Kaaluru Kronicles - 3: Best Kept Secret (Part 2)

We gathered in the Kaaluru High School premises by the time the Clock Tower on M G Road struck nine every night. Master was very particular that we do some stretching as well as voice exercises before beginning with our blocking for the night. ‘On the day of the play, even the last person in the field should be able to distinctly hear our lines – without using the mic’, Master said. I was amazed at the enthusiasm displayed by the elders of our village. They did almost anything Master asked them to. With time, I almost became the assistant director. Hence, I never missed a rehearsal. 

There was another reason as well. Kamala, Krishnegowda’s daughter, and a couple of her friends came to watch the rehearsals every now and then. Kamala was a couple of years younger to me. She had beautiful eyes and long flowing hair. During discussions, my friends in Kaaluru always rated her as the most beautiful girl in the village. Yet, fearing Krishnegowda’s wrath and more so, his henchmen’s muscle, nobody had dared to approach her directly. Even though I never actively partook in these discussions, I agreed with them; and nursed a secret crush as well, though I knew it would remain a fantasy. After all, I was a Brahmin and my parents would never agree. Neither would Krishnegowda or his wife.

Though she said it was to watch her father act, I caught her looking towards me a couple of times. Having been unable to impress any girl in college in Bengaluru, I secretly enjoyed the attention I was getting – that too, without making any effort; and from the most beautiful girl in our village! Kamala also frequently brought coffee and snacks whenever Master and I were discussing the script in his room, in Krishnegowda’s house. I became conscious around her and fumbled a few times during rehearsals. Master seemed to enjoy my predicament and often joked about it. In fact, he deliberately called for her during rehearsals – even if there was no work – just to embarrass me. 

A week before the play, it was decided that a puja be performed at the site where the stage was to be erected. It was a grand affair, with almost the entirety of Kaaluru gathering in the high school grounds. Master, through Krishnegowda, had arranged for lights and sceneries to be brought from Mysuru. By this time, since the play was almost under control, Master said I should be in the grounds to supervise the construction of the stage and the green room. I thought Kamala and her friends would follow me there as well and I would muster the courage to actually speak to her. Sadly, they didn’t.

A couple of days before the play, my friends from Bengaluru arrived. I had invited them to watch me act in a production that was unlike any of the plays we had been part of in college.

On the day of the play, I was in the green room by sunset. Since our play was to begin by nine in the night and stretch upto two in the morning, I had to arrange for sufficient refreshments for all actors (including beedis and arrack for some). I was a little nervous, for it had almost become a family affair now. I was introduced by my grandfather and father’s names instead of mine. My grandfather was a brilliant actor, they say. Comparisons were inevitable. I had the responsibility to live upto his name. Besides, being Sutradhara, my lines would set the tone for the entire play. ‘Half the battle is won when you engage your audience in the first five minutes’ Master said. The same advice was given by our director in Bengaluru. Also, my friends – and the girl I wanted to impress, for the last four years – had come all the way to watch me. To cap it all, there was Kamala. I saw her to talking to Master outside the greenroom. They both turned towards me and laughed, making me even more nervous.

The play went along smoothly. I enjoyed my time on stage, improvising to crack some politically incorrect punches. Krishnegowda, Shastri and others were on top of their game. The money Krishnegowda and others in the village had spent on the stage properties, costumes and lights was worth every rupee, for it made them look grand. Twice, Krishnegowda was requested by the audience to sing his lines multiple times. I don’t know if he had arranged for it to boost his image in front of the local MLA and Chairmen of neighboring village panchayats, who he had invited.  By the time the play ended, the crowd was nearly one thousand-strong. It was the largest audience I had ever performed to. It was nearly four in the morning when I finally went to sleep – after removing my make-up and spending some time discussing with my friends.

It must have been around eight in the morning when Amma rudely woke me up. I was about to get into an argument with her when she said Kamala was missing and so was Srinivas Master. I switched on data on my phone and ‘Kaaluru Kiladis’, a WhatsApp group of my friends in Kaaluru, already had hundreds of messages. One of them said he saw them talking after the play was over. Another said, he had seen both of them separately this morning, going towards the bus stand. There were messages of heartbreak as well. I quickly freshened up and went with my parents to Krishnegowda’s house, like the rest of the village.

Krishnegowda was furiously pacing up and down the hall. His wife was being comforted by other women. All others sat there discussing what could be done next. Krishnegowda was against going to the police, for it would then appear in the papers. Who would, then, vote for him? Nagesh, who owned the buses which connected Kaaluru to the highway, asked for the driver and conductor to come to Krishnegowda’s house.

They said that indeed Master and Kamala had taken the bus to the highway early that morning. However, they sat separately. Master had said his mother was ill in Hassan and hence he had to leave so early. ‘Bastard! Both his parents have been dead for years’ Krishnegowda fumed. It had been planned well. Master had packed his stuff even before he came to the play. After all, he didn’t carry much. Kamala had been smuggling some of her stuff into his room for some days now. Even that was packed in his bags so that Kamala need not carry any luggage on the bus, which might lead to questions. She had told the conductor that she was going for her friend’s wedding in Mysuru. They had left their phones in the house to prevent anyone from tracking them.  

It then came to me in a flash – Kamala had been ogling at Master all the while. She brought coffee and snacks to talk to him. Master did not call her to rehearsals to make me uncomfortable. It was for him to draw comfort. I had been a fool, believing that I was the centre of Kamala’s attention. I had not even stopped to think how I had been able to achieve so much in such a short while I had failed at this very game for the last four years. I could still visualize them laughing at me, near the green room. It assumed a different colour now. 

After much discussion, it was decided that Krishnegowda would send his henchmen to Bengaluru, Mysuru, Hassan and Hubli to enquire about Srinivas Master from people who he was working with earlier: whether he had been in touch with any of them or asked for any help. Meanwhile, some responsible citizens, like Nagesh, my father and others, would try talking to their contacts in those cities and carry out a ‘covert’ operation, not disclosing much details. It proved to be a futile exercise. A few days later, Krishnegowda’s henchmen returned. People got back to their livelihoods. Kaaluru returned to its normal routine.

