Yours Whimsically - Part 20: A Sensitive Stomach & Other Imperfections

When was the last time I went out without having to visit the washroom - at least twice? I don't remember. Initially, it was a chance event. Today, it is the norm. I have adjusted my routine around this habit so that I am usually ready twenty minutes before the scheduled departure, utilizing rest of the time to address 'exigencies' - which I am so sure they will arise that they are no longer exigencies!

One of the first things I do upon entering a building - be it the lecture halls/research blocks back in college, my coaching centre now, Metro stations where I board and alight - is to carry out a thorough survey of the restrooms: location, hygiene, usability, so that I have data ready to be able to take decisions in dire situations after a thorough cost-benefit analysis. This has become second nature to me: whenever I go to any mall/restaurant, while others scan the shops/menu/people, I scan the layout for restrooms. And this alertness has served me well.

A few months ago, when I had to visit the doctor on some other grounds, my father courageously broached the topic of my 'motions' with the doctor. This was a great leap forward because for us Indians, specially the middle-class, motion and 'some other' issues are either embarrassing or taboo to be discussed in public! The doctor wished it away saying it is just a lifestyle disorder and came up with generic suggestions like exercise and proper dietary habits.

However, I have meditated upon this issue and have come up with my own half-baked diagnosis. This issue - despite there being tangible evidence - is more psychological than physical. I have observed that the exigency arises mostly when I have to meet someone, attend meetings or go out to eat - all social occasions, involving inter-personal contact with a wide range of people and opinions. Here, I propose a theory: this increased sensitivity is due to anxiety - of meeting actual people than conversations over social media/phone, of exposing ourselves to others' judgment. This anxiety itself is a result of us becoming more entangled in virtual spaces, more isolated in echo chambers of like-minded people and reinforced opinions. In me, this anxiety manifests through the stomach. In others, it may take different forms. (Such theorizing is also a great leap forward!)

You, Reader, might ask why I am writing about my tummy tantrums here and forcing you to read it. As the title reads, it is a 'whim'. You are free to close the tab anytime! Why am I writing about my imperfections anyway? Primarily because I am neither famous nor important enough for others to write about me. Besides, it would be too narcissistic if I went on writing about my talents, skills and everything else that is nice. I am modest! So all I am left to write about are my imperfections.

Among other things, I don't know how to ride a cycle and except for a few fleeting moments so long ago that it could have been in the previous life, I have not attempted to either. Neither do I know how to swim, despite having joined classes when I was in Class 3 or 4. My exit from those classes was so dramatic that it is part of family folklore even today! But then, that is a story for another day, another post. Today, let me tell you a story which will make you believe in God.

Dogs have a special affinity towards me. I have been chased multiple times, despite trying to maintain a respectable distance from them. People tell me that dogs sense fear and hence, attack. However, I find that to be victim blaming.

Everytime I go to my uncle's house, I make sure I call them to announce my arrival - so that they can shoo away the dog that usually sleeps inside their gate. That day, I stood waiting across the road for my aunt to clear the way for my passage. For whatever reason, the dog decided to chase me. I ran around screaming incomprehensibly before making my way inside. My uncle coolly remarked that I have a good voice!

The next time, I decided to up my game plan. I strategized that I would go further down the road before making the call. Usually, the dog went right, after exiting the gate. I would be waiting a few feet away - on the left. After it was a considerable distance away, I would run up to the gate and go in. The strategy was foolproof, I believed. However, I decided to add another layer of protection. While walking along the road to their house, I began praying to Gods that I don't usually believe in, (or so I profess). I took my position and called up. Lo! The dog was nowhere in the picture. It was only after I was comfortably inside the house that the dog entered the gate. The atheist in me wants to believe it was a mere coincidence. Perhaps. There is no way of verifying it, though. The next time, I might try the same strategy - to see if it works. But then, I would no longer be a believer, would I? How does one realize God without belief? Isn't God nothing but belief?

Again, you might ask why I am writing this while discussing about imperfections. What else is being a convenient atheist? Believing in the existence of God or rejecting it - both require tremendous courage, which I do not possess presently. Until I able to muster that conviction, I must accept this, just like my other quirks. After all, these are as much part of the self as every other positive attribute we take pride in. Our personality is a sum total of all these elements. We yearn for perfection. We must. However, perfection is not an event, is it? It is a process. And the most important part of this journey is appreciating and embracing our imperfections. 

