while there was a familiar stench. I can bear anything but a bad smell. I could even jump without a parachute to avoid any irritating odour. I started sniffing around to find the source of the odour and to banish it.

It was the smell of stinking feet that were unwashed and rubbed against moist leather. It was unmistakably emanating from the feet and the footwear of the young man sitting on my left who had already placed a foot under his bottom, on top of the seat and broadly aimed at me. His empty leather footwear were placed like celebrated padukas below on the floor.

The snuggling and rubbing between the couple was going on vigorously while the smell was pushing into my nose and about to cause an unbearable headache. Sometimes wisdom and better sense fail to prevail and crude animal instincts take over.

I needed the help of the man sitting next to me and drew his attention to the smell. He was so immersed in telling me about his plans in politics that it took a few moments for me to wean him away from his reverie. He too looked at the naked feet, the empty footwear and agreed that the smell (I am not sure he noticed it that much), had to be attended to as the cause was evident.

I did not hesitate much and turned to the guy, moved a little across the aisle and tapped him on the shoulder and said “ Excuse me, I think your footwear is smelling bad.” He looked at his own feet and then the footwear below him and said “ No, it is not stinking” and then he looked at my feet which were firmly fastened in a pair of sandals and said “It must be your feet”. He said it so coolly that I for a moment thought that it could actually be my feet that were stinking and not his.

I recovered and said “Not just your footwear but your foot is stinking too”, pointing at this feet.

He continued “No, no, it is your feet that are smelling, not mine.” He sounded cool and composed. But, I got some help. The man sitting to my right, the one who had tried to forge a friendship with his continuous banter came to my help. He craned his head into the aisle and reprimanded “It is your feet and it is your footwear. What a bad smell.” The tough looking guy with expression of disgust on his face must have scared him. The guy removed his foot from under his bottom and found his other foot from somewhere and slipped both into the footwear and slid back in his seat.

The girl who did not understand much in the milieu now gathered her senses and asked her guy “ What happened?

Her friend whispered loudly “ These guys are saying that my feet and sandals are stinking”

I could hear her clearly say, “What nonsense ya? Ask them to go find a seat somewhere else. Fight back.”

From the corner of my eyes I could see the guy shrugging and refusing to get into a fight. I was getting ready. The girl was bending, twisting and grinding her seat trying to have a good look of us and perhaps to meet my eyes to invite me for a duel. As luck would have it, a person sitting behind me tapped on my shoulder and asked me and confirmed my identity and started speaking about my shows on tv. Though it is not something that I am very pleased with, but this time I was more than eager to talk to that person. In fact I turned back and spoke with a broad smile like he was more than just a viewer. He introduced me to his friends who were sitting next to him and I asked them a few questions.

The girl who by now had failed to draw me into a fight was busy looking at the company I kept. I am sure she was not ready to fight a guy who had a support base in the plane. She sank in her seat and went quiet. What would have I done if there was a fight? My co-passenger was a doctor who had quit his profession to join politics. I planned to enlist him to chip in his medical knowledge to prove the authenticity of the stench and its source. No such need arose, though.

It was the most uncomfortable flight. On one side I was being interviewed by a person who asked all kinds of questions about his own future in politics and on the left there was the threat of the guy removing his footwear again. The guy had closed his eyes and perhaps had preferred a short sleep, but my eyes were firmly set on his feet which now were settled in the footwear.

I did not want a fight while alighting. We were at the back end of the plane and I rushed to the exit first and got down. Sitting in the transit coach, I could see the couple coming towards it but the girl had her glaring eyes set on me. I had to fight now, since the doctor was not seen anywhere. Just then, another person approached me and started talking to me about Bangalore, my shows and other things. I was saved once again, since the girl’s intention looked like to corner me when alone. I could see her talking to her guy with her eyes poking me. The guy was in no mood to take the issue any further since he looked like he had realized how abominable his stench was and that I perhaps was right in pointing it out.

Exiting from the coach and moving towards the baggage collection the burly guy I met in the coach tagged along. I had now started moving in a sprint. The girl was not far behind. Waiting for my baggage I showed extraordinary expression of human friendship to my new friend and started one of the most stupid conversations to keep him standing next to me, only for my defense without him knowing about it. The girl came, circled around us staring at me all the while and when she could not breach my support bond, walked away, perhaps with a heavy heart.

I decided there and then to suffer any misery than to shame a guy who had a girl for his defense.

History and Folklore

2011-01-11T23:19:00.009+05:30

The legend of a great family

- Deepak Thimaya

It was on a fact finding mission that I heard these stories about this family. The people who told the stories were so sincere and honest that the stories had to be real and true, however fantastic they may sound. The most interesting story perhaps is about a wedding in the family. An Indian wedding whether now or about a hundred years ago has been an occasion for people to show their best looks, best clothes and for women to show off their best jewelry.

It was no different in this wedding which took place about a hundred years ago. For the ceremony it is common to decorate the wedding area with mango leaves, which are pinned around a jute string making the place look auspicious and special. In this particular wedding the boy's house was decorated with mango leaves made of gold strung in a golden thread and tied from end to end, above and around the inner quadrangle and with the Nizam’s police guarding the decoration.

The women relatives of the bride who had arrived from rich homes from all over the region had brought boxes of their own jewelry which had to be displayed to all the others during the course of the wedding. These women found it difficult to wear all their jewelry at a time, and as there was little time to show all the jewelry to all the guests they had to rush into their private rooms every hour and rush out after changing their entire set of attire and jewelry.

The bridegroom’s family was amused and wanted to do something to alleviate the suffering of the guests. So, they decided to put a stop to the eagerness of the women guests to show off more. The women of the bridegroom’s family put together all their jewelry and lined up a few oxen. They heaped loads of golden ornaments on the backs and around the horns of the oxen and drove them into the streets. The dumbstruck guests realized their own folly and display of kitsch, immediately rushed inside and shed all the jewelry and gaudery and came back in simple clothes.

The father of the bridegroom was known as a great philanthropist and do-gooder who they say never missed an opportunity to help people in need. He was supposed to be so wealthy, they say, that he could give away alms to the needy tirelessly for three days without even getting up from his seat all through the celebration of giving.

In spite of all his wealth and fame about his generosity, this man did not wear any ostentatious attire or jewelry which could draw attention to his position and personality. Once when he went to attend a function in Sholapur (now in Maharashtra) he was refused entry because he looked like a village simpleton, wearing a dhothi (a length of white cloth worn around the waist) and woolen blanket on his shoulder.

He sat outside the function area and started giving alms to people around him. This became such a big attraction that in a while the whole gathering at the function inside poured out to take money from the simple man who had extraordinary riches and human kindness.

This is the story of the Kheny family. The bridegroom in the story above was Madivalappa Kheny and the rich man who was the embodiment of humility and humanity was Maharudrappa Kheny, the great grand father of Ashok Kheny the only Kheny who is well known in Karnataka today.

These are some of the most unbelievable stories people tell about this great family. There are folk songs and ballads. There are bhajans and qawwalis. It is no small thing that people even to this day take a venerated wooden hand, representing the divine hand of Maharudrappa, in a procession celebrating his greatness and altruism. People remember how the Kheny family fed thousands of people for many months during the worst drought in the early years of the 20^th century.

It is difficult to make out the fact from fiction, since most of the folk history has been passed down from generation to generation. There are some historical documents and some written private paperwork. It looks like the patriarch and the subsequent generations were never interested in promoting self glory. What is remaining now of the family legacy are heaps of contract papers, acres of land and the people of the current generation who are wealthy and living too far away from the land of their glory.

If the Kheny family was indeed so rich, well known and celebrated then why do people of Karnataka know so little about it? Why is there so little information written about the patriarch, who if we go by the story, should be considered as one of the greatest people from the region in pre-independence India?

There may be reasons for this; the most important one being that the elder and the most flamboyant of the brothers in the last generation, Shankar Kheny, moved out of the village Ranjol Kheny and settled in Bangalore. The other brothers too followed suit.

After the fall of the Nizam’s kingdom, and the assimilation of the area into Karnataka, the family lost political influence and most of the family members abandoned the area and the stories remained only with the locals. The new changes in the village and the landscape; particularly the swallowing up of thousands of acres of lands by the Karanja Dam, displacement of villages and the availability of opportunities in distant lands for the children of the family too contributed to the dilution of the family’s importance.

The family is most well known for having lent money to the Nizam of Hyderabad. There are confusing stories about this incident. Maharudrappa Kheny who was capable of such a deed was a simple man and never given to pretentious acts and always remained humble. His friendship with the Nizam if there was must have been based on mutual respect. It is evident from the stories that Maharudrappa was a man who valued self respect and honour more than wealth and pleasure. It is not possible that he could have been friends with the Nizam and enjoyed the royal pleasures. A chair in the Nizam’s court dedicated to Maharudrappa Kheny is a witness to the importance of their relationship.