A couple of days ago, nearly three months after all this drama, my phone started buzzing early in the morning with messages. I cursed myself for having forgotten to turn mobile data off before sleeping. It was Kaaluru Kiladis again. Kamala had returned late previous night. It was my turn to wake my parents up. We, again, rushed to Krishnegowda’s house, with the rest of the village. Versions were flying thick and fast. Some said Srinivas Master and Kamala married after they left Kaaluru but he deserted her for another woman in a troupe he had recently joined. Others said Kamala left him after she found out he was cheating on her. Yet another one said there was no marriage between them; Srinivas had tried to smuggle her off to some foreign country, before she escaped. Krishnegowda was visibly annoyed at the crowd. He thanked us all for our support and locked the door of his house. I returned – a little disappointed with the lack of action.

Yesterday, Krishnegowda came to our house and invite us to Kamala’s wedding – in a week’s time. The groom is the son of a sugar-factory owner, somewhere in north Karnataka. Krishnegowda was frustrated with all the gossip that was going around. He wanted to be done with this marriage as quickly as possible. When Appa tried to comfort him, he rose dramatically and said ‘Oh, don’t worry. I have asked my men to take ‘good care’ of anyone who is spreading such gossip’. Placing the invitation card on the table, Krishnegowda left to attend to other responsibilities. 

Kaaluru Kronicles - 3: Best Kept Secret (Part 1)

I am not supposed to be talking about this. If anybody gets to know that I am going around telling this to people, the Chairman’s henchmen will take ‘good care’ of me. Yet, I am incapable of holding secrets. I have never been good at it. Technically speaking, what I am about to tell you isn’t even a secret. Even Kaaluru’s kids speak about it. There has been very little of anything else which has been spoken of in Kaaluru in the last three – four months. But then, telling an outsider is an entirely different ballgame, isn’t it?  When I am telling you this, I am binding you to an oath of secrecy. It stays between the two of us. (Sadly, I have used this line with multiple people already. Now, don’t go asking around who I’ve told this to!)

Let me begin from the beginning…

I had just finished my degree from a college in Bengaluru. Since there was some time before joining my company, I came home to spend a few weeks with family – away from the city-rush. Life slowed down considerably in Kaaluru. Even internet speeds! A few of my friends and I were first-generation Bengaluru educated people. This made us a class-apart in Kaaluru. Some of the high-school goers came to us asking for guidance, prodded by their parents. Though we couldn’t tell them all that we did in Bengaluru (I am not telling you either), we did our best to provide some sort of career counselling. In fact, when I came back for a vacation after my first semester, our headmaster in Kaaluru’s high school invited me as a guest to provide students with some ‘inspiration’. Oh! I tend to talk too much. Pull me back on track the next time I digress.

With Holi nearly a month away, all village elders and a few responsible citizens decided to meet in the Panchayat office to discuss the modalities of celebration. Some of the elders asked my father to take me along as well. Perhaps they were seeking ‘validation’. I was a little surprised about why the meeting was being convened – for as long as I can remember, there had been hardly any change in the celebrations. It is the same set of people who perform the puja year after year. The same set of people enacts the death and burning of Kama, with Rati beating her chest over her husband’s body. That is the one night I never miss. One hears the crassest and crudest of expletives thrown around by Rati, accusing all and sundry for Kama’s death. They update their lines every year depending on the latest gossip. I had invited some of my friends from college one year for the celebrations. Suffice to say some of them, the girls specially, were scandalized! I decided to accompany my father to the meeting, wondering what was in the offing.

Chairman Krishnegowda started the proceedings. ‘Respected gentlemen of Kaaluru; also, the Bengaluru-educated young man who is with us today’ he said, smiling at me. I returned the smile with folded hands, uncomfortable at the attention. Krishnegowda continued ‘Holi is fast approaching. For the last several years, we have been having the same set of rituals and games for the festival. I am sure all of us enjoy it afresh everytime. Yet, I, as your Chairman, want to do something more. Let us stand out among all the other surrounding villages. I want Kaaluru’s name to be mentioned in the newspapers for its celebrations. It is time for change.’ He paused, assessing the mood of those who had gathered in the office. People began murmuring and whispering, trying to guess what the Chairman had to offer. Some even commented that Krishnegowda was harboring plans of standing in the Assembly elections, which were fast approaching and hence was taking this effort to ‘stand out’.

‘Gentleman,’ Krishnegowda said ‘for the last several years, Kaaluru has not seen a good play. Gone are the days when we would erect a stage in the school grounds around Sankranti. Gone are the days when our own people – Nagesh, Muniswamy, Achar or Ahmed – went on stage and performed to whistles and applause. I don’t think this Bengaluru-educated young man even remembers those days.’

 

‘All that is fine, Chairman sir. What is your point?’ my father asked, tired of this campaign-style speech.

‘I am coming to the point. I suggest that we perform a play this year for Holi. Let us build a stage. Get the sceneries and lights. Let us raise the curtain once again and recreate those days. What do you people suggest?’ the Chairman paused, having placed the idea in front of the people. People began talking to each other, nodding their heads in agreement.

Even before anyone could express their opinion, Krishnegowda started again. ‘Let me introduce to you: Srinivas Master’ he said, pointing to the person sitting in the corner of the room. None of us had noticed the stranger sitting there until then. Srinivas Master was renowned in the village theatre circuit, he said. Hence, he had arranged for him to come to Kaaluru all the way from Hassan. His stay would be arranged in Krishnegowda’s house until the play was performed. Krishnegowda was going the extra mile.

Master was a handsome looking man, in his forties. Tall, lean, he had the personality suited for a hero. His shoulder-length curly hair was well-oiled. He wore a stud in his left ear. A thin moustache outlined his upper lip. Wearing a white dhoti and kurta along with a black overcoat, he sat there chewing paan. After Krishnegowda’s introduction, Master stood up, folded his hands in a dramatic fashion and began to speak. Ah! What a voice it was! Years of training had gone into honing that baritone.