ದಿನಚರಿಯ ಹರಿದ ಪುಟ

'ಅದೇಕೋ ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ ಪೇಪರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಓದಿದ ಆ ಸಾಲುಗಳು ತುಂಬ ಕಾಡುತ್ತಿವೆ. 'For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these: It might have been'. ಹೀಗೆ ಕಾಡೋದಿಕ್ಕೆ ಕಾರಣ ಏನಾದ್ರು ಇದೆಯ? ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಗೊತ್ತಿದ್ದಿದ್ರೆ, ಹೀಗೆ diary ಬರೆಯೋಕೆ ಯಾಕೆ ಕೂರುತ್ತಿದೆ? ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಬಂದಿರೋದೇ ಆ ಉದ್ದೇಶಕ್ಕೆ: ಕಾರಣ ಹುಡುಕೋಕ್ಕೆ. ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನ ಯೋಚನೆ ಮಾಡಿ ಆಮೇಲೆ ಪೇಪರ್ ಮೇಲೆ ಬರೀತೀನಿ ಅನ್ನೋದು ಶುದ್ಧ ಸುಳ್ಳು. ಬರೀ ಒಂದು skeleton ತಯಾರು ಮಾಡ್ಕೊಬೋದೇ ಹೊರತು ಹೆಚ್ಚೇನೂ ಸಾಧ್ಯ ಇಲ್ಲ. At least, ನಂಗೆ ಹಾಗೆ. ಲಹರಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬರೆಯೋವಾಗ, ಸುಪ್ತಮನಸ್ಸಲ್ಲಿ ಇರೋದು ಕೂಡ ಹೊರಗೆ ಬರುತ್ತೆ ಅಂತ ಎಲ್ಲೋ ಓದಿದ್ದೆ. ಎಷ್ಟೇ ಆಗ್ಲಿ, ಇದು ನನ್ನ diary. ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಏನು ಮುಚ್ಚು ಮರೆ? 

ಈ ಕೆಲವು ದಿನಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಒಂದು ಘಟನೆ ನಡೀತು. Facebookನಲ್ಲಿ scroll ಮಾಡ್ತಾಯಿದ್ದೆ - ಅದೊಂದು ಕೆಟ್ಟ ಅಭ್ಯಾಸ ನೋಡು. Time ಸಿಕ್ಕಾಗೆಲ್ಲ ಬರೀ ಇಷ್ಟೇ ಆಯಿತು. ಬೇರೆಯವರ ಜೀವನದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಇಲ್ಲದೆ ಇರೋ ಕುತೂಹಲ ಹುಟ್ಟಿಸೋ ಅಂತ ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡತ್ತೆ ಅದು. ಎಲ್ಲರು ಖುಷಿಯಾಗಿದ್ದಾರೆ, ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿದ್ದರೆ ಅಂತಾನೆ ತೋರ್ಸೋದು. ಅಲ್ಲ. ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿರ್ಲಿ. ಆದ್ರೆ, ಅದರ ಪ್ರದರ್ಶನ ಯಾಕೆ? ಅದನ್ನ ನೋಡಿ ಸಂಬಂಧ ಪಟ್ಟೋರು ಪಡದೆ ಇರೋರು likeಗಳ ಮಳೆ ಸುರಿಸೋದು. ಅಂದುಕೊಂಡಷ್ಟು likes ಬರದೇ ಇದ್ದಾಗ 'ಯಾಕೆ ಬರಲಿಲ್ಲ?' ಅಂತ ಯೋಚಿಸಿ ಕೂರೋದು, ಪದೇ ಪದೇ  check ಮಾಡೋದು. ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಬಾರಿ disable ಕೂಡ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೀನಿ phoneನಲ್ಲಿ. ಆದರೆ, ನಂದೇ photo upload ಮಾಡಕ್ಕೆ ಮತ್ತೆ enable ಮಾಡ್ತೀನಿ. - ಇರ್ಲಿ. ಅವತ್ತು ಹಾಗೆ ನೋಡ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದಾಗ, ನನ್ನ school classmate ಒಬ್ಬಳ ಫೋಟೋ ಕಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ಬಿತ್ತು. 

