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]

Yours Whimsically - Part 9: Waking up with Stella

I chose ecology not with the motivation of delving deep into research. I knew I had one year in hand as part of my Master’s thesis and I wanted to make the most of it – go to different places as part of field work, meet new people, gain as much diverse experiences as possible. I looked at it as an opportunity in character building than a research project. Little did I know that I would be faced with my first challenge within a fortnight of reporting to work.

Disclaimer: I do not hate animals. I wouldn’t be in ecology if I did. It is just that I am a little scared. Err…quite a lot, actually!

I have taken some poetic license in describing the incidents here. You can consider this to be an exaggerated ‘fictional autobiography’ or ‘autobiographical fiction’.

It was a Thursday when Senior told me that we will be going to his city for project-related work. Always on the lookout for experiences, I agreed. Before going to anybody’s house, I usually ask them about their place, family and other details before finding out if they have pets. I don’t know how I missed it this time, though. I was about to enter the house when Senior asked me to wait. They have a dog – a 9-year old German Shepard – as a pet and he had to see to it that it did not overreact to a stranger – that’s me. I froze. It slowly dawned upon me that this was a point of no return. Bravely, I marched ahead. Despite all precautions and me sitting at the far end of the hall, Stella walked upto me and for a brief moment, before she was pulled away by Aunty or Brother (I was in such shock that I don’t even remember!), she rested her muzzle on my thigh. I wonder how I did not soil my pants out of fear! Perhaps my mind was in stupor to even react. I will never know.

In Hindu mythology, we have Asthu Devatas – divine beings who keep saying “Asthu”, meaning “So be it”. That is why, as children, we are told to always think about and say good things. I am pretty sure of having told my friends in some conversation that I wanted what-is-the-word-for-female-dogs? around me. I did not mean it in the ‘literal’ sense, though. I then realized that Asthu Devatas did not use Urban Dictionary.

When I met Uncle for the first time, he genially asked if I had made friends with Stella. I, hesitantly, replied that I am not a huge fan of dogs. He laughed and asked me to think of her to be human. I would, if only she walked on two legs. I did not say this aloud, though. “You cannot work in the field if you are this scared”, he said. I couldn’t tell him that in the wild, when confronted, all of us had the same reaction – to run. Could I?

Since we had very few appointments, we spent most of the time in the house. Stella was lazily lying in the hall, as we sat and talked, worked or watched movies. I must say I spent half my energy in just keeping an eye out for every little movement she made – stretching, getting rid of insects or merely moving a limb while asleep. I do not know if they had a pact but there were times when both Senior and Brother conveniently disappeared for a few minutes. Those were moments when I sat there, chanting names of all those gods I have been familiar with since childhood, hoping Stella remained asleep. She opened her eyes sometimes and looked at me. I think, she sensed that I was watching her. Senior’s advice flashed in my head – “Do not look into dogs’ eyes. They take it as a challenge”. I then shifted my gaze, pretended to look elsewhere, but watched her out of the corner of my eye. I could not even be scared, for I had heard a million times that ‘dogs sense fear and prey on it’. That is perhaps the worst punishment – you aren’t even allowed to feel fear. The moment either Senior or Brother entered, I heaved a sigh of relief. Battle won!

Everytime I sat down to eat, despite the food being very good, I was unable to relish it. Aunty asked if I was okay. How could I say I wasn’t? How could I say that half my mind and one of my eyes was constantly monitoring Stella, fervently praying that she didn’t come too close for comfort? Had I so constantly and single-mindedly thought of any god, I guess he or she would have been mighty impressed and appeared before me! The Happy Man standing on the table looked at me. I asked if he was laughing at my predicament. He merely continued to laugh.

The first night in their house was perhaps the most difficult. Blame the movies for those scenes where dogs sleep with their owners. I spent the entire night, waking intermittently just to make sure that Stella had not entered our room to sleep beside Senior. I couldn’t blame her if she did. It was her ‘territory’, after all, and I was the ‘intruder’, in ecological terms. Every night, I relived this ‘fantasy’ of waking up with Stella. And everytime, I got up sweating, not so much because of the heat as out of fear.

Four – five days into my stay there, Stella and I seemed to have come to an unspoken pact. ‘I respect you. Please stay away from me’ I said. ‘Alright. I don’t care who you are as long as you don’t cause trouble’ she replied. There were no attempts are getting friendly. No attempts at scaring me away. We had, perhaps, learnt to tolerate each other’s presence. And we lived happily ever after. Err…cut out the last three words, please.

P.S: For those of you who started reading this piece believing that Simha has entered into a “new genre” of writing, I am sorry. However, I hope this was worth your time!

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Part 2

Our trail began through a wooded path with tall, sturdy conifers and the Himalayas were no longer visible. Tenzi dai, our guide, told us that those forests are a gift from our colonial masters, who replaced indigenous flora with pine trees to supply wood for a variety of purposes.

We stopped for tea at Chittrey. The tea shop there was the last establishment on Indian soil, beyond which lay Nepal. Throughout the trek, we would often alternate between India and Nepal, we were told. Over tea, the weather changed dramatically with the sun preferring to hide behind the clouds.

As we walked through the forest upto our next pit-stop, we saw trees full of beautiful red and yellow rhododendrons. All this changed after the break and we were asked to take the motorable road, due to the fog. The fact that I had totally neglected any fitness routine came back to haunt me on the slightly inclined path we treaded. We were served lunch in a local household which doubled up as a hotel for trekkers. Funnily, when the food was served, we spent time experiencing the warmth of hot rice and dal than eating it. The next few minutes were silent, punctuated periodically by speech to ask for servings of the items, for all of us were terribly hungry. I do not know whether it was due to the fact that we were served good food, at such a height, in such cold or just that we were hungry or a combination of both. There had been no delicacies, no exotic dishes, yet there was a deep sense of satisfaction within.

Perhaps it was the food. Or perhaps, I was tiring after having walked for so long with a backpack. Post-lunch, on the last leg enroute to Tumling, our camp for the night, I slowed down a little. This resulted in me having to walk alone at times, giving me time to be with myself. I remembered having read this statement somewhere – “If you are lonely when you are alone, you are in bad company”. Fortunately, I found this experience quite enriching. As I walked, I did feel the urge to off-load my backpack to the mules next day onwards. However, I had come to the trek with the purpose of putting my physical and mental endurance to test, hadn’t I? Besides, you experience a masochistic high in that pain when you push yourself to the limit! Thus, those momentary urges were fought back.

The fog was now so thick that the visibility had reduced to perhaps less than five metres. It is when the external world has nothing to offer that the vision turns inward. I was concentrating on my breathing, trying to recollect what we had learnt about hemoglobin as part of a course in physiology. In those few precious minutes of silence, there was nothing to listen to but my own heartbeat. It is in moments such as these when you realize that, perhaps, a trek, where you focus on your breath, is also a method of meditation. With every step you take in the mountains, you learn to love your heart - tirelessly beating, womb to tomb - adding new dimensions to your outlook towards life.

That evening in Tumling, over soup, we had another ice-breaker session. Each one of us had to introduce ourselves along with what ‘excited’ us most. More importantly, each person had to remember the names and interests of everybody else preceding him or her. I felt sorry for Tom & Brownene, both British, as they struggled to pronounce our names. It was here that Hemanth joined the group. He had planned on trekking to Sandakphu alone. However, due to uncertainty in weather, he decided to join our group. Hemant had left a lucrative career in the corporate sector to co-found a trekking group in Bengaluru called Nature Walkers. I felt an admiration (with a tinge of envy!) at his courage to take such a decision, living life on his terms. He was then on a two month ‘sabbatical’ in the mountains. Why is it that we always admire those which do not conform to the norm?

The next morning, we were given a wake-up call at five-thirty so that we could catch a glimpse of the Sleeping Buddha range at sunrise. It is named so because it appears like a person sleeping, with Mt. Kumbhakarna forming the nose, Mt. Kanchenjunga, the belly and Mt. Kabru North and Mt. Kabru South, the feet. It was too cold and the fog was still lifting as we walked nearly a kilometer to a proper view point. From the view point, we could also see the Everest, far away. Despite a very strong temptation, I shall not be putting up any image of the Sleeping Buddha range here.  Looking at the mountains, we realized what all we had missed the previous day, walking through the fog. As the first rays of the sun kissed Kanchenjunga, it turned a beautiful shade of gold. Gradually, it shifted to yellow and finally white. A profound sense of peace filled within, at that sight. I will perhaps fail if I try to write down what exactly I felt at that moment. “Experience cannot be explained” (a very famous line from a very famous Kannada movie). Walking through dense fog had been worth the effort, after all.

Having had such a beautiful opening sequence, what would the day have in store for us? The trail that day to Kalipokhri lay through the Singalila National Park, home to the endangered red panda. Would we be able to see the elusive red bear-cat? Only time would tell. 

                                                                                                           To be continued...

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Part 1

To be frank, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the 3^rd-AC coach of the Humsafar Express. Perhaps because it is a relatively new train with new coaches, the train was fairly clean. What surprised me even more were the modern sanitary facilities like a jet-spray and a hand wash! The coach also had a feature of displaying the station which we were approaching, like the metros. It seemed like fiction! On the return journey, we were booked in a sleeper class coach, which was more ‘real’ – more like what I had expected on train journeys. I shall tell you more about it at a later stage.

As per schedule, we were supposed to reach NJP at 4.30 AM while our pick-up was at 9.30 AM. The train seemed to have understood my apprehension about having to spend five hours at a railway station and hence, by the time we reached the station, it was 9’o clock. Feeling an urgent need to use the washroom upon alighting, I was directed by the station staff to the washrooms near the second-class waiting room. While in the queue, I saw another person standing guard close to a toilet. I clearly understood why when my turn came – the toilet doors had no bolt on the inside! Having asked my friend to be with the luggage in the waiting area, I had nobody to guard while I was at my business. That was when I decided to resort to the universal code of coughing, whistling and singing! This code came in handy at our camp site in Sandakphu as well. There is another fairly interesting story about that campsite. But then, we will have to get there slowly.

We met some of our co-trekkers over breakfast at a modest hotel outside the station. Post-breakfast, we set off in three vehicles towards Jowbari (or Jaubhari), our base camp. My friend, Naman (he personally asked me to mention names – his name, at the least) and I were grouped with four others from IIM-A along our journey. I found it unique that a group of young men and women should choose a trek as their grad-trip than perhaps getting drunk in Goa or a road-trip to Ladakh – things which are trendy. One of them is a pretty good singer and he sang along most of the Rafi and Kishore Kumar’s songs which were played during the drive.  

The setting was perfect – beautiful music, cool wind and majestic mountains. What was missing was, perhaps, coffee. Those mountains can silence us into introspection. Reflecting, I realized how insignificant we are. Yet, we humans bore through mountains to create tunnels and roads, stamping our authority on nature. However, would we have been able to do something had nature willed against it? All it takes are a few seconds for any earthquake or landslide to destroy all those symbols of human conquest, along with our ego!