Since it had been a long time since we had last performed a play, we would choose a well-known script, Master said. That would be easy to follow for the actors as well as the audience. We would enact episodes from the Mahabharata – slaying of Kichaka, Kauravas’ bid to capture Virata’s cattle, followed by Krishna’s peace mission. Casting would take place over the next week. Master sat down and Krishnegowda stood up to speak again. ‘I request Srinivas Master to make one provision: please include our Bengaluru boy in the cast as the Sutradhara. He has seen and performed plays in the city. Let him also get a taste of how village theatre is.’ I stood up to protest. Not that I did not want to act. I was just a little embarrassed by how things had turned out. ‘Don’t worry, son. Your grandfather gave me a chance to act in plays when I was your age. I am only returning the favor’ Krishnegowda said, putting an end to all discussion.

Overnight, Srinivas Master became the talk of the town. People kept streaming in and out of Krishnegowda’s house to spend a few minutes with Master. Women – married and unmarried – found some pretext to come and talk to Krishnegowda’s wife or his daughter, just to catch a glimpse of him. I too was under his spell and spent most of the day with him. He had a well-tuned harmonium and would break into a song every now and then. I assisted him in editing the script he had brought along. Besides, we had to write new lines, with contemporary punches for the Sutradhara. This way, even I got a chance to meet with the womenfolk of the village.

Master was under an obligation and hence, cast Krishnegowda as Krishna in the play. Our neighbor Shastri was cast as Draupadi, given his fair complexion and thin body. Achar, Narayana, Muniswamy, Babu and several others were cast as well. Krishnegowda also asked Master to maintain some representation from the Muslim community. He wanted to show that in Kaaluru, Muslims could act as Hindu mythological characters without hesitation. Thus, it was decided that Muneer and Pasha would play Nakula and Sahadeva. 

To be continued...

ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರ್

ನನ್ನ ಐದು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಾಸ್ಟೆಲ್ ಜೀವನ ಮುಗಿಸಿ ಈಗಷ್ಟೇ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದಿದ್ದೇನೆ. ಈ ಐದು ವರ್ಷಗಳಲ್ಲಿ, ಪ್ರತೀ ಬಾರಿ ರಜೆಗೆ ಬಂದಾಗಲೂ, ಬಂದ ಎರಡು ದಿನಗಳ ಒಳಗಾಗಿ ತಪ್ಪದೇ ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಕೊನೆಯ ವರ್ಷದ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ಅದು ಒಂದು ವೈಯಕ್ತಿಕ ritualನಂತೇ ಆಗಿ ಹೋಯಿತು. ನನ್ನ ಪ್ರಕಾರ ನಮ್ಮ ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರ್ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯಸ್ಥರ, ಮಧ್ಯಮ ವರ್ಗದವರ MG Roadಏ ಸರಿ. ನ್ಯಾಷನಲ್ ಕಾಲೇಜಿನ ಬಳಿ flyover ಬದಲು circle ಇದ್ದ ಸಮಯದಿಂದಲೂ ನಾನು ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದೇನೆ. It has an ever-changing sense of permanence to it. 

ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿನಲ್ಲಿ, ಡಿ.ವಿ.ಜಿ ರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ನಡೆದು ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದರೆ, ಹಳೆಯ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ನೆನಪುಗಳು ತಾಜಾ ಆಗುತ್ತವೆ.  ಈಗ ಸುಮಾರು ಹದಿನೈದು-ಇಪ್ಪತ್ತು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಮೊದಲು, ಅಲ್ಲಿನ ಮುಖ್ಯರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ 'ಶಾನ್ ಭಾಗ್' ಎಂಬ ಹೋಟೆಲ್ ಇತ್ತು. ಪ್ರತೀ ಬಾರಿ ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿಗೆ ಹೋದಾಗಲೂ ಅಲ್ಲಿಯೇ ತಿಂಡಿ ತಿನ್ನುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆವು. ಎಷ್ಟರ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಅಂದರೆ ಒಂದು ಕಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ ನನಗೆ ಹೋಟೆಲ್ ಹಾಗು 'ಶಾನ್ ಭಾಗ್' synonyms ಆಗಿ ಹೋದವು! ಆ ಹೋಟೆಲ್ ಮುಚ್ಚಿದ ಬಳಿಕ ನಮ್ಮ loyalty 'ರೋಟಿ ಘರ್'ಗೆ shift ಆಯಿತು. ಈಗ zomato ಬಂದಿರುವರಿಂದ, ಪ್ರತಿ ಬಾರಿ ಬೇರೆ ಬೇರೆ ಕಡೆಗೆ ಹೋಗುವ ಪ್ರಯತ್ನವಂತೂ ಮಾಡುತ್ತೇವೆ. ಆದರೆ, ಮನೆಯ ಬಳಿಯೇ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಹೋಟೆಲ್ ತೆರೆದಿರಿವುದು ಆ 'adventurous spirit'ಗೆ ಕಡಿವಾಣ ಹಾಕಿ, ಸೋಮಾರಿತನದ ಕಡೆ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ವಾಲುವಂತೆ ಮಾಡಿದೆ. 