ಈಗ ಏಳೆಂಟು ವರ್ಷದಿಂದ ನಾವುಗಳು ಯಾರು contactನಲ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ. Facebookನಲ್ಲೂ ಸಂಧಿಸೋದು ಕಡಿಮೆ. ಅವತ್ತು ಅದೇನು ಗ್ರಹಚಾರವೋ, ಕಂಡಿತು. ಆಗ ಒಂದು ಸತ್ಯದ ಅರಿವಾಯ್ತು. Schoolನಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವ ರೂಪಕ್ಕೂ ಅನಂತರ ಆಗುವ ಬದಲಾವಣೆಗೂ ಅದೆಷ್ಟು ವ್ಯತ್ಯಾಸ?! Change ಅಲ್ಲ ಅದು. Transformation. ಅವಳು ಮತ್ತು ನಮ್ಮ ಇತರೆ classmates ಕೆಲವರು ಎಲ್ಲೋ ಊಟಕ್ಕೋ ತಿಂಡಿಗೋ ಹೋಗಿದ್ದಾಗ ತೆಗೆದ photo. Edit ಮಾಡಿದ್ದರು, ನಿಜ. Even accounting for that, ಅದೆಂಥ ಜಾದು ಅನ್ನಿಸ್ತು! ನಾನು ಕೂಡ like ಮಾಡಿದೆ. 

ಕೆಲವು ನಿಮಿಷಗಳ ನಂತರ, ಮತ್ತೆ phone vibrate ಆಯಿತು. Friend request ಬಂದಿತ್ತು. ಅದೇ ಫೋಟೋದಲ್ಲಿ ಇದ್ದ ನನ್ನ ಇನ್ನೊಬ್ಬಳು classmate ಇಂದ. Accept ಮಾಡಿದ ನಂತರ Messengerನಲ್ಲಿ ಮತ್ತೆ notification ಬಂತು. ಅದನ್ನ ನೋಡೋವಾಗ ಕೈತಪ್ಪಿ 'wave' ಆಗಿ ಹೋಯ್ತು. It was not anything close to a Freudian slip! 'ಕರ್ಮವೇ' ಅಂದುಕೊಂಡೆ. ಒಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಓದುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗಲೇ ಹೆಚ್ಚಾಗಿ ಏನು ಮಾತಾಡದೆ ಇದ್ದ ನಾನು, ಈಗ ಇದ್ದಕ್ಕಿದ್ದ ಹಾಗೆ 'Hi'  ಅಂದರೆ - ಅದು ಈಗಿನ ಫೋಟೋ ನೋಡಿ - ಎಷ್ಟು cheap ಅಂತ ಭಾವಿಸಲ್ಲ ಅವಳು ನನ್ನ. ಯಾವ ಸಹವಾಸವೂ ಬೇಡ ಅಂತ wifi off ಮಾಡಿ, ನನ್ನ ಓದಿನ ಕಡೆಗೆ ಹೋದೆ. ಸಂಜೆ ನೋಡಿದಾಗಲೂ ಏನು ಬಂದಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. 'ಸಧ್ಯ. ಅವಳು ignore ಮಾಡಿರಬೇಕು. ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೇ ಒಳ್ಳೆಯದಾಯ್ತು' ಅಂತ ನಿಟ್ಟುಸಿರು ಬಿಟ್ಟೆ. 

