Faces From My Past: The English Teacher

“I fall upon the thorns of Life, I bleed,” he would recite in his trademark fashion. 

The victorious demeanor as he pronounced these words would baffle me.  Was it evidence of love he had for the English Language and its vast body of literature, or was it an expression of pride at knowing so much?

A short, dark man of slight, almost scrawny build, Mr.Ramachandiran M. a Tamil Brahmin in service of the Royal Bhutan Education, was posted at Punakha High School. That he was an MA in English and had a distance M Phil in Phonetics was impressed upon his students time and again amidst stories and anecdotes.  He had a distinctive gait of short steps, slightly favoring his right leg.  His face would bear a look that could have been construed as either borne out of disdain or maybe constipation.

The first class I attended of Mr. Ramachandiran was in the ninth standard. He started off with Milton’s “On His Blindness”.  The distinction between Petrarchan sonnets and Shakespearian sonnets, words like octet and sestet, the iambic pentameter, had us all spellbound. We would scribble down in our notebooks whatever information trickled down from his lips.  However as time went by, John Milton spread his wings so wide that by the time we finished ’On His Blindness’, we also came to know of Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. 

“Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n.” he would invoke in his nasal drawl.

 

The fascination for this extra learning was soon lost among the students. There was indignation among the pupils and more so because most of the lecture would be directed at the first few benches in the middle of the class. The seating arrangement in the classrooms consisted of three columns, the two outer ones seating the boys and the central column populated by the girls of the class. The smartest and prettiest girls of the class occupied the front row of seats. It was this portion of our class that would seem at times the object of the complete extent of Mr. Ramachandiran’s pedagogy.

We as a class were not at our best in terms of English pronunciation at that time. Mr. Ramachandiran would look with contempt at a student for his faulty pronunciation and rectify him. Taking a piece of chalk he would write the word on the black board in bold letters…

T    A    B    L    E  

Then, brushing the chalk powder off of his fingers, he would say with a smug countenance,

“It’s not pronounced /tabʌl/,”

“It’s /ˈteɪb(ə)l/.”

Then he would scribble again on the black board

B    O    T    T    L    E  

“Now tell me how to pronounce this?” he would call out names and ask.

Clueless about what he is expecting, each of us would stand up and try to pronounce the word in a different way. Often some such outrageous pronunciation would draw laughter from everyone else in the class.

“It’s /ˈbɒt(ə)l/,” he would declare at the end of it, bidding the standees to sit down with a dismissive gesture that seemed more like forgiveness of the sin of wrong pronunciation.

The funniest one was however the difference in the sound of ‘TH‘ in the words ‘There’ and ‘Theory’. He would demonstrate,

“Place your finger on your throat.  Feel the difference while saying these two words. You will see that the “TH” in “There” is accompanied by more vibration in the throat. This sound is called Eth.  ‘TH’ in ‘Theory’ lacks this buzzing in the throat.  Otherwise the tip of the tongue touches the same point on the upper palate for both the words.  This silent counterpart of the ‘Eth’ sound is called ‘Theta’”

Half of the class would start feeling for vibrations in their throats and the naughtier ones would start making cacophonous sounds and finally break out into giggles. Others would simply gape in amazement at the person in front of the class. Mr. Ramachandiran, having successfully completed this phonetic demonstration would look at the first benchers in front of him and soak in their admiring glances. If one of the girls happened to ask any question or doubt, he would simply melt over. In his eagerness to impart all that he knows, our English teacher would go through the entire length and breadth of Phonetics to impress them. John Milton or William Shakespeare would be disregarded and only the period bell would bring him out of this spell. He would then wrap up with a satisfied expression on his face and leave the class room.

Thus went our four years of English lessons with Mr. Ramachandiran, as he took us from sonnets of Milton to odes of Keats. From thence, hand in hand with “the winged Psyche with awakened eyes”, he took us where “two roads diverged in the woods”. There we followed Robert Frost as he took the road less travelled by. We reached the sunny valley where under the shade of a tree with William Wordsworth, we listened to the songs of the solitary reaper. We saw him as he “wandered lonely as a cloud” and came upon “a host of golden daffodils”. Coleridge lent us wings as we flew with the albatross over the ancient mariner’s ship and thence into the measureless tumultuous caverns of Kubla Khan’s Xanadu.

