Yours Whimsically – Part 14: All for an experience

If anybody asks me about my outlook towards life (not that anybody would care, though), I say it is a constant search for new experiences. It is akin to catching a butterfly. You see it and approach closer to grab it. Ultimately, all you are left with is a smear of the color, until you wash it off. Spiritual people try gaining new experiences, new highs by meditation; some even try weed and other hallucinogens. Normal men and women try different things – art, music, books, travel; some even try weed and other hallucinogens.

Since I have decided not to continue in academia and/or research, a certificate from participating in a scientific conference does little to better my profile, or so I believe. However, my search for new experiences (and some peer pressure) resulted in my friend and I travelling all the way to Gujarat. This gave me a chance to see vikas as well and I jumped in.

Let’s get the boring bit out of the way. The conference was a good learning experience. I had never attended one before, apart from those which happen in our institute where the main incentive is food. I felt I was able to appreciate this conference, on ecology, better. There were a few eminent speakers. Food was good too, except that a south Indian like me found it blasphemous to eat sweet sambar! However, a trip to the Lakshmi Vilas Palace, where parts of Grand Masti were filmed, remained unfulfilled on the wish list.

Events took an interesting turn towards the end when we decided to return by train. Given that the journey was over thirty hours, we made a sensible enough decision of booking 3AC tickets, for which we were waitlisted. Having received no confirmation even on the day previous to the journey, we tried our luck booking ‘Tatkal’ tickets. And we failed. On the day of the journey, we tried again for tickets in the ‘Sleeper’ class for a train which was, technically, the next day. Only, we were waitlisted – even on Tatkal bookings. It was in this situation that we decided to tour Champaner, where Lagaan was shot. (The roads are good, I must say.) All through the journey, we were anxiously checking the app to see if either of the bookings – 3AC and Sleeper – was confirmed.

Luck seemed to be on our side, with us climbing ranks in the waiting list. Not for long. We ran out of luck just when our names were listed 1 and 2 on the 3AC waiting list. The sleeper was hopeless as well, with us listed near 20. I wondered if we had woken up on the right side of the bed that day.

It was a leap of faith that evening when we decided to check-out of the hotel. The train stopped for less than 10 minutes at the station. We would get atleast one seat in the AC coach, surely? If not, we would ‘plead’ with the TTE to make some arrangement. We could play the 'helpless student' card, having a thirty-plus hour journey on the cards. Sadly, none of it worked. However, the TTE suggested that we could board the sleeper coach, provided we paid a penalty. Having very less time to weigh our decision, we emptied our wallets and boarded the train, with two pieces of luggage each. 

Aboard the sleeper coach, for the first time in recent memory, I was at the receiving end of judgmental looks! ‘Look at these people. How brazenly they step into the coach with such luggage even when they have no tickets. There is so much wrong with this generation’ those looks said. Some even went to the extent of saying it aloud. People were reluctant to even allow us space for the heavy luggage, while we decided to spend the journey standing by the toilets. I almost lost faith in humanity!

The toilets stank, their stench wafting into our faces everytime one of the passengers opened the door. The shoulders ached from the weight of the bags. If this was the condition at the beginning of the journey, what would our plight be at the end of thirty-odd hours? Besides, there was little or no money left with either of us. Could we sustain ourselves? Would we sleep in turns? Would we be able to sleep at all? Panic seemed to be overtaking the thought process by the minute. Yet, there was a part of the brain which kept happily recording these events, knowing it would make a story worth sharing. 

Forty-five minutes into this journey, I already felt my mental resources being sapped. It seemed less of a train journey and more like a Bigg Boss task. That was when luck embraced us. A message on my friend’s phone said our ‘Tatkal’ tickets were confirmed. The next station was ten minutes away. We decided to get down at the station and wait to board the train when it passed through. A messenger from above (I saw a halo around his head) in the form of a TTE advised us to return to the station from where we had booked our journey, to prevent losing our seats. We received a jolt when the ATM at the station was out of cash. After rummaging through the bag, my friend found just enough money to buy us return tickets.

When we finally boarded our train back to college, there was nobody to look down upon us. More so because we had both upper berths and most of the other passengers were fast asleep! We walked with pride - and relief - to claim what was rightfully ours. It was now our turn to judge people who came in as passengers on an unreserved ticket. The toilets were bad here too, though we didn’t have to face the brunt every other minute. I spent the greater part of the journey sleeping, thinking of how to put this story across.