The stories also corroborate the fact that Maharudrappa Kheny was a religious and pious man. It is said that lord Bhadreshwara of Bhavgi, a god-man in his lifetime who is worshipped as a god after his passing away, famous for his posthumous miraculous deeds, had taken a liking for Maharudrappa. It is believed that Sri Bhadreshwara helped Maharudrappa in every action of his, in addition to making him extremely wealthy. It is also said that people had witnessed, the infant Maharudrappa being blessed by a snake, which had opened its hood and swayed over the child’s head.

In fact, Ranjol became Kheny Ranjol only after the Kheny family settled there. Locals say that the word kheny actually means businessman and the family got its name by way of the men in the family being addressed by that word. Some old time politicians of Gulbarga and Bidar areas speak about the grandeur and glory of the times when the Kheny family operated out of Ranjol. It could also be true that Maharudrappa’s son Madivalappa and thereafter his sons did not do as much as Maharudrappa in terms of charity and philanthropy that people still talk only of Maharudrappa and to an extent about Madivalappa.

It could be possible that Madivalappa’s priorities were different. He gave more impetus to education and development and people particularly speak about Maina Tayee, the wife of Madivalappa being a very caring woman who paid attention to women’s education. It is also a well accepted fact that the Kheny family promoted Kannada education in the area which had a predominance of Urdu and Telugu.

It is difficult to separate the grain from the chaff when one listens to the stories about the Kheny family. The stories are disjointed, and though the same stories are related by different people over and over sometimes the hero of the story is told as a different person belonging to a different generation in the family.

The huge buildings of stone that are in ruins all around the small village of Ranjol speak of its past glory. The edifice that houses the heaps of old documents alone is proof for how active and advanced the place must have been about a hundred years ago. The ornate doors, the stone carvings, the huge rooms and the well planned village areas silently speak of the greatness of its erstwhile residents.

The ruins are currently occupied by people who are in desperate need of housing and there is not one person of Maharudrappa’s clan who lives in Ranjol. A local villager who had accompanied me during my visit to the Kheny village, did not forget to mention that there are many duplicate Khenys in Ranjol who are basking in the glory of the surname.

The place and the family need urgent academic attention to document the whole truth and to discover the other forgotten and hidden truths. It is not just the story of a family but the legend of a great lineage of people who were not only benevolent but have etched a mark in the collective conscience and memory of the people in the area.

Divine Intervention

2011-01-06T14:40:00.002+05:30

Now, thinking about it, I feel she was a good friend then. Vidya was a nice girl; frank, bold and a no-nonsense kid. I was a little scared of her always because she asked me direct question which I found quite difficult to answer. Though she gravitated towards her girl groups later on in school, in pre-primary and till about 4^th standard I remember sitting next to her most of the school years.

I think children that age are chatter boxes and any chance they get; there are enough and more things to talk about. Vidya was one girl who had some serious conversations with me. It was about relatives, new devices and the special things that happened around us from time to time.

I think children of that age invent things for conversations with friends and most often even exaggerate for the sake of understanding others’ perspectives. It may even be possible that children live in a world of imagination and if that is reflected in their speech it cannot be considered a lie.

I don’t know about Vidya but I used to exaggerate a lot, sometimes only for the sake of keeping a conversation interesting and vibrant. She would tell me something about what happened in her house and I would match it up with an equally interesting event or occurrence. She would talk about her uncles and I would talk about my aunts. If she spoke about her relatives in Mysore, I would be ready with anecdotes about my kin in Bangalore.

I was a fair and frail child who always looked for security and safety. Vidya found me as an interesting chat mate and spent most of her free time talking about the most interesting things. There were times when I had to be ready with my ingredients in the morning to cook up tales during the day.

She was a Malayali and naturally like most Malayalis in Kodagu, was associated with things in Kerala and also festivals and temples there. It was the season of Ayyappa Swamy yathra. I remember that during those days that every second man seemed like a Ayyappa Swamy bhakta. This was the euphoria and every evening there was big function in some place or the other. Though nobody from my family ever went to Ayyappa Swamy, the god was no stranger to my family. We had neighbours and also some estate workers who were ardent devotees and we would participate in the evening bhajans.

This happened when I was in third standard and a little over 7 years in age. It was during December, if I remember it right. Me and Vidya had many things to talk about the Ayyappa season and the way the worship was happening all around us. Vidya had uncles who had made the vow and were strictly following the tradition. I had nobody to relate to personally. I had this need to keep my level up against her with my own experience and exposure.

While she spoke about the every night pooja at her home, I spoke about a small Ayyappa shrine in my house built outside in the courtyard. When she spoke about how the bhajans in her house went on till late in the night, I would tell her about how I was the acting as the main assistant to the priest in the shrine in my house. I spoke about the shrine all the while imagining it, but dutifully keeping in mind the one framed picture of Ayyappa Swamy along with numerous pictures of other gods hanging on the wall of a small pooja room in my house. I always told a small prayer to the image of Ayyappa Swamy in my mind, because I did not want to offend the great god by telling lies about him.

Those were not the days of kids having access to communication (we did not even know about the possibility and very few people even had land phones in my area), so there was no way I could show the picture of the shrine to her, though she had demanded to see it. This temple thing did not convince her easily. Coming from a family of ardent devotees of the god they were not able to build a shrine though they could afford it but how could my family when nobody had even gone to the Ayyappa abode?

The no-nonsense bit in her became more active and she was in an investigation mode.

She started asking my neighbours and friends. Ours was a village and the houses were far from one another and since our house was at a higher altitude and there was no reason for anyone to come unless invited. None of the neighbour kids knew about any recent developments and all the answer she got from interviewing other kids from my village, was a firm ,I don’t know’.

I was saved to an extent. She was an aggressive girl and now she was asking me every day. I remember her waiting for my mother to come to school. Once my mother came to see my class teacher, and since the visit was for a short while and during a class, Vidya was unable to ask her. I could see her struggling in her seat while my mother stood at the door and spoke to the teacher. If the teacher was not strict enough, I am sure Vidya would have leapt out of her seat and pounced on my mother to get the truth.

She had taken it personally. It had become an ego issue for her and my life was being made hell by her. She had even told me that she would not talk to me until she found out the truth. I held on to my imaginary facts about the shrine, the daily rituals and my total participation in it. I could even see in my mind’s eye the temple bells, the large lamps, the steps and the idol placed inside. My imagination had extended to the extent of me seeing the courtyard of the temple covered with stone slabs with green grass growing in the spaces between and the path way with neatly arranged plans to line it. It was true there was a large courtyard around my house but it was all empty and anyone could see there was no temple, nothing.

In a few days after that we had class tests and then I fell ill. I was diagnosed as having a very bad appendicitis and it had to be removed by surgery. I thought I would die during the operation and did a big drama before and after the operation and succeeded in getting all the attention.

I thought Vidya had forgotten about it because my operation was a god sent diversion and a time of peace. I saw her name in the get well card that was signed by all my classmates and sent to my home. I thought the time of my sin and lies was over. Then I heard the bad news. My class teacher was bringing all my classmates to see me. Now it was like I was falling from the frying pan into the tiger’s mouth. There was no escape. I hated myself my, operation and my teacher. I fell more sick on the day of their visit. I thought of every excuse possible. I decided that I would tell her that the shrine was removed for repairs. What else would I do! Stopping short of wishing them bad luck on their way to my house, I thought of everything that could spoil the visit.

In spite of all my efforts and prayers the class landed in my house. They had traveled by school vans and reached. My teacher came first, pinched my cheek and sat next to me in my bed. She was joking and talking. It was my strict class teacher and she was being nice to me. I was just not interested. Then the my class kids came one by one smile talked and went out. Vidya was nowhere. I was sure that she was surveying the area looking for the temple. My life would be over. If appendicitis did not kill me, Vidya surely would.

My teacher asked me why I was looking so sick and I told her that I was not feeling well. I got more sympathy from her. When Vidya did not come into the room, even when it was time for my classmates to leave, I meekly asked my teacher, ‘Ma’am, has Vidya come?’

‘She did not come.’, my God what a relief, but the teacher continued, ‘ She wanted to come and infact her uncle asked us to wait. She is unwell today , but still she did not want to miss it. Poor girl. Yesterday she had also told me about some temple she wanted to see.’

What is this nonsense, I thought. There was no relief.

My mother who was standing next to me told the teacher, mistaking the reference to the temple as something to with a famous temple near my village.

‘That temple is closed now, you will have to come some other time’.

My teacher accepted the answer and left with the children.

Uff! I was saved.

After a month I went to school. Everyone greeted me and enquired about my health. My mother had come with me. I saw Vidya coming towards us, running. Everything started coming back. This was the moment of my end, in full view. I am sure she would call my bluff and brand me a liar for my life.

She pushed the other students away and directly went to my mother.

‘Aunty’ she addressed her in a loud voice, perhaps throwing out her frustration of a long time.

My mother who knew Vidya, as my classmate, said ‘ How are you Vidya’

Vidya looked at me once almost glowering and turned to my mother. Everyone went quiet. Why was she behaving like this, I am sure everyone thought.