ಮಲಗುವ ಮುನ್ನ phone check ಮಾಡುವ ದುರಭ್ಯಾಸ ಇದೆ. (ಹೇಗಾದರೂ ಬಿಡಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳಬೇಕು!) ನೋಡುವಾಗ messengerನ notification ಬಂತು. 'ಹೇಗಿದ್ದೀಯ?' ಅಂತ ಕಳಿಸಿದ್ದಳು. ಗಲಿಬಿಲಿಗೊಂಡೆ. Seen ಮಾಡದೇ, off ಮಾಡಿ ಹೊದಿಗೆಯೊಳಗೆ ಸೇರಿಕೊಂಡೆ. 'ಏಳುವ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ಕನಸು ಅಂತ ಅರಿವಾಗತ್ತೆ' ಎಂದು ಯೋಚಿಸುತ್ತ ಮಲಗಿದೆ. ಕೆಟ್ಟ ಕನಸೋ ಒಳ್ಳೆಯ ಕನಸೋ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಅದ್ಯಾಕೆ ಹಾಗೆ ಗಾಬರಿ ಆದ್ನೋ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ರಾತ್ರಿ ಎಲ್ಲ ಏನೇನೋ ಕನಸುಗಳು. ಹಲವು ಬಾರಿ ಎಚ್ಚರ ಆಯಿತು. ಎರಡು ಬಾರಿ ಉಚ್ಛೆ ಹುಯ್ದು, ನೀರು ಕುಡಿದು ಬಂದು ಮಲಗಿದೆ. ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ ಎದ್ದಾಗ ಅನ್ನಿಸಿತು: 'ಹೇಗೂ ಮಾತು ಆರಂಭ ಆಗಿದೆ. ಈಗ ಏನು reply ಕೊಡದೆ ಇದ್ದರೆ cheap ಅಂತ ಭಾವಿಸಬಹುದು. ಹೇಗಿದ್ದರೂ ನಾನು ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ message ಕಳಿಸಿದರೆ ಅವಳು ಸಂಜೆಗೋ ರಾತ್ರಿಗೋ reply ಮಾಡೋದು. 'ಎಲ್ಲಿದ್ಯಾ?' 'ಹೇಗಿದ್ಯ?' 'ಏನು ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿರುವೆ?'ಗಿಂತ ಮುಂದೆ ಈ chat ಕ್ರಮಿಸಲ್ಲ' ಅಂತ. ಅದೇ ಭರವಸೆಯ ಮೇಲೆ reply ಕಳಿಸಿ ನಿರಾತಂಕವಾಗಿ ನನ್ನ ಕೆಲಸದ ಕಡೆ ಗಮನ ಕೊಟ್ಟೆ. ಎರಡು ದಿನ ಹೀಗೇ ಕಳೀತು. 

ಅವತ್ತು ಶನಿವಾರ. ಇದ್ದಕಿದ್ದ ಹಾಗೆ ಅವಳಿಂದ message ಬಂತು. ನಾನು ಔಪಚಾರಿಕವಾಗಿ ಏನೋ ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ನನಗೂ class ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳಿಗೂ ಏನು ಕೆಲಸ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ ಅಂತ ಕಾಣುತ್ತೆ. ನಮ್ಮ staggered conversation ಅವತ್ತು continuous ಆಯ್ತು. ಮಾತಿನ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ಅವಳು 'ನಿನ್ನನ್ನ ನೆನ್ನೆ ನೋಡಿದೆ' ಅಂದಳು. Metro stationನ ಬಳಿಯಲ್ಲೇ ಅವಳ ಮನೆಯಂತೆ. ನಾನು ಹೋಗಿ ಬರುವಾಗ ಯಾವಾಗಲೋ ಕಂಡಿದ್ದಳಂತೆ. ಆದರೆ, ನಾನೇ ಅನ್ನುವ ಖಾತರಿ ಇಲ್ಲದೆ ಮಾತನಾಡಿಸುವ ಗೋಜಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. 'ಮುಂದಿನ ಬಾರಿ ಖಂಡಿತ ಮಾತಾಡೋಣ' ಅಂದಳು. ಒಂದು ಕ್ಷಣಕ್ಕೆ ಹೊಟ್ಟೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಏನೋ ಕಸಿವಿಸಿ ಆಯಿತು. ಇಲ್ಲ ಎನ್ನಲಾಗದೇ, ಹೌದು ಎನ್ನಲಾಗದೇ ಕೇವಲ ಒಂದು smiley ಕಳಿಸಿದೆ. 

ಕೆಲವು ಬಾರಿ ನನ್ನ ನಡತೆ, moves ನನಗೇ ಆಶ್ಚರ್ಯ ಉಂಟು ಮಾಡತ್ತೆ. ಮಾರನೇ ದಿನದಿಂದ ನಾನು ಆ ರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ವೇಗವಾಗೇ ನಡೆಯಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದೆ - ಬೇಗ ಆ ರಸ್ತೆ ಕ್ರಮಿಸಿ stationನ ಒಳಗೆ ಸೇರಿಬಿಡಬೇಕು ಅನ್ನುವ ತವಕ. ಎರಡು ಮೂರು ದಿನಗಳು ಆಗಿರಬಹುದು. Stationಗೆ ಹೋಗುವಾಗ ಅವಳು ಎದುರೇ ಪ್ರತ್ಯಕ್ಷವಾದಳು. (ಆಗ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಸತ್ಯದ ಅರಿವಾಯ್ತು: Facebook, instagramನ filterಗಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ. ಅವುಗಳ ಸಹಾಯವಿಲ್ಲದೆಯೂ ಚೆನ್ನಾಗೇ ಇದ್ದಳು. ಆದರೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಕಂಡಷ್ಟಲ್ಲ. ಇರಲಿ.) ಕೆಲವು ಮಾತು ಆಡುವಷ್ಟರಲ್ಲೇ, ಅದೇಕೋ ನನ್ನ ಕಿವಿ ಕೆಂಪಾಗುವ ಅನುಭವ ಆಯ್ತು. ಇಬ್ಬರಿಗೂ ಸಂಕೋಚ ಆಗಬಾರದು ಅಂತ ಯೋಚಿಸಿ 'Classಗೆ ಹೊತ್ತಾಯ್ತು' ಅಂತ ಹೇಳಿ ಹೊರಟೇಬಿಟ್ಟೆ. 

ಅದಾದ ನಂತರ almost ಪ್ರತಿದಿನ, ನಾನು ಹೋಗುವ, ಬರುವ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ಸಿಗೋಳು. ಏನಿಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರು ಅವಳ ಮನೆಯ ಬಳಿ ನಿಂತು ಯಾರೊಂದಿಗಾದರೂ ಮಾತನಾಡುತ್ತಿರೋಳು. ನಾನು ಕೂಡ ಛಳಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಮಾತಾಡಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದೆ. 'ಕಥೆಯೊಂದು ಶುರುವಾಗಿದೆ' ಅಂತ ಅನ್ನಿಸಲಿಕ್ಕೆ ಶುರುವಾಯ್ತು. 

ಇದೇ ಸಮಯಕ್ಕೆ, ಒಂದು ದಿನದ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮ ಯಾವುದೋ ಊರಿಗೆ ಹೋದರು. ಅವತ್ತು ಮನೆಗೆ ವಾಪಾಸಾಗುವಾಗ ಇದ್ದಕ್ಕಿದ್ದಂತೆ idea ಹೊಳೆಯಿತು: ಹೇಗಿದ್ದರೂ ಮನೆಗೆ ಹೋಗಿ ನಾನೇ coffee ಮಾಡಬೇಕು. ಅದರ ಬದಲು, ಅವಳು ಸಿಕ್ಕಾಗ, ಹತ್ತಿರದಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದ collegeನ ಪಕ್ಕದ ಸಣ್ಣ coffee shopನಲ್ಲಿ coffeeಗೆ ಕರೆದರೆ?! A lot can happen over coffee ಅಂತ ಯಾರೋ ಪುಣ್ಯಾತ್ಮರು ಹೇಳಿದ್ದಾರೆ. ನನ್ನ ಯೋಚನೆಗೆ ನಾನೇ ಬೆನ್ನು ತಟ್ಟಿಕೊಂಡು ನಡೆದೆ. ನನ್ನ ಅದೃಷ್ಟವೋ ಏನೋ, ಅವತ್ತು ಅವಳು ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಕಾಯುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. 'ಛೇ' ಎಂದು ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದು ಒಬ್ಬಂಟಿಯಾಗಿ coffee ಹೀರುತ್ತಾ ಕೂತೆ. (ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ಬರೆಯುತ್ತಾ ನನಗೇ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗದ ರೀತಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಆ lineಗಳು ಏಕೆ ಕಾಡುತ್ತಿವೆ ಅಂತ ಸ್ಫಷ್ಟ ಆಗುತ್ತಿದೆ.) 

ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ನಡೆದದ್ದು ಮೂರ್ನಾಲ್ಕು ವಾರಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ. ಈ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ಅವಳು ಒಂದು ದಿನವೂ ಕಾಣಲಿಲ್ಲ. Facebookನಲ್ಲಿ ಸಂಪರ್ಕಿಸೋಕೆ ನನಗೂ ಹಿಂಜರಿಕೆ. ಹೀಗಿರುವಾಗ, ನೆನ್ನೆ ನನ್ನ laptopನಲ್ಲಿ Facebook check ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ - phoneನಲ್ಲಿ ಸಧ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ disable ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೀನಿ. ಅವಳ ಮದುವೆಯ ಫೋಟೋ ಕಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ಬೀಳಬೇಕೇ?! ಒಂದು ವಾರದ ಹಿಂದೆ ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿ ಹೋಗಿದೆ. 'Congratulations'ಗಳ, likeಗಳ ಸುರಿಮಳೆಯೇ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿದೆ ಆ photoಗಳ ಮೇಲೆ.  

ಕೆಲವು ಸಮಯ ಏನೂ ತಿಳಿಯದ numbness ಆವರಿಸಿತು. ಅಮ್ಮ ಬಂದು coffee ಇಟ್ಟು ಹೋದದ್ದೂ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಎರಡು ಬಾರಿ phone ring ಆಗಿದ್ದೂ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ. ನಾನೂ like ಮಾಡಬೇಕಾ?  ಅಥವಾ unfriend ಮಾಡಬೇಕಾ? ಅನ್ನುವ ಹೊಯ್ದಾಟದಲ್ಲಿ laptop ಮುಚ್ಚಿ ಹೊರನಡೆದೆ. Messengerನಲ್ಲಿ ಶುಭಾಶಯ ತಿಳಿಸೋಣ ಅಂದುಕೊಂಡು phone ತೆಗೆದು ಕೆಲವು ದಿನಗಳ ಕಾಲ ನಮ್ಮ ನಡುವೆ ನಡೆದಿದ್ದ chat ಓದಕ್ಕೆ ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದೆ. ನಾನು ಪೂರ್ತಿ 'Queen's English'ನಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾತಾಡಿದ್ದರೆ, ಅವಳು SMS ಭಾಷೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಉತ್ತರಿಸಿದ್ದಳು. ಗಂಡನ ಜೊತೆಗಿನ photo ಒಂದನ್ನು profile picture ಮಾಡಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದಾಳೆ ಈಗ. ಯಾವ ಶುಭಾಶಯವೂ ಬೇಡ ಅನ್ನಿಸಿ phone ಒಳಗಿಟ್ಟೆ. 

ಅದೇಕೋ, ಎದುರಿಗೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಕಾಣುತ್ತಿದ್ದ dark circles ಈ photoದಲ್ಲಿ ಹೆಚ್ಚಾಗೇ ಕಾಣುತ್ತಿದೆ, ಮದುವೆಯ make-up ಇದ್ದರೂ. ಹಾಗೆಂದೇ message ಕಳಿಸಲಾ ನಾಳೆ? ಬೇಡ. ನನ್ನನ್ನು cheap ಎಂದು ಭಾವಿಸಿದರೆ?! ಆ ಸಹವಾಸವೇ ಬೇಡ.' 

Yours Whimsically - Part 19: ‘Rakshasa Tangadi’ – Revisiting History, the Contemporary Way

History lesson 101: Studying history is akin to a blind man’s understanding of an elephant. There is always an element/fact which is yet to be uncovered. A different understanding is always lurking around the corner. History can be interpreted in a myriad ways. Nobody can ever claim that his/her perspective is “the right” perspective. It is with the appreciation of this subtle truth that any historian or a student of history must proceed while reading or reinterpreting the past.

This sense becomes crucial when one reads Dr. Girish Karnad’s latest play ‘Rakshasa Tangadi’. The playwright has chosen an event and a character that is reduced to a footnote in history textbooks: the Battle of Talikota/ Battle of Rakkasagi-Tangadagi (1565 CE), fought between the regent of Vijayanagara empire, Ramaraya, against the combined forces of the sultanates of Bijapur, Golconda and Ahmadnagar. With the Maratha Empire and the Vijayanagara Empire often portrayed in history as beacons of Hindu religion which fought the onslaught of Muslim rule, this battle too is usually depicted as a battle between two religions

Perhaps. However, Dr. Karnad offers a refreshing perspective. In the play, Ramaraya is a master-manipulator who safeguards his empire by following the principle of divide-and-rule (much before the imperial British deployed it!). A very powerful Ramaraya has been a valuable ally to different sultans at various times. In fact, he even goes on accept the Sultan of Bijapur as his adopted son. What forces the coming together of the sultans is the heavy-handedness of Ramaraya. It is the question of their survival which unites them – Sultan of Bijapur joins them too, though reluctantly – and not religion.

The play delves into the psyche of Ramaraya, who is frustrated of playing second fiddle to the authority on the throne. His search for glory forces him to claim to belong to the lineage of the Chalukyas of Kalyan, a dynasty which has been dead for nearly two centuries. He sees the battle with the combined forces of the sultans as a prospect for his vindication; an opportunity to seal his place in history as an emperor over vast regions of the Deccan; a shot at establishing the Aravidu dynasty. Note the shift from the claims of being a Chalukya to establishing a new dynasty. This transforms ‘Rakshasa Tangadi’ into as much a battle within Ramaraya as it is between the armies.

The other character which stands out in the entire play is that of Humayun Begum, wife of the Sultan of Ahmadnagar, Hussein Nizam Shah. Her cold-blooded realism of using her daughters as pawns to secure an alliance between the sultans directs the course of events in history. Though her role is restricted to a mere scene, her presence looms large over the play. In fact, it is she who is the counterweight to Ramaraya’s tact, not the other sultans.

Reading it, one cannot help but feel the contemporary undercurrent lurking underneath the entire play. A writer always feels the urge to respond to realities around him. How this urge manifests itself, only time will tell. Several critics have attributed Nehruvian politics as a strong influence on Karnad’s ‘Tughlaq’. Seen in this light, one is tempted to ask if ‘Rakshasa Tangadi’ is a depiction of a heavy-handed Hindu(tva) ‘ruler’ on one side, which forces his opponents – some of them, his former allies – to rally together.

Having read the play – it released this August – naturally, I made it a point to keep an eye out for its production. This Saturday, I had a chance to watch the first ever production of this play by a Bengaluru-based troupe, “Sidewing”.

Watching the production, I, personally, felt that the team should have invested more time in a thorough character analysis (as our teacher in college used to say). It is here that the director/mentor being well-read matters, which helps add layers to the character. It is appreciable that most of the cast comprised of youngsters. However, playing characters which are much older than the actors – for example, Ramaraya’s mother is around 90 years old and frail – needs significant modifications in body language and voice, where the team left much to be desired. 

Attention to dialogue delivery was found wanting – importantly, whether the lines are to be delivered in a bookish, formal way entirely or in informal conversations throughout. The sultans were reduced to caricatures. The Sultan of Bijapur – a loaded character faced with moral dilemmas over his actions – especially, appeared like a college kid. The character of Humayun Begum was almost sidelined in the antics of Nizam Shah. While it is true that a director’s vision needs to be respected, that vision could have been better defined and refined. 

Where this play did excel was in the background score. Depicting soldiers by using female actors, though historically inconsistent, was innovative. So was the gentle swaying of the soldiers in the sequence while guarding Ramaraya’s tent. The improvised dance sequence to depict the final battle is indicative of the potential the team holds. The stand-out performer was Ramaraya, very much so in the scenes where he is receiving the key to the Kalyan Fort from Nizam Shah and while delivering his monologue (it is in these monologues that Dr. Karnad fleshes out his characters).

There’s a line in the movie ‘3 Idiots’: “…Nobody remembers who came second…” True. And very often, it is this urge to be the first, to be remembered in the pages of history that drives human endeavors. What we fail to realize, however, is that it is equally important to be among the best, for, if otherwise, the firsts are cruelly reduced to footnotes in the very same pages of history. 

Yours Whimsically - Part 18: When "All the world's a stage..."