The journey was pretty uneventful and by the time we reached Jaubhari, it was late afternoon. Fog was setting in and the weather was turning cold, prompting us to wear multiple layers of clothing. We were let off for a while to socialize, call up home and rest. I spent time looking at the mountains till they disappeared behind the veil of fog, trying to understand what I was looking for on this trek.

Here, we met our trek leader, Sushant. Along with him was Karthik as part of the Green Trails, a highly commendable initiative by India Hikes. The idea is to collect any waste, plastic especially, which we come across along our trek, in the “Eco-Bags” which were given to us and deposit them at the next camp for disposal. Thus, we leave the mountains cleaner than they were when we entered them. Over tea, we were given our health cards and our BP, pulse and oxygen readings were taken. For the next six days, our pulse and oxygen readings would be taken thrice a day – in the morning, upon arrival at a camp and in the evening. What caused anxiety was the fact that in the health card, it was written that any parameter below a certain level mandated immediate evacuation. Everytime the oximeter was put on to take my readings, I sincerely prayed that the score was favorable, just like while waiting for results of an exam!

We were served hot soup, the first of the many delights that we were served through the trek, and Sushant explained the itinerary in some detail, with special stress on the no-smoking and no alcohol clause. There was also a mini ice-breaker session. An interesting observation about our batch is that the youngest member was 11 while the oldest was 52 years old. Dinner was good as well. Perhaps one reason why I would recommend India Hikes is the amazing food that they serve. Throughout the trek, at all camps, we were served quality food, not to forget the sweet dish and ‘hot drink’ (no euphemism there – we were provided Bournvita or ginger water!).

I was surprised to find myself happily going off to sleep at around 9’o clock, unlike in the hostel, where an average day ends at 1’o clock in the morning. I went to sleep wondering if the ensuing week would reset my biological clock to timings which my parents would be proud of!

The next morning, after a moderately heavy breakfast, we were set to begin our trek. With backpacks, shoes and trek poles, we looked professional. Through the clouds, we caught a fleeting glimpse of the snow-capped Himalayas, beckoning us and off, we were.                                                                                 

                                                                                                               To be continued…

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Prologue

The trek is over. The hangover is fading. Now that I have sat down to write about it, I am faced with a question. When actually did this story begin taking shape? It surely did not begin on Day 1 of the trek. More importantly, it does not end with that final step with which we reached the end point on the trail. Experiences of that one week will be ruminated over for days, with new insights gained every other time.

Over the next two or three pieces, I shall narrate this story, hoping to capture the spirit of Sandakphu.

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

It was in November when a couple of friends and I sat down to make plans for the break in the coming semester. Package tours were too mainstream. Our previous experience had not been great either. That's a story for another day. Besides, a bunch of 20-somethings are expected to do things which are hatke. The idea of 'self-discovery' has been much romanticized. Moreover, 20s is the age when you decide what the philosophy of your life is. It was this that drove us towards the idea of a trek - to find our real selves and where better to delve within than the mighty Himalayas?! December was dedicated for shortlisting treks and trying to get other 'like-minded' friends on board. We also promised that regardless of who joined us or otherwise, the three of us would surely be going.

By January, our group was five-member strong. After much deliberation and debate, to the extent of switching over to the idea of a package tour, we zeroed in on the Sandakphu - Phalut trek offered by India Hikes. The batch of 12th - 18th March seemed tailor-made for our plans. The website said it was a trek for beginners. The trail was through a national park, in a month when flowers would just begin to bloom. The summit provided views of the Everest! What more reason do you need to start a love affair with nature?

A few days after having booked the tickets, one of our friends decided to back out. The reason is still not known to any of us, perhaps even to himself, even after the trek is over. Attempts at convincing him failed miserably. That was, however, only the first wicket to fall. Some days later, two more decided to cancel, with justifiable reasons, though. Of the initial three, only I remained and the group was reduced to two. In fact, until the day that we actually boarded the train, I dreaded that the only other member would decide to back out as well, for whatever reason!

Couple of weeks before the trek was when we decided to burn a hole through our pockets – by purchasing gear and equipment from Decathlon. While shopping was an experience to remember, the fact that we travelled nearly a couple of hundred kilometers for the same is a story in itself. On that fateful day, we travelled to and from the warehouse (which is in the middle of nowhere!) in buses, local trains, cycle rickshaws, auto ricks and motor thelas. Lack of time prevented us from travelling by steamer across the Hooghly, though. By the time we exited the warehouse, we had heavier bags and lighter wallets, having purchased more than what we had intended to!

Our first challenge was not on the trekking trail but on the train to Howrah. Bengal is, of course, a densely populated state. That evening on that local train underlined this for us. We already had difficulty moving with our heavy backpacks. Add to it the heat, sweat and pressure of a crowd trying to push you in every other direction! At one point of time, some of the kids on the train began crying, perhaps because they felt claustrophobic and were gasping for air. In hindsight, it feels that this was the first point along the entire trek which highlighted the value of one of the things we take for granted – breath.

Funnily, though, throughout this prelude to the trek, I felt absolutely no sense of excitement – not while backpacking, not on the night before the trek, not on the train to Howrah. It was replaced with an eerie sense of calmness. Or was it anxiety? I will never know.

Humsafar Express, our train to New Jalpaiguri, our pick-up point, was a couple of hours late that night. Our journey had just begun.

                                                                                                                       

                                                                                                                To be continued…

ಬಿಡುಗಡೆ

ಅವತ್ತು ಸಂಜೆ ಗಾಂಧಿ ಬಜಾರಿನಿಂದ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗ, ಪಕ್ಕದ ಮನೆಯ ನಾರಾಯಣರಾಯರು ಗೇಟಿನ ಬಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕರು. ಸುಮಾರು ಎಂಭತ್ತು ವರ್ಷದ ರಾಯರನ್ನು ಕಂಡರೆ ನಮ್ಮ ಬಡಾವಣೆಯ ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ಪ್ರೀತಿ. ಒಂದು ತೆರನಾದ ಗೌರವ. ನಮ್ಮ ತಲೆಮಾರಿನವರು ಅವರನ್ನು ಸಹಜವಾಗಿಯೇ 'ತಾತ' ಎಂದು ಸಂಬೋಧಿಸುತ್ತೇವೆ. ಅವರಿಗೆ, ಅದೇಕೋ, ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯವರು ಅಂದರೆ ವಿಶೇಷ ಆತ್ಮೀಯತೆ. ನಮಗೂ ಅಷ್ಟೇ. ಮಗ, ಮಗಳು ವಿದೇಶದಲ್ಲಿದ್ದದ್ದರಿಂದ  ಪ್ರತಿ ಹಬ್ಬಕ್ಕೂ ರಾಯರನ್ನು ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಗೆ ಊಟಕ್ಕೆ ಕರೆಯುತ್ತೇವೆ. ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಅಲ್ಲ. ಅಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಏನೇ ಸ್ಪೆಷಲ್ ಅಡಿಗೆ ಮಾಡಿದರೂ ಅವರಿಗೆ ತಲುಪುತ್ತದೆ. ಕಿವಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಊನವಾಗಿದೆ  ಎನ್ನುವುದು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ, ರಾಯರು ದೃಢವಾಗಿಯೇ ಇದ್ದಾರೆ.

ಗೇಟಿನ ಬಳಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕ ತಾತ ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಅವರ ಮನೆಗೆ ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಹೋದವರೇ ಅವರ ಮನೆಯ ಹಜಾರದಲ್ಲಿ ಹರಡಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದ ಮಾಸಲು ತಿರುಗಿದ್ದ ಕೆಲವು ಪತ್ರಿಕೆಗಳನ್ನೂ ಭಾವಚಿತ್ರಗಳನ್ನೂ ತೋರಿಸಿ ಅವುಗಳ ಹಿಂದಿನ ಕಥೆ ಹೇಳಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದರು. ಅವುಗಳ ನಡುವೆ ಒಂದು ಹತ್ತು - ಹನ್ನೊಂದು ವರ್ಷದ ಹುಡುಗನ ಭಾವಚಿತ್ರವೂ ಇತ್ತು. ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯ ಬಂದ ಸಂದರ್ಭದಲ್ಲಿ ಶಾಲೆಯ ಯಾವುದೋ ಕಾರ್ಯಕ್ರಮಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ತಾತ ಪೋಷಾಕು ಧರಿಸಿದ್ದಾಗ ತೆಗೆದಿದ್ದಂತೆ. ಇವುಗಳನ್ನು ನೆನೆಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಾ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಭಾವುಕರಾದರು. ಆದರೆ ನನಗೇಕೆ ಇದನ್ನೆಲ್ಲಾ ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ ಎಂದು ಅರ್ಥವಾಗದೆ, ಅವರನ್ನು ಕೇಳಿದೆ. "ನನಗಾದರೂ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾರಿದ್ದಾರೆ? ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಇಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದಿದ್ರೆ, ಅವರಿಗೆ ಹೇಳ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಅವರ ಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲಿ ನೀನಿದ್ದೀಯ" ಎಂದು ತಾತ ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ ನನಗೆ ಏನು ಹೇಳಬೇಕೆಂದು ತೋಚಲೇ ಇಲ್ಲ.

ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹೊತ್ತಿನ ನಂತರ "ನೀವು ಯಾಕೆ ಹೋಗಿ ನಿಮ್ಮ ಮಗಳ ಮನೇಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನ, ಮಗನ ಮನೇಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನ ಇರಬಾರದು?" ಎಂದು ಕೇಳಿದೆ. ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ತಾತ "ಆ ಪ್ರಯತ್ನಾನೂ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೀನಿ. ಇವಳು ತೀರಿಹೋದಾಗ ನನ್ನ ಮಕ್ಕಳು, ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಎಲ್ಲ ಬಂದಿದ್ರು. ಅದೊಂದೇ ಸಲ ಅನ್ಸತ್ತೆ ಹಾಗೆ ಎಲ್ಲ ಒಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಸೇರಿದ್ದು. ಇವಳು ಹೋಗಿದ್ದಕ್ಕೆ ಅಳಬೇಕಾ? ಖುಷಿ ಪಡಬೇಕಾ? ಅಂತ ಒಂದು ಕ್ಷಣ ಅರ್ಥವೇ ಆಗ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ! ಹೋಗ್ಲಿ ಬಿಡು. ನಾನೊಬ್ಬನೇ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಇದ್ದು ಏನು ಮಾಡಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ಮಗ ಎರಡು ಮೂರು ಸಲ ಹೋಗಿ ಬಂದು ಮಾಡಿ ನನ್ನನ್ನ ಅವ್ನ ಜೊತೆ ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಹೋಗೋದಕ್ಕೆ ವ್ಯವಸ್ಥೆ ಮಾಡಿದ. ಹೋದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನ ಅವ್ನು, ಸೊಸೆ ಇಬ್ರೂ ರಜ ಹಾಕಿ ನನ್ನ ಜೊತೇನೆ ಇದ್ರು. ದೇಶಾನೂ ಸುತ್ತಿಸಿದ್ರು. ಆದ್ರೆ ಅವ್ರು ಕೂಡ ಎಷ್ಟು ದಿನ ಅಂತ ಈ ಮುದುಕನ ಮುಂದೆ ಕೂರಕ್ಕಾಗತ್ತೆ ಹೇಳು? ಜೀವನ ನಡಿಬೇಡ್ವ? ಅವ್ರು ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದ್ಮೇಲೆ, ನಾನು ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಟಿವಿ ನೋಡ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೆ. ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಓದ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೆ. ಹೇಗೋ ಒಂದೆರಡು ತಿಂಗಳು ತಳ್ಳಿದ್ದಾಯ್ತು. ಆಗ ಅನ್ನಿಸ್ತು. ಇಷ್ಟನ್ನ ಮಾಡಕ್ಕೆ ನಾನು ನನ್ನ ಮನೆ ಬಿಟ್ಟು, ನನ್ನ ಊರು ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಇಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಯಾಕೆ ಬರಬೇಕಿತ್ತು ಅಂತ. ಮಗನಿಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದೆ. ಪಾಪ, ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಬಂದು ಬಿಟ್ಟು, ಹೋದ. ಇಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಬಂದ ತಕ್ಷಣ, ಅದೇನೋ, ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯ ಬಿಡುಗಡೆ ಸಿಕ್ಕಹಾಗಾಯ್ತು. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ನೋಡ್ಕೊತಿರ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ ಅಂತ ಅಲ್ಲ. ನನ್ನ ಸೊಸೆ, ಮಗಳ ಥರಾನೇ ನೋಡ್ಕೋತಾಳೆ. ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಭಾಷೆ ಅಷ್ಟಾಗಿ ಬರದಿದ್ರೂ ದಿನ ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ, ರಾತ್ರಿ 'ಗುಡ್ ಮಾರ್ನಿಂಗ್', 'ಗುಡ್ ನೈಟ್' ಅಂತ ತಪ್ಪದೇ ಹೇಳ್ತಾ ಇದ್ರು. ಈ ಮುದುಕಂಗೇನೇ ಅದನ್ನ ಹೇಳಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳೋ ಅದೃಷ್ಟ ಇಲ್ಲ" ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ವಿಷಾದದ ನಗೆ ನಕ್ಕರು ರಾಯರು.

ಅದೆಷ್ಟು ಹೊತ್ತು ಹಾಗೇ ಕುಳಿತಿದ್ದೆನೋ? ಕೊನೆಗೆ ತಾತನೇ ಮೌನ ಮುರಿದರು. "ಪಾಪ, ನನ್ನ ಮಕ್ಕಳದ್ದು ಏನೂ ತಪ್ಪಿಲ್ಲ, ಬಿಡು. ಅವರನ್ನ ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಓದ್ಸಿದ್ದು ಅವ್ರ ಜೀವನ ಅವ್ರು ರೂಪಿಸಿಕೊಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ತಾನೇ? ಹಕ್ಕಿಗೆ ಹಾರೋದು ಹೇಳಿಕೊಟ್ಟು 'ಹಾರಬೇಡ. ಗೂಡಲ್ಲೆ ಇರು' ಅಂದ್ರೆ ಅದು ಕೇಳತ್ತಾ? ನಂಗೇನು ಕಡಿಮೆ ಮಾಡಿಲ್ಲ ನನ್ನ ಮಕ್ಕಳು. ಪ್ರತಿ ತಿಂಗಳು ಹಣ ಕಳಿಸ್ತಾರೆ. ಹೋದ ಸಲ ನನ್ನ ಮಗಳು ಬಂದಿದ್ದಾಗ 'ಇನ್ಮೇಲೆ ನೀನೇ ಅಡಿಗೆ ಮಾಡ್ಕೊಬಾರದು' ಅಂತ ಖಡಾಖಂಡಿತವಾಗಿ ಹೇಳಿ, ಒಬ್ಬ ಅಡಿಗೆಯವಳ್ನ, ಕೆಲಸದವಳ್ನ ಗೊತ್ತು ಮಾಡಿಕೊಟ್ಟು ಹೋದ್ಲು. ಅವ್ಳಿಗೆ ಹಣನೂ ನಾನು ಕೊಡೋದು ಬೇಡ ಅಂದ್ಲು. ತಿಂಗಳಾಗ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದ ಹಾಗೆ ಅವ್ರ ಅಕೌಂಟ್ಗೆ ಕಳಿಸೋ ರೀತಿ ವ್ಯವಸ್ಥೆನೂ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಾಳೆ. ಎರಡು ದಿನಕ್ಕೆ ಒಂದು ಸಲ ಇಬ್ರಲ್ಲಿ ಒಬ್ರು ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡ್ತಾರೆ. ವಾರಕ್ಕೋ ಹತ್ತು ದಿನಕ್ಕೋ ಒಂದು ಸಲ ಸ್ಕೈಪ್ ಮಾಡ್ತೀವಿ. ಥೇಟು ಇಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದ ಹಾಗೆ ಆಗತ್ತೆ. ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಇಲ್ಲ ಅಷ್ಟೆ" ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ತಾತ ನಿಟ್ಟುಸಿರು ಬಿಟ್ಟರು.


"ಅಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಹೋದಮೇಲೆ ಒಂದು ವಿಚಾರ ಗೊತ್ತಾಯ್ತು. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಇದ್ದು ಒಂಟಿಯಾಗಿ ಇರೋದಕ್ಕಿಂತ, ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಒಬ್ಬನೇ ಇದ್ರೂ ನಿಮ್ಮಗಳ ಜೊತೆ, ನಾನು ಬೆಳೆದ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಇರೋದೇ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಸೂಕ್ತ" ಎಂದು ಅವರು ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ ಅವರು ಬಹಳ ಬಳಲಿದ್ದರು ಎಂದು ತಿಳಿಯುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಆದರೆ, ಅವರಿಗೆ ನಾನು ಏನೆಂದು ಸಮಾಧಾನ ಹೇಳಲಿ ಎಂದು ತಿಳಿಯದೆ ಒದ್ದಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗ ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಫೋನ್ ಬಂತು. ತಾತನನ್ನು ಅವರ ಭಾವನೆಗಳೊಂದಿಗೆ ಏಕಾಂತದಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಹೊರಬಂದಾಗ, ಕಣ್ಣುಗಳು ಮಂಜಾಗಿದ್ದವು.

ದೃಷ್ಟಿಕೋನ

ಹೋದ ಮಂಗಳವಾರ ಮನೆಗೆ ಕರೆ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಾಗ, ಇತರೆ ಹಲವಾರು ವಿಚಾರಗಳ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಅಣ್ಣ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ತೀರಿಹೋದ ವಿಚಾರವನ್ನೂ ಹೇಳಿದ. 'ಅಯ್ಯೋ, ಪಾಪ' ಎಂದು ನಾಮ್-ಕೆ-ವಾಸ್ತೆ ಒಂದೆರಡು ಕನಿಕರದ ಮಾತುಗಳನ್ನಾಡಿ ಮಾತು ಬೇರೆಡೆಗೆ ಹೊರಳಿತು. ಆಗ  ಬಾಧಿಸದ ಅವರ ಸಾವಿನ ವಿಚಾರ ಆನಂತರ ಅದೇಕೋ ಕೊರೆಯ ತೊಡಗಿತು. ಅವರೇನು ತೀರಾ ಹತ್ತಿರದ ಸ್ನೇಹಿತರಲ್ಲ. ಸಂಬಂಧಿಯಂತೂ ಅಲ್ಲವೇ ಅಲ್ಲ. ಹೀಗಿದ್ದರೂ ಯಾಕೆ ಬಾಧಿಸುತ್ತಿದೆ ಎಂದು ಅರ್ಥವಾಗದೇ, ಕ್ಯಾಂಟೀನಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಕಾಫಿ ಹೀರುತ್ತಾ ಯೋಚಿಸತೊಡಗಿದೆ. 

ರಾಮಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಎಂದ ಕೂಡಲೇ ಅವರ ರೂಪಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಮೊದಲು, ಮೂಗಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅವರ ಧ್ವನಿ ನೆನಪಾಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಅದೇ ಧ್ವನಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ತಕ್ಕ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಸುಶ್ರಾವ್ಯವಾಗಿ ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು ಕೂಡ. ಒಂದು ಕಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಕರ್ನಾಟಕದ ರಣಜಿ ತಂಡದಲ್ಲಿ ಆಡಿದ್ದರಂತೆ. ಅವರಿಗೆ ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲವೆಂದೂ, ಅವರ ಸೋದರ ಸಂಬಂಧಿಗಳು ಮೋಸ ಮಾಡಿ ಪಿತ್ರಾರ್ಜಿತವಾಗಿ ಬಂದಿದ್ದ ಮನೆ ಕಸಿದುಕೊಂಡರೆಂದು ಅಪ್ಪ, ಮಾವ ಇವರುಗಳು ಎಂದೋ ಇನ್ಯಾವುದೋ ಸಂಭಾಷಣೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳಿದ್ದು ನೆನಪಾಯಿತು. 

ನನಗೆ ನೆನಪಿದ್ದಾಗಿನಿಂದಲೂ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರದ್ದು ಮುಕ್ಕಾಲು ಬೋಳುತಲೆ. ಇದ್ದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಬಿಳಿಕೂದಲನ್ನು ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಬಾಚಿ, ಬಿಸಿಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಹೊಳೆಯುವಂತೆ ಬುರುಡೆಗೆ ಎಣ್ಣೆ ತಿಕ್ಕಿ, ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯಿದ್ದ ರಸ್ತೆಯ ಮೂಲಕವಾಗಿ ಸಜ್ಜನರಾವ್ ವೃತ್ತದ ಸುಬ್ರಹ್ಮಣ್ಯ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಖಾದಿ ಜುಬ್ಬಾ ಪಂಚೆಯೊಂದಿಗೆ ಶಲ್ಯ ಹೊದ್ದು, ದಾರಿಯುದ್ದಕ್ಕೂ "ನಾನು ಕ್ರಿಕೆಟ್ ಆಟ ಆಡೋದಕ್ಕೆ..." ಎಂದು ಸ್ವರಚಿತ ಹಾಡೊಂದನ್ನು ರಾಗವಾಗಿ ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಆ ಹಾಡು ಕೇಳಲಿಕ್ಕೆಂದೇ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಬಾರಿ ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಹೊರಗೆ ಬಂದು ನಿಂತಿರುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲಿ ಅರ್ಚನೆ-ಅಭಿಷೇಕಗಳ ಚೀಟಿ ಬರೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅವರು, ನಾನು ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಪ್ರತಿ ಮಂಗಳವಾರ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದಾಗ, ಕರೆದು ತೆಂಗಿನಕಾಯಿ ಚೂರುಗಳನ್ನೋ, ಬಾಳೆಹಣ್ಣೊಂದನ್ನೋ ಕೊಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ಸುಮಾರು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದಿನ ಮಾತು. 