With Shakespeare we felt the pain of a love stricken Orsino as he proclaims music as the food of love. “All the world’s a stage,” we philosophized with Shakespeare, “and all the men and women merely players.” We went from partaking of Lord Byron’s opium induced dream where, “She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies,” to being blown away with the dry leaves of autumn, as Shelley’s ode invoked the West Wind.

In spite of his snobbery and the resulting displeasure he caused among his students, I have to admit that he stoked my passion to read. In spite of a school curriculum leadened by heavy syllabi, I sneaked in time to read anything that I could lay my hands upon. From Tinkle comics to the British encyclopedia, I read indiscriminately. Reading has since been a source of immense joy for me. It has always provided me the thrill and excitement that my heart longs for.

I remember Oliver Goldsmith’s ‘The Village Schoolmaster’. It’s funny that these lines seem so like our good old English teacher.

“While words of learned length and thund'ring sound
Amazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.”

Faces From My Past: The Young Help

I spent my early childhood in a small border town called Gomtu in southern Bhutan. It is known for its cement factories and cement export to India. It is a typical border town of Bhutan with a magnificent gate guarding its entrance. Designed in classic Bhutanese style, colored red in traditional dye, it had the national emblem, the peaceful dragon painted on it.

This gate had a permanent police outpost where everything that came in or went out was thoroughly verified and documented. Trucks laden with cement and other commercial goods would queue up in front of this gate and wait for hours for the verification to complete before they crossed over into India. I liked to spend my time observing these trucks and their occupants. Fortunately for me, we stayed in a small apartment in a building very close to the gate. Every afternoon, when my mom took her post lunch siesta, I would sit on the window sill, dangle my legs outside, press my face on the bars and babble at the passersby. When there was no one on the road, I would sit and stare at the tea garden across the barbed wire border fencing. I was three or maybe four years old then.

While awaiting border permit, the truck drivers and their helps would clean up their vehicles and check out the mechanics. I remembered many of the trucks by their appearance, owing to the regularity of their trips. There was one old truck, which seemed to me like a bald eagle. Its orange hood had the shape of an eagle’s beak. There was another which was a lustrous green with a red colored bumper. I called it ‘Mother Kali’ because it looked like the dark goddess with her blood thirsty tongue hanging out. I would eagerly await the arrival of this truck, it was my favorite.

My favorite truck was driven by a big man who wore patched khakis. He had a young help, a boy of twelve or thirteen, a lanky fellow with a mop of disheveled curly hair on his head and a boisterous sway in his gait. The boy would always be in exceptionally high spirits. He would sing out Nepali movie numbers at the top of his voice. He had a hoarse voice, but that did not stop him for singing. More than once his rasping cacophony had disturbed the peace in this little town and had drawn angry protestations from the nearby buildings. Nevertheless, this guy fascinated me no end. The energy around him, the enthusiasm he projected was infectious. He seemed, like a guy who has thrown all caution to the air, a free spirit who cannot be tamed.

But it was not always that he would be his happy self. The drivers and the other helper boys would make it a point to bully him. Being the smallest of the lot, he would be the butt of most of their jokes and more often than not, would be shoved around by the bigger boys. I still remember the day a fight broke out between him and a bigger guy. The older fellow threw him around like a rag doll and degraded him with foul language. But the little fellow kept coming back at him. His otherwise happy face contorted in indignation and hurt, with tears of anger and exasperation streaming down his face, he kept on throwing himself at the bigger guy, only to be pinned down again and again. I remember feeling distraught seeing the suffering of the little fellow. How I wished I could go out and help him in his fight.

I would watch him with rapt attention as he washed the truck or changed its tyre. He would effortlessly slide underneath the truck, to position a jack for hoisting the vehicle. He would then loosen the bolts from the tyre one by one, stomping on a long handled wrench. Finally he would unscrew the bolts and heave the wheel out of the axle. I would stare amazed at how the wiry little fellow would dexterously roll out the spare, heave it up into position, and screw the nuts. Then he would fix the wrench onto the nuts, hoist himself up onto its long handle and tighten the nut using his own weight. His lean figure standing atop the wrench with a distant look in his eyes is one of the most enduring images among my childhood memories.

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As I tighten the final screw on the spare tyre, I stumble upon this very dear memory from the past. We are returning from a party at a road-side dhaba. It’s completely dark on the highway. There’s wilderness on both sides of the road. The nearest habitation is nowhere in sight. It certainly is not the best of places to have a flat tyre.

As we resume our journey, I am reminded of the little guy with a mop of curly hair, standing atop a wrench with a distant look in his eyes. I never met him; I don’t even remember what they used to call him. Yet as I realize today, I had developed a kinship with him. There was a strong bond that lay somewhere, which united us both. It was as if we were dual manifestations of the same spirit. He was just an older manifestation of my own self.

Today he reminds me of Sinbad; hero of the high seas, the indomitable spirit of adventure standing atop the mast of his ship; his turban fluttering in the wind, his grizzled face grim, and his eyes searching the horizon for hint of land.

An Addiction Named Hampi

The white tendrils of smoke were spiraling up like graceful ballerinas in harmonious unison and then breaking into chaotic frenzy, as if soulful ballet had given way to mad stampede, and then finally petered away into the air.

As I watched the smoke rising out of the ash-tray, I wondered how long I had been following it. Was it ten minutes, an hour or two hours? To me it seemed like I had been sitting there for ages. It’s not that I wanted to leave, because I didn’t; I loved every moment of it. It’s not often that I get to ignore the watch and stop keeping track of time. I could sit there for ages more and watch cigarette smoke snaking out of the ash-tray.

I was lazing on the mattress at a food joint in Hampi. After a sumptuous meal of German schnitzel laid out on a low table in a courtyard that had been converted into a restaurant, I was trying to catch a nap right there. I was on a run-vacation to Hampi. Yes, you read me right; I had travelled to Hampi for a run. With a couple of friends that I had made on my journey, I had a blast of a time.

Go Heritage Runs, an initiative of GoUNESCO, arranges fun runs across heritage sites to build awareness and familiarize people with these sites and their rich heritage. Popularizing heritage sites goes a long way in garnering public attention and support towards their conservation efforts.

Personally it was a day of achievement for me, I had stretched beyond my perceived capability and completed in decent time, a twelve kilometer run that I had enrolled for. Five kilometers was the longest distance that I had run till the previous day. I had traveled to Hampi hoping to run six kilometers without stopping and then walk away the distance that remained. But I had doubted I could do that either, because a week earlier I had injured the sole of my right foot. There was a constant niggle, that I had managed to keep at bay by not running the entire week building up to the run. Thankfully, I did not feel any pain as I warmed up for the race early that morning. Not only did I reach my six kilometer goal, but I was so exhilarated that I stretched that to nine kilometers without breaking pace. It was at that point when the pain in my foot re-surfaced and I had to hobble over the remaining distance that was mostly unpaved road and rocky terrain.

The amazing weekend at Hampi had started with a hike up the Matunga hill, the day before the run. The summit provides a breath taking view of Hampi and the surrounding country-side. A world heritage site spread over an area of twenty five square kilometers, Hampi consists of remnants from the powerful ancient empire of Vijayanagar. Hampi was the flourishing capital of this colossal empire. The ruins strewn across the sites speak aplenty of the art, culture, lifestyle and majesty of this ancient capital. It is wonderful how rural life has thrived around these ruins over the centuries and how history has dovetailed itself into co-existence with the day to day lives of the locals.

Hampi is not only ruins and history. The country side is just as impressive. As we had experienced on our moped expedition across Hampi and adjoining Anegundi, the countryside is crisscrossed with rocky terrain and lush green cultivated lands. The unending Banana plantations add green vibrancy to the landscape in contrast to the brown color of the bouldery hillocks. And in the midst of this rivalry of colors, the Tungabhadra keeps flowing by.

I had been to Hampi before, and had seen it all. But this is not ‘all’ of Hampi. What attracts travelers to Hampi most is the slow rustic life. Time is not important in Hampi. The lure of a really laid back vacation attracts city dwellers like me. For once it had seemed that time had stopped. Where else in my busy life would I get to sleep in a cozy rustic shack, awake to the sound of chirping birds, zoom around the country side on a cheap rented moped, sit on a boulder beside a lake and pass the day away as listlessly as possible? Apart from this, the food shacks of Hampi are the meeting grounds for all sorts of foreign cuisine. Food is good, priced reasonably and what’s more, awesome to taste. The waiters never disturb you, unless you call them, and you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. If you still want more, join the jamming sessions that often happen in the evenings. Enjoy the music and feel one with the people of different creeds, colors and nationalities all around you.

To me Hampi had seemed like Neverland, where life was all play with little or no work. I had heard people saying that Hampi is an addiction. I had understood why they said so, as I had slipped into a slumber beside my lunch table.

Late in the afternoon, as I had set out on my return journey, I had looked back at Hampi and the beautiful setting sun and I had promised myself, “I will come back again and again and again”.

Yours Most Capriciously

I was reading up on the origin of the word ‘Capricious’. I had always known its meaning had something to do with goats. I found some sources saying it is derived from the Italian word Capriccio that means the spiny head of a hedgehog. However a large number of sources cited Capra meaning goat in Latin, as the etymological root for this word. The word capricious is used to mean whimsical, unpredictable behavior. I had never before observed goats too closely to know if they were really whimsical.

Group of young bucks caper at the fringes of a Tea Garden. 

So during a stroll in a tea garden, when I found these young bucks gamboling around, I spent some time observing and making pictures of them in their act.

The young white buck with the black mane in the pictures, I felt, was an embodiment of what the word capricious means. The restlessness it exhibited was so infectious, that within a span of a few minutes it had the other bucks capering to its tune.

The word ‘caper’ means light hearted skipping or dancing. The synonyms in common usage for this word are romp, gambol, cavort, prance, frolic, bound, spring. However it was interesting to know that the word caper also means ‘leap of a goat’.

The Goat is an intelligent animal. Its immense energy coupled with great agility makes it a powerhouse of activity. It is this restless energy that makes it so erratic and unpredictable. The goat is notorious for jumping and breaking fences. 

However it is not fair to say that this animal is always so restless. It is capable of very long spells of ‘meditative’ inactivity as well. The goats I found atop Bhongir fort during a recent visit, stood still on ledges and cornices of the huge granite hill as if under a spell. I observed these animals for over a quarter of an hour and none left station in that time. They seemed like guards on duty looking out for danger from the fort ramparts.

But this adventurous surefooted being has more things to its credit. The Goat has a sizeable contribution towards English language as well. In the Old Testament a goat used in the ritual of Yom Kippur (Leviticus 16) was symbolically laden with the sins of the Israelites and sent into the wilderness to be destroyed. Thence came the English word ‘Scapegoat’.

If you think that’s the end you are wrong. The word ‘Tragedy’ has its roots in ancient Greek where, ‘tragos’ means goat and ‘aeiden’ means a song. Brought together, Tragedy means, ‘Goat- song’.  In ancient Greece, a goat was given as a prize in a competition of choral dancing. Sometimes it was a goat around which a chorus danced prior to its ritual sacrifice.

Whoa! Is it not mind blowing?

Did you just feel like you got head-butted by a goat? Well I felt like that when I came to know all of this for the first time.

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A Bad, Very Bad Night...

The relentless buzzing of mosquitoes is driving me crazy. The pale yellow illumination in this dirty shithole of a room is not doing any good to my humor either. Even the old ceiling fan apart from its rhythmic creaking sound, has no meaningful contribution towards comfort. I am sitting on a bed that could have sent shivers down the spine of a corpse. Luckily, my wife was prudent enough to put a fresh bed sheet in my bag.

“Damn it,” a cry of exasperation escapes my mouth, as one of my dipteran tormentors sinks its stylet into the soft flesh of my thigh. In a fit of rage I swat hard to eliminate the intruder. The pain linked to the four red welts that develop instantaneously is little compared to the revengeful triumph I feel on seeing the smashed remains of the mosquito amid a splash of warm blood. That the mosquito coils placed all around the room and under the bed are ineffective is evident. On the contrary the fumes are making my eyes to pain.

The notes and scientific articles, I was studying for tomorrow’s interview, are lying beside me, desperately in need of attention. I need to go through these tonight if I have to make this trip meaningful.

Looking up, I find my own reflection on the huge mirror, bearing a worried look, sitting as if on a frying pan. I find the situation comic; my own haggard reflection my only friend in this stinking place on such a god forsaken night. I wonder what sort of crooked perversion makes someone to have an entire wall made into a mirror. In fact it had been the first of many shocks as I had entered this room.

_______________________________________________

An old well wisher of mine, a teacher at university had brought this opportunity to my notice. Though a Research Associate ship at the National Research Centre for Grapes would pay me much less than what I earn in my current job, it had the added attraction of the possibility to enroll for doctoral studies. If everything goes well tomorrow, I am sure to get this job; I have a very strong reference. This is why I am here tonight at Pune.

The NRC Grapes is located at one end of the city of Pune. The locality is called Manjiri, and it is famous for its grape and stud farms. It is basically a rural outskirt to the Hadapsar area of Pune. It is my first visit to this city and I must say it does not impress me. The scarcity of public transport is difficult to bear with, having stayed a long time in a city like Mumbai. It took me an hour to get into a bus from Pune station to take me to Hadapsar.

Although the interview is scheduled for tomorrow, I have come a day earlier. Mumbai is just a four hour ride away but I didn’t want to risk being unable to reach the venue on time. Assured of the location today, I was sure that a good night’s read would doubly ensure my success in the interview.

Having seen the location of the Research Centre, I had gone back to Hadapsar to find accommodation for the night. Hotels and lodges are very few in this area. To my surprise none of the hotels seemed to have any vacant rooms. The guy at the front desk in the first hotel had asked,

“How long are you going to stay?”

“Just the night,” I had replied.

“Come back after six in the evening,” he had said, dismissing me unceremoniously.

“So one of the rooms will be vacant after six? Can I book now, in advance?” I had inquired.

“Just come back after six,” the man had replied gruffly.

Miffed by his callous attitude, I had damned him and his hotel in my mind and left.

Amazingly, everywhere the story was the same.

“Come back after two hours.”

“Come after six.”

“We may have one, but it is occupied for the next hour.”

I was at my wits end trying to understand what sort of system these hotels had for guests checking in. It was four in the evening and I was still without a room. By now I was desperate to find a place. I took an auto back to Manjiri where I had seen a couple of hotels by the roadside.

“Hotel Holiday Inn”, the big signboard by the roadside had announced.

The place had looked good from the outside. In fact it had seemed kind of fancy and I was worried that it might cost me over my budget. Nevertheless, I had walked in through the main gate. There was a walkway lined with shrubbery leading to a small portico with a hanging sign that said “Reception”. A short way down the walkway, it branched off to the right leading to a number of neatly arranged cabins. There were eight in all. Each one had a small porch. They had looked really good to me.

At the Reception, I found three people playing cards.

“Hello”, I had said, “I want a room for the night.”

One of the players looked up. “For how many people, Sir?” he had asked.

“It’s just me,” I had answered.

“Chotte, is number seven vacant yet? He had called out to someone.

A gangly fellow of about sixteen had emerged from inside and had said something in Marathi.

“Sir, you have to come back after six,” the first guy had said upon hearing from Chhotte.

Tired of this answer, I had asked,”Can I keep my luggage here?”

“Yes of course,” he had taken the bag from my hand and kept it behind the receptionist’s desk.

____________________________________________________

On my return after six, I was shown into one of the cabins by the attendant Chhotte. He had pointed it out to me and left. The door to the cabin was latched. As I unlatched the door and opened it, I was taken aback.

It was a small ten by ten room, with a huge mirror on the wall facing the door. In fact it was the whole wall that was converted into a mirror. As I overcame the initial surprise, I became aware of a musty, smoky odor hanging in the air within. Recoiling from the smell, I withdrew from the room and threw the door ajar. There was a huge double bed inside the room. A crumpled dirty grey bed sheet was lying on it. The bed had the look of a battlefield, where two filthy hogs had just had a fight unto death. The television on the TV table was so dusty; it seemed it had not been watched in a long while. The floor of the room was littered with cigarette butts, packets of gutka and empty sachets of contraceptives.

I had regretted my decision to stay in this place but it was too late by then. I had to make the best out of it. I had walked down to the reception and demanded the room be cleaned up. Chhotte had come, broom in hand and with a grudging look on his face carelessly swept the room. He threw the bed sheet out into the porch and replaced it with an equally dirty one from the neighboring cabin.

Once I was satisfied that the room had a basic level of cleanliness and sufficient changes of fresh air, I tried settling in. I lit myself a cigarette and puffed on it, standing out on the porch. The door to the cabin opposite mine opened and an ugly, fat, middle aged person emerged. He was wearing black shades, I wondered why, because twilight was almost upon us. Behind him, a young woman in her mid twenties came out. Her face was covered in a scarf. Chhotte emerged from somewhere and the fat man gave him a hundred rupee tip. The attendant then escorted the girl out.

That this place is steeped in illegal businesses was no more a secret to me. I just wished that the night would quickly pass and I would leave this place in the early morning. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as I remembered watching news on television of busted sex rackets and how the people involved are paraded to the police station with their faces covered in kerchiefs. I had never imagined, I would land up in the middle of such a place. I called my wife and apprised her of my predicament. Taking her advice, I locked myself in my cabin and tried to concentrate on my studies.

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I don’t remember when I dozed off. I am awakened by a heavy knock on the door. The light in my room is still switched on. There is commotion outside my room. I look at my watch; it is two in the morning. There’s another knock on the door, this time accompanied by a voice, 

“Open the door.”

I get up and open the door. Two baton yielding police constables barge into the room.

“Check the bathroom,” one of them barks.

As one guy goes into the washroom, the other one appraises me with cold eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asks. I give him my name.

“Where are you from?” enquires the constable.

“Mumbai’” I reply.

“What do you do?” he continues the interrogation.

“I work for Reliance Industries,” I say.

“What are you doing here?”

I tell him about the interview I have come to attend. The other constable by now is at the bedside, with a research paper on “Multiple Residue Monitoring in Grapes by LC/MS and GC/MS” in his hand. Unable to make much of it, he tosses it back onto the bed.

“You have to come with us to the station,” my interrogator declares.

I try to explain that I have a very important interview in the morning.

“No problem, you tell that to our officer.” He says.

Understanding the futility of my protestations, I ask, “Can I get dressed?”

“Make it quick,” he replies.

As I am escorted out of my room, I notice a large number of people and policemen outside. By now it is clear that my worst nightmare is coming true. I have got trapped in the middle of a police raid. There are seven other guys huddled together on one side of the walkway, with two constables poking and prodding them with their batons. Further ahead a group of girls are being escorted by three women constables. All the girls have scarves over their faces.

As we are pushed into the police van, a couple of powerful flashes tell me that the media is here too. I foresee with panic what tomorrow’s newspapers and television shows will talk about. I curse my bad luck.

The van speeds through many roads and by lanes and finally halts outside some police station. We are hustled into the station and made to sit inside a dirty lockup. The place reeks of sweat and urine. I control my urge to throw up with a lot of difficulty. The guys that were brought in with me are huddled in one corner of the lock up. Two of them have bruised faces and bloody lips suggesting that they had put up some resistance at being rounded up. The girls, I count seven of them; are made to sit on a bench on one side of the large room, right across the lock up. They sit with their heads hung low and faces covered with scarves.

All of a sudden, the constables stand up to attention and greet someone, presumably a senior officer.

“How many of them?” the new entrant enquires.

“Fifteen of them Sir,” one of the constables answers deferentially.

I did not expect that this night would hold any more surprises. But lo and behold, but who should this officer be? As the man comes into my view, I see an ugly, fat, middle aged man, with black shades hanging from the pocket of his uniform. It is the same guy I had seen coming out of the cabin with a girl, earlier in the day. As he comes nearer, I see an ugly gash just over his right eyebrow which gives him a menacing, villainous look.

The guy sees me, recognition evident in his eyes. He is coming towards me with his lips twitched into half a smile. He opens his mouth to say something but suddenly a fire alarm sets off somewhere. Everyone in the room panics. The fat man turns around and starts running. The constables run out through the door of the police station. The lady constables jostle the girls out of the place. I shout out loud,

“Hey guys open the lock up, let us out.”

But no one stops for us. No one listens to what I am saying. The fire alarm is ringing in full frenzy. I look back towards my fellow inmates. To my horror there is no one inside but me. Sweating and panting in terror, I kick and bang the gate of the lock up. I throw all my weight onto the gate, but it won’t budge. All of a sudden everything goes pitch dark. My body feels so heavy. The fire alarm is still ringing. What’s happening to me? My limbs seem paralyzed, no more responding to my frantic efforts to break free. Slowly I feel very light headed and weak. Nothing I think seems coherent to me anymore. I must have lost my mind. Finally I cease all my efforts.

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I wake up to the continuous ringing of the alarm. I feel very tired and groggy as I silence the alarm. It is five thirty in the morning, and I am lying on a bed, in a small room with a huge mirror on one of the walls. I have woken up in my cabin. I can hear the birds chirping outside. As I open the door and go out, I am greeted by the cool fresh morning air. I feel the chill as the cool air dries up my perspiration and along with it the remnants of my worst nightmare.

I light a cigarette and take a long drag from it. I come to terms with reality as I slowly let the smoke escape from my mouth. I smile to myself. “What a horrible night,” I say to myself, “what a horrible nightmare.”

Hang On,This Too Shall Pass

“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”

 - Rabindranath Tagore.

Faith is the reason we persist; the reason there is order in humanity; faith keeps one grounded and steady. Faith is the reason we still exist as a race. Faith differentiates between the strong and the weak. Faith can make and misplaced faith can break.

Human civilization has come a long way from the cave dwelling hunter-gatherers through being agriculturists and industrialists to the modern day man. This tremendous development of the species was possible not only due to the ingenuity of the human brain or its bipedal, multi-tasking physique, but also to the ability to believe; its faith in itself and the elements.

Faith is not an isolated singular attribute. It is but a derivative of numerous little events. Faith gets conceived and shaped in an individual from birth. The values passed on by the family, those learned from peers, values taught at school, form the ‘pig iron’ for building a person’s faith. It is but the wide world that forms the furnace for forging this pig iron, through experience, into steel. Endeavour on the path of self realization adds sheen to this faith and makes it stainless.

The present day world poses numerous challenges to man. The least conspicuous of these, is the lack of FAITH. Today’s ‘competitive’ world is driven by lust for material pleasures. Everything and every action are valued in gold or paper. Our materially conditioned souls crave no more for knowledge of the infinite, but for meaningless gains. There is no time or intent for inward contemplation. Malnourished faith degenerates and leaves one in distress in the face of adversity.

At a certain point in life our body signals its inability to put up with our cravings anymore. It is only then, that we look out in despair for our moorings. Then we realize how much we are disconnected from our ‘selves’. In a desperate attempt to reconnect, we start looking for short cuts. We place our faith in god men and their ilk. Faith in the god man is like a boat tied to the pier. The turbulence of the water tests the strength of the knot. But what if the pier itself goes down? More often than not, god men have been seen to have feet of clay. This is true especially in a country like India, where religion has turned into a shameless business for some and gullible electorate for others.

True faith in oneself is like a sailor’s anchor. It is like a direct connection to one’s ‘ground’, one’s own self. However strong the storm may be, faith keeps his ship from sinking. Even in the face of the wildest hurricane, the sailor says to himself, “Just hang on, this too shall pass.”

True faith comes from within. It does not require external embellishments. No temple or shrine can give true faith. It comes from belief on one’s own self; from random acts of compassion. Faith comes from renunciation. When one comes to realize his true ‘position’ in the creator’s grand scheme of things, faith comes to the humble. True faith is manifested in active detachment.

“karmany evadhikaras te 
ma phalesu kadacana 
ma karma-phala-hetur bhur 
ma te sango 'stv akarmani”

(Translation by Bhagvad Gita As It Is : You have a right to perform your prescribed duty, but you are not entitled to the fruits of action. Never consider yourself to be the cause of the results of your activities, and never be attached to not doing your duty.)

 - Bhagvad Gita, Chapter 2, Verse 47.

A Tale of Dental Despair

The sensation of a tooth being loose in one’s mouth is something everyone is familiar with. It can be a curiously engrossing for many people. One’s especially meddlesome human nature tempts him to run his tongue across a loose tooth all day long. The squishy feeling at the root of a loose tooth and the pain on being forced beyond its range of mobility is an exhilarating feeling for many.