Just when the story seemed to be heading towards a happy ending, our train, in all likelihood, ran over a person on the track. There’s nothing to confirm this story apart from circumstantial screams from onlookers and the fact that my friend saw something very close to the track, from the window.

It is not my intention to end this piece on such a shocking note. However, that’s how this ‘search for experience’ ended.

P.S: I don’t seem to run out of adventures. Just when life was getting back to normalcy, there’s a rat in the room. I tried playing Bond to drive it away from wherever it’s hiding. I don’t know if I’ve been successful. 

Yours Whimsically - Part 13: An exercise in character building

Woah! Have I started writing about personality development? Not at all. I detest those self-help books: “How to make friends and influence people”, “7 Habits of highly effective people”, “The Secret” and the like. Quite a few of those are best-sellers, no doubt. You see them everywhere – from the roadside second-hand bookstore to the overpriced bookshop at airports. If you cannot teach yourself to be successful, no other book can. At least, that’s what I believe. I will not sermonize on character building. What do I know of it? So, do not let the title mislead you.

I belong to a Kannada-speaking Brahmin family from Bengaluru. No. I do not speak English in the exaggerated, stereotypical ‘Madrasi’ accent portrayed in Bollywood movies. However, there are other aspects of the South Indian stereotype I adhere to: I relish my sambar/rasam – rice and curd – rice meals. Because I am from Karnataka (“Kaveri is ours!”), I relish ragi mudde as well. I savor my filter coffee. Call me elitist for all I care, I appreciate Carnatic classical music. I delight in reading The Hindu and – very pertinent to this article – I enjoy watching Test cricket.

Among the people I closely interact, I have seen only a few who take delight in watching a Test match. ‘Who plays and who watches a game spread over five days when you have ODIs and T20s?’ they ask. Off-late, specially India have been playing a lot of cricket and all of it in the subcontinent. So, the result was known even before the match started. An Indian loss was an upset. That wasn’t good advertisement for the five-day game, I agree. However, now that India are travelling to South Africa, the game is bound to be engrossing. So, why wouldn’t one watch? At least for the next one-and-a-half to two years, the Indian cricket calendar looks interesting with a lot of ‘away’ series, though the result might not be to the liking of a die-hard Indian supporter.

I strongly feel we need to build up a case for Test cricket. The longer version of the game fails to be merely between bat and ball. It is played more on the minds of the players than on the greens. There is immense planning involved in setting up a batsman for a dismissal, say by placing a short-leg and constantly bouncing him for a few deliveries before rapping him on the pads or yorking him. You continue to persist in a certain line of attack until you get a dismissal. You foil the batsman’s game plan by standing up to the stumps and curtail his movement, frustrating him. There is a sense of beauty in Ravi Ashwin’s off-spinners to the left handers, with a couple of slips and a silly mid-off in position, before he unleashes a carrom ball. While ODIs and T20s are heavily skewed in favor of batsmen and brute force (with judicious amounts of skill), I find Tests more evenly balanced. It relies much more on skill than the other two. 

I look at Test cricket as an exercise in character building, offering invaluable life lessons. You cannot win a Test by having just one proverbial good day in office. It is the cumulative effort over five days which ultimately bears fruit. That said, the match can swing from one team to the other over sessions. You cannot win the war by disregarding the battles, can you? More importantly, there is always a chance of reviving your fortunes, only if you believe in yourself. The 2001 Eden Gardens Test between India and Australia is perhaps the greatest example of this. More importantly, that five full days of cricket can end in a draw is itself an illustration of the fact that our actions do not always lead to tangible results. Isn’t this in line with the philosophy of the Gita where Krishna asks Arjuna to do his work, irrespective of what the result is going to be?

A player like Dravid had immense mental reserves to draw from while he batted session after session, facing hostile bowling attacks, earning him the sobriquet ‘The Wall’. Not only do you need to concentrate on every delivery, you also need to push yourself physically in not-always-friendly conditions.  Very often, you bat patiently for that one loose delivery every now and then, tiring out the bowlers, before you gain momentum. It is a real treat to watch a batsman defend himself, putting a price on his wicket against an aggressive opposition. It is a classic case of who blinks first. Though clichéd, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. This is a luxury limited overs cricket does not offer.  