ಹೀಗಿರುವಾಗ, ಇದ್ದಕ್ಕಿದಂತೆ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದ ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕೆ ಬರುವುದನ್ನು ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಿದರು. ಕಾಯಿ ಚೂರು ಬಾಳೆಹಣ್ಣುಗಳು ತಪ್ಪಿ ಹೋಗುವ ಆತಂಕದಲ್ಲಿ ನಾನು ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದಿದ್ದ ಅತ್ತೆ, ಮಾವನನ್ನು ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ  ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಕೇಳಿದೆ. "ಲೆಕ್ಕದಲ್ಲಿ ತಪ್ಪು ಮಾಡಿದರಂತೆ" ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ ಮಾತು ತೇಲಿಸಿದ ಅವರು, ಆನಂತರ ನನಗೆ ಏನೂ ತಿಳಿಯದ ವಯಸ್ಸು ಎಂದು ಭಾವಿಸಿ ನನ್ನ ಮುಂದೆಯೇ ಒಳಕಾರಣವನ್ನು ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನೊಡನೆ ಚರ್ಚಿಸಿದ್ದು ಇನ್ನೂ ಕಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ಕಟ್ಟಿದಂತಿದೆ. ಅರ್ಚನೆಗಾಗಿ ಬರೆಸಲು ಹೆಂಗಸರು ಬಂದಾಗ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಬೇಕೆಂದೇ ತಡ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರಂತೆ. ಅಗತ್ಯಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಹೆಚ್ಚಿನ ಸಲಿಗೆಯಿಂದ ಅವರೊಡನೆ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರಂತೆ. ಇದನ್ನು ಅದ್ಯಾರೋ ದತ್ತಿಯ ಗಮನಕ್ಕೆ ತಂದು, ಆಡಳಿತ ಮಂಡಳಿಯವರು ಅವರನ್ನು ವಜಾಗೊಳಿಸಿದರು ಎಂದು ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನಿಗೆ ಪರಿಚಯವಿದ್ದ ಅರ್ಚಕರೊಬ್ಬರು ತೀರ್ಥ, ಪ್ರಸಾದಗಳನ್ನು ವಿತರಿಸುವಾಗ ಹೇಳಿದರಂತೆ. 

ಇದ್ದ ಪ್ರಾಯಶಃ ಒಂದೇ ಒಂದು ಆದಾಯದ ಮೂಲವನ್ನು ಕಳೆದುಕೊಂಡ ಮೇಲೆ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಕಳೆಗುಂದುತ್ತಾ ಬಂದರು. ಪ್ರತಿ ಹುಣ್ಣಿಮೆಯಂದು ಸತ್ಯನಾರಾಯಣಸ್ವಾಮಿ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲೂ, ಶನಿವಾರಗಳಂದು ಹನುಮಂತನಗರದ ನರಸಿಂಹಸ್ವಾಮಿ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲೂ, ಸಂಕಷ್ಟಹರ ಚತುರ್ಥಿಯ ದಿನ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಗಣೇಶನ ಗುಡಿಯಲ್ಲೂ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಕಾಣುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಎಷ್ಟೇ ಜನರಿದ್ದರೂ, ಅವರ ಮಾತಿನ ಸದ್ದು ಮೀರಿ,  ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು "ವಾತಾಪಿ ಗಣಪತಿಮ್ ಭಜೇ..." ಎಂದೋ "ಶ್ರೀಮನ್ನಾರಾಯಣ..."  ಎಂದೋ ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಕೇಳುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ ಬಂದ ಜನ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ ಶಲ್ಯದೊಳಗೆ ಒಂದು ರೂಪಾಯಿ, ಎರಡು ರೂಪಾಯಿ ಹಾಕಿದಾಗ ಅವರು ಕೈಯೆತ್ತಿ ಮುಗಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದದ್ದು ನೆನೆಸಿಕೊಂಡರೆ ಒಂದು ತೆರನಾದ ಸಂಕಟವಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಅವರೊಡನೆ ಮಾತಾಡಿ ಬರುತ್ತೇನೆ ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ, ಅಮ್ಮ ಕಾರಣ ಹೇಳದೆಯೇ, "ಆ ಮುದುಕನ ಜೊತೆ ನಿಂದೇನು ಮಾತು?!" ಎಂದು ಗದರಿ, ಎಳೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು.   ರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದೆರಡು ಬಾರಿ ಕಂಡಾಗ ಅವರನ್ನು ನೋಡಿ ಪರಿಚಯದ ನಗೆ ನಕ್ಕೆನೇ ಹೊರತು, ಹೋಗಿ ಮಾತಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ - ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಹೆದರಿ. 

ಆನಂತರದ ವರ್ಷಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ ನೆನಪುಗಳು ಮಾಸಲು ಆರಂಭವಾಯಿತು ಎಂದು ಕಾಣುತ್ತದೆ. ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಕಂಡರೆ ಅಪರಿಚಿತರಂತೆ ಕಾಣುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ತಮ್ಮ ಬಗ್ಗೆಯೂ ಅವರಿಗೆ ನಿಗಾ ಕಡಿಮೆಯಾಗಿರಬೇಕು. ಕೊಳಕಾದ  ಜುಬ್ಬವನ್ನೇ ಧರಿಸುತ್ತಾ, ಇದ್ದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಕೂದಲು ಕೆದರಿದ್ದರೂ ಬಾಚದೆ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಇಷ್ಟಾದರೂ, ಮತ್ತೆ ಸುಬ್ರಹ್ಮಣ್ಯ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ, ನಾನು ಕಂಡಂತೆ, ಕಾಲಿಡಲಿಲ್ಲ. ನಮ್ಮೊಡನೆ ಅಷ್ಟು ಆತ್ಮೀಯವಾಗಿದ್ದ ಅವರು ಹೀಗೆ ಹುಚ್ಚನಂತೆ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿರುವಾಗಲೂ ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯವರಾಗಲಿ ಅಥವಾ ಅವರಿಗೆ ಪರಿಚಯವಿದ್ದ ಬೇರೆಯವರಾಗಲಿ ಯಾಕೆ ಏನೂ ಸಹಾಯ ಮಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ನನಗೆ ಅರ್ಥವಾಗಿಲ್ಲ. 

ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ತಿಳಿವಳಿಕೆ ಬಂದಾಗಿನಿಂದ ಹಲವು ಬಾರಿ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರನ್ನು ಕೆಲಸದಿಂದ ತೆಗೆದು ಹಾಕಿದ ಘಟನೆಯ ಕುರಿತಾಗಿ, ನಾನು ಗ್ರಹಿಸಿಕೊಂಡಿರುವ ರಾಮಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ ಕುರಿತಾಗಿ ಯೋಚಿಸಿದ್ದೇನೆ. ನನಗೆ ಆ ಆರೋಪದಲ್ಲಿ ತಿರುಳು ಕಂಡಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವರ ನೆನಪಿಗೆ ನ್ಯಾಯವೊದಗಿಸಿದ ಆತ್ಮತೃಪ್ತಿಯೊಂದನ್ನು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ ನನ್ನ ಈ ತೀರ್ಪಿನಿಂದ  ಯಾರಿಗೆ ಏನಾಗಬೇಕಿದೆ?  ಎಂದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಾ ಕಾಫಿ ಲೋಟವನ್ನು ಬುಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಎಸೆದು ರೂಮಿಗೆ ಬಂದೆ.

Yours Whimsically - Part 8: Book Thieves

After Class 7, I had an opportunity to go on a trek to the Himalayas. It was successful, with some lessons on independence and responsibility for a boy just entering into his teens. On returning, one of my uncles, a writer himself, asked me to write down my experiences in the form of a travelogue. In hindsight, I think it was merely a passing remark or at the most, he meant it as an exercise in organizing my thoughts on paper. However, I took it seriously. So serious that even before I wrote a single word, I was mentally writing down a guest list for the book release and rehearsing a few lines of the speech I would make at the event, desperately trying to sound mature beyond my years!

It took me a couple of months to complete the first (and only) draft. A full eighty-pages of a king-sized notebook. When my uncle came home, he glanced through the draft and even read a few lines aloud, acknowledging and appreciating the effort. He agreed to read it and review it, before any thought could be given to publishing it. He took it home and while they were shifting houses a few days later, the book seemed to have developed a will of its own and disappeared from the face of the earth. That was the last I ever heard of my nameless travelogue.

Some of us in the family share a similar interest in books. Relatives who come home, at the least, glance cursorily at the collection before leaving. These are moments of tremendous anxiety for my brother and me. 'What if they decide to take a book which we plan to read?' Children in Indian households are brought up to never say 'No' to elders and specially, relatives. However, that is not the only reason for our anxiety. Experience has taught us that every now and then, we invariably bid farewell to a book for the very last time. Any attempt to convince our parents to ask the concerned party to respectfully return the book to the rightful owners is met with "What would she think if we asked - for a mere book?" It is very difficult to fathom the undercurrents at play in a middle-class Indian family. For some days, my brother and I employed the (seemingly rude) strategy of rehabilitating vulnerable books in our wardrobes (where nobody would look into) at any remote sign of impending 'danger'!

Trysts with friends in this regard haven't been positive either. The very first time a friend of mine borrowed a book was when we were in high-school. Those were times when '3 Idiots' was rewriting box-office records and my friend felt compelled to read Chetan Bhagat's 'Five Point Someone'. I am not sure if he read the book or otherwise. However, it has been more than six years since and there is no sign of the book being returned. While some may argue that it worked in my favor by ridding me of a Chetan Bhagat book, it is, ultimately, a book.

It is for these reasons that we came up with a not-so-rude strategy the last time we reorganized the book shelf. We now have a catalogue of all the books in our possession. Every time a book leaves the perimeter of the house, it is dutifully recorded into the catalogue, with details of who it has been taken by and when.

It is not that the idea of a Kindle hasn't crossed the mind. But then, electronic copies of books, however convenient, don't give you an opportunity to show off the opulence, do they?!

ಮದುವೆ ಪ್ರಸಂಗ

ಅಜ್ಜಿ ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದಿದ್ದಾಗ ಒಂದು ಮಧ್ಯಾಹ್ನ, ನನಗೆ  ಹೊತ್ತು ಕಳೆಯುವುದು ಹೇಗೆಂದು ತೋಚದೆ ಅವರ ಬಳಿ ಹೋಗಿ, ಅವರ ಮದುವೆಯ ಸಂದರ್ಭದ ಕತೆಗಳನ್ನು ಹೇಳುವಂತೆ ಕೇಳಿದೆ. ಆಗ ಅವರು ತಮ್ಮ ನೆನಪನ್ನು ಕೆದಕುತ್ತಾ ಈ ಕತೆಯನ್ನು ನನಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದರು.

"ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ಸುಮಾರು ಅರವತ್ತೈದು ವರ್ಷದ ಹಿಂದಿನ ಕತೆ. ಆಗಿನ್ನೂ ನನಗೆ ಮದುವೆ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ನನ್ನ ವಯಸ್ಸಿನ ನನ್ನಿಬ್ಬರು ಗೆಳತಿಯರಿಗೂ ಕೂಡ. ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿ ಅಂತ ಒಬ್ಬಳ ಹೆಸರು. ಇನ್ನೊಬ್ಬಳು ವಿಮಲಾ ಅಂತ. ಆ ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿಗೆ ಒಬ್ಬ ಅಣ್ಣ ಇದ್ದ - ಚಂದ್ರು ಅಂತ. 

"ವಿಮಲಾಳ ತಂದೆಗೆ ಅವಳನ್ನ ಚಂದ್ರುವಿಗೆ ಕೊಟ್ಟು ಮದುವೆ ಮಾಡಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ಅನ್ನಿಸಿ, ಅದೇ ಮಾತನ್ನ ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿಯ ತಂದೆಯೊಂದಿಗೆ ಪ್ರಸ್ತಾಪ ಮಾಡಿದ್ರು. ವಿಮಲಾ ಬಹಳ ಒಳ್ಳೆ ಹುಡುಗಿ. ಅಲ್ಲದೆ, ಅವಳು ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿ ಬಹಳ ಒಳ್ಳೆ ಸ್ನೇಹಿತೆಯರಾಗಿದ್ರಿಂದ, ನಾಳೆ ಮದುವೆ  ಆಗಿ ಬಂದಮೇಲೂ ಅತ್ತಿಗೆ - ನಾದಿನೀರು  ಜಗಳವಾಡಿ ಮನೆ ಒಡೆಯೋ ಪ್ರಸಂಗ ಬರಲ್ಲ ಅಂತ ಅವರಿಗೂ ಅನ್ನಿಸರಬೇಕು. ಅವರೂ ಒಪ್ಪಿಕೊಂಡ್ರು. ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮೀಗಂತೂ ವಿಮಲಾ ತನ್ನ ಅತ್ತಿಗೆಯಾಗಿ ಬರ್ತಾಳೆ ಅಂತ ಬಹಳ ಖುಷಿಯಾಯ್ತು. ನನಗೂ ಅಷ್ಟೇ. ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೇಲೆ ಮದುವೆ ನಡಿಯೋ ಅಷ್ಟು ಸಂತೋಷ!

"ಹೀಗಿರುವಾಗ, ಒಂದು ದಿನ ನಾವು ಮೂವರು ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿಯ ಮನೇಲಿ ಕೂತು ಹರಟುತ್ತಿದ್ವಿ. ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿಯ ತಂದೇನೂ ವಿಮಲಾಳ ತಂದೇನೂ ಹೊರಗಡೆ ಕೂತು ಕೊಟ್ಟು - ಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ವಿಚಾರವಾಗಿ ಏನೋ ಮಾತಾಡ್ತಿದ್ರು. ಇದ್ದಕ್ಕಿದ್ದ ಹಾಗೆ, ವಿಮಲಾ ಹೊರಗೆ ಹೋಗಿ 'ಅಪ್ಪ, ನಂಗೆ ಈ ಮದುವೆ ಬೇಡ' ಅಂದ್ಲು. ನಮ್ಗೆಲ್ಲಾ ಬಹಳ ಆಶ್ಚರ್ಯ ಆಯ್ತು. ಚಂದ್ರು ಅಂತ ಹುಡ್ಗ ಸಿಗೊಕ್ಕೆ ಪುಣ್ಯ ಮಾಡಿರ್ಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ಹಲವಾರು ಬಾರಿ ನಾವುಗಳು ಮಾತಾಡಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದುಂಟು. ಈಗ ನೋಡಿದ್ರೆ ಅವಳು ಹೀಗೆ ಹೇಳ್ತಿದ್ದಾಳೆ! ಅವಳ ತಂದೆ ಬಹಳ ನಯವಾಗಿ 'ಯಾಕಮ್ಮ?' ಅಂತ ಕೇಳಿದ್ರು. 'ನಾನು ಈ ಮದುವೆಗೆ ಒಪ್ಪಿದ್ದೇ ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿಯ ಜೊತೇಲಿ ಇರಬಹುದು ಅಂತ. ನನಗೆ ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿ ಜೊತೇಲೆ ಮದುವೆ ಮಾಡಿ' ಅಂತ ಹೇಳಿ, ಯಾರ ಜೊತೆಗೂ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಮಾತಾಡದೆ ಹೊರನಡೆದುಬಿಟ್ಟಳು. 

"ವಿಮಲಾಳ ತಂದೆ 'ಇದ್ಯಾವ ಗಾಳಿ ಮೆಟ್ಟಿಕೊಳ್ತು?' ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ಒಂದಷ್ಟು ನಿಮಿಷ ದಿಕ್ಕೇ ತೋಚದೆ ಕೂತುಬಿಟ್ರು. ನಮಗೂ ಏನು ನಡೀತಿದೇ ಅಂತ ಅರ್ಥ ಆಗ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿಯ ತಂದೆ 'ಹುಚ್ಚು ಹುಡುಗಿ! ಪಾಪ ಮದುವೆಯ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಹೆದರಿರಬೇಕು. ಮನೆಗೆ ಹೋಗಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಸಮಾಧಾನವಾಗಿ ಕೂತು ಮಾತಾಡಿ' ಎಂದು ಅವರಿಗೆ ಧೈರ್ಯ ಹೇಳಿದರು. 

"ಇದಾದ ಒಂದೆರಡು ವಾರಗಳು ಮದುವೆಯ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಯಾರೂ ಏನೂ ಮಾತಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆನಂತರ ಮತ್ತೆ ವಿಮಲಾಳನ್ನು ಕೇಳಿದಾಗ, ಅವಳು ಅದೇ ಉತ್ತರ ಕೊಟ್ಟಳಂತೆ. ಅವಳ ತಂದೆಗೆ ಜಂಘಾಬಲವೇ ಇಲ್ಲದ ಹಾಗಾಯ್ತು. ಏನೂ ತೋಚದೆ ನಮ್ಮಪ್ಪನ ಹತ್ತಿರವೂ, ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿಯ ತಂದೆ ಹತ್ತಿರವೂ ಹೇಳಿಕೊಂಡ್ರು. ಯಾರಾದ್ರೂ ಮಾಟ ಮಾಡ್ಸಿರ್ಬೇಕು ಅನ್ನಿಸಿ, ನಮ್ಮೂರಿನ ಬಳಿಯಿದ್ದ ಒಬ್ಬ ಮಂತ್ರವಾದಿ ಹತ್ರ ಹೋದ್ರಂತೆ. ಅವ್ನು ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆ ಹಾಕಿ ನೋಡಿ, ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ಆ ರಮೇಶನ ಆತ್ಮದ್ದೇ ಕಿತಾಪತಿ ಅಂದನಂತೆ. 

"ಆಗ ಒಂದೆರಡು ವರ್ಷದ ಮುಂಚೆ, ನಮ್ಮ ಬೀದಿಲೀ ರಮೇಶ ಅಂತ ಒಬ್ಬ ಹುಡುಗ ಇದ್ದ. ಲಕ್ಶ್ಮೀನಾ ಮದ್ವೆ ಮಾಡ್ಕೋ ಅಂತ ಬಹಳ ಪೀಡಿಸ್ತಿದ್ದ. ನೋಡೋವರಿಗು ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿ ನೋಡಿ ಅವಳ ಅಪ್ಪಂಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದ್ಲು. ಅವ್ರು ಊರಿನೋರ ಮುಂದೆ ಅವ್ನಿಗೆ ಬೈದು, ಕಪಾಳಕ್ಕೆ ಹೊಡೆದು ಔಮಾನ ಮಾಡಿದ್ರು. ಅದಾದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನಕ್ಕೆ ಅವ್ನು ವಿಷ ತೊಗೊಂಡು ಸತ್ತೋದ. ಈಗ ಅವನು ವಿಮಲಾಳ ಒಳಗೆ ಸೇರ್ಕೊಂಡು ಹೀಗೆಲ್ಲ ಮಾಡ್ತಿದಾನೆ ಅಂತ ಆ ಮಂತ್ರವಾದಿ ಹೇಳ್ದ. 

"ಮದ್ವೆ ದಿನ ತೀರಾ ಹತ್ರ ಆಗೋದ್ರೊಳ್ಗೆ ಇದನೆಲ್ಲ ಕಳ್ಕೋಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ವಿಮಲಾಳ ತಂದೆ ಆ ಮಂತ್ರವಾದೀನಾ ಮನೆಗೇ ಕರಿಸಿದ್ರು. ನಾನು ನೋಡಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆದ್ರೆ, ಪಕ್ಕದ ಮನೇಲಿ ನಿಂತು ಎಲ್ಲ ಕೇಳ್ತಾಯಿದ್ದೆ. ಅವ್ನು ಭೂತ ಬಿಡಿಸಿದನೋ ಏನೋ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ವಿಮಲಾ ನೋವಿನಿಂದ ನರಳಿದ್ದು, ಜೋರಾಗಿ ಚೀರಿದ್ದು ಮಾತ್ರ ಗೊತ್ತು ನಂಗೆ. ಮಂತ್ರವಾದಿ ಹೋದ ಮೇಲೆ ಹೋಗಿ ನೋಡಿದ್ರೆ, ಅವಳು ಅತ್ತೂ ಅತ್ತೂ, ಸುಸ್ತಾಗಿ ಮಲಗಿದ್ದಳು. ಅವಳ ಮೈಮೇಲೆಲ್ಲಾ ಬರೆಗಳು. ಅದ್ಯಾವ ಕಡ್ಡೀಲಿ ಹೊಡೆದಿದ್ನೋ ಹಾಳಾದವ್ನು! 

"ಬರೆಯ ಗಾಯಗಳು ಮರೆಯಾಗೋ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ಮದುವೆಯ ದಿನ ಬಂದೇಬಿಡ್ತು. ವಿಮಲಾಳ ತಂದೆಗಿದ್ದ ಒಂದೇ ಒಂದು ಆತಂಕ ಅಂದ್ರೆ ಮದುವೆಯ ದಿನ ಯಾರಾದ್ರೂ ಬಂದು ಅವರ ಮಗಳಿಗೆ ಮೆಟ್ಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದ ಗಾಳೀ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಕೇಳಬಹುದು ಅಂತ. ಪುಣ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ, ಹಾಗೇನು ಆಗ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಎಲ್ಲ ಸುಸೂತ್ರವಾಗಿ ಮುಗೀತು. 

"ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿ ಮೂರು ತಿಂಗಳಾಗಿರಬೇಕು. ಒಂದು ದಿನ, ಮನೇಲಿ ಯಾರು ಇಲ್ಲದ ಸಮಯ ನೋಡಿ, ವಿಮಲಾ ವಿಷ ತೊಗೊಂಡು ಪ್ರಾಣ ಕಳ್ಕೊಂಡ್ಳು. ರಮೇಶ ಆ ಮನೆ ಮೇಲೆ ಸೇಡು ತೀರಿಸ್ಕೊಂಡ ಅಂತ ಊರಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ರೂ ಮಾತಾಡ್ಕೊಂಡ್ರು. ಆಮೇಲೆ, ಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿ ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿ ಬೇರೆ ಮನೆಗೆ, ಬೇರೆ ಊರಿಗೆ ಹೋದ್ಲು. ನಾನು ನಿಮ್ಮ ತಾತನ್ನ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದೆ. ಈಗ ಅವ್ಳು ಎಲ್ಲಿದ್ದಾಳೋ? ಅಥವಾ ಇಲ್ಲವೇ ಇಲ್ವೋ" ಎಂದು ಹೇಳುತ್ತಾ ಅಜ್ಜಿ ಹೊರಗಡೆ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಗಾಡಿಗಳ ಕಡೆ ಮುಖ ಮಾಡಿದರು. .

ಅಜ್ಜಿಯನ್ನು ಅವರ ನೆನಪುಗಳ, ಭಾವನೆಗಳ ಜೊತೆ ಇರಲು ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಒಳನಡೆಯಲು ಏಳಬೇಕೆಂದಿದ್ದಾಗ ಅಜ್ಜಿಯೇ ಮಾತಿಗಿಳಿದರು. "ನಂಗೇನನ್ಸತ್ತೆ ಗೊತ್ತಾ? ವಿಮಲಂಗೆ ಯಾವ ಭೂತಾನೂ ಮೆಟ್ಟ್ಕೊಂಡಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವ್ಳಿಗೆ ಹುಡ್ಗನ್ನ ಬದ್ಲು ಒಬ್ಬ ಹುಡ್ಗಿ ಮೇಲೆ ಪ್ರೀತಿ ಇತ್ತು. ತಪ್ಪೇನು? ಅಬ್ಬಬ್ಬಾ ಅಂದ್ರೆ ಮದ್ವೆ ಆಗ್ತಿರ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ, ಅಷ್ಟೇ ತಾನೇ? ಆ ಮಂತ್ರವಾದಿನಾ ಕರ್ಸಿ ಮದ್ವೆ ಏನೋ ಮಾಡ್ಸಿದ್ರು. ಆದ್ರೇ, ಅವ್ನನ್ನ ಕರೆಸ್ದೆ ಇದ್ದಿದ್ರೆ, ವಿಮಲಾ ಇನ್ನಷ್ಟು ದಿನ ಜೀವಂತವಾಗಿ ಇರ್ತಿದ್ಲೋ ಏನೋ" ಎಂದು ಹೇಳುವಾಗ ಅಜ್ಜಿಯ ಧ್ವನಿ ಭಾರವಾಗಿತ್ತು. "ಈ ಮಾತನ್ನ ನಾನೇನಾದ್ರೂ ಆಗ ಹೇಳಿದ್ದಿದ್ರೆ, ಅವಳ ಜೊತೆ ನಂಗೂ ಆ ಮಂತ್ರವಾದಿ ಬರೇ ಬೀಳೋವರ್ಗು ಹೊಡೀತಿದ್ನೇನೋ" ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ, ವ್ಯಂಗ್ಯವಾಗಿ ನಗುತ್ತಾ ಅಜ್ಜಿ ಒಳನಡೆದರು. 

ಶ್ರಾದ್ಧದ ಸುತ್ತಾಮುತ್ತಾ...

ಮಸುಕು ಮಸುಕಾದ ಬಾಲ್ಯದ ನೆನಪುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ನಮ್ಮ ತಾತ ತೀರಿಹೋಗಿದ್ದು ಸಹ ಒಂದು. ಆಗ ನನಗೆ ಮೂರೂ ತುಂಬಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ನಮ್ಮತ್ತೆಯ ಮನೆಯ ವೆರಾಂಡಾದಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿಳಿಯ ಬಟ್ಟೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮಲಗಿದ್ದ ತಾತ ಏಳುತಿಲ್ಲವಲ್ಲಾ ಎಂದು ಕೇಳಿದ್ದು ಅಸ್ಪಷ್ಟವಾಗಿ ಜ್ಞಾಪಕವಿದೆ (ಅಥವಾ ಹಾಗೆ ನಾನು ಚಿತ್ರಿಸಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದೇನೆಯೋ? ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ!). ಸಾವಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಅರಿವಿಲ್ಲದ ಆ ವಯಸ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲಿ, ಇನ್ನು ಮುಂದೆ ತಾತ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ನಮ್ಮ ಜೊತೆ ಇರುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂಬುದೊಂದು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ ಬೇರೇನೂ ತಿಳಿಯಲಿಲ್ಲ. (ಸಾವಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಈಗ 'ಅರಿವಿ'ದೆ ಎಂದು ನಾನು ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಹಾಗೆ ಭಾವಿಸಲೂಬಾರದು.) 

ತದನಂತರ, ಪ್ರತೀ ವರ್ಷ ನಾನು ನಮ್ಮ ತಾತನ ತಿಥಿಗಾಗಿ ಕಾಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಏಕೆಂದರೆ, ತಿಥಿಮನೆಯ ಹುಳಿಗೆ ಇರುವ ರುಚಿ ಬೇರೆಯ ಹುಳಿಗಳಿಗೆ  ಖಂಡಿತ ಇರುವುದಿಲ್ಲ. ಅದೂ ಅಲ್ಲದೆ, ವಡೆ-ಪಾಯಸ, ಆಂಬೊಡೆಗಳ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಸಜ್ಜಪ್ಪವೋ ರವೆಯುಂಡೆಯೋ ಇರುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಅಡುಗೆಯವರಿಗೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ದುಡ್ಡು ಕೊಟ್ಟರೆ, ಎರಡು-ಮೂರು ದಿನಗಳಿಗಾಗುವಷ್ಟು ಭಕ್ಷ್ಯಗಳನ್ನು ಪಾರ್ಸೆಲ್ ಕೊಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು! ಏನೇ ಆಗಲಿ, "ಬ್ರಾಹ್ಮಣಂ ಭೋಜನಪ್ರಿಯಂ" ಅಲ್ಲವೇ?!

ಇದರ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಕಾರಣವೂ ಇತ್ತು. ಬೇರೆ ಬೇರೆ ಊರುಗಳಲ್ಲಿದ್ದ  ನಮ್ಮ ಇಬ್ಬರು ದೊಡ್ಡಪ್ಪಂದಿರು ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿಗೆ ವರ್ಷಕ್ಕೊಮ್ಮೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು - ನಮ್ಮ ತಾತನ ತಿಥಿಗೆ. ಹೀಗಾಗಿ ನಮ್ಮ ತಾತನ ತಿಥಿ ಎನ್ನುವುದಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಕುಟುಂಬದ 'ಗೆಟ್-ಟುಗೆತರ್' ಎಂದೇ ನಾನು ಭಾವಿಸಿದ್ದೆ. (ಈಗ ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಒಂದೇ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವುದರಿಂದ ಹಬ್ಬದ ಸಂದರ್ಭಗಳಲ್ಲಿಯೂ  ಗೆಟ್-ಟುಗೆತರ್ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತದೆ.) ನಮ್ಮ ದೊಡ್ಡಪ್ಪ ಪ್ರತೀ ಬಾರಿ  ಊರಿಗೆ ಹೋಗುವ ಮುನ್ನ, ಮನೆಯ ಬಳಿಯಿದ್ದ ವಿ.ಬಿ. ಬೇಕರಿಗೋ ಬಟರ್ ಸ್ಪಾಂಜಿಗೋ ಹೋಗಿ ಬಿಸ್ಕತ್ತು, ಖಾರ ಸೇವೆ ಮೊದಲಾದ ತಿಂಡಿಗಳನ್ನು ಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಆ ಸಂದರ್ಭಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗಿಂತ ಚಿಕ್ಕವನಾದ ನನ್ನನ್ನೂ ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಹೋಗಿ ಏನಾದರೂ ಕೊಡಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಎಷ್ಟೇ ತಿಂದರು, ಇನ್ನೊಬ್ಬರು ಕೊಡಸಿದ ತಿಂಡಿಯೇ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ರುಚಿಯಲ್ಲವೇ? ಈ ಎಲ್ಲದರ ಪರಿಣಾಮವಾಗಿ ನನಗೆ ನಮ್ಮ ತಾತನ ತಿಥಿ ಬಹಳ ಮುಖ್ಯವಾಗಿತ್ತು. 

ತಾತ ತೀರಿಹೋದ ಐದು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ನಂತರ, ನಮ್ಮ ದೊಡ್ಡಪ್ಪಂದಿರು ವರ್ಷಕ್ಕೆ ಎರಡೆರಡು ಬಾರಿ ಬರಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದರು - ನಮ್ಮ ಅಜ್ಜಿಯ ತಿಥಿಗೋಸ್ಕರ. ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾರಾದರೂ ಸತ್ತಾಗ 'ಗರುಡ ಪುರಾಣ'ವನ್ನು ಓದುವುದು ವಾಡಿಕೆ. ನಮ್ಮಪ್ಪ ಸಹ ಓದುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಸಾಮಾನ್ಯವಾಗಿ ಇಂತಹ ಪುಸ್ತಕಗಳನ್ನು ಮಕ್ಕಳ ಕೈಗೆ ಸಿಗದ ಹಾಗೆ ಇಡುತ್ತಾರೆ. ನಾನು ಈ ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಇರುವ ಸ್ಥಳ ನೋಡಿಕೊಂಡು ಕದ್ದು ಓದಿ, ಬೈಸಿಕೊಂಡೆ. ಇದಕ್ಕೆ ಪ್ರಚೋದಿಸಿದ್ದು ಮಾತ್ರ ನಮ್ಮ ಎರಡನೇ ದೊಡ್ಡಪ್ಪ. ವೈಕುಂಠ ಸಮಾರಾಧನೆಯವರೆಗೂ ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದ ಅವರು,  ರಕ್ತ, ಕೀವುಗಳು ತುಂಬಿದ್ದ ವೈತರಣೀ ನದಿಯನ್ನೂ ಪರಲೋಕದ ದಾರಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಅನುಭವಿಸಬೇಕಾದ ಕಾರ್ಪಣ್ಯಗಳನ್ನೂ ಅತಿ ರೋಚಕವಾಗಿಯೂ ಭಯಂಕರವಾಗಿಯೂ ವರ್ಣಿಸಿದ್ದರು. ಕೆಟ್ಟ ಕುತೂಹಲವನ್ನು ತಡೆಯಲಾರದೆ, ನಾನು ಅದನ್ನು ಪುಸ್ತಕದಲ್ಲೇ ಓದಲು ಪ್ರಯತ್ನಿಸ ಹೋಗಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿಬಿದ್ದೆ. ಅದ್ಯಾಕೋ, ಈವರೆಗೂ ಆ ಆಸೆ ಫಲಕಾರಿಯೇ ಆಗಿಲ್ಲ. 

ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ತಿಳಿವಳಿಕೆ ಬಂದ ಮೇಲೆ, ತಿಥಿ ಮಾಡುವುದು ನಿರರ್ಥಕ ಎಂದು ಅನಿಸತೊಡಗಿತು. ಈ ವಿಚಾರವಾಗಿ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹಲವಾರು ಬಾರಿ ಚರ್ಚೆಗಳೂ ನಡೆದಿವೆ. 

ಪ್ರತೀ ಬಾರಿಯೂ ಅದದೇ ಬ್ರಾಹ್ಮಣರನ್ನು ಕರೆದು ತಿನ್ನಿಸುವ ಬದಲು ನಿಜಕ್ಕೂ ಅಗತ್ಯವಿದ್ದವರಿಗೆ ಅನ್ನದಾನ ಮಾಡುವುದು ಒಳ್ಳೆಯದಲ್ಲವೇ? ಆ ಬ್ರಾಹ್ಮಣರೋ! ಊಟದ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಪಂಚೆ ಶಲ್ಯಗಳನ್ನು ಕೊಟ್ಟರೆ, ದಕ್ಷಿಣೆಯಾಗಿ ಕೊಟ್ಟ ಹಣದಲ್ಲಿ ಚೌಕಾಶಿ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾರೆ. 

ತಿಥಿ ಮಾಡುವಾಗ ಕರ್ತೃಗಳು ಉಪವಾಸವಿರಬೇಕು. ಆದರೆ ನಮ್ಮ ದೊಡ್ಡಪ್ಪ ಒಬ್ಬರು ಬರೀ ಅವಲಕ್ಕಿಯನ್ನೋ ಮೊಸರವಲಕ್ಕಿಯನ್ನೋ ತಿನ್ನುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಅವಕ್ಕೆ ದೋಷವಿಲ್ಲವಂತೆ. ಈ ಶಾಸ್ತ್ರಗಳನ್ನು ರಚಿಸಿದವರು ಇಂತಹ "ಟೆಕ್ನಿಕಲ್ ಲೂಪ್ಹೋಲ್"ಗಳನ್ನು ಮನಸ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲಿಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡೇ ರಚಿಸಿದರೋ ಏನೋ ಎಂದು ಅನುಮಾನವಾಗುತ್ತದೆ! 

ನಮ್ಮ ತಾತನ ತಿಥಿ  ಮಾರ್ಚ್-ಏಪ್ರಿಲ್ ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುತ್ತದೆ. ಅದೇ ಸಮಯಕ್ಕೆ ಸಾಮಾನ್ಯವಾಗಿ ಭಾರತದ ಯಾವುದಾದರೂ ಕ್ರಿಕೆಟ್ ಸರಣಿ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿರುತ್ತದೆ. ಇಂಥ ಸಂದರ್ಭದಲ್ಲಿ, ತಿಥಿ ಮಾಡಿಸುವ ಜೋಯಿಸರು, ಬ್ರಾಹ್ಮಣಾರ್ಥಕ್ಕೆ ಬಂದವರಾದಿಯಾಗಿ ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಬಂದು ಸ್ಕೋರ್ ಕೇಳಿ ಹೋಗುತ್ತಾರೆ. 

ವಯಸ್ಸಿನ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಹಸಿವು ತಡೆಯುವ ಶಕ್ತಿಯೂ ಕಡಿಮೆಯಾಗುತ್ತದೆ ಅನಿಸುತ್ತದೆ. ಏಕೆಂದರೆ, ಪ್ರತೀ ಬಾರಿಯೂ ಯಾವುದೋ ಒಂದು ಕಾರಣಕ್ಕೆ ನಮ್ಮಪ್ಪ ದೊಡ್ಡಪ್ಪಂದಿರಿಂದ ಗೊಣಗಾಟ - ಕಿರುಚಾಟಗಳು ನಡೆದೇ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತವೆ. 

ಇಷ್ಟಾದರೂ ಪ್ರತಿ ವರ್ಷ ತಿಥಿ ಮಾಡಿಯೇ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಇಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರೆ ತಾತ - ಅಜ್ಜಿಯರ ಆತ್ಮಕ್ಕೆ ಶಾಂತಿ ಇರುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ಇವರುಗಳ ನಂಬಿಕೆ. 

ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಹೊರಗಿರುವ ನನಗೆ ತಾತನ ತಿಥಿ ತಪ್ಪುತ್ತದೆ. ಆ ದಿನದಂದು ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಊಟಕ್ಕೆ ಕುಳಿತ ನಂತರವೇ ನಾನು ಊಟ ಮಾಡಿದ ಸಂದರ್ಭವೂ ಇದೆ. ಆನಂತರ "ಅದೇಕೆ ಹಾಗೆ ಮಾಡಿದೆ?" ಎಂದು ನನ್ನನ್ನು ನಾನೇ ಕೇಳಿಕೊಂಡದ್ದೂ ಇದೆ.

ಮನೆಗೆ ಹೋದಾಗಲೆಲ್ಲ ನಾನು ಅಜ್ಜಿಯ ತಿಥಿಗೆ ಕಾಯುತ್ತೇನೆ - ವಡೆ-ಪಾಯಸದ ಆಸೆಯಲ್ಲಿ!  

ನಿರ್ಣಯ

ಕಳೆದ ಸಲ ಊರಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿದ್ದಾಗಿನ ಮಾತು. ಊಟದ ನಂತರ ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನೊಡನೆ ಜಗುಲಿಯ ಮೇಲೆ ಕುಳಿತು ಹರಟುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ನಮ್ಮನ್ನು ನೋಡಿದ ವೆಂಕಟೇಶಬಾಬು ಬಂದು ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದೂರದಿಂದಲೇ "ನಮಸ್ಕಾರ ಬುದ್ದಿ" ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ನಿಂತ. ಅಷ್ಟು ದೂರದಿಂದಲೇ ಅವನು ಕುಡಿದಿದ್ದ ಎಂದು ಗೊತ್ತಾಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ವೆಂಕಟೇಶಬಾಬು ನಮಗೇನು ಹೊಸಬನಲ್ಲ. ನನಗೆ ನೆನಪಿದ್ದಾಗಿನಿಂದಲೂ ಅವನು ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನ ಮನೆಯ ಕೆಲಸಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ನೆರವಾಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ನನ್ನ ಸೋದರ ಸಂಬಂಧಿಗಳೆಲ್ಲ, ಅವನ ವಯಸ್ಸನ್ನು ಲೆಕ್ಕಿಸದೆ, ಅವನನ್ನು "ಹೋಗೋ", "ಬಾರೋ" ಎಂದೇ ಮಾತಾಡಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು.  ಅವನೂ ಎಂದು ಎದುರಾಡಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆದರೂ, ನಾನು "ಬನ್ನಿ", "ಹೋಗಿ" ಎಂದೇ ಕೂಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಕುಡಿದ ಅಮಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಾನೆಂದು ಪ್ರತೀತಿ ಇತ್ತು ಅವನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ. ಆದರೆ ನಾನು ಯಾವತ್ತೂ ಕೇಳಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವನ, ಮಾವನ ನಡುವಿನ ಮಾತಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲಾದರೂ ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ ಮಾತಾಡಬಹುದೇನೋ ಎಂದು ನಾನು ಗಮನಿಸುತ್ತಾ ಕುಳಿತೆ. ಅವನ ಬಾಯಿಂದ ಹೊರಟ  ಹೆಂಡದ ದುರ್ನಾತ ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ ಬೇರೇನೂ ಗಿಟ್ಟಲಿಲ್ಲ. "ಏನ್ರಿ ಬಾಬು, ನಿಮಗೆ ಮದ್ವೆ ಗಿದ್ವೆ ಆಗಿದ್ಯೋ?" ಎಂದು ಅಮಾಯಕವಾಗಿ ಕೇಳಿದೆ, ಮಾತಿಗಿಳಿಯುತ್ತಾ. ಅದೇನಾಯಿತೋ, ಬಾಬು ಎದ್ದು ಹೊರಟೇ ಬಿಟ್ಟ. "ಏನಾಯಿತು?" ಎಂದು ಮಾವನ್ನ ಕೇಳಿದೆ. ಆಗ ಅವರು ಬಾಬುವಿನ ಕಥೆ ಹೇಳಿದರು.

ಚಿಕ್ಕವನಿದ್ದಾಗಿನಿಂದಲೂ ಬಾಬು ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯ ಸಣ್ಣ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಕೆಲಸಗಳಿಗೆ ಆಳಾಗಿ ದುಡಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಅಲ್ಲ, ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾವುದೇ ಮದುವೆ, ಮುಂಜಿ, ತಿಥಿ-ವೈಕುಂಠಗಳು ನಡೆದರೂ, ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ವರ್ಷಗಳ ನಂತರ ಬಾಬು ಊರಿನಲ್ಲೇ ಅವರಿವರ ಬಳಿಯೂ ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾ ತನ್ನದು ಎನ್ನುವ ಒಂದು ಸಣ್ಣ ಮನೆಯನ್ನೂ ಬಾಡಿಗೆಗೆ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಂಡ. ಅವನ ಮದುವೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನೇ ಹೆಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ತಾಳಿ ಮಾಡಿಸಿ ಕೊಟ್ಟರು . ಮದುವೆಯ ನಂತರ ಬಾಬು ಅವನ ಹೆಂಡತಿ ಮಾದೇವಿಯೊಂದಿಗೆ ಬಂದು, ನಮ್ಮ ಅಜ್ಜಿಯ ಹಾಗು ಅತ್ತೆ - ಮಾವನ ಆಶೀರ್ವಾದ ಪಡೆದು ಹೋಗಿದ್ದ. ಮೂರ್ನಾಲ್ಕು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಕಾಲ ಎಲ್ಲವೂ ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿಯೇ ಇತ್ತು, ಮಗುವಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ ಎನ್ನುವುದೊಂದು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ.