“All the world’s a stage

And all men and women merely players” – William Shakespeare

Drama was the only constant in my five years in college. My most precious memories are of moments on stage and people associated with it. Even as I sit down to write this, I am slightly overwhelmed, making it difficult to give expression to experiences and emotions. The stage excites me. So much that when we invited a troupe to perform in college, I skipped all my work the previous day just to see the stage being built. I wasn’t performing but I wanted to be there when the lights were being set up, when the sound check happened – just to soak in the vibrations. In moments like these, I am sure even my closest friends thought of me as weird.

In all the productions – big or small – that I was part of, I never played the lead: I wasn’t delusional to believe I was equipped to do that! I was either backstage, helping with the production or more often than not, playing a supporting role. This did not prevent me from looking at every production as my own. After all, that is the secret of all successful teams, isn’t it – when every member is equally invested, irrespective of the roles they play? What I looked forward to were the rehearsals, the learning – thanks to two amazing teachers we had and the camaraderie. It is my belief that the success of a production is built in these small blocks and not on the final day.

The final day has its own charms. The performance is preceded by a sense of nervous excitement and succeeded by a sense of euphoria. I spent time flitting between the green room and  the stage, checking for everything which was already in place, rehearsing my lines over and over again, praying even to those gods I do not believe in for a successful show. I regained my composure only upon applying make-up, a process akin to meditation. It is in those few minutes that the actor transforms into the character. It takes the first few lines for the butterflies to settle. Then, instincts take over and you own the stage. This sense of authority was the biggest incentive for spending more time on stage, under the lights. 

I thought I would miss this wondrous excitement on exiting college. I was wrong. Experiences engulf you in the most unexpected forms, in most unexpected places and at the unexpected times. One merely has to keep the senses primed to absorb and appreciate them. To me, this excitement came packaged as ‘interviews’ – of the matrimonial sort, where once again, I was part of the supporting cast. {Whether or not I am in favor of matrimonial interviews is a different question, altogether irrelevant to me at this point in time!}

I have never been a great fan or practitioner of ‘small talk’ and this often puts me in uncomfortable, unenviable positions – especially in these interviews. Unlike on stage, these conversations, for the most part atleast, are unrehearsed and unwritten. Often, the actors involved take circuitous routes before reaching the heart of the scene, though enacted in private in ‘The Room’ – a conversation between the leading man and the leading lady.

Small talk between the supporting cast takes centre stage once again. One of the thumb rules taught to us during productions in college is that everybody on stage has to respond to what is happening or being spoken by other actors. Unfortunately, that works only on stage, when the playwright and the director know where the scene is headed and ensure that all actors have defined roles or objectives. In real life, supporting actors often indulge in conversations peppered with awkward silences (or is it awkward silences peppered with conversations?), before coming up with another banal topic for discussion.

For someone like me – a supporting actor to the supporting actors! – life is even more difficult. I have been part of three such ‘productions’. In all three, all I got was a mere acknowledgement of my existence (not taking into account the food and beverages served!). I am neither made party to conversations nor do I find the need to pay attention to them. Yet, one is forced to appear interested. I take this slight in my stride because, once again, I am not delusional to believe that I am the lead.

So you might ask – where is the excitement in all this banality? It is not in the performance itself but in the preparation leading to it. Even more so if you are involved in stage management. Similar to theatre, the fun begins hours before the curtain goes up. The Room is ‘sanitized’ and set up. So is the rest of the house. Care is taken to adjust the lights as well. Books which may serve as ‘conversation starters’ or ‘pointers’ are strategically placed in The Room: every prop has its own utility, you see. Both sets of actors take care to appear in the best of costumes, suited to the situation. (Sometimes, however, the attention to make-up is found wanting.)

None of us say it out loud but the tension is palpable. Before the lights go on, we sit, rehearsing the opening lines in mind – well begun is half done, isn’t it? We position ourselves for action to begin. I have the opening lines, bringing the actors to centre stage. I begin – conscious to not appear conscious, to enunciate clearly without tail-drop and to speak with clarity the few lines I have in the entire episode. Having successfully played my part, I sit, feigning interest in the conversation that is going on. My watch begins.

There has been no sense of euphoria, though, following the three productions so far. It will take time. After all, this drama is meant to be performed by amateurs. Unlike in actual theatre, one only hopes that s/he doesn’t get ‘promoted’ to play the lead role in such productions! 

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...