ಆಗೆಲ್ಲ ಇಡೀ ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಪುಸ್ತಕಗಳಿಗೆ ಹೆಸರುವಾಸಿಯಾಗಿದ್ದ ಜಾಗವೆಂದರೆ 'ಅಂಕಿತ ಪುಸ್ತಕ'. ಈಗಲೂ ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ತನ್ನದೇ ಆದ ಹೆಸರು - ಗೌರವಗಳಿದೆ. ಬಾಲ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಕೊಂಡು ಓದಿದ ಪುಸ್ತಕಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಪ್ರಾಯಶಃ ಮುಕ್ಕಾಲು ಭಾಗ ಅಲ್ಲೇ ಕೊಂಡದ್ದಿರಬೇಕು. ದೊಡ್ಡವರಾದಂತೆ, ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಓದುವುದು ಹೆಚ್ಚಾದಂತೆ, ಅಲ್ಲೇ ರಸ್ತೆಯ ಬದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾರುವ second-hand ಪುಸ್ತಕಗಳನ್ನು ಕೊಳ್ಳಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದೆವು. ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳುವ ಪ್ರಕಾರ, ನಾನು ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿಗೆ ಹೋದಾಗಿನಿಂದ ಬರುವವರೆಗೂ ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ಅಂಗಡಿಯಲ್ಲೂ ಕಾಣುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ಆಟಸಾಮಾನು ಕೊಂಡುಕೊಡುವಂತೆ ಪೀಡಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದನಂತೆ. ಅಷ್ಟು ದೊಡ್ಡ ಪಟ್ಟಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದೋ ಎರಡೋ ದಕ್ಕಿದರೂ ಸಾಕು ಅನ್ನುವ ಲೆಕ್ಕಾಚಾರ ನನ್ನದು. ಯಾವಾಗ ಇದು ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ತಿಳಿಯಿತೋ, ಅಂದಿನಿಂದ ನಾನು ಪೀಡಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದಕ್ಕೆ ಬೆಲೆಯೇ ಇಲ್ಲದಾಗಿ ಹೋಯಿತು! ಗಾಂಧೀ  ಬಜಾರ್ circle ದಾಟಿ ಆ ಕಡೆಗೆ ಹೋದರೆ, ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಈಗಲೂ CD - cassetteಗಳನ್ನು ಮಾರುವ ಅಂಗಡಿಯೊಂದಿದೆ. ಮನೆಗೆ ಹೊಸದಾಗಿ VCD-cum-tape recorder ಬಂದಾಗ, ನಮ್ಮಮ್ಮನ ಜೊತೆ ಹೋಗಿ ಕೆಲವು CDಗಳನ್ನೂ ಕೆಲವು cassetteಗಳನ್ನೂ ಕೊಂಡುಬಂದದ್ದರ ನೆನಪಿದೆ. ಕೈಗೊಂದು mobile, ಮನೆಗೊಂದು wi-fi ಬಂದ ಮೇಲೆ, ಆ cassetteಗಳು, CDಗಳ ಜೊತೆ player ಕೂಡ showcaseನ ಒಳಗಡೆ ಧೂಳು ಹಿಡಿಯುತ್ತಾ ಕೂತಿದೆ. ವರ್ಷಕ್ಕೊಮ್ಮೆ ಗೌರಿಯೂ ಅವಳ ಮಗ ಗಣೇಶನೂ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದಾಗ, ಆ player ಕೂಡ ಆಚೆ ಬರುತ್ತೆ. ಸಾಂಗವಾಗಿ ಮಂತ್ರಗಳನ್ನು ಉಚ್ಛರಿಸಿ, ಪೂಜೆ ಮಾಡಿಸಿ, ಮತ್ತೆ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ವರ್ಷದ ತನಕ ವಾಪಾಸಾಗಿ ಕೂರುತ್ತದೆ.   

ಡಿ.ವಿ.ಜಿ ರಸ್ತೆಯ ಈ ಕೊನೆಯಿಂದ ಆ ಕೊನೆಯವರೆಗೆ ಒಮ್ಮೆ ನಡೆದರೆ, ವಿಧವಿಧವಾದ ದೃಶ್ಯಗಳು, ಥರಥರವಾದ ವಾಸನೆ ಸುವಾಸನೆಗಳ ಅನುಭವ ಸಿಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಮೊದಲಿಗೆ ಜ್ಯೋತಿಪ್ರಕಾಶ್ ಅಂಗಡಿಯ ಪಾನಿಪುರಿ, ಭೇಲ್ ಪುರಿಗಳು. (ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಮುಂದೆಯೇ ಒಂದು ಮದ್ಯದಂಗಡಿಯೂ ಇದೆ. ಆದರೆ ಸಧ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ ಅದರ ಚರ್ಚೆ ಬೇಡ). ಮುಂದೆ ಹೋದರೆ, ಈಶ್ವರನ ದೇವಾಲಯದ ತುಳಸಿ ತೀರ್ಥದ ವಾಸನೆಯ ಜೊತೆ ಪಕ್ಕದ ಶ್ರೀನಿವಾಸ ಕಾಫಿ ಡಿಪೊದ ವಾಸನೆಯು ಬೆರೆತು ಹಿತವಾದ ಅನುಭವ ನೀಡುತ್ತದೆ. ಅದರ ಎದುರಿಗೇ ಸದಾ ಕಾಲ ಜನರಿಂದ ತುಂಬಿರುವಂಥ ಸುಬ್ಬಮ್ಮನ ಅಂಗಡಿ. ಈಚೆಗೆ ಅಮೆರಿಕಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದ ನಮ್ಮ ಅತ್ತೆ-ಮಾವನಿಗೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದ ಅಕ್ಕಿ ಹಪ್ಪಳ - ಈರುಳ್ಳಿ ಸಂಡಿಗೆಗಳನ್ನು ನಾನೇ ತಂದಿದ್ದೆ. 

ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿನ ಮುಖ್ಯರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಂತೂ ಎರಡು ಬದಿಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾರುವ ಹೂವು, ಹಣ್ಣು, ತರಕಾರಿ, ವೀಳ್ಯ - ಬಾಳೆಯೆಲೆಗಳು: ಕೊಳ್ಳದಿದ್ದರೂ, ಅದನ್ನು ಜೋಡಿಸಿಟ್ಟಿರುವ ರೀತಿಗೆ, ಅವುಗಳಿಂದ ಹೊಮ್ಮುವ ವಾಸನೆಗೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿಬರಬೇಕು. ಹಬ್ಬದ ಸಮಯಗಳಲ್ಲಂತೂ ಇಡೀ ರಸ್ತೆಯೇ ಜನರಿಂದ ಗಿಜಿಗುಡುತ್ತದೆ. ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟಿದ ಮೇಲೆ ಮೂಲೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಸಿಗುವ ಗ್ರಂಧಿಗೆ ಅಂಗಡಿಗಳು. ರಾಶಿ ರಾಶಿಯಾಗಿ ಕೋನಿನಂತೆ ಪೇರಿಸಿಟ್ಟಿರುವ ಅರಿಶಿಣ - ಕುಂಕುಮದ ಜೊತೆ ಕರ್ಪೂರದ ಗಂಧವೂ ಬೆರೆತಾಗ ಆನಂದವಾಗುತ್ತೆ. ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದ ಮುಂದಕ್ಕೆ ಬಣ್ಣ ಬಣ್ಣದ ಬಟ್ಟೆಯ ಅಂಗಡಿಗಳು, ಶಾಲಾಮಕ್ಕಳಿಗೆ bag, bottleಗಳನ್ನು ಮಾರುವ ಅಂಗಡಿಗಳು, ಖಾದಿ ಭಂಡಾರ. 

ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದ ಒಂದು ಹತ್ತಿಪ್ಪತ್ತು ಹೆಜ್ಜೆ ನಡೆದರೆ, ಒಂದು 4x4 ಅಥವಾ 5x5ಯಷ್ಟರ ಸಣ್ಣ ಅಂಗಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹೆಸರು ಬೇಳೆ - ಬೆಣ್ಣೆ ಗುಲ್ಕನ್ನುಗಳು ದೊರೆಯುತ್ತವೆ. ಖಾರ ಹೆಚ್ಚಾದರೆ, ಅದನ್ನು ನಿವಾರಿಸಲೆಂದೇ ನಿಂಬೂ ಸೋಡಾ ಕೂಡ ಮಾರುತ್ತಾನೆ. ನನಗೆ ನೆನಪಿರುವ ಕಾಲದಿಂದಲೂ ಆ ಅಂಗಡಿ ನಡೆಸುತ್ತಿರುವ ಇಬ್ಬರೂ ಹಾಗೆಯೇ ಇದ್ದಾರೆ. ಅಂಗಡಿಯೂ ಸಹ. ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟುವ ಮೊದಲೇ ಶ್ರೀನಿವಾಸ ಬ್ರಾಹ್ಮಣರ ಬೇಕರಿಯ ಖಾರ bun, bread toastಗಳ ವಾಸನೆ ಕೈಬೀಸಿ ಕರೆಯುತ್ತೆ. ಕಳೆದ ಐದು ವರ್ಷಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ನಾನು ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಹಾಸ್ಟೆಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಹೋಗುವಾಗ ಏನೇ ಮರೆತರೂ ಇಲ್ಲಿಯ ಚೂಡಾ, ಅವಲಕ್ಕಿ ಪುರಿ, ಹುರಿಗಾಳನ್ನು ಮರೆಯುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದೂರ ನಡೆದರೆ, ರಸ್ತೆಯ ಬಲಕ್ಕೆ ಕೃಷ್ಣ ಸ್ವೀಟ್ಸ್ ಇದೆ. ಅದಕ್ಕೂ ಮುಖ್ಯವಾಗಿ, ಕೃಷ್ಣ ಸ್ವೀಟ್ಸ್  ಎದುರಿಗೆ, ರಸ್ತೆಯ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಬದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿಸಿ ಬಿಸಿ ಬಜ್ಜಿಗಳು ಸಿಗುತ್ತವೆ. ಸಂಗೀತದ ಕ್ಲಾಸಿಗೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಕಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಕ್ಲಾಸು ತಪ್ಪಿದರೂ ಬಜ್ಜಿ ತಪ್ಪಿಸುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ! ಅದೇಕೋ, ಮೊದಲಿನಿಂದಲೂ ಡಿ.ವಿ.ಜಿ ರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಇಲ್ಲಿಗಿಂತ ಮುಂದಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದದ್ದೇ ಕಡಿಮೆ, ಹೋಳಿಗೆ ಮನೆ ಮೊದಲಾದ ಜಾಗಗಳಿದ್ದರೂ ಸಹ. 

ಇಷ್ಟೆಲ್ಲಾ ಜೀವಂತಿಕೆಯ ನಡುವೆ, ಜೀವನವನ್ನು ಸಂಭ್ರಮಿಸುವ ವಿವಿಧ ಚಟುವಟಿಕೆಗಳ ನಡುವೆ, ಒಂದು ಅಬಲಾಶ್ರಮವಿದೆ. ಹಳೆಯ ಕಟ್ಟಡಗಳನ್ನು ಕೆಡವಿ ಹೊಸ complexಗಳು, ಅಂಗಡಿಗಳು ಬಂದಂತೆ, ಅಬಲಾಶ್ರಮವೂ ಕೂಡ renovate ಆಗಿ, ಇನ್ನಷ್ಟು ದೊಡ್ಡದಾಗಿ ಅದೇ ಸ್ಥಳದಲ್ಲಿ ನಿಂತಿದೆ. ಇದನ್ನು ಸಂಭ್ರಮಿಸಬೇಕೋ ಅಥವಾ ವ್ಯಥೆಪಡಬೇಕೋ ಎಂದು ಅದರ ಮುಂದೆ ನಡೆಯುವಾಗ ಪ್ರತೀ ಬಾರಿಯೂ ಯೋಚಿಸುತ್ತೇನೆ. 

ಹಾಗಾದರೇ, ಪ್ರತಿ ರಜೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ನಾನು ಗಾಂಧೀ ಬಜಾರಿಗೆ ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಈ ಕಾರಣಗಳಿಗೋ? ಇರಬಹುದು. ಇದಕ್ಕೂ ಮೀರಿ, ನನಗೆ ಅಗತ್ಯವಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಆ ಜನಸಂದಣಿಯ ನಡುವೆ ಓಡಾಡುವ ಅನುಭವ. ಎಲ್ಲ ಕಡೆಯಿಂದಲೂ ಕಿವಿಗೆ ಬೀಳುವ ಕನ್ನಡದ ಶಬ್ದಗಳು - ಬೈಗುಳಗಳಾದರೂ ಸರಿಯೇ - ಹಾಗು ಅವರಿವರು ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ದಿನನಿತ್ಯದ ಜೀವನದ ಕಥೆಗಳು. ಅಲ್ಲದೆ, ಹತ್ತರಲ್ಲಿ ಎಂಟು ಬಾರಿ, ಯಾರಾದರೂ ಸಂಬಂಧಿಕರು, ಪರಿಚಯಸ್ಥರು, ಅಧ್ಯಾಪಕರು ಗಾಂಧಿ ಬಜಾರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಕಾಣುತ್ತಾರೆ, ಸಿಗುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಕೆಲವೊಮ್ಮೆ, ಎಷ್ಟೋ ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಗದೇ ಇರುವವರು ಕೂಡ (ಬೇಡ ಎಂದರೂ) ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಭೇಟಿಯಾಗುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಇವರುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಶಾಲೆಯ, ಪಿ.ಯು ಕಾಲೇಜಿನ crushಗಳು ಕೂಡ ಕಂಡು, ಮಾತಿಗೆ ಸಿಗಬಹುದೇನೋ, number ದೊರೆಯಬಹುದೇನೋ ಎಂಬ ಆಸೆಯಿಂದ ನಾನು ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಹೊರಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಈಗಲೂ ಆಗಾಗ ಹೊರಡುತ್ತೇನೆ... 

Yours Whimsically - Part 17: Uncomfortable Questions (Part 2)

It is not possible to comprehensively write about all aspects which make up an individual's identity with my limited understanding, experience and worldview. All I am doing here is to write about two aspects which I find 'muse-worthy'. 

Mt. Kailas is said to be the abode of Shiva and hence, holds special significance to Hindus. It is considered holy even in Jain and Buddhist traditions, probably because they are off-shoots of the Hindu faith. For the religious, it is the ultimate place to be. Irrespective of convictions, one should go there simply to experience nature at its pristine best.

Ever since I heard my uncle and aunt’s experiences on their trek to Mt. Kailas, I decided that someday, I would go there as well. What I had not anticipated was that my chance would come so early when last year, I went on a Kailas – Manas Sarovar ‘package’ with my family, as part of a larger group. The group itself consisted of Hindus of multiple varieties. (What are my opinions on such 'packaged' shortcuts to the divine? What were my experiences? Let me not dwell on them here). The one comment which my brother and I heard often on the trek was that we were ‘blessed’, ‘lucky’. Perhaps. Is it because of the financial implications of the tour? I cannot take credit for that. Is it because we were going on the trek at such a young age? If you ask me, this is the right age to undertake such a strenuous exercise. I had hoped for a life-changing religious/spiritual experience which could turn a skeptic into a faithful. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Believers would say maybe I was not ripe/seasoned enough. I intend to go there again, some years hence. I wonder if I will have my questions answered then.

Born and brought up in a not-so-conservative household in an urban setting, I have never bothered to find out the caste of any of my friends or acquaintances. If you think a little deeply, that very statement seems to be an assertion of my so-called upper-caste, urban identity. Isn’t it true that I can choose to be ignorant of the caste-question, simply because I am a Brahmin? Our society, unfortunately, still doesn’t allow such privileges to people from ‘lower’ castes. Apart from this ignorance, what have I gained as a Brahmin? No. Let me not make it appear a profit-loss statement. Let me rephrase it. How has being a Brahmin shaped me? What would have changed if I was not born one? Is it the emphasis placed on education? Frankly, most Brahmins are middle-class, without any benefits of reservation. Since we lack the drive and resources to be businessmen, without a good qualification, we cannot aspire to get anywhere in life. Also, doesn’t that criterion qualify anybody who is highly educated to be a Brahmin? Is it the ‘refined’ upbringing, with respect to language, culture and customs? One could argue it has got more to do with ‘nurture’ than ‘nature’; that it is the 'privilege' of the elite of all faiths. However, can you absolutely rule out genetics while answering that question?

I asked myself the same questions about being a Hindu, especially at a time when, overnight, people began taking pride in their religion and asserting their identity. Respecting all faiths began to mean faithless. ‘Secular’ became ‘Sickular’. The discourse changed. Politics of the day unleashed a dormant, primal instinct by rallying people around religious identity. Do I call myself a Hindu or do I adopt the more fashionable ‘atheist’ tag? I had little knowledge or understanding of Hinduism or any other faith. I wanted to know if I could remain a Hindu without asserting my identity. Facebook posts, WhatsApp messages propagated less knowledge and more vitriol on the question of faith. Searching for answers, I came across two books: Dr. Shashi Tharoor’s ‘Why I Am A Hindu’ (which I got signed by him!) and Dr. S Radhakrishnan’s ‘The Hindu View of Life’.

Dr. Tharoor’s book is part-academic, part-political. While I do agree with his arguments, I found the political part of the book repetitive. Perhaps it is because I had heard him speak on the same, before reading the book. Dr. Radhakrishnan’s book – transcript/notes of a series of lectures delivered by him, on the other hand, is purely academic. Dr. Radhakrishnan’s book very briefly outlines the evolution of the Hindu faith from the very beginnings till the early 20^th century, describing the challenges it faced from other faiths – foreign and indigenous, which led to it becoming less accommodating or accepting. There are parts of the book which I find difficult to agree with but perhaps that is for another day.

Faith is much more than what you eat, which (if any) gods you worship or how you worship them. It gives rise to the traditions and customs you follow (or choose not to). It can merely be a code of conduct you wish to adhere to. I do not need a holy book to tell me not to do to the neighbor what I would not have them do to me. These two books managed to give a bird’s eye view of the Hindu faith, without the strictures and dogma. What was reassuring was that one could remain a Hindu even while not believing in many or any forms of God which are worshipped; even while not believing in the very existence of God itself! Hinduism is very similar to the country it was born in: it houses a lot of variety and contradictions under one umbrella. If a faith can accommodate so many differences within itself, it can surely thrive even when there are other faiths in the land – as it has for many centuries now. Any attempt at homogenizing the Hindu faith or homogenizing the country in its name would perhaps be its greatest betrayal.  

Have these two books helped me come to terms with the Hindu faith? Perhaps. I would want to be a Hindu to be able to at least question my very faith. What the two books have done is to make me feel the need to read more about the faith. However, I still have not managed to wrap my head around what it actually means to be a Brahmin. Have the books made me feel proud being a Hindu? Do I feel the need to assert my identity? No. Why should a question of private practice be a badge of public honour? What about the philosophy with which I started writing this piece? It is still a work in progress.