In this recently concluded Test against South Africa, there was another character on display by A B de Villiers. An explosive batsman in the shorter formats, A B played a subdued innings, quite unlike himself, waiting for the conditions to get better. In fact, his innings of trying to stonewall the Indian bowling in a valiant attempt to save the test on their last tour of India is still fresh in memory. It is this adaptability and temperament as a player which makes A B indispensable to the team.

Despite so much on offer in five full days of Test cricket, there is clamor to reduce it to four days – for purely commercial and monetary reasons. In that case, a lot of games would end up in draws despite there being a strong possibility of a result. It takes lot more grit and character to bat on a fifth day wicket, saving the Test, than in any four-day game. It is unfortunate that travelling teams are not competitive enough anymore. But then, that doesn’t take away from the charm of a Test match. This series, where the Indian bowlers have risen to the occasion might just be early signs of revival of quality Test cricket (I am being hopeful). There is no need to tweak the format.

In the days of e-mail, WhatsApp and instant gratification on social media, a Test match is like the romantic idea of a hand-written letter. Let Test cricket be. 

Yours Whimsically - Part 12: 2017: A Retrospect

At a loss for ideas, I sit before the laptop thinking of what I should write. ‘This is not new’ I tell myself. I have always oscillated between periods of high output (in terms of quantity, if not always quality!) and writer’s block. The first couple of times I was hit by such a block, I didn’t know how to react. Now, I greet it like an old friend or an uninvited guest. I am happy to meet it because I know it will only do me good at the end of it. I draw comfort from the fact that it won’t stay forever.

This time, however, I decided to try out a different strategy. I would just write. Maybe once I am get rid of all the garbage, all the rust, ideas and words would flow freely. I thought of this as a process similar to the therapy of ‘talking out’. It helps unclutter thoughts, I’ve heard. In fact, sometimes, when I seem to be heading nowhere, I have seen that just writing down my thoughts on a sheet of paper or my journal, as and when they arise helps me organize myself better. I wanted to see if it would help with my writing too. So here I am.

I’ve decided I would write about the year that went by. That should be easiest – not much of a strain on the already-strained creative reserves. 2017 has left me with a lot of experiences, memories. It has given me much food for thought. However, I will write about the one thing that I did over the last one year with utmost sincerity – watching movies. If my count is right, I have watched no less than fifteen movies in the theatres last year, along with quite a few on the laptop, thanks to Amazon Prime.

‘Kehte hai ki agar kisi ko sachche dil se chaho toh puri kayanat usey tumse milane ki koshish main lag jaati hai’.

Into the final year of my college life, I have next-to-nothing in terms of coursework. Looking out for ways to utilize the time available, one fine day, I sat down to look at the Wiki page with the list of Bollywood movies releasing in 2017. I noted down the names of movies I would love to watch – predominantly based on the star cast: If the movie had SRK, Nawaz or Vidya, I had to watch it. Then, there was SLB’s visual treat ‘Padmavati’. Also, Amitabh’s ‘102 Not Out’ seemed interesting from the title. ‘Lipstick Under my Burkha’ seemed bold. Akshay Kumar’s ‘Toilet: Ek Prem Katha’s trailer was funny. It seemed like Bollywood had slated the release of these movies that year because I had a lot of time to spare. What’s more? There is a two-screen cinema hall – no less than a multiplex, in my opinion – very close to our campus, with tickets priced Rs. 80. Mr. Modi’s demonetization had opened the market for mobile wallets and they came up with amazing offers (cashbacks, mainly) to attract users (I am not sure if this is the achche din which was promised, though!). The universe did seem to be conspiring. Dutifully, I stuck the note with the titles on my study table – to serve as a constant reminder of my goals.

The first half of the year, when I still had to deal with coursework, resulted in me watching only three movies. The year began with ‘Raees’. It was double the fun because of SRK and Nawaz. Wisdom, in hindsight, says it was a regrettable decision. In fact, Wisdom had said so in foresight as well! However, low priced tickets didn’t pinch us hard. The other movie in the first half was ‘Begum Jaan’. That didn’t go down well either. The final movie was ‘Baahubali 2’. I don’t regret that, despite the movie being bad, because the essence of that plan was the company than the movie itself. However, I was faced with doubts. Had the universe conspired to foil my plans?

‘Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost’.

In the second half, a few friends and I watched a movie almost every other weekend. It became so regular an affair that we created a WhatsApp group titled, unimaginatively, ‘Movie Club’, where we shared trailers of prospective movies. At one point of time, I almost expected Book My Show to call me up on a Friday to ask if I needed tickets for the movie that weekend!

Funnily, among the seven of us on that group, it has only been me who has been to all movies; others missing out on one or the other, due to some reason. We watched ‘Mom’, ‘Jagga Jasoos’, ‘Bareilly ki Barfi’. We even watched ‘Jab Harry Met Sejal’ (and wished he hadn’t) as well as ‘Babumoshai Bandookbaaz’ and ‘Shubh Mangal Savdhan’. We aren’t intolerant. We watch movies of all kinds. Towards the end of the year, ‘Tumhari Sulu’ and ‘Qarib Qarib Singlle’ impressed us, while ‘Newton’ was perhaps the only thought provoking movie (and hence, rightly made the official entry to the Oscars). Sadly, ‘Padmavati’ couldn’t release in 2017. (Now, that’s intolerance for you.)

Into the final semester now, I am yet to sit down to make a similar list of must watch movies. Atleast the line-up for January seems clear – ‘Mukkabaaz’, ‘Padmaavat’ and ‘Padman’.

Back home, I will miss this freedom to watch movies and regret them if required, without feeling the pinch. Perhaps, one of the very few things I will be missing. Or so I would like to convince myself.

P.S: Don’t tell anyone. I watched ‘Tiger Zinda Hai’ as well! Shh!

Yours Whimsically - Part 11: A Personal Five-Year Plan

Do not go by the title, for what I am writing about wasn’t exactly planned, not unlike most events in life. At the end of four-and-a-half years of study at a premier educational institute in the country, I think there is no better time than now for reflection. If the writing seems like a conversation with myself, do not blame me. I am thinking out loud. The title says ‘whimsically’, after all!

Four and a half years is not a short time. Just to gain perspective: Tendulkar was still playing, Obama was President of the US, ISIS had not yet gained global prominence, Dhinchak Pooja was unheard of, humans were more important than cows and the Rs.1000 note was in transaction. (More locally, the hostel in which I am now did not exist!) I was at that crucial juncture in my life: choosing a career. I had just turned 18. Old enough to vote in elections, I was supposed to know what I wanted in life, wasn’t I? Armed now with the wisdom of hindsight, I can say that not many of us know for sure. Rather, let me speak for myself than making sweeping generalizations. I thought I knew the destination but I did not know how to get there.

I had a rough outline of what to do. IITs and NITs – those haloed institutions – had never been my target. My rankings in state entrance exams would not allow me to get into medical. Like every other eighteen year old in the country, I would get into engineering in one of the colleges in Bengaluru, get a degree at the end of four years and then decide on the course of life. Not many people from middle-class Indian families get into engineering because they are passionate about it. I had not considered basic sciences as an option and was not even aware of the existence of IISERs. A keen uncle and a design of fate combined to land me in IISER – Kolkata. Having fared badly in JEE mains (a formality), I was so confident of not clearing the IISER aptitude test that I did not bother thinking through the order of preference of IISERs during the document verification before the test. Perhaps, the only reason I chose this was because it was not mainstream and I had always wanted to stay in a hostel for some years (five years is a little too much, though); or if you believe some accounts in the familial circle, because I wanted to go visit Sourav Ganguly’s house!

Back home, my elder brother and I had studied in the same school and pre-university college, because of which recognition came without much effort. ‘Sustaining the recognition and creating my identity were because of my efforts’ I would convince myself. Now, here I was – in an institution a couple of thousand kilometers away, with a large chunk of population speaking a different language and having a different cuisine. I had always depended on my linguistic abilities, especially Kannada, in a quest for identity. Would it be of any help here? Or was my identity dependent on my brother? Though funny in hindsight, it was one of the earliest challenges I faced within myself in that transition from boyhood to being an adult.  

This is a science institute. There were people who said physics and football were their passions – two things I never got a complete hang of! People were haggling over a couple of marks in some exam. ‘It is a matter of principle, not marks’ they justified. Yet there I was, hovering around an eight-point, at peace with myself. Was I being laid back? Or was I losing my ‘competitive edge’? Or was it all I was capable of? In a batch of nearly hundred and fifty, I would be an ‘also ran’ at the end of five years, at that rate. This quest for identity and search for safe spaces prompted me to join the Dramatics and Literary Clubs, which have given me wonderful friendships. One thing led to another and I made an identity for myself over the years and stepped back before I could unmake it (hopefully!).

My first year made me feel that a career in science was my life’s calling, pointers aside. I would be the first PhD recipient in my family. Meanwhile, people around me were making frantic attempts to get into summer internships. I gave into peer pressure and took up internships in my first two summers. It was then I decided that I did not want to build a life in academia or research. A PhD has become mainstream (or is this a case of ‘sour grapes’?). One should not get into a PhD simply because there seems to be no other option in sight at the end of graduation. My strengths, I believe, are different. Having given it some thought, I now have a clearer picture of where I want to see myself. While knowing what you want is important, knowing what you don’t want is equally, if not more, important.

During my stay here, I have seen the institute transform, in terms of infrastructure and ambience. Perhaps the only plan I have had is to gain new experiences. I tried serving in some capacity on the fest organizing committee and the student body. It was not entirely out of a sense of giving back to the institute. It was in part because of an attempt at understanding myself and creating my own space. This search led me to sign up for being a teaching assistant for the incoming batch this year. I thoroughly enjoyed it (though I am not sure if they did). I studied more than perhaps what I had studied in my first year, in my attempt to teach. It was this search for variety which made me take up the project I am pursuing for my thesis.

I have made friends, lost them and moved on.  There have been people who have taught valuable life lessons; moments that I cherish. I have met people who seem to have clearly chalked out plans of where they want to intern in which year – a clear roadmap. I only wish I had that much clarity in the beginning. Sadly, I have also seen people who are over-competitive; people to who person to person relationships are transactional. I have seen discussions turning into fights and personal attacks. I have seen people isolating themselves in pockets, with people who echo their opinions and no space for difference. There is what I perceive to be a general decline in enthusiasm to contribute to anything in the institute. Are we losing a sense of community or is this overthinking? Are the priorities changing? Is it just a reflection of the increasing individualism in society, fueled by growing trends of instant gratification on social media? Am I attempting to make connections between two unrelated phenomena? How do we change the trend? These are questions to which I have no answer.

Five years in a hostel and we are equipped with a basic survival tool box, comprising of independence, responsibility and confidence (or so I would like to believe). However, will we be able to successfully put it into use while facing the real world? Will our degree actually show us the way? Will we actually realize what we desire? Only time will tell. When we finally step out of the institute a semester from now (hopefully!), will there be a sigh of relief? Or will it be a farewell with a heavy heart? The countdown has begun. 

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Part 3

This part of the narrative is dedicated to all those people who asked at different points of time why I had stopped writing this travelogue. I only hope that I take the narrative to its conclusion without much breaks in between.

Along with a few others, I had clearly strategized that we would walk a little ahead of the rest of the team while we were inside the Singalila National Park. That way, we would have an edge in spotting the red-panda, fate permitting. I started off quite well. However, owing perhaps to the strain of the previous day (and of course, my neglected fitness routine – a theme which shall repeat several times in this account), I conceded my lead within the first hour.

As fate would have it, we did not spot any red panda. Our success was limited to an odd hare here and a bird there. While we rested at one of our pit-stops in the middle of the trail, we could hear a bird call. As we strained ourselves to try and spot it, our attempt was disrupted by another group singing one of those Bollywood party songs as loud as possible while they walked. With them, went our chance of actually spotting any wildlife. Having had tasty momos upon exiting the national park, we continued on our trail. To be frank, this part of the trek was perhaps the most uneventful – except for those few moments in which I enjoyed the music of silence, in solitude. In the words of one of my co-trekkers, we were attempting to “capture silence” to carry with us forever.

Our destination, Kalipokhri/Kalapokhri, was a small village with a lake of the same name. It is named because of the black (kali) water found in the lake (pokhri, Nepali). Legend has it that the lake was formed from the imprint of Shiva’s right foot. It was evening when we reached there and a heavy fog blanketed the lake, reducing visibility. This gave an aura of mystery to the lake.

We spent the evening sitting around charcoal listening to stories. It was here that Sushant told us of a hilarious incident which had happened at the Sandakphu campsite. In one of the earlier groups Sushant had led, there was an Australian gentleman as well (the country has no significance with respect to the narrative, though). At the campsite, there are two types of tents. One for sleeping and the other is a toilet tent. The structure of the toilet tent is simple. It is merely a cloth covering the four sides around a pit, a couple of feet across and a few feet deep. (Using water in such cold climates is, perhaps, best avoided. Forget nationalism!) However, the skeleton of the tent is very fragile. Any excess pressure on any of the pillars propping the tent up can dislodge it. Our gentleman had to attend to his business in the middle of the night. Despite all warnings to the contrary, he held on to the poles heavily, causing the tent to fly away. Exposed to the winds at the wrong place and time, he dirtied the place around the pit, rather than easing his business into the pit! The tent was found a few feet away the next morning, fortunately.