ಅದೊಂದು ಸಲ, ಬಾಬುವಿಗೆ ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲಸ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿತು - ಯಾವುದೋ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಅಪಾರ್ಟ್ಮೆಂಟ್ ನಿರ್ಮಾಣದ ಕಾಮಗಾರಿ. ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅವನು ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಕೆಲಸಗಳಿಗಿಂತ ಹೆಚ್ಚಿನ ಸಂಬಳ ಸಿಕ್ಕುತ್ತದೆ ಎಂದು ಅವನೂ ಹೊರಟ, ಮಾದೇವಿಯನ್ನು ಊರಿನಲ್ಲೇ ಬಿಟ್ಟು. ಮೊದಲ ತಿಂಗಳು ವಾರಕೊಮ್ಮೆ ಬಂದು ಹೋಗಿ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಆಮೇಲೆ, "ಸುಮ್ಮನೆ ಖರ್ಚು ಯಾಕೆ?" ಎಂದು ತಿಂಗಳ ಮೊದಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಬಂದು ಅವಳ ಕೈಗೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದುಡ್ಡು ಕೊಟ್ಟು ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಸುಮಾರು ಆರೇಳು ತಿಂಗಳ ನಂತರ ಬಾಬು ಊರಿಗೆ ವಾಪಸ್ಸಾದ, ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿನ ಕೆಲಸ ಮುಗಿದ ಮೇಲೆ.

ಹೋಗುವ ಮೊದಲು ಆಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಈಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಕುಡಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಬಾಬು, ಈಗ ದಿನವೂ ಕುಡಿಯಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದ. ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಆಗಿದ್ದರೆ ಮಾದೇವಿಯೂ ಸಹಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳೋ ಏನೋ. ಆದರೆ, ಕುಡಿದ ಅಮಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅಕ್ಕಪಕ್ಕದ ಮನೆಯವರಿಗೆ ಕೇಳುವಂತೆ "ನನಗೆ ಒಂದು ಮಗು ಹೆತ್ತು ಕೊಡಕ್ಕೆ ಆಗಲ್ವೇನೇ?" ಎಂದು ಬಯ್ಯಬಾರದ ಪದಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಬಯ್ಯಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದ. ರೋಸಿ ಹೋದ ಮಾದೇವಿ, ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯ ಹಿತ್ತಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಕ್ಕರುಗಾಲಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಳಿತು  ಅವಳ ಗೋಳಿನ ಕಥೆಯನ್ನು ನಮ್ಮ ಅಜ್ಜಿ, ಅತ್ತೆಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದಳಂತೆ. ಇವರುಗಳು ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನಿಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದರಂತೆ, ಬಾಬುವಿಗೆ ತಿಳಿಹೇಳಲು. ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನೂ  ಅವನನ್ನು ಕರೆದು ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಬಯ್ದರು. ಅವರ ಭಯಕ್ಕೋ ಏನೋ, ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನಗಳ ಕಾಲ ಬಾಬು ಕುಡಿಯುವುದನ್ನು ಬಿಟ್ಟನಂತೆ; ಹೆಂಡತಿಯನ್ನು ಹೀಯಾಳಿಸುವುದನ್ನು ಕೂಡ. ಆದರೆ, ಅವನು ಕುಡಿಯುವುದನ್ನು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೂ, ಹೆಂಡ ಅವನನ್ನು ಬಿಡಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವನ ಚಟ ಮತ್ತೆ ಶುರುವಾದಾಗ, ಮಾದೇವಿಗೆ ದಿಕ್ಕೇ ತೋಚದಾಯಿತು. ಆಗ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಸಾಂತ್ವನ ಹೇಳಿದವನೇ ಎದುರು ಮನೆಯ ಶೇಖರ.

ಶೇಖರನಿಗೆ ಈಗೆರಡು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಊರ ಹಬ್ಬಕ್ಕೆಂದು ಹೋದ ಹೆಂಡತಿ ಅದ್ಯಾಕೋ ವಾಪಸ್ಸು ಬರಲೇ ಇಲ್ಲ. ಇವನು ವರದಕ್ಷಿಣೆಗಾಗಿ ಗೋಳುಹೊಯ್ದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದನೆಂದೂ, ಹೆಂಡತಿಗೆ ಹೊಡೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದನೆಂದೂ ಅಲ್ಲಲ್ಲಿ  ಗುಸುಗುಸು  ಹಬ್ಬಿತ್ತು. ಇಷ್ಟಾಗಿಯೂ, ಮಾದೇವಿಗೆ ಇವನೊಡನೆ ಸ್ನೇಹವಾಯಿತು. ಕ್ರಮೇಣ, ಸ್ನೇಹ ಸಂಬಂಧವಾಯಿತು. ಇವರ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಅವರ ಬೀದಿಯ ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಮಾತಾಡಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದರೂ, ಬಾಬುವಿಗೆ ಹೇಳುವ ಧೈರ್ಯ ಯಾರಿಗೂ ಮೂಡಲಿಲ್ಲ. ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನಿಗೆ ತಿಳಿದೇ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲವಂತೆ. ತಿಳಿದಿದ್ದರೆ, ಮಾದೇವಿಯನ್ನು ಕರೆದು ತಿಳಿಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದರೋ ಏನೋ.

ಶೇಖರ ಮಾದೇವಿಯರ ಸಂಬಂಧ ಎಷ್ಟು ಗಾಢವಾಯಿತೆಂದರೆ, ಬಾಬು ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿಗೆ ಅಥವಾ ಬೇರೆ ಊರಿಗೆ ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗಿದ್ದಾಗ, ಶೇಖರ ಬಾಬುವಿನ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಇರುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಹೀಗಿರುವಾಗ, ಒಂದು ದಿನ, ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿದ್ದ ಬಾಬು ಇದ್ದಕ್ಕಿದ್ದಂತೆ ವಾಪಸ್ಸು ಬಂದ, ಮಾದೇವಿಗೂ ತಿಳಿಸದೆಯೇ. ಅದು ಹೇಗೆ ಬೀದಿಯವರೆಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ತಿಳಿಯಿತೋ ಏನೋ? ಈ ದೃಶ್ಯವನ್ನು ನೋಡಲು ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಅವರವರ ಮನೆಯ ಬಾಗಿಲುಗಳ ಮುಂದೆ ಹಾಜರಾದರು. ಮನೆಗೆ ಹೋದ ಬಾಬು ಶೇಖರನನ್ನು ಕಂಡಾಗ ಒಂದು ಮಾತೂ ಆಡಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಶೇಖರ ತಲೆಬಗ್ಗಿಸಿ ಹೊರನಡೆದು ತನ್ನ ಮನೆ ಸೇರಿಕೊಂಡ. ಹೊಡೆದಾಟ ಬಡಿದಾಟಗಳನ್ನು ನಿರೀಕ್ಷಿಸಿದ್ದ  ಜನ ನಿರಾಸೆಯಿಂದ ಮನೆಯೊಳಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದರು.

ಎರಡು ಮೂರು ದಿನಗಳ ನಂತರ, ವೆಂಕಟೇಶಬಾಬು ಮಾದೇವಿಯನ್ನು ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಹೋಗಿ ಶೇಖರನ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಬಂದ. ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಅಲ್ಲ, ಕೈಗೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹಣವನ್ನೂ ಕೊಟ್ಟನಂತೆ. ಇದೆಲ್ಲಾ ಆಗಿ ನಾಲ್ಕು ವರ್ಷಗಳಾಗಿವೆ. ಅವರ ನಡುವೆ ಅದೇನು ನಿರ್ಣಯವಾಯಿತೋ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಈಗಲೂ, ಬಾಬುವಿಗೆ ಹುಷಾರಿಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದಾಗ ಅಥವಾ ಬೇರೆ ಅನಿವಾರ್ಯ ಸಂದರ್ಭದಲ್ಲಿ, ಮಾದೇವಿಯೇ ಅಡುಗೆ ಊಟಗಳನ್ನು ನೀಡುತ್ತಾಳೆ. ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಅಲ್ಲ, ಪ್ರತಿ ದೀಪಾವಳಿಗೂ ಬಾಬು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಹೊಸ ಸೀರೆಯೊಂದನ್ನು ಕೊಡಿಸುತ್ತಾನೆ. ಅಲ್ಲದೆ, ಅವಳ ಮೂರು ವರ್ಷದ ಮಗನಿಗೆಂದೇ ಪಟಾಕಿಗಳನ್ನೂ ತರುತ್ತಾನಂತೆ.

ಮಾವ ಇಷ್ಟು ಕಥೆ ಹೇಳಿ ಮುಗಿಸುವ ಹೊತ್ತಿಗೆ ನಮ್ಮ ಅತ್ತೆ ಬಂದು ಕರೆದರು ಎಂದು ಎದ್ದು ಒಳಗೆ ಹೋದೆವು. ಬಾಬು ಹಾಗೇಕೆ ಮಾಡಿದ ಎಂದು ಯೋಚಿಸುತ್ತಾ ಮಲಗಿದ ನನಗೆ ಮಾರನೆಯ ದಿನ ಅವನನ್ನು ಮಾತಾಡಿಸುವ ತವಕ ಉಂಟಾಯಿತು. ಯಾವುದೊ ಕಾರಣಕ್ಕೆ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದ ಬಾಬುವನ್ನು ಅವನು ಹೊರಹೋಗುವಾಗ ಯಾರಿಗೂ ಕಾಣದಂತೆ ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಿ ಕೇಳಿಯೇಬಿಟ್ಟೆ. ಅವನು ನಗುತ್ತ "ನೋಡಿ ಬುದ್ದಿ, ಮಾದೇವಿ ನನ್ನ ಜೊತೆ ಇದ್ದಿದ್ರೆ, ನಾವು ಮೂರೂ ಜನ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿಯಾಗಿ ಇರಾಕಾಗ್ತಿರ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳನ್ನ ಮದ್ವೆಯಾಗಿದ್ದು ಅವಳನ್ನ ಸಂತೋಷವಾಗಿ ನೋಡ್ಕೋತೀನಿ ಅಂತಲ್ವಾ? ನನ್ನ ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ಅದು ಆಗಲ್ಲ ಅಂತ ಅವಳ ಜೀವನ ಯಾಕೆ ಹಾಳು ಮಾಡಬೇಕು, ಹೇಳಿ? ಅದ್ಕೆ ಕರ್ಕೊಂಡು ಹೋಗಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟೆ. ಅವ್ಳಿಗೆ ಯಾವ ಉಪಕಾರಾನೂ ಮಾಡಿಲ್ಲ ನಾನು. ಅವಳ ಇಷ್ಟ ಹೇಗೋ ಅವಳು ಹಾಗೆ ಬದ್ಕೋದು ನ್ಯಾಯ. ಮಾತಾಡೋರು ಎಷ್ಟು ದಿನ ಅಂತ ಮಾತಾಡಾರು? ಕಡೇಲಿ, ನಮ್ಮ ಬದುಕು ನಾವೇ ಬಾಳ್ಬೇಕು, ಅಲ್ವಾ? ಬರ್ತೀನಿ ಬುದ್ದಿ" ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ತನ್ನ ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದ.