Lost and Not found - HUMOUR

What's this life if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

Did W.H.Davies have we, the Indians, in mind when he asked this question?  Quite probable.  When was the last time each one of us had a hearty laugh at the quirks and twists around us?  Who was the last Indian to display the courage of laughing at himself?  We all collectively seem to have lost that ability to laugh at the world, laugh at its vicissitudes and more important, laugh at ourselves. Why, we can't even laugh at cartoons any more, since it is taboo.

But statistics show that we Indians are one of the happiest people in the world. That is, if you expect  any  real connection between being humourous and being happy.  The statistics may be true if the statisticians went by mere numbers.  Any day, even if half of us Indians are happy, a five hundred million happy guys would far out number probably the rest of the world. Happy we are, may be, but humourous?  not a chance! Proves the truism, there are lies, white lies and then statistics.    A cow can be happy for hours chewing the cud but it has no idea  what humour is.  A sadist can be happy seeing others' misery but this happiness is  far removed from the kind that humour begets. The clown in the circus is capable of humour, at least of the slapstick variety but I would wager that he is not happy.  I personally have not seen a millionaire circus clown.    We are capable of a vicious variety of happiness, one that feeds on the neighbour's pain.  As a nation, we are game to a collective herd-happiness we acquire when we hold lighted candles and form a human chain to condemn assorted happenings ranging from Rape to Retail FDI.

And that is why we could not spot the humour in Shashi Tharoor's Cattle Class.  In Tamil, we have this Nadaraja Service (referring to those who can't even afford a bus ride and prefer always to walk) and the Kaiyendi Bhavans (roadside eateries, a parody on the bigger 'brick and mortar' Bhavans, as restaurants are normally called). Having coined such gems, how can we take offence at Cattle Class?  Cattle is normally herded together and transported.  The transporter does not care much for the leg space and 360 degree reclining seats for the cargo he transports from point A to point B, which is usually by a truck.  Not very dissimilar is economy class travel in Indian flights, especially if one opts to take the budget carriers.  (The economy for these carriers stops with the frills, not the fares, but that is another point).  Certainly any dim-wit can spot an uncanny similarity between an economy passenger and cattle and so how was Shashi wrong?  Any other specimen other than the homosapiens,  native to India,  would just smile, if not laugh, and shrug off the remark.  But what did we do? Made a hue and cry of nothing and for a very long time accused Sashi of the gravest sacrilege.  Sashi was merely referring to the similarities that exist in the mode of transportation of two species - humans and bovines.  He did not venture so far as to compare the two species' other bodily functions - one of which that emanates from the posterior raises a stink in the case of humans and not in the case of cattle.  If anything, it's the cattle that should have protested!  

Precisely why we could neither the spot the humour in our Lalu's allusion long back  to Hema Malini ki gaal when he promised roads in Bihar with a smoothness and texture similar to Hema's cheeks.  One should compliment Laluji for his (tongue-in) cheek remark and laud his exploits with similes and metaphors.   The comparison is nothing less than  what immortal poets like Kalidasa or Kamban conjured up in their hey days.  Beautiful women are routinely compared to the moon, the stars, goddesses and what not.  Does the moon or the star take offence?  But if I remember right, our own dream girl Hema (by the way there is no history to show she disliked THIS particular adjective) was not quite pleased and came out with a disparaging comment or two. Poor Lalu, nobody understands his character (as Satyaraj, the villain of yore says, as a punch dialogue,  in an old Tamil film) much less his sense of humour.  Much of his humour was also, incidentally, witnessed while he was Rail Mantri.  He made the railways' finance  itself an object to laugh at.  You have to give him credit for that!

And then comes to mind some recent quotes by important people - quotes, what were harmless from the quoter's point of view, venomous and banal from the public point of view, but simply humourous in my point of view. If not humorous, at least not harmful.   The public simply gets swayed by the poignancy of the issue and the herd mentality ensures that it is fit and proper to see red and only red in even genteel, sarcastic, off-the-cuff remarks.  The blinkered man's eyes recognise only one color, which is red.   I know I will get pilloried for this but what the hell, I am no Vadra, so I might just be spared.  Aam Aadmi, the most used and favourite word in Congress's lexicon became mango man, as it should in a literal translation and just to bring in another fruit into the context, he chose banana.  All of which words collectively conspired to become Mango men, banana republic. And what hell broke loose!  Does anybody seriously think that Vadra would have meant to call India a banana republic in a public forum?  It is another matter that  that is exactly what the majority of us admit to in private.  Humour is what you should see folks here, not Homicide.  

The most recent cause of outrage?  Here it is - of women highly dented and painted!  Let's admit, at the cost of repetition, the poignancy of the occasion blinded us. If not all, at least most of the protesters had their faces well painted to turn up for the picnic, masquerading as protests.  Come on, we have seen it all, innumerable protests, candle-light vigils, human chains and I am Annas.  Next to new year parties, protests have become the most fashionable pastime for the so called vigilante youth, specially for those hailing from big metros. So what's wrong if quite a few girls had their faces painted and turned up at the protest venues?  Absolutely nothing. So what if some one lampoons their painted faces?  Again absolutely nothing.  And the reference to 'dented'?  No comments, except the statistics (not lies this time) that Indian women are one of the highest spenders on 'personal care/beauty' products around the world, and denting and painting certainly come under this product category. Don't we men too nowadays 'dent and paint' our exteriors? Let's face it, whatever is dented has to be tinkered and whatever dull, has to be re-painted.  We all do it and no big deal about this.  Science says that human bodies, specially after age forty, need a little tinkering here, a little painting there. By the way, this 'dent/paint' comment was also dubbed as sexist - whatever that means!  In the Indian context, I suppose, any comment made on a woman by a man is sexist while the reverse is just plain truth. 

Guess what?  We Indians take ourselves too seriously.  Even if most of the rest of the world does not.  Look at it objectively - no one is protesting against protests and the protesters but just as your right to protest in dented bodies and painted faces, if you prefer,  exists, so does my right to unleash some friendly humour.  Repeat, friendly, harmless humour. I do not belittle your cause of protest, to be sure.  If you had really painted your face to turn up for the protest, you have no right to protest now;  if you had not, you just would not bother to protest the comment because your focus is on something else, not on some worthless jolly  banter by a fellow Indian.

Again guess what?  What India needs is some George Bushs.  Bush during his hey days, proferred some real top-class bloopers - Sample this:

"They misunderestimated me"

"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, so are we.  They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people and neither do we (!!)"  (or was Bush serious here? Perhaps he was referring to his economic policies and war-mongering ways)

He spawned a whole lot of bushisms, which are legendary. The Americans laughed at those, the whole world laughed at those and Bush himself laughed at those. He did not attempt to even try statements like "I was misquoted.."  as all of our politicians are wont to.  Theek hai?  ( no, I am not referring to our dear old M. Singh)

After all, in Davies's  words, a poor life this if,  if full of care,  we have no time to stand and stare? and occasionally present a gaffe in a humorous vein?

Men in Black!

The sartorial leanings of a descendant of Madras hardly reflects current fashion trends.  It rather draws heavily from his religious, political or cinematic preferences.

Take black, the much maligned color, if at all it can be called a color.  Hear black and images of blackmail, blacklist, black market and black outs drift across.  Who will wear black?  One in mourning?  Or one on a religious vow?  In Tamil Nadu, it can even be one who from the bastion of pagutharivu, who can, without a modicum of conscience, straddle the twin worlds of religion as well as convenience with alarming ease.  If anyone cared to leaf through the history of Tamil Nadu  for the last fifty years, he would notice that all that has managed to hold center stage here is  politics, religion or cinema.  A Tamilian breathes, lives and dies for the sake of either cinema, or religion or for that damnedest of things, the last refuge of the scoundrels, politics.  One can't be too sure which is the worst of the three.  One would be inclined to bestow that dubious honour to cinema,  the favourite whipping boy of the intelligentsia but even cinema can be sure of facing stiffer, more vulgar competition from politics and religion.

Of course, black is the hue of staunch religion.  Black connotes renunciation. It connotes giving away.  It connotes detachment and is a color of violent disregard.  The black-wearer challenges the world, he cares two hoots for the ordinary mortals. His is a tone of defiance, of  discontent and disdain.  His world is out of bounds for ordinary men and his is a pursuit of penance.  He discards the mundane ways of the world and he sets his sights on something superlative. He looks to places like Sabarimala for deliverance.  He is beyond you and me, he seeks his salvation in black.

And then comes the cinema maniac.  He wears what his hero does, even if it is black.  He seeks an escape from  his ineptitude in the celluloid heroics of his hero and he wears what his hero wears. If the hero wears black in two reels, the maniacal worshipper follows suit for two years, wearing nothing but black.  The hero flicks a fag up high in the air, whips out a revolver from his hip, aims at at the butt (of the cigarette that is), lights it and in its descent, catches it betwixt his lips (sure, the lighted end jutting out).   The fan goes delirious, and tries perfecting the act for the rest of his life. The hero mouths some punch dialogue, something deeply profound like   "if I score one run, it equals a hundred runs".  Our maniacal worshipper sees himself in the hero and mentally relives every moment in his dreams.  Dreams about what could have been.... The hero cozies  up to a buxom lady which the fan always wanted to.  The hero plays god and the fan is convinced he is indeed, God. As with religion, worshipping a God is best done sporting black, so black be it in his clothes.    Black magic is cast by the hero and the fan falls prey.

And then the last refuge we were talking about earlier.  Of the scoundrel.  Of the political kind.  Occasionally getting tired of the jasmine veshtis and Gandhi topis, one day, suddenly, it dawns on him that black is the hue of protest. Of again defiance.  Of the relevance he has long lost and trying desperately to reclaim.  And so, one fine day, casting aside his robes of whites and yellows( and conveniently his rationalist ideas too),  he clings to black as a last ditch effort to stay afloat.  And to save face and present a passable explanation, pretends as if he has been wearing the black cloak of defiance ever  since his avatar on his planet to save it from ruin!   He sees the need to shout atop the roof, to be heard, to stay in limelight and to protest.To do anything as long as he is heard and seen, even if it is by his own coterie.    He crows that the aura of black fits him to the tee.  And like the bird itself, prides in being seen clad in black.

The religious black, one can understand.  His belief demands it.  The celluloid black one can condone.  His fantasy world allows it.  But the political black?  It revolts one's senses.  It reaffirms one's conviction that it is futile to dream of a reformed system.  For once the political black seems to clearly reflect what is inside the wearer.  The same black.  Blackness of thought, blackness of vision and and a blackness of everything.  Why the same color of nothingness occupies fifty percent of their flags too, how can the flag be different from the party? 

 The white robed politician may or may not be a saint inside.   But be wary of the more dangerous specimen, the  black attired pretender.  He can change colors faster than a chameleon.  His tongue is multi-forked, his eyes are blinkered and he says evil is everywhere.  The world ought to know that nothing is more evil than the black bedecked neta himself.  

Indru pudhidhaippirandhai, engal Bharathi!

தினசரி காலெண்டர் மீண்டுமொருமுறை இன்று பாரதியை நினைவூட்டியது.  மானுடம்  பாட வந்த கவி இம்மண்ணை விட்டுச்சென்று இன்றுடன்  91 ஆண்டுகள் ஆயின.  9/11 ஐ அழிவுநாளாக  அனுசரிக்கிறது  இவ்வுலகம்.  நானும் அழிவுநாளாகவே கருதுகிறேன் - ஆளுமையின், ஆண்மையின், வீரத்தின், காதலின் அழிவுநாளாக!.

அவன் நினைவுநாளில் அவன் எழுத்துக்களில் சிலவற்றை நினைவுகூறுவோமா?

ஆயுதம் செய்வோமென்றான்  - செய்தோம், அழிவின் கருவியாகப்பயன் 

                                                                 படுத்த!

ஆலைகள் செய்வோமென்றான்  - செய்தோம், அனால் இயக்க

                                                   மின்சாரமில்லை, உற்பத்தி செய்யவும் விடுவதில்லை !

ஓயுதல் செய்யோமென்றான் - ஒப்புககொண்டார்கள் அரசியல்வாதிகள்,

                                                           ஓய்வில்லாமல் பொருள் சேர்த்தார்கள்!

உண்மைகள் சொல்வோமென்றான்  - அதை மட்டும் choice ல் விட்டோம்!

ஆதலினால் காதல் செய் என்றான்-அக்கலையும்  செவ்வனே கற்கவில்லை -

            காமத்தைக்காதலென்றோம், கிட்டவில்லைஎன்றால்  கொலையும்

            செய்தோம் !

நல்லதோர் வீணை செய்தோம்  அதை நலம் கெடப்புழுதியில்  எறிந்தும்  விட்டோம் 

வல்லமையிருந்தும் இந்த மாநிலம் பயனுற வாழ  மறுத்திட்டோம்

சென்றுவா,  பாரதி, செப்டம்பர் 11 மீண்டும் வரும், 

அன்று மீண்டும் நினைவு கொள்வோம்,  அந்நாளே மறந்தும் போவோம்!.

    

THE MORNING HERALD-India's national and largest selling newspaper!

Who doesn't welcome a bright, sunny morning?  Who doesn't care to usher in another new beginning at regular 24 hour intervals?  After a long day of hopelessness and frustration, culminating in the black-hole called night, who does not look forward to a new harbinger of hope, of another day, of another go at the challenge called life?  Who does not relish opening his eyes to awake, arise and take a long satisfied breath to find he is going to be alive for another day?

But why should all our mornings start with newspapers?  The new day is dead even before it dawned, thanks to the newspaper.  Few modern inventions have wreaked more havoc with our lives  than the daily broadsheet that life throws at us each morning.  Few things make or mar your day as the morning newspaper.  Make, they seldom but mar, they do  without fail.  

Just have a look at all the avalanche of 'breaking news' my newspaper drowned me with, this morning.  Nothing wrong with the morning, though.  Bright, cool and sunny.  Offering a thousand possibilities only 'today' can offer and what millions of 'yesterdays' gone by could not. Just as I was girding my loins to capitalise on this 'today' fully, to make up for the lost past, the newspaper was thrown into my balcony by the paper boy.  And my first hour of this new found day of hope was spent pouring over the following:

i)  Bus hits wall of the flyover and tumbles down 20 feet.   40 injured but no one dies. (the reporter almost sounded apologetic for this!)

ii)  Floods swamp Dhemaji district in Assam.  Thousands marooned and rendered homeless (this was in page 9, deep inside, so that nobody notices it but I did.  I can smell any news from Assam from a mile away!)

iii)  LeT's prize recruit - man behind 26/11 apprehended (the way LeT is recruiting, it is not far from being the top Head Hunter in India-and see the performance of all its recruits!  The best in the industry! At another angle, this is the 26th man we have apprehended as the man behind 26/11. May be 11 more remain to be apprehended)

iv)  Another scam, this time in rice procurement.  Ex-Minister under the scanner. (It's high time newspapers designated an exclusive  page for scams and scandals, like page 4 or page 5, so that all can have a daily quick update without rummaging the entire paper.  It would also help if they give a daily update on the cumulative value of the scams daily, from the beginning of each financial year, so that we can be spared of having to sum up the swindle on a daily basis to find out if they have exceeded 50% of India's GDP or more)

What a way to start the day!  If one can digest all the above during his first waking hour of each day, hats off to him.  But some newspapers really care for souls like me and throw in some comedy pieces also in between.  Sample below:

i)  Prime Minister positive that the economy would turn around before September and our growth rate would again reach double digits!  (The growth rate may or may not reach double digits but the number of our learned economists and finance ministry officials who have projected varying rates ranging any where between 6% and 12% has reached double digits within the last one month!  Our Met department has a serious rival in economists in forecasting!)

ii)  Paes won't partner Bhupathi.  Bhupathi won't touch Bopanna with a barge pole.  Bopanna won't care a hoot for  Vishnu Vardhan    and Sania would not partner with any one (these MCPs, when will they learn?).  And we will surely win a couple of medals in tennis in the Olympics, says the Sports Ministry.

iii)  Monsoon has failed so far but it will rebound, says the Met dept. (rebound on 1st May, 2013?)


But if you are game to searching for a needle in a haystack, or for one bright spot in a man's morning, you would have noticed the following too in the papers.  In fact, right on Page 1, wonder how I missed the brightest, most cheerful news bit of all!  Enough to cast aside the horror and comedy pieces and look forward to the day.  Here it goes:

Pranabda set to become President.  North Block to get a new occupant.

That's enough for me, Pranabda, you made my day!  To get rid of peril, the best course would be to nominate that peril for Presidency.  That way, you kill two birds with one stone - the peril becomes the President and thus vanishes, and the President could cause no more peril to the country.  That is, provided, he can or be allowed to do anything at all, other than hasten our bankruptcy by emptying the coffers on tours to Rwanda, Bosnia and Guinea-Conakry, with full family in tow, for improving bilateral ties!

P.S.  Lest some one conjure up any bright idea of suing me for 'slander' above, here is the disclaimer:  Conditions apply!  This does not purport to depict anyone living or dead and is entirely borne out of imagination.  (Wish it were really so!)

us vs US

Twenty years back, there used to be three places in Chennai where one can always spot long queues-the ration shop, cinema halls and the US consulate.  Ten years back, the number shrunk to two-cinema halls and the US consulate; Today, there is only one- the US consulate.

 No one buys anything from ration shops now as, even the reds would admit, people have grown wealthy over the years and the prospects of  patronage for such ration shops looks bleak, unless they start selling Tasmac spirits.  So is the case with picture halls, what with the yesteryear artificial scarcity of three shows per day giving  way to thirty per diem, with the mushrooming of multiplexes.

The US consulate is entirely a different thing - where demand perpetually exceeds supply.  The spectacle of queues one witnesses every morning outside a capitalist bastion ironically sports a communist colour - where even the high and mighty, the well-heeled and wealthy must also step out of their sedans, sweat it out in the heat, bear with a grin the ignominy of a thorough frisking and stand waiting on the  platforms - sorry sidewalks!  Next to death, it is the allure of the US visas which treats the princes and paupers alike.  Sceptre & crown must tumble down and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade - yes, as in death, so in the consulate queues!

There is a reason behind this.  If we, for a moment, remove our cloak of hypocrisy, neatly fold it and banish it to the inside of the wardrobe and look within, the reason would emerge. No other nation has contributed to modern society as much as the US has done.  About 80% of the modern scientific inventions are American.  An overwhelming majority of the Nobel prizes have been won by Americans.  No other country of the modern era has dominated a wide spectrum of sports like the US, consistently.  Space advancements have almost been  entirely American, despite occasional pretences from what once went by the name Soviet Union.  Film industry worldwide has always owed its existence only to the Americans. (The sheer number of genius Hollywood has produced!)  Their currency has consistently lorded over the world economy. But for their Zuckerbergs, the world now would be face-less.  But for their Steve Jobs and their Newtons, the fallen Apple would have merely been consumed without a second thought, digested and excreted and the world would have been gravity-less!    In short, but for the US twenty-first century might actually have not dawned at all! I know this is a bit 'konjam over' but you get my point all the same.

Brandname US is recalled for all the above reasons and also for many more.  It is still only in the US where you get respected for what you do and how well you do things than for what you are and what lineage you descend from.  It is still the only nation where there are no nationalities and folks from all nations seemlessly merge into one US nationality.  Personal freedom, liberty and privacy, concepts much bandied about but least seen here in our India, are taken for granted in the US.  Enterprise, hard work and caliber can take you places there. They also can, occasionally in India, provided they are accompanied by the right connections at the right places and a weighty caste certificate.

It is no one's case that the US is a land where milk and honey flows 24x7.  US also has crimes, unemployment, hunger and poverty. It also has had its depressing lows along with the amazing highs, over the centuries.  But how the lows are tackled in the US is what makes it command respect.  Terrorism is countered by tightened vigil and not by secular blabber.  Responses to natural calamities are characterised by speedy mobilisation of relief resources  and not by doling out 5 lacs to the next of kin of the dead., forgetting about it instantly and waiting for the next calamity.   Their law-making Senates witness debates, acrimonious for sure, but nothing of the tamasha and vulgarity we witness here in our 'largest democracy'.  US is a highly litigous state where if you sneeze you are sued and if you yawn you are sued but their case-disposal record is awesome.  Our courts can go, take a walk.  Their telephone lines work, their trains run on time, their ambulances arrive before the accident victims transcend the earth and  their police arrive within minutes of a crime scene. Here in India too things work, but sadly they make news if they do, unlike the US, where such mundane matters are not supposed to make news.

I am not a globe-trotter, not in my wildest dreams, and never will be.  But I have seen a fair bit of India.  Carping critics from all over India would devour  me if I have anything kind to say about the States.  The US, everyone loves to hate, specially in India.  And the herd of US bashers in India straddles across a wide spectrum-the communists to the secularists, the 'India's National newspaper' to the nukkad 'Nakkeeran'.  Everyone has a ball spewing venom on the US.  Everyone likes to hate the US.  Especially the political clan who would think nothing of flying to a US hospital with a large retinue of aides and family members for treatment of a flu at state expense but no sooner do they recover than they would launch a tirade on the 'imperialist forces' out to destabilise the country.  It does not shame us (if we have any sense of such a commodity left) to take pride in launching into intellectual debates on 'US authoritarianism and hegemony' when our entire progeny is safely esconced in some Boston or Texas, pursuing the great American dream.(my Bengali friends are renowned for this double standards).  We don't bat an eyelid while condemning the frisking our Khans have had to endure in their airports even as our own countrymen die in hordes in terrorist bombings.  

Why, our 'democratic' society does not even lift a finger when the tyranny of our  political class banishes even harmless cartoons that appeared some 50 years back in some nondescript publication! If ever, God forbid, such a circus happens in the US, I would then be convinced that doomsday has arrived on mankind -  of the civilised variety that is!

149, Big Street - where life started for us!

What is common between a Kamal Hassan and a Dr.Subramaniam Chandrasekar?  What thread binds together a W.V.Raman and an S.V.Ranga Rao?  What common platform could possibly a GNB and a Rt. Hon. Srinivasa Sastri have shared?  What magnetic legacy of 160 years could have been intertwined into the lives of  millions from Wichita to Washermanpet and Jacksonville to Jam Bazar? Proceed west straight from the Marina along Pycrofts Road, take a right turn into Big Street and to the left, the answer lies!  The Maha Vishnu of Triplicane, with the unassuming, staid nomenclature of Hindu High School.  

The red-brick edifice straddles history dating far back from what one can remember.  It has seen it all.  It has weathered it all.  It is older than the Indian National Congress, it predates the Mahatma's birth, it is living history.  All of 160 years and still going strong.  It was born when India did not have a single kilometer of railway line.  It was already thriving when trams were first  introduced in Madras.  It has magnificently  managed to survive the ravages of time, stood its ground despite the years and continues to gleam. It is Hindu High School.

It is more than a mere school, it was our life, larger than life.  The logic behind our current existence.  Our creator.  Our springboard to the magic called life.  Our alma mater!

I am privileged that I too am a part of that living history, however miniscule that part be.  I remember the main building in red that reminded many of the Andaman Cellular jail.  I remember the stage ground where the stage, which had hosted many a luminary, also doubled up as the lunch hall of the students. I remember also the Scout ground.  I marvel at the magic of the Hindu producing exceptional sportspersons without the luxury of a respectable play-ground.  I remember the big hall at the second floor where I was treated to film-shows once in six months, with RS exhorting us to 'rapt attention'.  I remember the crafts room with two big handlooms, where once a week we were herded to, to do but nothing but watch the man behind the handloom deftly alternating his left and right strokes.   I remember the gallery room where a diminutive bespectacled teacher took history classes for us in so absorbing a manner that convinced us that history is the greatest subject on earth.

And I do remember my teachers.  The lanky TG Rangachary, the Lord's 11th avatar himself in appearance , who descended on earth for teaching  Tamil.  TC Rangaswamy, class master of VI-D, cruel at times (he made me stand up on a bench for an offence I did not commit) but kind at heart (he, at times, also  made me class-leader).  The 'tincture' Subbarayan in class VII with whom too I had a violent one-way encounter (me, at the receiving end), the 'Gandhi Book centre' Arunachalam master who excelled in simplifying for us the working of  complex contraptions like the voltaic cell and ammeter, with the aid of the Tamil version  book, he always carried.  The gigantic ERS, who used to hold us by the scruff of our necks and bent us forward to slap our backs with the full force of his mega-palm. The affable STP, who introduced the abomination called calculus into our simple lives, in Class XI.   TRR and his elucidation of quantum mechanics with the allegory of sambar rice packets. And Seshan, always ready with his never-failing cure for insomnia in the form a drug called Botany...

And of course DR, the greatest of'em all.  Teaching the queen's English for us in Class XII. Cricket, we all love.  Cricket, we all have played with varying degrees of skill, in our lives.  But DR brought Neville Cardus straight to our classrooms.  "Cricket is a capricious blend of elements, static and dynamic, sensational and somnolent...." Profound, but eminently forgettable words, but they have stuck to my memory only  because of DR, who probably did not hold a bat in his hands ever in his life.  Such was his magic with English-teaching.  The magic that even the government apparatus had to take cognizance of - no wonder DR was awarded the best teacher in year 78, I believe.

The Hindu High School never aspired to be  the preferred destination for the high street folks and the well-heeled kids of Triplicane (not that there were many in theTriplicane of those years).  It never probably got 100% results in X and XII throughout its history.  It never ever bore any pretension of being the best school around.   It was a plain, unassuming, chalega type of school for those who did not have many monetary options or the inclination  to look for other better choices when it came to selecting a school. It was all very simple for us - if you are hungry, you have to eat, if it is 10 p.m. you have to hit the sack, if you are out of the montessary and maladhasary, you have to head straight to the Hindu, for class VI, as simple and natural as that.

At a personal level, it is only my stint in the Hindu that has shaped my identity, for whatever it is worth.  I still  retain the 'Webster English dictionary' I got as a prize from the school in class VII  and that tome has particularly served me well over a span of more than three decades. I still, with pride, leaf through the 'Purananootru chorpozhivugal', my first prize from the Hindu, though I have never managed to go through it in entirety, till day.  I still wonder why on that humid August evening, just after I collected my prize and exited the stage, a teacher came running back after me and admonished as to why I ignored the extended hand of the chief guest after he handed over the prize to me, did not shake it and just walked out.  I have tried to recollect that scene a hundred times but still do not remember seeing any proferred hand.  Me being sick with high fever that day notwithstanding!

Reminiscences spanning seven years cannot be capsuled into a seven para narrative.  It would be sacrilege to even try to do so.  I would attempt a separate series on the wonder that is Hindu perhaps at some later stage.  Before that, I would ensure I deserve to do so - like by attending the next annual day, for a start; like  by resolving (only resolving!) at least  to pay my mite back to the institution that has shaped me.  Like by marking my diary to be present at the stage ground 15 years hence (If I am still around) when my school would celebrate its 175th birthday.

Had my father had the influence and the moolah in 1976, I would have donated my way into a more hep school.  Had I had felt the necessity, I would have explored better schooling options.  I had neither.  And I am glad for that.  For destiny took me to the Hindu and I am none the worse for it. I opted for the Hindu or rather the Hindu was magnanimous to take me.  Whatever! Thanks the Hindu, thanks my alma mater!

Give and take policy-even for Balaji!

Karuppiah was always a contented traffic constable.  He never aspired to become an SI and climb up in life.  For he was aware of the wicked ways of the greedy, capricious human mind.  Once an SI, it sets its eyes on becoming an Inspector, once an Inspector, it does not let you rest till you become an Assistant Commissioner and every AC, in turn,  lives out the dream of becoming a DC.  Karuppiah would have none of it.  He is content with whatever life has bestowed him with.  He is a happy man with two children, the elder doing college and her younger sibling in polytechnic.  His basic is Rs.7200 and what with DA at 140%, subsidised accommodation at the police quarters, liveries twice a year and free travel pass, he does make ends meet. Life is not easy but then whose life is a breeze nowadays?

There is but only one thing on which Karuppiah does not compromise.  The daily morning beat at the Thousand lights traffic junction.  Always  obedient and subservient to his masters, he has always managed to curry favours with them and stick to that prized posting for years together.  On the rare occasions when he was assigned duty  at other places, he would beg, plead, cajole and threaten anyone who mattered, to cancel the order and revert to his original beat.  For that particular junction had a reputation of a minimum guaranteed return of Rs.800 each week day and Rs.300 on lean days. It is there for the taking but it requires a rare combination of endurance and intelligence to reap the harvest.  Endurance, because it means standing under the hot sun for at least six hours a day and intelligence, because he has to find some modicum of  violation of rules in even the staunchest among the law-abiders.  The goods vans he accosts might stick to the speed limit, have the perfect papers and a valid FC.  But our Karuppiah would still succeed in extracting at least Rs.50 from the driver on the pretext that the tail lamp is broken. 

 "But then this is broad daylight!" the driver may protest but Karuppiah would not budge..  

"With the same broken lamp, you might drive in the night", he would say.  

"No, I would not." 

 "Yes you did, just last night.  TN 22 Y 6279.  I do not forget a vehicle for one week if I spot it once.  Were you not speeding through  Pycrofts Road last night?"  

The driver would not be expecting this.  He would quietly dig into his pocket and fish out a tenner.  After three rounds of hard negotiations, Karuppiah would settle for 50/- and release the hapless driver.  And then laugh within himself.  For he knew that eight out of ten times, a goods van sporting the owner's address as '35, Oil Monger street, Zambazar' would be roaming the vicinity of Pycrofts Road every evening.  Karuppiah would be pleased at his quick-thinking and ingenuity.  But then he was never greedy.  After the daily collections hit the targeted amount, he would quietly withdraw to the corner tea-stall and rest under the shade.  'No more collection today', he would tell himself, 'what are you going to take with you when leaving this world?'

Rajasekaran did not particularly mean to fix Karuppiah for any reason. Neither was his scooter waylaid by Karuppiah any time whenever he passed through the traffic junction, nor had he any general dislike for  traffic constables.  No, it was not Rajasekaran's fault at all.  It was only Karuppiah's misfortune that on that particular Thursday, at 10 in the morning, Rajasekaran just happened to be waiting at the Aavin milk booth at the Whites Road - Mount Road junction for his friend, who did not turn up for the rendezvous.  Lord Saturn assumes many forms, unnoticed by ordinary mortals,  and for Karuppiah, He took the form of Rajasekaran's friend that day.  While waiting, Rajasekaran's eyes fell on Karuppiah doing his 'duty'.  The initial amusement turned into amazement, then to a slight sick feeling and ultimately after the expiry of 30 minutes, to one of plain anger. 

A little introduction on Rajasekaran.  He just finished his MA in Political Science at Presidency and no, he is not looking for a job.  In fact, he is not looking for anything.  He is an 'idealist', as he would frequently remind his friends, and would take pride in enjoying his freedom doing nothing, rather than grab an office job and be a 'slave' of some capitalist master.  The 'idealist' in him saw something wrong in everything happening around him.  He was convinced that the world is going to dogs and it fell upon the lot of people like him to salvage some vestige of hope.  He saw corruption everywhere around him.  Why, only the other day, the clerk at the University demanded 500 bucks for a provisional certificate! The gall!  Rajasekaran said 'go to hell' and did not collect the certificate. Not that it held much value for him.  One may ask how then the 'idealist' managed to eke out a living.  He had for a family, his aged father and an elder sister of marriageable age.  Ekeing out a living was absolutely no problem for him, for the father's pension and sister's salary from the IT Company she does the night shifts for, take care of that.  An 'idealist' like Rajasekaran could not be bothered with the day-to-day trifles of earning a living.  He is meant for higher things, like reforming the world and ridding it of corruption.  Yes, you are right, he normally is seen in a pyjama, kurta and a jolna bag, with thick glasses and a three-day old stubble. The kind one would normally spot doing the rounds of book shops selling Lenin and Karl-Marx stuff.

The trap he set for Karuppiah was something like this.  On that Thursday, with his blood boiling on seeing the grave deed of bribe-taking just before his eyes for the last half-hour, convinced that if he does not step in, this India would slip down to rank 131 from 130 in the corruption index, he proceeded straight to the Thousand Lights police station, even without meeting his friend.  He managed to meet the Asst. Commissioner there and narrated what he has been witnessing at the traffic junction.  The AC was in a foul mood that day, what with two processions slated to pass through his area that day with the prospect of completely throwing the peak-hour traffic into disarray.  Already life has become hell for him for the past two weeks, what with the one-ways and traffic diversions caused by the Metro work causing huge traffic-jams all through the day.  He had absolutely no inclination to accompany this jolna-bag wallah to Karuppiah's work-station at that time. Further, what exactly is the charge this fool is levying?  That Karuppiah is taking money from passing vehicles?  Why he himself has been doing this since time immemorial till he became an AC!  He has stopped now, but purely because there are other easier ways to earn.  Moreover, what harm can a small bribe-taker cause to the society?  

But something about the look and demeanour of Rajasekaran warned him not to take this human nuisance lightly.  For all he knew, he may be from the press with a hidden camera and a recorder. Images of 'Breaking News' from the TV played in his mind.  How the AC wished that the earth would be one day free of the press-people!  Life would be much easier for everyone!  And so, with great reluctance, he accompanied Rajasekaran to the junction, stood at a distance and started observing Karuppiah.  20 minutes passed.  He saw what he expected to see and Karuppiah did not disappoint him. Always the good cop that he was,   Karuppiah was in a collection spree, oblivious of the world around him  and Rajasekaran with a victorious 'I told you so' grin.  

In deference to Karuppiah's wishes, what happened thereafter would now be summarised in a few words.  He was caught red-handed even as he was pocketing the Rs.20 he just squeezed out of the scooterist without a helmet, departmental proceedings were initiated against him, the case went further up to the Deputy Commissioner in charge of the area and two days after a letter by Rajasekaran to the editor of the leading 'conservative' English newspaper  bemoaned the lackadaisical approach of the authorities in bringing to book a public servant caught in the act of looting the country, Karuppiah was suspended.  The enquiry is still on, at the moment of writing this (which is a good six months later) and the police circles say Karuppiah would be eventually dismissed from service.  

'There is still hope for this country because of the Rajasekarans',  the press said.  'Little bribes are the root-cause of big corruption', the intelligentsia expounded,  'The scourge of corruption has to be eradicated and the effort should start at the bottom - wiping out bribe-taking at the level of police constables and sarkari peons', the local ward councillor said in the last meeting.

Rajasekaran began to be increasingly noticed in the 'civil society'.  The local district lions club  invited him for their open meeting where Rajasekaran expounded on the evils of corruption eating at the very vitals of the society.  He gave a clarion call to all the educated to come out to the streets and wage a war against this evil.  'The crusade has just started', he roared and enjoined everyone to be a part of it.  After the speech, the secretary of the lions club presented a memento to Rajasekaran in honour of his meritorious service towards society.  The meeting ended with cocktails and dinner.

Meanwhile, Karuppiah's daughter was politely told by the private college principal to stop attending the classes because of default in payment of fees of two semesters.  She quit college mid-way and was last seen doing the 12 hour shift in the export-garments unit as a tailor.  Her brother in polytechnic faced uncomfortable questions from his teachers and other students about his father's evil ways and he too one day quit, not to return to the class.  A post-card written by him to his sister informed that he is now in Bangalore, employed in a restaurant as a waiter and that he is well and no one need worry.

And purely by chance, did two people from Chennai got down from the bus at Tirumala, the abode of Lord Balaji, on a Purattasi Saturday and proceeded towards the Vaikuntam Queue complex together for the Darshan. Neither knew the other.  They reached the enquiry counter and were informed that it would take 52 hours in the Dharma Darshan queue.  

'How fast in Rs.50 queue?'

'24 hours'

"And in the Rs.200 queue?'

'may be 8 hours'

Disappointment engulfed both.  They had to return to Chennai very fast. At this moment, the man behind the clerk said, "Buy Rs.500 tickets. You can have the Darshan within 3 hours".  

For both, Rs.500 was a big burden.  A nerve-wracking dilemma played out in their minds.  'To take or not to take?'  They had come all the way with some purpose.  That of pouring out their grief before Balaji and pleading for deliverance from their troubles.  And finally they decided to take the bait.  Bought the 500 bucks ticket, had the micro-second fleeting Darshan within 3 hours and emerged out with the burden of their hearts considerably lightened.  Both were satisfied and were positive that the Lord would answer their prayers.  If faith can move mountains, what to say of these two mere mortals?

Before the story ends, one of the two was the wife of Karuppiah, having traversed 170 kms to implore the Lord to give her spouse his job back.  The other was the father of Rajasekaran, having endured the same travails to invoke Balaji's blessings for his son to get a job. Both had a purpose.  Both had their appointments with Balaji.  And both came out satisfied, sure that their prayers would be answered.  And answered they would be, for sure. Why not?  For both had paid their speed-money of 500 bucks to the Lord!

Flash backs, in gaeva colour!

Now who was the bloke who famously uttered, "the true tragedy of a routinely spent life is that its wastefulness does not become apparent till it is too late"?  Sure, there are couple of things about this statement that can be disputed.

For one, is a 'routinely spent life' a tragedy?  Why, I would rather have that tragic experience any day, if the alternative is a 'not-so-routine' life of adrenaline-pumping excitement.  'Wastefulness?'  - Is not in the long term everything wasteful, as in the long-term all are very dead?  Even so, for many, the so called wastefulness does become apparent before it's too late but they are simply unable to do anything to alter the course life has chosen to take on its own!

From my routinely spent life so far, I have tried to pick out a few moments, a random selection of  memories.  Memories that keep coming back, memories that never fail to light up the mood. Memories, not of wastefulness, but of the joy of life!

Like the memory of that moonless night spent in the sea-shore with a few friends in a Mahabs resort, a few years back.  The din of the roaring waves, the black limitless expanse  of the sea, a star-spangled sky, heady breeze hitting the face and  velvety sand.  For this setting to be romantic, the company of a girl is not a necessity.  Loneliness can be the best company.  If that is demanding a bit too much, a couple of friends will do.

Like the memory of the visit to Darjeeling two decades back for two bone-chilling days of January.  Again with long-lost friends.  Two days of misty mountains, the fleeting glimpse of Kanchenjunga, meeting with an elderly director of the mountaineering institute who had actually summitted Everest, the hospitality of a kind family,  the ride in the toy train,  the group photo with the TTE, the overnight ride in the 'rocket' bus from Calcutta to Siliguri....

Like the memory of dark evenings at Kasba Kalibari.  The secluded hill-top temple an hour from Agartala.  The dancing priest performing aarti to the background of conch and cymbals.  The watch-tower enveloped in perpetual darkness.  Comfortable arm chairs in the sit-out.  The coke bottle in hand.  Again a good friend for company.  The sight of trains crawling across the Bangladeshi plains far down the hill.  The barbed wire fencing, no-man's land on the other side, BSF jawans going about their business...

Like the memory of popcorn smell pervading Fame cinema's lobby in Calcutta's South City Mall.    Of the Sunday morning 9 o'clock shows.  Of the company of the best of Hollywood and Bollywood for the next three hours.  Of the small coffee-corner in a nook inside the book shop in the mall.  Of the temerity to spend  an entire half-a-day inside the air-conditioned confines of the mall with just Rs.70/- (60 bucks for the morning show and 10 for the brew) buying nothing but happiness....

Like the memories of countless Saturday night shows in Chennai with another movie freak.  Of heading straight to the K.K.Nagar house of a friend at midnight, after the show.  Of unending discussions and arguments till day-break.  Of the 2 a.m. tea at the road-side stall...

Like the memory of the picnic at a resort near Vasai a year back, with office colleagues.  Of the gallons of liquor consumed.  Of the swimming pool. Of the animal farm nearby.  Of that memorable ride back in the Virar fast....

Or like the memory of 15th July, 1996 on a humid Wednesday afternoon at a Coimbatore hospital, when someone handed over 2.50 kilograms of a bundle of joy to my hands.  Of brittle bones, long limbs and a terrified face.  Of an inexplicable pot-pourrie of emotions....

Life may be routine. But it need not necessarily be one of wastefulness. Life may seem uneventful but still full of events that, looking back, never fail to make you want to get into a time-machine and travel back to those memories. Life may be quiet and calm. No disturbance.  Just routine.  Mundane.  But during the course of each such 'wasteful' life, there do come several missed calls.  It is up to you to spot the missed calls and call back and connect to happiness! Ignore the missed calls and you end up ignoring life itself.  

But I am no Dickens!

Here I am, sitting before the PC, mind as blank as the screen in front.  A hundred insane thoughts swirl around my head but I can't catch hold of any single one to give shape to.  An hour passes, still not a single click on the key-board.  I get up in frustration, go out and have a smoke. Hoping against hope that miraculously a straw will float by to clutch, while drowning.  An idea to grasp furiously and work upon.  It's already an hour since I logged in.  I have seen worse nights and each one feels like the previous one was better.  The tidal wave of hopelessness drowns me as I plunge  deeper and deeper into the abyss...

Here I am, trying to conceive a post for my blog.  I curse myself for bringing about this self-inflicted misery.  No one forced me into this.  Neither is this an exam paper to be finished off in three hours.  Then why this pursuit of madness?  I realise why,but too proud to admit it.  It is that demon called 'ego'.  That inflated sense of one's greatness.  Once upon a day, by chance and fluke, you managed to put together 1000 words, neatly divided into paragraphs which collectively made passable reading.  You  gave it a grandiose title (after wracking the mind for another one hour), posted it in cyberspace, linked it to a couple of other sites, took a deep breath and waited.  The wait produced a response or two, a couple of comments and likes from a little circle and presto, you think you are the next Booker winner. Ah that ego!  Its trail of destruction is legion.   

But coming to think of it, any one can dish out readable prose.   It is only a matter of putting on paper (or the monitor) the first few words.  The beginning.  Because unless the beginning is arresting and captivating, the middle and the end, for whatever they are worth, have a fat chance of being read.  So here I am, like a constipated soul, still searching for those magical first words.  But how were some of the more famous first words created?  What went through the writer's head before the first words popped out?

"Howard Roark laughed"

Simple, unassuming line.  Nothing sensational.  Not very prolific or profound either.  But they do make you go to the second line.  Mission accomplished.  Perhaps the best three words that made the world sit up and take notice of Rand.

"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether than station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show"

And show they did.  In typical victorian elegance.  This fable is the favourite child of Dickens from among his many works and they say it is almost autobiographical.  Now how many hours would Dickens have suffered before conjuring this opening line?  Open to conjecture.  Even if he did suffer the writer's mental block his Micawberish hope ultimately prevailed and David Copperfield was born.

"The stranger came early in February, one wintry day, through a biting wind and a driving snow, the last snowfall of the year, over the down, walking from Bramblehurst Railway station, and carrying a little black portmanteau in his thickly-gloved hand."

Ugh, pretty lengthy stuff.  But the tone is set for the rest of the work and already an eerie feeling of being watched by invisible eyes engulfs the reader.  H.G.Wells was, in the opinion of many, too ahead of his times.  His Invisible Man certainly was.  It is not exactly of the mystery/horror genre but the protagonist manages to evoke mixed reactions from the audience. He sure was the hero, at times invoking sympathy and at times hatred.  Some how, reading the work again, Johnny Depp comes to my mind.  His portrayal of a gangster in Public enemies  beautifully approximates the invisible man.

"It was a cold October morning in Paris and even colder for a man about to be executed by the firing squad"

You guessed it right.  The master of suspense's  famous first lines brilliantly sets the tempo for the rest of 300 pages of top-quality stuff.  The Day of the Jackal set the standards for what would eventually be called 'Forsyth' class.  Does it appear this opening line took two days for him to compose?  Not a chance.

So it all boils down to the opening lines.  And here I am, still in search of that elusive combination of first words that would persuade the reader to go right up to the last ones.  Yes, the last ones too do matter.  After all, who can forget "after all, tomorrow is another day?"

May be, I should log off and wait for another day for that stroke of inspiration.

Chronicles of a hate diary

The showdown

'Cool it', I told myself, 'this is not the first time and certainly not the last.  This too shall pass....'

But his rant was continuing, showing no sign of ceasing.  The language being used, seamlessly transcending  one level of abuse to the next higher.  A rant bereft of any logic or reason, bordering on absurdity and abuse.  'Has he lost his mind?  Which fool made him a General Manager?...'  I had long since stopped paying attention to his volley of abuse.  I tried to distract myself with the other inhabitants of the room and lazily looked around.  There were two other departmental heads in the room, sitting with their eyes lowered.  One seemed genuinely pained.  The other just wore a 'couldn't care less, have seen it all' countenance.  'The bastard is surely enjoying the tamasha', I muttered under my breath about the former.  I knew for sure.  We two never got along, never managed to penetrate the veneer of faked respect for each other.  About the latter, well, he is just a poor lamb ever willing to offer his neck for sacrifice.  The very mention of the boss's name sent shivers down his spine.  He really now could not care less  since for once he is not at the receiving end of the vulgarity that went by the nomenclature 'boss' in front of us. With a serious face, ready to break into a sob, he slowly raised his left hand to scratch his forehead.

That was the precise moment the file was thrown at me.  In hindsight, I can say that 'the vulgarity' probably did not mean to, but all the same the file did traverse a parabolic path to land at my feet.  "So this is your compliance report?", the voice bellowed, "so you think you can take me for granted? who do you think you are? Dekhe nebho tumake".  I knelt down to pick up the file.  Papers strewn around as if caught in a gale were also picked up one by one, as I took my time doing so.  Even as I was at it, the cheap double headed ball point pen dropped from my shirt pocket.  Picked up that too.  Picked up my fallen ego as well.  Picked up my embarrasment as well,  of having been stripped naked before strangers.  The humiliation was complete. The rape was consummated.   A sickening feeling engulfed me.  There was a momentary deafening silence. The small diminutive human form before me sunk into his plush leather chair, its eyes raised, staring at nothing.

There are moments in life when you steadfastly refuse to retaliate despite extreme provocation.  Most of the time, at least in my case,  those are the very moments when you fail in your resolve.  Ego takes over reason.  Caution is thrown to the winds.  That was when I blurted out,

 "Sir, if you can't stand me, better get rid of me".

He was aghast. Didn't expect this, definitely.

 "What?"

"You heard me".

"You have the gall to ....."

"Sir, enough.  Let's not aggravate this further"

"Yes, let us not.  I will grant your wish.  I will get rid of you,  I will transfer you to the farthest corner of the country" (In my sarkari bank, that's the worst punishment that can be meted out, for no boss worth his salt can sack you, unless you are convicted of murder).

"Please do, Sir!".

Brave words!

I stormed out, without so much as 'by your leave'.  I managed to catch a glimpse of the 'genuinely pained' among the duo as I was leaving.  Thought I saw a fleeting image of a smug face valiantly trying to suppress a grin. 'Good bye, fatso! I made your day', I thought. 'But mine will come too!'  Brave thoughts, again.

I descended the twenty odd steps from the fifth floor to my office at the fourth, didn't enter the office but took the foyer directly to the rear block.  The toilet blocks, the 'official' smoke zone, are situated there.  Pulled out a cigarette and lit it.  Inhaled deeply.  'The bastards', I fumed, 'The bastards'.  The fag seemed to steady my nerves a bit.  I knew it was an illusion.  As all things are, in this life.  A make-believe.  A mirage, beyond which there is only a long expanse of scalding sand.

'What now?'

'Brave words, but what else?'

'Mohan, your big mouth has always been your enemy,' a voice reminded. 'Nah, you did the right thing..' another told.  'For how long, can you bear?'

A thousand thoughts were swirling around the inside of my cranium. The burning tip of the cigarette inched closer and gently touched my fingers.   I flicked away the butt and started walking back towards my office.  The foyer was dark and most of the folks had already left.  I reached my department, pulled open the door, entered the hall and went, as if on a trance, straight to Rahul's desk and parked myself on a seat before him.  Rahul was my immediate junior by hierarchy, in the department.  He was busy, immersed in a file. I called for his attention.  He looked up and no sooner he did so, than I vomitted out the whole thing.

Rahul was aghast.  He could not believe.  Because he knew how spiteful the monster above his head on the 5th floor can be.

'Mohan, how can you be so foolish?'

'I know. And I am prepared.'

'For what, any idea?  You know what he can do to you?'

'Of course I do.  He can't cut off my head.  Any thing else he might do is no  big deal to me!'

'Don't be foolish.  Apologise. Now.'

I couldn't believe my ears.

  'Apologise?  My foot!'

'Mohan, you must.  For your sake and for all our sake.  Go and apologise.'

I flatly refused.  My ego, by then, was far too inflated to even consider the possibility of apology. By this time, every soul in the 4th floor got wind of what transpired at the 5th floor and one by one streamed in and soon there was a crowd around me, some genuinely sad, some not so, but all relishing the scandal.  A junior executive saying 'balls' to a General Manager?  Well, that was novel.  I felt like a monkey with a garish red cap, tail tethered to a long rope and performing tricks on the road side, at the beck of the master, amidst a crowd that laps up every moment.  Suddenly I needed to be alone, but at the same time not exactly letting go of the opportunity to be the cynosure of all eyes.  Free advice was pouring from all quarters.  All advocated apologising.  The chorus got louder and louder and I could no more think clearly.  At some point, it appeared that all the counsel emanating from around me made sense.  'Perhaps I should apologise'.  'okay, he was unreasonable but mine was no way to talk to a senior boss....'

As if in a trance, I jumped out of my seat and started towards the stairs .  Without allowing any thought that might even remotely goad me to retrace my steps, I climbed the stairs to the 5th.  Within a minute found myself again outside his office chamber.  His secretary was long gone.  I gently tapped on the door.  I heard no response from the inside.  Gently pushed open the door.  He was there, for sure.  Seemingly lost in a file in front of him.  Alone.  There was no sound in the room, except for the sound bytes of the anchor from CNBC TV18 that was on in the big plasma TV at one corner.  

TV: ' ...the economy, according to the expert, is overheated and the bubble may burst any time...'.

Me:  'Excuse me, Sir.'

He:  ...........

TV:  '......taking calibrated measures to bring down inflation by a mix of monetary and fiscal......'

Me:  'I am sorry, Sir.  My comments were not appropriate.  I came to say sorry.....'

He: ............

TV:  .'......not responding to rate cuts.  He said it is mainly supply constraints that .......'.

Me:  'I say sorry again, Sir.'

He:  'Alright'.

TV:  '.....strong policy action would be seen in the coming........'.

Without any idea of how to end this awkward conversation, I left the room and trudged back to my office a floor below.  I could not guess how the apology episode went and what effect it might produce, though I had a premonition of how this would all turn out.  Hell hath no fury than a proud GM scorned....

The aftermath

I was not disappointed with my prognosis.  The retribution came thick and fast.  In a system notorious for its lethargy and red-tape, my transfer order created a record of sorts.  It was conceived, issued and executed within two hours!  The A4 size paper that fell on my desk consigned me to a distant town in the North East, to be released immediately, for 'administrative reasons'.  No particular reason for the man above choosing that specific town.  Its name just struck him probably.  Or may be in his mind that was the farthest place he could think of. There were branches of our Bank even farther to the east, like Dibrugarh, Tinsukia and the like but the issuer of the order could be excused for glossing over those finer options because his knowledge of the geography of India was nothing much to write home about.

Any way, here I was that fateful night, packing my spartan treasures to catch the morning flight to my new destination.  I felt assailed by emotions of all hues.  I had long since lost the ability to objectively analyse the situation.  I did not know who to blame and how to wriggle out of this awful mess.  The transfer per-se was not bothering me, what with having seen at least one cross-country relocation at an average of every 3 years.  I  suddenly realised what was troubling me.  It was not the physical hardship of transfer but the humiliation that preceded it.  It was not  the fear of the unknown but the perverse system that smothers dissent.  And the tyranny of the bosses such a system spawns.  A gut-wrenching emotion of hatred and vengeance filled my entire body.  'What did you say, dekhe nebho?  Well, wait and see you wretch, ebar aami dekhe nebho.  Onek dekhechi, ebar dekhabo..'

Time flew by.  Nothing much changed for me, except the work place.  A new place, a new set of challenges, a new home ( if a 10 x 10 brick and mortar enclosure within which confines one can spend depressing night after night to one's heart's content can be called a home) and above all new friends.  Every half empty glass is also half full and the love and warmth of the people in and out of office I received during those 10 months alleviated the pain to a large extent.  Other 'essential' commodities to help while away time were also not in short supply there.  Yes, time flew.  And one fine day, the fax machine to my left in the office rang and spewed out another A4 sheet.  The ring was music to my ears and the message, just god-sent.  'S.Mohan..' it said, '.....transferred to Kolkata Head Office...'

So back to Amar Sonar Kolkata.  I got out of the airport, parked myself comfortably in the rear seat of  the Amby prepaid taxi and was taking in the sights.  The madness of VIP road traffic, the blue tin-box buses with the stepney tied to the rear, pedestrians coolly darting across the road with a raised arm, bringing the traffic to a screeching halt (the bongs succeed where King Canute failed.  They can even stop the waves of the sea, what to say of traffic?).

As I recount this tale, I still have no idea of how on earth they transferred me back to the same building from where I was unceremoniously ousted just 10 months back.  I did  not want to delve into what might have happened.  By some unexpected stroke of good luck here I am back, and that is what matters.  The old Kolkata routine has returned.  Leaving home by 8, catching the share auto from Lords Bakery to be comfortably in time for the 8.23 metro leaving Rabindra Sadan, the leisurely walk from Esplanade to the Dacre's Lane corner for that hot cuppa for Rs.3 and a further short walk to the imposing 16 storey edifice a block away.  No change in the routine and one doesn't really yearn for any change in Kolkata because for most Calcuttans change is an unnecessary, over-hyped concept.  If it is not broke, do not mend it!  Cholche evam cholbe.  

The finale

I am now in a different department, reporting to a different boss.  Once in a while, I run into my old pal in the 5th floor, hardly acknowledging each other.  For me, he was still the same old vain & mean bully and in his eyes, I was probably worse.  I was now and then hearing stories of what could be probably the reasons for my return from limbo to the same old lion's den.  Some said the old boss was not what he was earlier and now much mellowed.  Others said no, he opposed my re-transfer but could not do much against the HR.  I did not want to hear any of this and preferred to keep my own counsel and a very low profile.  Nothing has changed and nothing will, in this office, I had decided. Cholche, cholbe.  Jemon cholchilo, themonei cholbe.....

Until January 31 arrived.  It was just another late winter day.  The same routine of auto, metro and cuppa for me.  Nothing sensational also expected at the work desk.  Just the routine.  No fireworks, no nothing.  For me.  But for the other 800 odd inhabitants of the building, it was a momentous, poignant day.  For this was the day Big B retires.  After 36 years of blemishless service, with no charge-sheet or letter, at least till yesternight.  ( much can happen in the last day of service, the most common being issue of charge-sheet).  Big B retiring!  who would believe? Does God ever retire? For the old-timers, he was age-less and legendary.  His quirks of anger and short temper were the stuff legends are made of.  'Kintu lokta khub bhalo,' they would say, meaning 'but he was a nice man'.  Every one is 'bhalo' in kolkata and in our bank in particular.  It does not matter if you are efficient in work or otherwise, being nice is one quality that always prevails over other traits.  

The farewell was at 6 p.m.Collections were made for the farewell gift.  A notice was circulated asking all to be present for the farewell. As it struck five, work was wound up.  A steady stream of men was seen proceeding towards the venue hall, which happened to be situated in our floor.  By 5.30 all offices were empty.  By 5.45, Rahul too was leaving.  As he passed my desk, he asked me when I am coming.  

'I am not coming,' I told, trying to be as cool and smug.

'What?'

'I am not coming.  As you heard'

I knew that only a sick mind would harbour grudges even at the time your tormentor leaves for good.  But I had a vicarious pleasure in doing what I was doing.  My presence or absence in the farewell would not even be noticed, I knew, so it really made no difference.  Nevertheless, it gave me an odd sense of victory. 'You kicked me out?  Now I boycott your farewell.  From tomorrow, you will be no more in this institution while I will be around for many more years'.  I suddendly had visions of him coming to my branch for drawing pension.  I make 100 enquiries.  I ask him to fill up 50 forms.  Make him wait for 2 hours.  And then say 'come next week'.  The next week I again make him wait.  Finally release the pension papers.  And then politely ask him to stand in the queue and collect the pension. Month after month, year after year....I was enjoying the reverie.  I was completely oblivious to time.  An hour passed and then two.  I could now hear a slight commotion outside. Ah, yes, the farewell has ended.  A great career has ended.  The great man takes a final walk out.  'Good riddance', I thought.

Before winding up, I decided to go to the rear smoking block.  It was already eight and the pathway was dark, as they put out all unnecessary lights after six.  I reached the service elevator at the back and leaned on the stairs' railing.  A chill winter breeze was blowing through the open window.  Red Cross place was shining with sodium vapour illumination.  In the distance, I could see the old Howrah bridge and beyond that, faint lights near the railway station, shimmering through the light mist that had begun to envelope.  I did not hear the sound of shoes descending the steps from the 5th behind me.  I was lost in the sights afar and in the cigarette in my fingers. A hand tapped my shoulder.  I turned.

" Have matches?"  It was him.  I passed on the match sticks.

He took out a cigarette from his coat pocket, lighted it and inhaled deeply.  And let out the smoke slowly in a thin stream.  For about a minute, neither spoke.  I was staring at my shoes and he at the ceiling.  As an afterthought, he inhaled again, turned to me and said

'Mohan, kemon acho, how are you?'

'I am fine Sir, thank you'

'Everybody fine in your family?'

'Yes sir. By the way, sorry I could not come for the farewell, I had to suddenly rush to a hospital to see a friend...' I stopped mid-sentence, ashamed at my own lie.  He did not seem to pay heed. After another minute, he spoke.  My cigarette was long finished.

'I am sorry, Mohan.  I should not have done that.'

'......'

'I regretted for a long time after you were gone.  I have this wretched habit of hurting people and regretting later  and I do not know why.'

'That's okay sir.  It was after all, my mistake that day'

'May be.  May be not.  That's not the point.  It can't be undone now.  But the wound can be surely healed.  At least we can part as friends'

Another minute of graveyard silence.  And then he tossed down the cigarette and extinguished it with his boot.   And then extended his hand.  We shook.  He turned back and started climbing the stairs.  One last time, he turned again towards me and said," I wish you all the best, Mohan. Farewell."  And then he was gone.

I always used to carry a small journal in my bag.  In it were recorded the events of last year, the tiff, the abuse, the thrown file, the fallen pen, the apology, the transfer, the hatred, the craving for vengeance, all in vivid detail.  All the smallest happenings that caused distress and misery during the last year were religiously captured in that journal.  It had become a habit for me to flip through the pages every other day and re-live the misery, recapture the agony.  It had become a painful disease.   As I was returning home that day, after the five minute walk to the Esplanade metro, just before entering the station, I stopped, yanked out the journal, shredded it into pieces and flung them into the nearest garbage bin.  I suddenly felt lighter and much happier. For one, who had borne the cross of revenge and grudge out of his own volition for a year and who found not a single happy moment to record in his journal of hate during those 12 months, it was a huge, liberating fling!