Yours Whimsically - Part 17: Uncomfortable Questions (Part 1)

I turn twenty-three in a few weeks’ time. This is the age when one should delineate his/her philosophy of life. Of course, there is no ‘one-size-fits-all’ rule. Moreover, the philosophy, the ground rules by which one plays the game, can evolve. However, unless a drastic, life-changing event occurs, the ground rules we draw now will fundamentally remain same through our lives. Or so I believe and  I decided to work out my philosophy. I might not find an answer anytime soon. That doesn’t prevent me from attempting, does it?

Disclaimer: This piece is basically me musing out loud. You might find points which are not agreeable. You, reader, are free to turn back at this point.

The first challenge I met was to define my identity, for your outlook towards life depends on who you are, where you come from and where you are headed. The first few bits were easy. I am an Indian by nationality – I have my passport, my Aadhaar (dutifully linked to my bank accounts, phone numbers, what not!). I am a Kannadiga. I accept these and I am happy. I have neither the chance nor the will to change either of them. Fate landed me in a Hindu Brahmin household. This is the tricky bit. I was born a Hindu, a Brahmin. Now, twenty-three years later, am I a Hindu, a Brahmin by chance or by choice?

At the very outset, why should I bother answering this question, be it to myself or to anyone else? It is because caste is a reality in the India of our times, however rosy a picture we may try to paint. Off late, religion is once again becoming part of the mainstream political dialogue, with a Hindu chauvinist party in power at the centre, the main opposition trying to signal that it is no less Hindu and another leading political figure saying she’ll convert to Buddhism along with her followers.

My grandmother was very finicky about rituals. It’s familial lore that I had once confronted her about whether she enquired the caste of the driver before boarding a rickshaw! No. I was not a born-revolutionary. It was merely a child’s prank to provoke his grandmother. Brahmanism to me, back then, was merely a collection of rituals. Within my extended family, I have extremes as examples. One the one hand, I have uncles who are very religious, perform elaborate pujas and are proud of their Brahmin identity. I shall not speak about their spirituality since I have never talked to them in this regard. Moreover, who am I to gauge and judge their extent and depth of spirituality? On the other hand, there is my father and his brothers whose Brahmanism (as far as I've seen) does not go beyond a few sholkas and stotras, along with wearing the janivara (janeu/sacred thread) at least during Ganesh Chaturthi and at the time of my grandparents’ shraddha. Then, there is my brother and I, who do not even have the sacred thread. Does it make us un-Brahminical?

As a teenager, there were times when I said I was an atheist. At one point of time, it was quite a fad to call oneself an atheist, with or without understanding the full implication of the term. A few of my friends still call themselves so, with some contempt to those who call themselves faithful. I then realized that being an atheist required much stronger conviction than I could muster. I took a few steps back and said I am an 'agnost'. Frankly, whenever I faced some challenge or an outcome which didn’t favor me, I said they were destined by the One above. In more successful times, I celebrated my hardwork and effort.

Then came a phase when I had ‘private conversations’ with Him/Her, whenever I accompanied the family to a temple. ‘I know you are not in there. If what they say is true, how can you be restricted to these four walls? I will not ask you for anything, for you are supposed to know everything and hence, would know what I want – even without me having to spell it out’. At the same time, I bowed my head in reverence in front of any Hindu temple, Jain temple, church or mosque I passed.

I never worked out why there were so many images of gods and goddesses. ‘How can all of these be true?’ I asked. An elephant-headed god made no sense, unless you looked at it as a symbol, signifying that knowledge and strength could lie within even imperfect exteriors. More importantly, who had seen these forms before creating their likeness? Seemingly historical figures, the Formless One started looking more attractive when compared to this, as I grappled to understand faith with my limited knowledge. 

To be continued...

Yours Whimsically - Part 16: 'A Century Is Not Enough'

It is not possible to talk about Indian cricket without talking of Sourav Ganguly. Being a 90s kid, my earliest recollection of watching the game begins roughly at the turn of the millennium. History says this was a tumultuous time in world cricket, what with Hansie Cronje’s match-fixing scandal and a shadow cast even on Indian cricket. It was in such circumstances that a certain Sourav Ganguly was asked to lead the Indian team. The rest, as they say, is history. The turn-around in Indian cricket can largely be attributed to one personality. As a fan, I pre-ordered his autobiography, and read it – at record speed – the day, rather the afternoon, it arrived. (The previous book I read in a day was Chetan Bhagat’s ‘2 States’.)

Ganguly played at the same time as Tendulkar and Dravid. While Tendulkar was already a household name, Dravid and Ganguly started their careers simultaneously. Sachin was a statesman and Dravid, a gentleman, Ganguly chose aggression and attitude, thus defining the character of the team he led and more importantly, built. Much is written these days about Kohli’s raw aggression, which rubs off on the team. This mindset of taking the attack to the opposition is perhaps Ganguly’s greatest legacy to Indian cricket.

When Tendulkar’s autobiography “Playing It My Way” was released, there was much hype, primarily because for many, it was the ‘word of God’. Personally, I was disappointed with the book. It was like reading match-report after match-report, except for the fact that they were written in first person. Moreover, Tendulkar seemed ‘destined’ to succeed. A child prodigy from the famed ‘Mumbai School of batting’, he piled success after success. While the country celebrated those successes, they do not make a great story to tell. Even more so because much of what is said in the book was already public knowledge. Apart from brief insights into Sachin – the family man, the book had little new to offer.

With this at the back of my mind, I expected Ganguly’s “A Century Is Not Enough” to be a lot more candid and colorful, like his character and career.

Many would want to believe that Dada’s career began with a century at Lord’s. However, it was four years earlier in Australia that Ganguly made his disastrous ODI debut. Having scored only 3, it was almost curtains down on his career. Ganguly fought back, making runs in the domestic circuit, forcing his way into the Test team. This ‘never say die’ attitude, which defined his career, forms the core of this book.