Then she said ‘Aunty tell me. Deepak told me, but I want you to tell me.’

What would she ask. God!

There was a pause again. She was collecting her words to make the final assault. The class bell rang and my mother held my hand to drag me to the class. Vidya held my mother’s hand. She asked ‘ Aunty do you have, in your house…’ it was getting late for everyone

She had to ask now or never

‘Aunty, do you have Ayyappa Swamy in your house.’ The commotion was too much with all children rushing into their classes. Nobody except me heard the word ‘temple’. My mother was now rushing towards my class with me in her hand and Vidya in tow.

‘Yes we have’ my mother said, with a smile on her face and assuring her.

‘ Do you worship every day?’

My mother said ‘Yes’ obviously referring to the picture on the wall.

Vidya was not very convinced but in those days kids did not question the authority and credibility of mothers.

I watched both of them in utter disbelief.

Thereafter, for some reason Vidya stopped talking about the temple and I stopped talking about gods to her.

Did god save me that day?

Child Marriage

2011-01-02T19:31:00.002+05:30

As a child I was fascinated by marriage functions. I thought marriages were the best thing that could happen to people. They were occasions for kids to wear new clothes and move from lap to lap when you very young and from arm to arm when you are a little older. Marriage halls were places where a kid can feel very important.

I thought it was cool to get married because everyone treated the bride and the groom in a special way. Many weddings had taken place in my family; from looking forward to getting married to actually getting married and everything after that, these married people were special in some way or the other. There were too many marriages I was attending and they were affecting me in someway. I was a kid in the fourth standard and about 9 years in age.

One day I took two pictures of a man and a woman and went to school. I laid the pictures on my desk and asked my classmates how it would be if we could get them married. I really wanted to see them married. In those days, it was not a very good thing for young children to talk about marriage; they were only allowed to attend. Someone complained to the teacher. The teacher scolded me and told me to be a good boy and put the pictures away in a far corner of the cupboard.

I was sad. A good looking girl in my class was a good friend too, but she was not one of those intelligent ones. This girl did not mind spending more time talking to boys and I found her quite interesting because she sounded and looked more liberal.

I explained my situation to her during lunch break and she gave me a patient hearing and passed the judgment that there was nothing wrong if people got married. It was ok by her to get the people in pictures married.

I was consoled, but then I started thinking about her. I thought she was a nice girl and liked the bit about her being very understanding. I went to school prepared, the next day.

I met this girl during lunch as usual, because we most often sat next to each other and spoke about all those matters of life and discussed our family problems.

I cut all the issues and abruptly and asked her,

‘Will you marry me?

She looked at me intensely for a moment, and then gathered her things, got up and walked away. I am sure she had not even finished her lunch.

I was shivering in my shorts now.

I knew what had happened with my pictures and the way I was reprimanded in front of the whole class. I thought it was the end of my days in school, if she complained.

I crawled back into my classroom, but had to avoid her gaze the second half of the day till it was time to go home.

I had nightmares in my sleep and in fact the next day I almost readied to fake some illness and stay back. I knew that some disaster was going to take place.

I could imagine the hooded cane carried by the nun dancing on my dainty palms.

Why did I want to marry… I was not ready for it any way. Even if she had agreed it was not something I could do immediately. How could I be so stupid? I did not know how to kick myself for my blunder.

I went to the class. The day passed off uneventfully. But, she did not even look at me, and I was sure because I was watching her through the day for the moment she would stand up to make my folly public.

Likewise, one more day passed by.

The fourth day, felt a little more secure. I was more confident that the storm had blow over.

For three days, during lunch, she had sat away from me with her friends and had completely avoided even looking at me. I had sat alone eaten my lunch and my guilt. I had decided to never ever talk without thinking. And, anyway, from where would I put together so much money to get married at such a young age! In fact thinking about it I did not even love this girl. And, you were supposed to love the girl you wanted to marry (that is what I had learnt from acting in the play Sleeping Beauty)

Then, after lunch I had a small walk around the school ground and reached my classroom just before it was to start for the afternoon session. She was standing there, leaning on the balustrade opposite my class room. She looked at me. I was scared again.

‘Come here.’, she called. It sounded like a command.

I was shivering all over. What was going to happen now!

‘You know you asked me something the other day.’, she said. God, I thought it was all over and now it was beginning all over again.

‘Hnh hanh,…’ I was stammering. I wanted a place to bury myself.

‘I thought about it’, she said after a long pause.

And she uttered the words, ‘ I am ready’ and smiled.

I wanted to faint, but I didn’t. I turned and ran into my classroom.

Now, it was my turn to avoid her, for a lifetime.

Shut forever

2010-12-31T00:23:00.001+05:30

A long time ago. It was a time when I really needed support from everywhere so I could keep myself relevant and functioning in a difficult world. I was doing many things and also was seeking help from all quarters. I had applied for scholarships and was more than eager to fulfill their requirements. Even one meeting or a call with an important person in a funding agency was like a ray of hope. It was also the time when I had started making tv shows. A time of experimentation and exploration.

One day I had arranged for the shooting of an announcement in my small room for lack of any other facility where I could shoot peacefully. As I was about to begin the shoot, the landphone in the room rang. It was not a time of mobile phones as most could not afford even the few that were available. I had to keep the landphone functioning, to receive calls from the studio about the progress of the shoot.

When I received the call, the person on the other side was Pradeep a good friend but a bad irritant, most often. He thought it was funny to speak in an American accent. In the beginning he had started speaking in that accent for fun, but slowly, the poorly imitated American accent became his natural style of speaking. The accent irritated me more than anything else.

His voice was gruff but the English was good, and he most often would call to speak of the most unimportant things of the day in particular and about all irrelevant things in life in general.

It was not the right time to receive his call, but

‘How are you my friend?’ he started

‘Look, Pradeep, I am busy now. Can I call you later?’, I was firm.

‘Hey why busy, Pal? Speak to me for few minutes, I am bored at home.’, he said

‘Pradeep, I am busy. I am doing something.’, I tried to sound serious.

‘What are you busy with?’, it sounded like he was not ready to take a no for an answer.

‘Pradeep will you just cut the call, I shall talk to you later.’, I made my displeasure known.

‘Hey, Deepak, tell me what you are so busy with, tell me.’, he continued.

I slammed the phone and started the shoot.

Then the phone rang again.

It was Pradeep again and the same American accent and gruff voice and more demanding.

‘Deepak Thimaya, tell me, what you are busy with. Shall I come? I bought a painting yesterday and you know it cost me twenty thousand rupees.’. It did not look like he would stop.

‘Pradeep, this is too much’, I raised my voice. The camerman and the assistants were looking inquiringly, ‘Will you just put the phone down and mind your business. I am busy.’

‘Hey Mr. Thimaya, don’t joke,’ he said ‘I think you have a girl there. What are you doing tell me? Who is she?’

‘Bloody hell, Pradeep,’ now I was out of patience. ‘Will you shut the &*%$ up and hang up.’, I rammed the phone on its cradle

I was getting to utter my lines as the camera was recording. The phone rang. I picked up and as I heard his voice I put it down. I wished I could snap the cord or throw the phone away. I was getting disturbed.

I was uttering my lines and everything was coming fine then the phone rang. I was totally out of my wits. I picked up the receiver,

‘Hello Mr. Thimaya’ now he sounded like he was trying something else. The same gruff voice but sounding soft and friendly, perhaps to please me. I was in no mood for amusement. My job was spoiled enough, already.

‘You bloody fellow’, I said. ‘You shameless being. Why do you call me? Do you have no other business? Why don’t you go to hell instead of irritating me like this?’ I had never been so angry with him ever before.

‘Mr. Thimaya can I speak to you for a moment?’

I was not ready to listen to anything or give any moment of my audience. I had too much of it already.

‘You idiot. You are spoiling my work. Get lost. I will punch you if you call me again.’ if he had seen my actions he would have run for cover.

I heard him saying, ‘I think we must speak’

What the &%$# do you want to speak to me? What is there to speak to you? You jobless ass. Can’t you get lost. Idiot. Don’t ever call me. I shall kill you if you call me again.’

I put the receiver away from the phone and was sure that nobody could call me till I put it back.

I had already lost time and had to finish the job. I had spoilt my mood completely but somehow finished the shoot. My job was done well, somehow.

Now I was ready to talk to anyone, but was still angry with Pradeep.

The phone rang the moment I put the receiver back in place.

I picked, expecting to hear Pradeep’s voice.

‘Deepak’, it was my friend Tripura’s voice. No Hi nothing, why!

‘Hi Tripura, how are you?’ I was glad to hear her voice. Tripura was a well known dancer and a great friend. She had even tried to put me onto some funding agencies.

‘Deepak, what have you done!’ She sounded worried

‘Why, what happened, Tripura?’, I asked

‘Why did you speak like that to Thomas?’, she sounded sad

‘Who, which Thomas?’, I asked

‘Thomas from the Foundation for the Arts’

‘Oh. I have not spoken to him!’ I was worried now. It was an important funding agency and Thomas was the key person there.

‘No, you did speak to him. He called you about an hour ago and he says you abused him continuously without even listening to him. Why did you do that? He is very hurt and I want to know why you did that?’

‘Oh, my God, Tripura, I am so sorry. I thought it was someone else and spoke like that. I am really sorry.’

‘But, how could you do that? This is very bad Deepak. This is very bad.’ She sounded hurt. The line was cut.

I was in a state of shock but the moment I recovered a bit, I wrote a long letter to Mr. Thomas, in which I profusely apologized, but never got a reply.

Needless to say that it was the last day I spoke to Pradeep too.

*some names are changed.

A marriage to remember

2010-12-29T23:54:00.000+05:30

I don’t like marriage receptions, and as much as possible avoid going to those loud and noisy functions. Sometimes it becomes unavoidable because of some important reasons. One such bundle of reasons took me in the direction of a marriage hall that was somewhere in the back of beyond. The reception as usual was at night.

I dressed well and drove all way to the area which had many underdeveloped parts that were dark and confusing in the night. Asking for the location, by stopping almost every hundred yards, I ultimately reached the marriage hall. It actually looked like a marriage complex . I was already late, so I hurried up the well decorated stairs, barely noticing the people who were greeting me and waving at me and entered the marriage hall.

The man who had invited me to the marriage had called over the phone and had message me the address. I did not even ask to know whether it was his son or the daughter who was getting married. In fact I had not even waited to notice the welcome arch which perhaps would have mentioned some detail in that regard.

Walking into the marriage hall, I was greeted by a few people and was taken to the front row and made to sit. I plopped on a chair and pushed my belly forward, rested my hands on the arm rests and beamed a smile from side to side greeting all those who were interested in looking at me.

People came, greeted, spoke about my shows and went. I was eager to speak to the man who had invited me. I tried his number a few times but the call failed to connect.

I tried to recollect his name and realized that I had forgotten his name completely. Even the phone number was saved with just the first two letters as usual, as I am too lazy to save the whole name. Anyway, the name was not necessary as long as he could recognize me.

When, even a after a while the man I was looking for did not manifest, either on the stage or in the hall, as I had by now tried a turning 360 degree exercise, though gracefully, many times over, in the process smiling at the same people again and again. He was nowhere. It was getting really late. I was here only for him so I had to see him and go to the stage and wish the couple with him. That was the right thing to do.

There was this busybody who was all over the place, who would also every three minutes once come to me and enquire about my well being as if I was suffering from a severe health condition and needed constant monitoring. I called him and asked him to inform the bride’s father about my presence.

My temporary errand man went away and came back with the bride’s father- a tall, frail man who was nowhere in resemblance to the man I had known. He was happy and greeted me repeatedly, expressing his great pleasure about my presence. I too thanked him for inviting me. Then I turned to the same busybody who was now shifting around in the place he was standing and asked him to inform the bridegroom’s father so I could settle things once and for all and be comfortable.

The man ran and pulled a man in suit from the stage and brought him to me. That man, another stranger, wished me but started talking to me in Telugu, a language I cannot speak. Oh my God, what to do, I thought, perhaps the person who invited me was an uncle and since some uncles refer to their nieces and nephews as daughters and sons, I may have made the mistake in understanding the relationship. But, who would I ask for?

I had to do something because I could not get the name of the person even to save my life, if I had to.

I turned to the bride’s father and remarked about the arrangements and also told him how difficult it was for me to find this marriage hall.

I told him how people did not even recognize the name of the marriage hall in spite of me showing them the address.

He said, that it was possible that I had taken the address wrongly and asked to look at the address.

I showed the message in my phone.

He did not even blink and said that the address was right, but the name was wrong because the name in the address was of a different marriage hall situated behind the one that I was standing in.

I plucked the phone from his hand, looked at it intently, raised my forefinger saying ‘ one important call’ and making some lip movements and uttering some words, rushed out of the hall and into my car.

Even the car could not hide me and my face sufficiently, I think.

A weak heart

2010-12-28T23:09:00.003+05:30

I was in love with this girl when I was in college. She was one of the many girls I had fallen in love with, but I certainly loved her. I had fallen for her only because of her looks and I had relentlessly pursued her for days. She would strut in front of me like a peacock and I would follow her like a dog. She would obviously ignore me and I would deliberately not take the hint.

This went on for many days and one day I confronted her.

She was standing alone, under a tree, perhaps waiting to be confronted by me because I am sure she had seen me from a distance. I went to her and she stretched her head away from me and behaved like she was not interested.

But, she stood wherever she was without making the slightest effort to move away, though the whole world was free around her.

I shamelessly went close to her. Now she looked at me.

I said, ‘Shalini, I don’t know what you feel about me, but I love you.’

She looked at me, like, Is it so?

‘You know I really love you a lot. Every time I see you, my heart becomes weak. Something happens to me. I hope you understand.’

She did not say anything. She took at long look at me and turned and started walking.

As I was quite used to walking behind her and following, I continued to walk.

I walked, unmindful of the public glare and some taunts from a few college-mates.

I walked, maintaining a distance, while she walked slowly in front of me, as if heading a procession, most probably enjoying the hapless one man train behind her.

This procession went on for about a kilometer and then she easily hailed an auto enquired with the driver and sat in. I was watching her. Then she peeped out of the auto, and gave a condescending look at me. I quickened my steps reached the auto before it moved and hopped in.

All that she said was ‘ I don’t think you are doing right’, that too under her breath.

I sat still, but a little away from her, not even drawing the attention of the auto driver.

Reaching her place she pointed at the house and told me that she had neared her house but asked the auto to be stopped a few hundred metres away but within the sight of her house.

I got down and she got down too.

She paid the driver and started walking towards her house.

I was following.

She entered by opening the gate and I went behind her.

She went into the open doorway of the house. I tried entering the house and that was when she turned with folded hands and said ‘ I beg you, please go away. Let us meet at the college.’

I smiled and returned.

Then I did not see her for many days.

I could not gather courage to go back to her house.

Then one day I saw her near my college.

Since she studied in a different college, I guessed she had come only for me.

‘ Hi’ she said and asked whether I could go for a walk with her.

I walked with her and had a nice conversation about everything except about all that which had happened during my pursuit of her.

Then we went to a restaurant.

We sat opposite each other. While waiting for our orders to be served, she asked

‘You know I was really worried after what you told the other day.’

What had I told? I thought severely. What what what?

Then she said ‘ I really did not want to hurt you in anyway.’, and continued, ‘I decided to love you because then you would be safe.’

Why, what had happened to me?

She asked the final question, ‘Do you really have a problem in your heart?’

I looked at her for a few minutes in silence. Sat silently, as she waited for the answer and quietly dropped her to an auto and looked for ways to save my heart thereafter.

Software Development

2010-12-27T12:49:00.000+05:30

Those were the early days of economic liberalization. I was starting my life in Bangalore and had joined a course in software development. It was a time of dBase and black and white monitors. The news had spread in my hometown about this new field I was getting involved in.

One day I received a call from a distant but caring uncle.

‘ Hello, how are you?’ he asked.

‘I am fine uncle’ and the conversation went on till we completed the formalities and pleasantries bits.

‘I heard that you are into software development, is it true?’ he asked emphasizing on the words software and development.

‘Yes, Uncle.’ I said, ‘ I have just started the course. I don’t know whether I would complete the course’.

‘Don’t worry, there is opportunity in every field’ he sounded like he was consoling me.

But, then he said something ‘ Bring me something that I can use’.

Oh, God! I thought. How much advanced this world was becoming, this uncle who had a small business in a small town in Kodagu wanted a software he could use.

‘ I don’t know how you can use it, but I shall show you something when I come down.’ I assured and finished, but regretted that I had forgotten to ask which computer he was using. Even computers were expensive then.

After a few months, visiting my home town I went to this uncle’s place.

After a few minutes of settling down, I saw this uncle searching for something around the place I was sitting.

I was curious. I asked ‘ What are you looking for?’

He was still busy looking, ‘ Did you not bring?’, he asked.

I remembered ‘ Oh, the software, I have it in my car. Where shall I show it?’

Now he looked amused. ‘Why would it be difficult’ he said shoving his naked feet to the space between him and me, ‘ it is size nine’ . I am sure your software would be comfortable to wear and walk.

Now I had to run with my software.

Major Accident

2010-12-27T00:26:00.001+05:30

This is unbelievable, but true.
Once I received a message in my phone.
‘I m (so and so). I like your shows.’
‘Thank you.’ I had nothing much to say.
‘I want to know something.’, the next message.
‘Ok’ I said ready to be interviewed.
‘How did you join Udaya TV?’, this message was interesting because it is one question I am not good at answering.
‘It was by accident.’
‘Really? Where did it happen? What happened to you?’ the message was full of concern and care.
‘Forget it.’ I said and added ‘Goodnight.’

Grown up!

2010-12-25T21:55:00.002+05:30

Of all the requests I get from people, the most frequent ones are from youngsters who want to be introduced to film directors and producers. A few good compliments about looks and style are sufficient to make a young man feel that he is hero material.
Once I was being pursued by one youth to put him in the movies. He was tall and pleasant looking, but certainly not a hero material in my eyes.

I tried to dissuade him, but for the fear of becoming a villain in his eyes, I soft pedaled the facts and tried to discourage him by talking about the other options he could look for in life.

This fellow was determined and since I had, by some quirk of bad fate for me, told him that I would consider talking to some directors, he had started calling me regularly.
I now had to take some other route by telling him how he had to become more smart, more charming and more expressive and about the need to undergo rigorous training before making his big entry. I think he was convinced but then he wanted to be taught by me. What could I do?

I told him about all the bad things about the illusion called fame and how the movie industry was not the right place for a ‘person like him’.

He had firmly believed that he was the next Super Star, whether I believed so or not.

One day he messaged me, ‘ Sir, I am sure I can become a hero.’.
I replied, ‘It is not as easy as you think, Suraj*’
He scolded back, ‘Sir, it is only you who think so. All my friends say that I can become a hero.’.
I was irritated ‘I have told you so many times. Why don’t you understand? Don’t be silly, grow up.’
‘Grow up? How much more Sir, I am already six feet!’
I had no place to run.

*name changed

The long and short of things

2010-12-24T09:19:00.000+05:30

This happened in Taj Gateway hotel in Mangalore, a hotel I frequently stayed in for sometime.

I had particularly noticed the service of a waiter called Gowri Shankar. This fellow was young, decent and extremely well behaved and the only one who was more prompt in taking orders and making my stomach happy. With badges for best performance pinned across his chest, he indeed looked like someone who had taken the service industry very seriously.

One morning, Shankar was taking more time than usual in reaching me my breakfast. Since this guy always wore a smile and looked lost whenever you questioned him more than necessary, I thought it was better to wait for sometime.

Shankar, did not seem to be in a hurry in delivering to my orders but was seen scurrying around the restaurant like a lone soldier committed to save the outpost. I decided to wait a little longer. My friend who sat with me was more hungry than I was. After a while the wait was getting longer than we could endure. So I hailed Shankar to my table, careful not to sound rude or angry, and asked ‘ What Gowri Shankar, what happened? Why is it taking so much time? Are you short of hands?
Immediately, with all sincerity the waiter threw both his hands in front of me, displaying them in their full lengths and said ‘ No Sir, I have long hands, see.’

I had no other option but to sit quietly and wait for my breakfast.

The Great Michael Jackson

2010-12-23T11:30:00.001+05:30

It was the day of Michael Jackson’s death. I had watched people’s reaction on tv early in the morning, and had added my own emotion to it.

I felt like it was some sort of a personal loss for me. The reaction from world over was overwhelming. It was indeed great to watch an artiste being celebrated in his death. The superlative statements, out pour of grief, expression of love; everything seemed to have an effect on me.

I couldn’t really understand how a person could be so famous and like they said- be known to almost every human being in this world! Why did everyone want to know about him? Why some people could become that famous? I was searching for answers.

I had to start the day early and ended up with my driver in the car.

Driving down MG Road I tried calling a few friends on phone to speak about Michael Jackson and know about their understanding of him. Some did not receive my calls and some welcomed with engaged tones. I felt suffocated with my own questions. I had to speak to someone. I turned to my driver, sitting next to me. He had this strange demeanour. As a person he was normally expressionless and most often I could even forget his presence in the car. He was that quiet.

‘Have you heard of Michael Jackson?’ I asked him, desperately waiting for his answer, so I could continue the conversation. In fact it did not even matter if he did not know about MJ, because I had enough time to teach him all about the deceased superstar.

‘No Sir, I have not heard’ he said coolly, expressionless.

I did not know how to take this thing further. I really had to speak about MJ, to reduce the burden in my heart. I was shifting about in my seat.
Then I saw a movement in him.
He turned towards me and seriously asked ‘ Sir, is that the name of a pill? You want me to get it?’

I felt asphyxiated and needed emergency care.

A different type of Kannada

2010-12-22T22:49:00.002+05:30

If we listen and see, the world is indeed a very interesting place.
One day traveling in my car with my driver driving, I reached for my favourite cd, a collection of Sanskrit shlokas rendered in a beautiful voice and manner. This driver was a simple guy, a Kannadiga and a new comer to Bangalore.
As I had played this cd many times before without so much as bothering to know what my driver thought about being tortured by my fancies, I asked him, ‘How is this music?’
He looked at me with a smile ‘Good, Sir!’
‘Do you understand what is being sung?’
He was cool, ‘No Sir, I think it is about gods.
‘Do you know which language it is in?’
It looked like now he thought I was asking silly questions, ‘The same language they use in temples Sir’
What is it called?
‘It is Kannada, Sir!’. It was a don’t you know? kind of a look.
‘Kannada? If this is Kannada and the language they worship with in temples is also Kannada, then why don’t you understand it?’
‘No Sir, it is a different Kannada, that is why I don’t understand. Even some film songs are written in a different kind of Kannada, Sir.
I changed the cd and played a Kannada song.
Let me not forget to say that this whole conversation happened in Kannada.

Unnecessary anger

2010-12-21T08:52:00.000+05:30

There was this guy whom I had met after he showed interest in acting in a serial which was being directed by me. He tried my number many times after that perhaps to keep in touch. With my usual habit of keeping my phones on silent mode, I had completely failed to respond to his calls.

Later one night I decided to call him and tried his number. I thought I could speak and apologize. He did not receive my calls. I thought that it was my mistake having ignored his calls, though unintentionally. I have this habit of calling repeatedly when someone does not respond. He did not receive my calls. I was a little perturbed. Had I upset this guy so much that he had decided to ignore me! What would have I lost speaking to him? All questions rose in my mind.

Then I received a message from him ‘ I am out’.
I said , ‘Ok, but why are you not receiving my call?’.
He replied ‘ I am bissy’ obviously spelling busy as bissy.
I messaged, ‘That is fine but why can’t you receive my call? I am sorry I did not receive your calls when you called. Please receive my call.’ Though it was too much of a request still I thought it was right sometimes.
His text said ‘no I cant reply. I am bissy. I am angry.’
Oh my God, this is bad, I thought. Why should this fellow be angry with me? Some one who followed me for days and called me incessantly now telling me that he is angry.
I asked ‘ Why, what did I do? Why are you angry?’.
‘Simply’ he replied immediately, ‘I am angry, I will call laytr.’.
‘Fine’ I texted furiously, ‘but atleast tell me why you are angry?’
He said ‘ Thers nobdy at my home. I nt had food so Im angry. I will eat food and angry will go then I will call u.
Now, I was tired and angry with myself and went and had some food.

Speeches and Suffering

2010-12-14T08:27:00.003+05:30

Listening to political speeches these days, if one gets a feeling that the politicians of today are still in the sixties, then one cannot be blamed. Most speeches are slapped on the tolerant ears of the audience by the netas with scant disregard for the audience’s interest and attention span. While almost all the speeches are delivered as an insult to the ears in a loud voice, and a monotonous style, the politicians gumption that the speech is indeed interesting and well appreciated is indeed laudable.

Policians these days may be, though late, realising how boring they are as speakers.
Some politicians are found shamelessly failing to read the reaction of the audience. How many times does one have to repeat oneself, when in the first instance itself one should have known that his words are not funny or causing a revolution. Imagine political speeches belted out at lunch time with an audience who are already beaten by the blazing sun and are happier if relieved to gorge food.

In a recent BJP event a national leader Ananth Kumar, spoke at the top of his voice. Screaming, in fact. He lost his voice in between and had to look around for a glass of water to ease the vocal chords. He spoke like he was revealing the secrets of change and future to the audience, but the audience sincerely looked uninterested in his revelations. The neta asked the audience to react, and voice their support, but the audience stayed quiet. He requested them, and the third time he sounded like he was pleading. He surely had by then started realizing there was something wrong.

Something was wrong, actually. It was obvious that there was something amiss in the audience. It could be that the audience were not wearing the BJP ears and could have actually come from other political backgrounds. Once on stage seldom the speaker reminds thimself that the attendees could have come either out of curiosity, to satisfy someone or because they were paid.
A person listening to both the speeches, by Ananth Kumar and Yeddyurappa could notice many similarities. They both spoke things they have been speaking for long, and on this occasion repeated each others’ lines and most importantly Ananth Kumar repeated his own lines over and over again.

When are our politicians going to learn that in an age of tv and breaking news, their age old rhetoric has lost value? The CM gives a big speech during the Sadhana Samavesha and the only thing that is news is his copious shedding of tears. Perhaps, a frustrated Ananth Kumar should have torn his hair and ripped his clothes to get some attention and reaction. Even that does not work these days. The politicians know that they cannot influence the audience anymore. Most audiences are not even waiting to be impressed by a political speech. Yeddyurappa asks the men in the audience to apply for a loan to buy cattle immediately after reaching home. Nobody would do that, because everybody knows that a loan is not as easy as the CM’s words.

Most of these speeches though are spoken to an audience, are in fact directed at the opposition or to other politicians. Never a speech has the purpose of changing things. Many politicians themselves know that it does not work. In a world where every line is interpreted and every speech is analysed (if it is worth it and is spoken by anyone who matters) a politician wasting his energy and ending up in a mockery of public influence is difficult to understand. Politicians in speeches mostly try to provoke, explain, plead, threaten or announce. None of these things can stir the audience who have lost faith in the power of word to change things. Once an influential minister ordered the city authorities to put a road hump by making a call in front of an agitating group and the hump though promised the next day did not happen even after two years. It is not surprising why not a single person shed tears for Yeddyurappa when he cried in front of hundreds of thousands of people. Nothing works and nothing moves, because it appears that nobody believes anybody’s words.

Political speeches are more of emotional dramas that have stopped making impact. People who listened to Indira Gandhi on public platforms remember her voice being nasal and high pitched. The voice was unimpressive but her speeches did work because people did not get to see or hear her often and did not have even much to compare her with. Vajpayee’s speeches (when he was active) were like the emperor’s new clothes. Everybody said that his speeches were good so you too had to agree otherwise it was possible that you did not understand his chaste Hindi. People looking for what kind of speeches worked could give the example of Mahatma Gandhi who did not have a great voice and never made any emphatic gestures in his speech. People loved what he said. People walked long distances to find any opportunity to listen to him. Nobody can be definite about whether people came to listen to him or to see what Gandhiji felt.

Todays speeches are bereft of the honesty and feeling one looks for in a leader. They are just words. Words which have no meaning for the speaker himself. Whether Yeddyurappa, Ananth Kumar or Gadkari, whoever is the speaker. They are just a bunch of words that are subjected to different permutations and combinations and spoken. Sometimes it is even like ‘we have so much to say so let us share it between us as to who says how much and what’.
Funny, that a politician who is always working for the people has not found the time to know what people think and what exactly amuses them. It is time for the politician to watch tv more regularly. – Deepak Thimaya

Dalit Editor

2010-12-14T08:23:00.001+05:30

http://churumuri.wordpress.com/2010/12/09/is-vijaya-karnataka-ready-for-a-dalit-editor/

Paranormal

2010-08-18T16:15:00.000+05:30

I have been reading stories about air bending and firestarting and all that. Let me tell you from my own experience that there are these powers that everyone is capable of once in a while. States of extreme emotion can indeed influence the things around us and a strong will can also cause disturbances. Most of us forget the fact that we are part of this world and our existence is inalienable. It is like when you move the head the neck turns and some muscles in the chest and the back work too. The same way when a person reacts in a forceful manner the elements around him which he is connected to start reacting.

Wind can be a friend to most because it is air that gives life and reason for our life. Since it is the life force wind feels a needs to connect favourably. Since we are as much of wind as the wind outside the wind outside feels a sense of comradeship with us. So when you try to identify the wind around us and try to connect with it, wind responds. Wind is not to be controlled. It is not like controlling a dog. Even a dog cannot be made to bark at will. You need to show love and urge it to do. If you try to insult wind or to shout at it you will have a very stubborn wind that would refuse to work for you. Most often these experiences are co-incidental. You only notice these things because you start identifying the happenings around you. These things are happening to people all the time and to everyone. If you cry and the next day it rains don't forget how many thousands of others may have cried on the same day without knowing that they too may have affected the weather.

It is interesting to know that most people love these powers without actually knowing that the power is only with God and sometimes as children of God we just are allowed to exercise it at his pleasure.

an old article

2010-06-23T09:27:00.000+05:30

Is anyone surprised with the result of the Lok Sabha polls in Karnataka? Certainly don’t include Karnataka CM Yeddyurappa in that list. Infact his close confidantes say that he is disappointed that he could not pocket a few more seats that were lost by a small margin and perhaps by a miserable quirk of fate.

His promise to take action against the district incharge ministers in the losing segments has come in for a lot of curious scrutiny because some of the constituencies where BJP lost, and particularly Mysore, are districts where Yeddyurappa’s close associates and ‘right hand’ ‘left hand’ ministers are in charge. Though how he would manage to take action against them would still be a big political question, the fact that the CM is beaming with arrogance and pride with the bettering of his performance with an additional seat compared to the last Lok Sabha polls is something not even the most disinterested citizen of Karnataka has failed to notice.

So what happens now in Karnataka? Some Congressmen waiting haplessly for the elusive chair of power say that the reenergized BJP will start committing mistakes clouded by the arrogance of power and that would lead to its own down fall, or Yeddyurappa may become so formidable a leader that he may ignorantly allow a fertile ground for dissidence to form just around his feet which he would fail to see with his nose up in the air all the time.

It is Yeddyurappa’s victory indeed and not the BJP’s, in Karnataka, so what happens to the big leaders of Karnataka at the centre, like Ananth Kumar? Infact there is none other than Ananth Kumar from Karnataka who represents the BJP in the centre. It is either him or his stooges in small positions in the executive council in Delhi. Ananth Kumar himself has won against a young Congress leader, in a roller coaster counting where the young politician had surged ahead in many assembly segments sending shivers down the spine and sweat down the chests for many of Kumar’s supporters.

Defeat of Ananth Kumar would have only meant big time trouble for Yeddyurappa, since any day a jobless Kumar would find it worthwhile to occupy himself in the role of the leader of the dissidents. There could have been none other more relieved in the BJP than Yeddyurappa himself with Ananth Kumar’s ultimate victory.

So what does this astounding victory spell for BJP in Karnataka? First of all it has proven again that a result like this is possible because of caste polarization and a careful political strategizing enabled by large scale poaching and recruitment from other parties. BJP now can only crumble under its own weight and its heavy weights. In fact there are no original heavy weights left in the BJP but all those one can see now are the ones that have come from other parties. To accommodate the leaders who have not been lucky enough to go to the Lok Sabha or for that matter to get a ministerial berth in the State, the CM needs to destroy the futures of some of his original party men. This would create a clear platform for dissidence which will show its results within six months from now.

Without a strong central leadership to control him, Yeddyurappa could become a law unto himself and the weakening of the mine owners in the current result also has come as a great blessing to him. He is now the unquestionable leader who, with no ambitions for any power at the Centre, is surely the King for now. Infact there are very few among Yeddyurappa’s friends who are crying for the defeat of NDA in the Lok Sabha polls. Some say that they are quietly celebrating. With a sulking Advani, and many leaders far below him, and with Ananth Kumar who is busy wiping sweat off his own face after the scraped victory, Yeddyurappa’s stars are shining brighter than ever, inspite of all the famous astrologers crying hoarse about the impending gloomy days for him. Whether the brightness of this glory will keep him shining or burn him down is a fact that only time will tell, and perhaps very soon.

If anyone thought that there is any chance of a Congress revival in Karnataka after former CM S.M. Krishna getting a cabinet berth, then such a dream can be dreamt only in foreign waters. With an epithet like ‘foreign Krishna’ sticking to his personality even when he was the chief minister, because of his studies abroad, westernised lifestyle and frequent sightings at Wimbledon, his love for the foreign shores has now become legitimised with this appointment.

Whether Kannadigas in particular, Karnataka in general or for that matter his own caste the Vokkaligas would benefit from his foreign ministry is a smaller question compared to whether actually there would be any political gains for Congress in Karnataka with Krishna’s new post. This post has not just kept Krishna out of Karnataka politics and Congress in Karnataka but also from any internal politics in India itself much to the pleasure of Krishna baiters who somehow wanted him out of their political dining table at any cost.

Another former CM Moily is not a political heavy weight and not a leader of any group or community though he by default represents the backward classes. His win itself was a surprise to many in a constituency he was alien to. Now as a Union cabinet minister Moily will see how he can become more close to the Gandhi family than to Karnataka. With not many friends in his party in the state and most people happy with him out and permanently in Delhi, the fear of him getting a portfolio where he can interfere in the day to day activities of the state unit is a prospect that many dread in Karnataka.

Mallikarjuna Kharge, the dalit leader, the one politician who has never seen defeat in any election for over forty years, has become a cabinet minister. This was a long pending elevation that the dalit and backward communities had been waiting for. By missing the CM’s chair many times because of bad timing and poor luck, this was Kharge’s one big chance to find favour in Delhi. Though Kharge is not known as someone who has done much for his own community even when he was minister many times, a suitable portfolio for Kharge in the Central ministry would certainly help Congress in Karnataka if it is serious about consolidating itself for the future.

The last and the most important person in Congress in Karanataka for now and the only person who cannot be ignored at all, is Siddaramaiah, the former deputy CM, who has been waiting in the wings, disgruntled, disappointed, angry and anxious for the post of the opposition leader in the Karnataka Assembly. This appointment has been overdue and any delay or mistake in that would cost the Congress in Karnataka not just the next election but also its future for a long time.

Now, in Karnataka , for the poor citizens, it is the right time to wait and watch. To watch and conclude one day who made the most foolish move of them all. And the fool would dig his own grave.

2010-06-23T09:04:00.000+05:30

Dear Friend,

I have come to you to seek your help to make Verbattle a success.

We all talk about doing our mite for our country but I think if we all support Verbattle, it could be a small beginning, because Verbattle is for our children and our youth.

Verbattle is a unique intellectual platform for debate and dialogue and with its competitions such as Verbattle Beginner for primary school children, Verbattle Junior for high school children and Verbattle Senior for college students, it has become an opportunity for children and youth to test their leadership and personality and to show promise for our great country. This year’s event, Verbattle 2010 will have the two best competitions for students in the age group 12 to 24 years.

India survives if its democracy survives. In this era of caste and cash politics, where we bemoan the decadence in the quality of our leaders, Verbattle inculcates the values of a good democracy in our children not only by getting them to argue sensibly and preparedly, but also to listen to their opponents and consciously realize that a debate is not just about talking but also about listening. Verbattle inspires a citizen to live in a society of people with differences and stand beside a person whom one need not necessarily agree with.

Verbattle is for the future of India where we hope to see sensible, responsible and intelligent leaders who can see more sides to an issue and then work for the victory of the side that is acceptable to the times and the people.

In short, Verbattle is ‘A celebration of knowledge and democracy’.

To make Verbattle a great success we need patronage, sponsorship, support, and a lot of moral encouragement.

I believe as a friend, well wisher and a concerned citizen of this country you could do your mite by connecting Verbattle to such resources and people from where it could derive funds and promotion.

If you believe in what I believe in, kindly respond.

Please also look up the official website www.verbattle.com .

Regards,

Deepak Thimaya

Your Vote can make a Difference

2010-06-23T09:01:00.000+05:30

‘Your vote can make a difference’, ‘Vote for your future’ and with many more carefully worded, attractive sounding and directed to the core of a thinking man’s heart slogans, this campaign for voting is a laudable exercise and must be supported and encouraged.

But, what difference will our votes make and what different future is our vote going to ensure us are the simple questions most votaries of ‘don’t waste your vote’ campaigs are unable to answer.

Do the elected MPs, whether they are illiterate, ignorant, Harvard educated or celebrated have any role in the Parliament, apart from perhaps getting their 10 to 30 minute due in the entire term of a Loksabha? If we are sending intelligent MPs to debate in the Parliament, then is there actually anything to debate in the Parliament at all? Recent instance where seventeen bills were passed in less than twelve minutes does not speak ill of the Parliament and the MPs but only mirrors the current system where MPs do not have any role in the process of legislation even if they want to.

The most shocking thing about Indian politicians is not about corruption, misuse of power or lack of interest in public good, but total lack of knowledge of the Indian constitution which is the reason and the basis on which they get elected.

MPs not having executive powers is something not only the MPs and their electorate but even most journalists don’t know about. Expecting too much from an MP is not only ridiculous but undermines the very purpose of electing a member to the Parliament.

For the desperate need of getting elected most MPs promise heaven and earth to their voters and end up doing very little for realistic reasons and end up as the butt of ridicule by the Press and the public.

Recently one economist remarked that apart from participating in intra party fora and discussing issues with the executive authorities and perhaps going one step further by putting political pressure on the government for sanction of funds, there is very little an MP can do with all his personal capabilities and credentials, apart from voting for his party or his government as the case maybe. Ten crore is pittance amount to be spent on a constituency in five years with all the cuts and commissions to be paid to execute MPLAD works. Even an MP from the ruling party cannot impress on the government to do more for his own constituency in a scenario where development and release of funds are based on who needs it the most to keep the government afloat, in the absence of a single party government and with a government of coalition of selfish interests. So, even blaming an MP for not representing his constituency efficiently in the Parliament or with the government in the centre is naive on part of any critic. When asked why an MP should not get candid about his pitiable inability in his role as the elected representative the ready answer was, ‘ Do you think anyone will vote for me if I tell them I have no powers and I actually cannot do anything?’.

The usual allegations against an incumbent MP is that he has done nothing much for the development of his constituency. Is it actually the job of the MP to do developmental works in his constituency? Does he have the executive authority or does he have the sanction in the Constitution for it? How can one expect such a preposterous delivery from an MP who among other marginal roles is just a representative in the highest platform of democracy in the country? We are also proud as the world’s biggest democracy and should at the same time be ashamed of the farce of this election. The elections are conducted according to the wish and whim of political parties collectively who have coded an unwritten constitution that functions quite oblivious of the Constitution of the land. The very idea of a representative in the Parliament has nothing in common with the idea of a development agent that the voters expect to see in an MP.

Policy making happens at the highest level in the political parties and most often is not even discussed with back benchers who are just expected to support it whether they agree with it or not. Even if a right thinking, intelligent and qualified MP has an opinion opposed to the Party view, his opinion has little importance in the party as the party at any time only needs to take into consideration, pleasing powerful leaders, coalition interests, opposition scrutiny and the next elections. Viability, future of the nation, media opinion and academic ratification are not the priorities of any party who want to either keep the power or win the next election. So what does an MP do? The best a member of parliament can do is, be in good terms with the party bosses, make friends among powerful leaders, not antagonize the opposition to the point of enmity, network with powerful business leaders and power brokers, go on foreign study tours, get into a few house committees, make some money for the next elections and finally wait and try to get elected again.

So, how does our vote matter? Even if twenty MPs are elected by a majority of educated and well informed votes, as they cannot practically belong to the same party, what difference can they make so the vote has made a difference? What future does a few extra votes bring about for the country? There is a new interest about casting vote in the election among the IT circles, but one could not help but sit in bewilderment watching during one voter candidate interaction where some techies were more interested to know what an MP candidate would do about pub deadlines if he got elected. And, these are the new voters who are going to be voting for a change.

Every one knows that there was less corruption in Nehru’s time than there is today. If we are talking about the future, by even simple calculations we know that the level of corruption would only be more and not at all less. Even a sustained campaign to get the educated vote is a pointless exercise because there is no guarantee that the educated will vote for better candidates. Most Germans were educated enough when they supported Hitler. Sixty years after that human blunder the meaning of education has still not changed much.

Electing an MP has the basis of the Constitution but not the spirit of the Book. Politicians need the Constitution only to quote and their own rule books to follow because most voters understand their own rules before they elect someone as an MP. Either we understand our Constitution or go by the new practical constitution on the streets.

Dr. Raja Ramanna

2009-02-15T02:05:00.000+05:30

Of the few people I can call as friends, from past and present, one name I have to definitely refer to as a friend without an option, is Dr. Raja Ramanna, because it was him, when he was alive, who constantly reminded me that he was a friend of mine.
I don’t know how privileged one should feel to refer to the late Dr. Raja Ramanna, the eminent nuclear physicist and say that he was a friend.

Going to bring him in my car to my show, to interview him, I saw him for the first time when he got into the car with a walking stick in a hand, during the time he was recovering from a fall which had resulted in a few broken bones.
I had only heard about him before and was in awe of him and I suppose that is the power of the atom bomb. The half hour I spent interviewing him helped me get introduced to a man who was so humble and child like, that every answer of his put more questions in my mind and every question of mine, he answered so patiently with a constant smile on his face. From then, for about a year, I was a regular visitor to his house, on invitation, to spend the evening over a few glasses of whiskey, with him constantly reminding me that he was not allowed to drink.

After a few such evenings and a dozen conversations over the phone, one evening when I went to visit him, after carefully dodging his pet dog, I reached him in his drawing room. I stretched my hand out to shake hands with the great man. He did not offer his hand and said ‘friends are supposed to hug and not shake hands’ and gave me a warm welcome with a hug. Whatever the hug meant, maybe, but for those few seconds that time and every time after that, in that hug of his, I felt like a minute being in the arms of a giant.

Rationalist and a practical person, he was, Dr. Ramanna was a great human being who did not belong to any tradition and did not subscribe to any belief systems, though he could speak for hours on Indian classical music, Hindu culture, society, religion and tradition, apart from about his field of expertise and science. Unlike everything else, science was so natural to him and it was part of him.

Once he played the piano for me and watching him at the instrument I could not see an eighty year old person but a young teenager beaming with energy and completely in love with his object of desire. Though I could not understand the notes nor the piece he played, I was overwhelmed by the all pervading esoteric sounds, and for that moment I had this great urge surging inside me to learn the art of appreciating good music only to fill the empty spaces within me.

Talking to Dr. Ramanna, was an encounter with life, every time. No wonder that the great Dr. C. V. Raman, called Dr. Raja Ramanna, ‘a natural philosopher.’

I don’t know what kept me so busy that in spite of his many invitations I could not meet him for a long period of two months, and one day I heard that he was no more – that is, before he could keep his promise of telling me how an atom bomb was made.

Still, Dr. Ramanna reminds me, how small I am, and how much I need to grow.

My Grandmother

2009-02-15T02:00:00.000+05:30

I have been one of the lucky few who have had the chance to grow up under the care of a doting grandmother. My maternal grandmother in whose home I grew up as a child, perhaps, has been the greatest educator, motivator and inspirer to me in my life apart from her being my biggest idol.

At the age of eighty three, even now, she is the person, with whom I do not shy to discuss even the most complex issues of life and existence along with the items concerning politics and society inspite of the fact that her qualification is second standard pass.
It amazes me how she can understand everything, particularly when it is on tv, no matter what the language is. Most times with pride I say, if I do have any intelligence, the entire credit goes to my grandmother.

I am sure she was a beautiful lady when she was young because even now, at this age, her skin is flawless and her hair is mostly black. It scares me whenever I look in the mirror, that what I may look when I am her age.

She lost her husband when she was about twenty four, and was left behind with four children under her care. The stories of her struggle have made me see her in the same light as any Rani Chennamma or Laxmi Bai. As per the custom, as a widow, she was asked to wear white clothes and ever since then for about sixty years now she has not worn any colour on herself. Sometimes I feel that till a few decades ago she used to visit one particular temple with devotion, regularly only because that gave her a chance to wear red kumkum on her forehead at least in the name of god.

I have always known that my grandmother is one of the most progressive people, that I have ever come across. She is so forward in her thinking that I feel that she is capable of understanding emotions and relationships better than me all the time. Recently, I even had a talk with her about how it has been to wear white clothes for over sixty years now. After contemplating for a while she said, ‘Maybe I should have not agreed to wear white the first time itself. I am sure my husband would have not wanted me to live like this.’
I have been able to understand old age and the process of experiencing life, with her, and I only wish that I would be able to hear everything she has to tell me, and know everything that there is to know from her, before it is too late.

Sometimes I wonder, what it must be to be her. And one day I did even ask her ‘ Avaya’, as I call her, ‘what have you been doing all these years, for eighty three years? Aren’t you bored of life?’ because considering myself young in every sense, I am already bored and feel extremely old.

I have always been curious about nature and quite interested in science. I don’t remember my granny having read any book of science and of having had any great exposure to knowledge from science (I must remind myself that she can only recognize the letters of the English alphabet.) Once a few years ago, sitting in the kitchen in her home in Kodagu, I commented about the weird weather. It was in the afternoon and the atmosphere bore a strange heat. My granny who had not stepped out the whole day, just sitting inside the kitchen, not even peeping out of the window said, ‘ It is because the sun is shining between the clouds’. I sprang up and ran out to the yard and looked up. There was sun, shining in metallic light in the space between the clouds. I was proven right, my grandmother was indeed wiser than a lot of wise people.

I know that I have more to learn and much more to experience with her, and I know that understanding her life, I maybe able to live better, if I am to live for long.

But, I also know that I do not have the patience for life that she has had in abundance, all through her life, till date.

Deve Gowda

2009-02-15T01:37:00.000+05:30

He is called by many names. The epithets, titles and slogans, do not deter him. He could, in fact be identified as the bane of Karnataka politics and a public monster, many of his opponents may love to slay in public, but Deve Gowda is someone who cannot be wished away. You like him, or hate him, Deve Gowda is here to stay, as a person today and a name forever even after he is gone (even the year of the final departure, according to many close to him, he knows exactly.)

Some say that he is the only professional full time politician in this country. His detractors say that from the moment he opens his eyes in the morning the only thing that he thinks about is how to finish off his opponents. People who have worked with him have no reasons to doubt the fact that Gowda has nothing else in his mind apart from schemes, techniques and tricks to keep his family in power and his party afloat. Some even wonder whether Deve Gowda sleeps at all. Years ago he was seen sleeping through public functions and even party meetings but now it appears like the former PM is awake all day and even night. A man who used to smoke decades ago, Deve Gowda, now, is a non smoker and has remained a teetotaler spending hours in his puja room praying and performing rituals. In Indian society a man with such good habits and a religious inclination must be a good man, but why is Deve Gowda not seen as a good man? Is it just a great misunderstanding or a thorough disconnect? What makes him the man he is? Is Gowda as bad and crooked as he is made out to be? Why do people who fall out of his favour or part ways with him suddenly find everything wrong with him? Is he as devilishly selfish as he is portrayed ? Are there clues to the mystery behind the man called Deve Gowda?

Having started out of a small village, Deve Gowda’s rise to the Prime Minister’s post whether by luck or by fluke is a story that cannot be discounted. It is one of the fewest offices in this country that only the chosen few have been able to reach. Once a Prime Minister, forever a former prime minster. Deve Gowda certainly thought of it as a great moment as naturally as one in that position should have felt. But, the way he was treated back in his home state, the way his opponents reacted, the way he was ignored during his first visit to his home state after assuming office, the comments made by Ramakrishna Hegde and others, like Gowda says, are not things that can be forgotten. There have been innumerable people in this country who have assumed offices that they did not the least deserve, and it is not the general rule, particularly in politics. Gowda alone to be singled out as unworthy, must have pained him immensely. The then Congress president Sitaram Kesri even went to the extent of calling Gowda a nikamma.

Deve Gowda surely knew that he did not deserve the PM’s chair by right or by merit and the fact was well established after what he told his ailing mother that he had assumed the post that was once held by Indira Gandhi herself. His mother’s death during his tenure in Delhi, the subsequent political problems ensured a not so happy time for Gowda to even enjoy his time as the PM even for a few months. When he stepped down, many in Karnataka celebrated, though Deve Gowda is the only man from Karnataka who reached a post as formidable as that.

It is no secret that as the CM of Karnataka Deve Gowda had performed the best though the position itself was, in the presence of many, forcibly taken away from Hegde. Though considered as deserving, Gowda became the CM surprising many but performed in a systematic manner ensuring a stable government. The high of the PM’s seat subsequently brought him to the low of being reduced to insignificance in Karnataka. The acid attack on his family members, particulary his wife Chennamma who is to live with the physical and mental scars of the attack, the division of the party, the going away of friends and alienation from Delhi all added to Gowda becoming a bitter man.

Deve Gowda’s family has always been a close knit one with the whole family sailing or sinking together with the big man. Kumaaraswaamy though had made a mark on his own through his interests in the movie field, had lived in a separate home but was part of the family nevertheless. Revanna’s wife took great pride in being the preferred daughter in law of the man who was loved, feared and despised by many. Though the political meter registered many highs and lows the family stayed together and worked together.

Kumaaraswamy too, though contesting, winning and losing from different places, was more complacent with his movie business and an occasional pat from his father. But the son’s meteoric rise after the Kanakapura by-election changed the equation to some extent. Not only Gowda had an additional power at home, he also had a new and perhaps the only friend, in his son, who was quiet, submissive, obedient and loyal.

The 2004 election surprised even Deve Gowda who till then was limited to only verbally attacking and defending against his political enemies. The result was the best opportunity for him to consolidate his power, hit back and to make the best of the opportunity. He could not lose the opportunity. Anyone who faulted him in this process would have done so with acute shortage of political knowledge.

Deve Gowda knows what state he was in, in the early 90s. Full of debt and no friends it perhaps the worst phase of his life. Running from place to place, pillar to post, seeking help and looking for friends, Gowda ultimately ended up at the doorsteps of some of the best astrologers in town. It was then that it was these few astrologers who gave him the confidence to continue, with the hope for the future. Deve Gowda, on many occasions sat in disbelief in front of these men of occult knowledge listening to the utterly wonderful prospects of his future. If their words were to come true, he promised himself that he would become a staunch believer in astrology. All is history now, but for Gowda for whom it made a world of difference, it is all because of astrology, and here has been his future from then, for all of us to see.

Gowda in his period of distress and difficulties in the early 90s did not have anyone to support him. Even an early end to his life would have been more relief providing than the taunts and jibes of his opponents. Failure was laughing at his face and everyone had abandoned him. It was then he realized one bitter truth that made him a bitter person - people come to you only when you have something, so when you have something take all that people can give and give all that they deserve in every way.

The media too created a monster out of Deve Gowda from time to time. Friends of Hegde started direct attacks against him. Noted erstwhile economist Prof. Venkata Giri Gowda called him the king of corruption and went on to comment about his manhood and even his voice. Tabloids wrote reams of articles portraying him as a person akin in qualities to a demon. Deve Gowda became more bitter. He never forgot to strike whenever he found an opportunity.

As one more chance of power started materializing in front of him and with age catching up, Gowda started moving towards the only security of the security he had known all along, his family. And a bitter Gowda only has his family in this end, (temporary or permanent, depending on which side of the story you are in ).

Know what I mean

2006-01-02T14:04:00.000+05:30

I have a different view about everything. I am really not someone who accepts anything without questioning and I am sure that I do have some insights into the world and the society I live in. So share my world.