The night sky at Kalipokhri (and at Sandakphu the next night) was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. My attempts at capturing them on my phone failed, telling me that it was more important to live the moment than collecting it for an unknown, unseen future. I recharged my powerbank so that I could sustain the phone – the camera – for the next two-and-a-half days until we descended to Gorkhey, after two nights in a tent. The idea of sleeping in a tent looked exciting. The toilet tents - even more so!

The next morning, the first thing on our agenda was to look at the Kalipokhri Lake. It turned out be a huge disappointment. All there was to the lake was some mass of water, with colourful Buddhist prayer flags crisscrossing it. From our makeshift viewpoint – on top of a half-constructed house – we could see our trail for the day. There was hint of snow along the road. We were told that that day’s trail – from Kalipokhri to Sandakphu – despite being the shortest (at around 7 kms), was the toughest part of the trek. Once we exited Kalipokhri after breakfast, our lunch would be served only after we reached Sandakphu. Were we up for the challenge?

Kaaluru Kronicles: 2. The Marriage Broker

It had been a few months since Vishwa vanished from Kaaluru. Having known him closely, I did not feel perturbed. I believed he would turn up within a few days and life would go on, as though nothing was amiss. However, this time, I was wrong. Days stretched into weeks, then months. I assumed Vishwa would never come back, perhaps having found a new haven. 

In those initial days, Kaaluru was abuzz with the news of Vishwa having gone away – yet again. I was at pains explaining to those who asked – at Ramu’s, over by-2 coffee, where we were regulars;  at Muttaiah’s saloon; at Chandru’s photo studio on MG Road; to Shastry at the Chamundi Temple; even to Aslam, the taxi driver as he waited at the railway station, looking for customers who never came – that I had absolutely no idea. Gradually, people lost interest in the whereabouts of Vishwa, having their own troubles to take care of. I would still go to Ramu’s sometimes and order by-2 coffee, hoping that Vishwa would turn up to drink his share. I gave up after a few days. My parents were happy that their son now took interest in the banalities of household work than spending time with that good-for-nothing. 

That night, out of the blue, Vishwa landed at my front door. He being gone for months, his landlord had rented the house to a family and he needed a place to spend the night. My parents were kind enough to keep their opinions to themselves and let Vishwa stay for the night. I rolled out a mattress for him. Having freshened up, he lay there. I knew it would be long before either of us slept that night. However, I did not question him, waiting for him to open up.

******************

“You know very well”, Vishwa began “that I get tired of being the same place for long. Life in Kaaluru seemed monotonous. The same old faces, the same domestic squabbles. Despite me being unemployed most of the time, I could always walk into anybody’s house for lunch or dinner and nobody minded. That is this place’s strength and weakness. It discourages competition and enterprise. Irrespective of whether you liked me or not, you would feed me, for you know I will be useful at some point in time, when you need people to get work done in Mandya or Mysuru. And for long, I took advantage of it.

“One fine day, I got frustrated with the life I was leading and decided to try something new. I packed a few clothes, took some money and boarded the bus to Bengaluru. I had been to Bengaluru only once. I think you know that story, right? Flour Mill Krishna’s co-brother wanted a document signed by some minister and Krishna thought I would be the right person to help him with it. All I knew was a peon in the minister’s many offices, from Mandya. Because I knew him, I was let right into the minister’s chambers and Krishna’s co-brother was awed by it. The Minister was in a good mood that day, I guess. He talked as if he had known me for years and signed the paper right away. Krishna and his co-brother spread this among people in Kaaluru. Not that I enjoyed all the attention. However, I was done with all that now. 

“Bengaluru welcomed me with open arms. I could now get lost in those swarming crowds. I could swim anonymously in that sea of humanity. Here was one place where I could start afresh. I booked a room in one of the cheaper hotels and went in search of work. A studio near the central bus stand caught my attention. Having worked in Chandru’s studio for some time, I thought I could use my experience there. The owner was a gentleman. Along with the job, he gave me a room to stay, free of cost.

“Two weeks into the work, I noticed that most people who came to get their photos clicked were prospective brides and grooms. I smelt an opportunity here. What if along with clicking pictures, we started a marriage bureau? The owner was surprised that this hadn’t struck him for so long. Thus began a new chapter in my life. While the owner took care of photographs, I used my smooth talk to get details and requirements of brides and grooms to be. 

“We introduced a new clause. If a marriage was arranged through our bureau, then our studio would be given the order for photographing the wedding. It increased the business for us while the families did not have to search separately for photographers. It was a win-win arrangement. A few successful weddings later, I befriended a couple of purohits as well as caterers. They became our new partners. Now, we offered nearly end-to-end solutions for any wedding. This model worked for all of us. Steadily, my owner’s income grew to an extent that he was able to employ two people for wedding photography.”

“Then why did you leave that work to return here?” I cut in. “Don’t tell me you got bored with it so soon”, I said, sensing that perhaps the story had not yet begun. 

“I will tell you" Vishwa said, annoyed at my question. "The first rule of storytelling is that the storyteller should not be interrupted." 

“One fine day, we received this client, searching for a groom for his daughter. The daughter was pretty good looking. She had an MA in history. It was a fairly well-to-do family as well. It wasn’t hard to find a groom for such a girl. Preliminary talks were successful and an engagement was announced as well. 

“Post-engagement, I went to the groom’s house with the photo album a couple of days later. I sensed that the atmosphere was not alright. They said they had noticed that the girl’s first cousin and the girl appeared to be ‘pretty close’. Some in the groom’s family had taken objection to that. They wanted me to convey this ‘subtly’ to the bride’s family. Being the middle-man, I had no choice. 

“When I subtly broached this issue while talking to the girl’s father, he appeared to be expecting this. Apparently, ever since the girl and her first cousin were children, their families had playfully discussed that those two would be married when they came of age. The girl and the boy grew up with such feelings as well. When the parents became aware of the situation, they realised that the joke had gone too far. They conceded on the condition that the two first ‘settled’ in life before discussing marriage. As fate would have it, the boy turned out to be good-for-nothing. The families, in their collective wisdom, decided that it was not prudent for the girl to be married to him. Despite the two opposing their decision, the girl’s father took it upon himself to find a suitor for his daughter, not without the backing of his extended family. The girl’s father promised me that he would ensure the wedding went on without hassles. However, he wanted me to talk some sense into the girl. Why is it that I appear responsible to most people, when I cannot fend for myself?

“I felt awkward to talk to the girl about this. Neither was I her age, where I could approach as a friend; nor was I her parents’ age to be a paternal figure. What surprised me was the resolve with which the girl spoke. She said that perhaps they should not have taken their parents’ joke that seriously. She loved him deeply. She said she would support the family entirely until the boy established himself. If she left him now, just because he was not successful, wouldn’t she be running away from her responsibility as a lover? What if the groom that her parents – through me – had found for her was thrown out of job a few months into the wedding? Would she be allowed to desert him then? The ‘closeness’ she and her cousin had displayed at the engagement was to try and get the wedding cancelled from the groom’s side. 

“‘Your father has promised that he would ensure this marriage takes place’ I told her. 

‘Neither I, nor the groom nor will my cousin be happy. This one marriage can spoil the happiness of three families. Ask my father if he wants that’ she said. ‘Better still. I’ll commit suicide if my father forces me into the marriage. My cousin will follow. Let me spare my fiancé the horror’ she quipped matter-of-factly, a few moments later.

“I was not prepared to handle this challenge. I was supposed to be a marriage-broker; not counsel people. Yet, there I was. I used the emotional card. Did her parents’ love mean nothing to her? Did she desire that her parents hang their heads in shame in front of the groom’s family? ‘A suicide never solves anything’ I told her. ‘It is not the sign of strong-will. It is an escapist’s way out. It does not end your troubles. It compounds it for those around you.’ Much argument, punctuated with silences, later, she seemed to come around. I was surprised at my ability at counselling, I must say.

“She told her parents that she had agreed to the wedding. It felt strange to me, however. I would wake up in the middle of the night, hearing the indifferent tone with which she said she would commit suicide, if she was forced into the wedding. I would check my phone for any message or missed calls, heave a sigh of relief and go to sleep. I dropped by their house for absolutely no reason at all, just to check that she was safe. 

“As the day of the wedding approached, I was perhaps more tense than either of the families. I decided then. A couple of days before the wedding, I went and spoke to the girl. I had made all arrangements for her to elope with her cousin, if she did not want enter this marriage. I gave her the details and even before she could react, I left the house. I had already told the owner of the studio that I would be leaving Bengaluru. I distant relative had died, I told him. It became my obligation to be there for the rites and help the family in time of need. He did not object, now that he would get my share of the profit as well. I boarded the bus to Kaaluru and here I am. The very same anonymity that I had desired in Bengaluru helped me exit noiselessly” Vishwa said, smiling half-heartedly. “The wedding is the day after tomorrow.”  Silence engulfed the room for a few moments.

******************

“Why did I leave the business when it was flourishing? Being a marriage broker, I was supposed to arrange weddings but there I was making arrangements to disrupt one. Yet, had I forced this wedding, there was no guarantee that the girl and her cousin would not commit suicide, despite the girl having agreed to the wedding. I could not bear anymore nights like those when I woke up sweating, feeling guilty of abetting two suicides.

“Kaaluru’s romance attracted me. I found the local politics between the Chairman and board members of the Government School comforting. Small talk at Muttaiah’s saloon seemed interesting. I would rather spend time doing odd jobs and narrating stories than going back to such a life in Bengaluru. At least, not in the near future.”

I lay there in silence, digesting everything I had just heard. Minutes later, I heard Vishwa snoring blissfully. It was dawn when I finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.  

Yours Whimsically – Part 10: Indian of the Year 2017: The Intolerant Indian

Dear Reader,

Let me tell you this before you read further. You have been invited only to read this. I do not want your critiques, because others’ opinions matter little to me. In any case, I have been declared the Indian of the Year. So, who are you to judge me? However, rest assured that I am judging you all the while. Even as you read this.

You cannot miss me. I am that person in your group who believes that my opinions are a notch above those harbored by the rest of you. Do I keep my opinions to myself? No. I impose them on the group, because frankly, I do not see any point discussing with you. To me, any discussion ends the moment I have tabled my points. You argue using logic and I am allergic to that. If there is one thing I am intolerant to, that is logic. And debate. And difference. And discussion. And dissent. And reason. And…

What brought me this far so that today I am recognized as the Indian of the Year? Let me tell you the secret to success. 

I know that the opinion I have is not the majority opinion. Most of you perhaps do not even have an opinion. So before the logical brigade takes over, I start spreading my propaganda, my half-informed opinion. I become the loudest voice in the house. If you have a differing opinion or a reasoned argument, I make personal attacks at you because I know I cannot win logically. “If you cannot convince, confuse.” That is how I gain attention. That is how my views get attention. Overtime, you hear them so much that you believe those to be your own opinions. (Inception!). So when someone tries to give you a well-reasoned argument, you are armed to fight it. 

I am techsavvy too. I post my opinions on facebook – as my status, as posts in a group. I am sure some logical fool will comment opposing it. However, I am also sure that I will find an apprentice for myself. The apprentice and I proceed to create a group on WhatsApp with more such vulnerable, likeminded people, indoctrinating them day after day, arming them to indoctrinate several others. As for the fool, the apprentice and I troll and threaten him on social media. I am not supposing that the fool is a woman because I believe that a woman is not entitled to her own opinion. Even if she does have an opinion, along with my minions, I resort to shaming her and threatening her with assault. That is the only thing a free-thinking, logical woman is fit for, isn’t she? I am sure nobody will bat an eyelid, because ours is a society which victimizes the victims. And women. 

With people and technology at my disposal, I decide what you wear, what you eat, who you love. I make long, emotional posts and tell you which animal is your best friend, which animal is your god. You might feel these animals are a nuisance. Perhaps I feel that too. Perhaps I don’t even care. Yet, just because you have an opinion, I want to have the opposite view and push it down your throat. I cannot stand it when you invite me to a discussion. I only know how to shout before I think. So, I provoke you. I ensure that you either shut up or you get down to my level. I abuse my right to free speech. Yet, when I am targeted, I raise a red flag, because I am a hypocrite. [And yes, I do not want you to credit someone sitting in New Delhi for spreading intolerance. I deserve all the credit.]

If you still don’t believe that I can be really loud while making my point, read this piece again. You will see the redundancy in my arguments, simply because I am not accustomed to think. I grab one point and continue to harp on it. Spreading propaganda a thousand times doesn’t turn it into fact. However, it does make one forget the truth. This is what I leave you with. Think it over…. No. Don’t think. I hate it when you come to a different conclusion.

Yours Sincerely

The Intolerant Indian

[Indian of the Year 2017]