For most readers, Ganguly’s view on the Greg Chappell era would be the most awaited part of the book. And Dada does not disappoint. What is a revelation, however, is that it was Ganguly who suggested Chappell’s name for the job, having briefly interacted with him before the 2003-04 tour of Australia. In fact, it was perhaps this stint which proved instrumental in the successful tour Down Under. Unfortunately, for Dada and Indian cricket, this phase proved to be the lowest phase. A winning captain was sacked from captaincy and dropped from the team. Even a century in the previous series was not enough to earn him a place in the playing eleven. Team India’s most successful captain had to fight for his spot in the team and prove himself by playing domestic tournaments. Despite suggestions from his father to hang his boots up, it was Ganguly’s attitude and pride which kept him going, having the last laugh in the “Ganguly – Guru Greg” saga.

Ganguly interweaves the narration of his struggles and successes with tidbits of philosophy, relevant not only to sportspersons but to anybody else as well. It is this which makes it an enriching experience. His pride is evident when he talks of the team he built, talents he helped nurture or when he discusses his contributions/performances. He is very candid and does not hesitate to share that when he was dropped, he felt an increasing sense of pessimism at every Indian victory. Or for that matter, his expectations soared high when Tendulkar resigned as captain. It is this forthrightness which adds flavor to the book.

The otherwise candid Dada, however, does not delve deep into the “Monkeygate” Test or the controversial Multan declaration, with Sachin on 194*. We will perhaps have to wait for Dravid’s autobiography to know the entire saga. Also, Ganguly deals with cricket and cricket only, giving very little insight into Ganguly the person, off the field. Another aspect which I feel is a drawback is he falls short on details – even while describing the historical 2001 Eden Gardens Test, the 2003-04 tour of Australia or the 2003 World Cup. A little more depth into his approach to the game as captain and the team as a unit would have made the book more rounded.

For a cricket fan, Ganguly infused the team with raw energy and passion, backing his team mates – giving up his opening slot to promote Viru into the destructive batsman he became, for instance. In short, he redefined captaincy and leadership. Sourav Ganguly went from being just another guy from a middle-class Bengali family to captaining Team India, “the most coveted job after the Indian Prime Minister”. More importantly, he struggled. He had his share of demons – internal and external – to vanquish on his path to success. It is unfortunate that the World Cup eluded him. It is this ‘humanness’ which makes the Ganguly-story endearing, prompting us to turn the pages of "A Century Is Not Enough".

Yours Whimsically - Part 15: A Sunday Siesta

Of all the little things I enjoy, nothing compares to the joy and tranquility of a nap on a Sunday afternoon. Frankly, it need not be a Sunday. The title is given simply because it sounds better than a ‘Monday siesta’ or a ‘Thursday siesta’. All you need in order to enjoy one is the ‘art of doing nothing’. You cannot enjoy a siesta when you have work either prior to or following it. It is akin to meditation. You need to zero in on your objective and let it take over. (The zero is an interesting concept. Zero or Shoonya means ‘nothing’. However, it can also mean the all-encompassing. Shoonya can be none and whole at the same time!) A siesta is best enjoyed when you have nothing to do, allowing it to engulf you entirely.

Living in a hostel teaches you many life skills. Of the few I have learnt, I surely count appreciating the beauty of a siesta to be one. Prior to being a hostelite, I used to scorn those who lazed their way through Sunday afternoons. The tables have turned and I now absolutely appreciate the value of sleep, surrendering to it as and when it demands, especially in those golden moments on beautiful afternoons.

Having been a hostelite for more than four years now, Sundays at home and in the hostel move along similar trajectories; the only difference being, perhaps, the food. At home, a Sunday usually opens with the false alarm of the maid having arrived, forcing my brother and me to wake up. Such honour is not bestowed even upon guests who arrive not so frequently. With a cup of coffee, the next couple of hours are spent reading the newspapers, which switch hands between Dad, brother and me, while Mom is busy making breakfast. Dad is an ace at taking his afternoon naps in the morning, especially with the TV switched on!

A heavy lunch on a Sunday is just the right prelude to a siesta. If it is ragi mudde, need I say more? Wash the lunch down with a glass of buttermilk and the stage is set. Eyes droop, mental activity decreases while voices on the TV become a drone. I unroll a mat, place my head on the pillow, wrap myself in a blanket and ever so slowly, slip into blissful oblivion. Unless there are pressing commitments or (unwelcome) visitors, this siesta can stretch upto three hours. Nobody is complaining about it, is there?

In the hostel, since Saturday ends late – or even if it doesn’t – dawn does not break until near-noon on Sunday. Having missed breakfast, lunch is the first meal of the day (like most other days!). Often, conversations at the table are spicier than the food itself. Having downed a fresh lime soda, we friends disperse along separate ways. I return with my copy of The Hindu. 

A warm breeze blows through the window as I settle down to read the paper. It does take a lot of time to read the elaborately structured Sunday edition. Lying down to read the last few pages of the paper, I already sense my eyes becoming a little heavy. There is a buzz as a stray housefly flits around the room, looking for an exit. I spread a thin blanket over myself and pick up the book placed next to my pillow. A beautiful line forces me to stop reading and reflect upon it. I look up at the fan which has been gently whirring all this while. Spotlessly clean. I thank the housekeeping for having done a good job. There’s a myna at the window, chirping away, piercing the silence of an otherwise still afternoon. A few seconds later, it flies away and everything is static once more. The housefly is no longer in the room. The line has just triggered an insight. I sense it bubbling upwards. However, much before it reaches the surface, sleep takes over. The book is on my chest, in a loving embrace. The spectacles remain perched on the nose.

Siesta and I exchange pleasantries. I still perceive the world outside, though faintly. Steadily, Siesta overpowers me. One by one, the senses shut off. At the height of our communion, I do not realise the incessant howling of dogs below the window. I am oblivious to the vibration of my phone. It takes a very brief power cut to break the spell. Siesta has lost her magic. I feel my senses returning and yet, I find myself resisting their return. It is my friend’s knock on the door which finally wakes me up in time for the evening coffee.

Despite knowing that we'll meet again in a week's time or perhaps even before that, I bid farewell to Siesta with a heavy heart. Siesta disappears through the door as caffeine enters the system, leaving memories and expectations in her wake.