Our protagonist is not an exception. In fact he spends an entire day meddling with his loose upper left canine.  The dull pain that spreads from his gums, through the mandibles, down his neck, through his spine almost intoxicates him. He starts prying the canine with his finger. The metallic ferrous taste of fresh blood on his tongue stimulates his primitive instincts no end. He pries and sucks harder finally bringing the canine to the brink of falling off. The canine eventually gives in. He examines the fallen tooth closely. The conical crown is gracefully shaped, widening down to its root, with some gum tissues attached to it. He tongues the newly formed cavity in his gum and suddenly realizes that the neighboring premolar and incisor are also loose.

He starts prying the incisor and it comes off; the premolar comes off too. He has lost three of his teeth in succession. To his horror, he finds the other teeth on his upper jaw becoming loose and as he moves his tongue over them, they start moving too. Now this is no longer funny for him. He is scared. Suddenly he feels two of his molars drop off, he spits them out. The force with which he spits causes one more incisor to get uprooted. It seems to him as if his gums are giving in. All his teeth are simply dropping off. He is petrified, he runs out of his room, his mouth full of blood and fallen teeth.

His small sister is playing with her dolls in the hall. He tells her of his predicament. She does not understand anything and resumes her game. He runs out of the hall into the kitchen, calling out to his mom. He starts sobbing and tries to speak but his mouth is full of blood and some more teeth have fallen off.

“Just go out of the kitchen. Can’t you see I am busy? We are having guests coming over in the evening. I have plenty of work now, don’t disturb me,” she says.

In utter despair he runs out of the room into the verandah where his father is sitting with his newspaper. He spits out a mouthful of blood and teeth and tries telling his father, but he can’t speak. With every effort one more tooth is coming out. He shows his almost bare gum and a couple of freshly fallen teeth to his father, with tears rolling down his eyes and blood trickling down the side of his lips.

His father looks at him with anger on his face as he says,

“That happens when you don’t look after your dental hygiene. Since the last twenty two years I have been teaching you how to brush your teeth, to floss properly after every meal, but you have never listened; now I can’t do anything.”

So saying, his father angrily puts his glasses back on and goes back to reading his newspaper.

Our protagonist feels that the world has ended for him, he sobs inconsolably as he runs out of the house spitting out a tooth after every few minutes. He runs hard across the road, up the hill. He keeps on running beyond the hill, across the green meadows. He stumbles and falls, but picks himself up and keeps running. Suddenly it starts to rain, he runs unheeding the downpour, his drenched long hair cascading over his face. All of a sudden he sees the girl in blue salwar kameez with an umbrella in her hand. She looks at him with her sad eyes. He drops down on his knees, face streaming with rain, tears and blood, a desolate look in his eyes, chest heaving with sobs, heart thumping out loudly. He stretches out his arm towards the girl. But with the same sad expression in her eyes she slowly walks away into the rain, into the wilderness.

Suddenly the earth starts shaking heavily; he tries to stand up but falls back; large trees around him seem to be falling down straight on top of him. He closes his eyes in fear.

“Abhi, hey Abhi, what’s the matter, get up,” he hears distant voices.

He opens his eyes and stares blankly at the three pairs of curious eyes peering down at him.

“What happened, are you okay?” they ask.

His eyes hurt, his head is groggy, and he tries to sit up but feels sapped of all his energy. He raises his hand with a lot of effort and feels his face, his mouth, and his teeth. They are intact. He is lying on his hostel bed and had been dreaming. A huge load of unhappiness and fear comes out in the form of a huge sigh of relief and he cries out. His friends are totally clueless. Tears of joy and relief stream down his pale face as he tells his bewildered friends about his dream.

He comes out of his room. The sky is overcast, it is going to rain. He puts on his shirt and runs out. He runs across the corridors, down the flight of stairs, across the entrance to the hostel, onto the street. It starts to rain, he runs unheeding the downpour, his drenched long hair cascading over his face. All of a sudden he sees the girl in blue salwar kameez with an umbrella in her hand. She is with her friends. They cross near the Telephone booth by the big Jamun tree. For a brief moment she looks at him, their eyes meet for a split second. To him the split second seems like centuries of togetherness. His heart brims over with indescribable happiness.

He walks as if under a spell, unmindful of the rain, into the football ground by the side of the road. He drops down on his knees and spreading out his arms, looks up at the sky. With all his being, he absorbs the downpour of heavenly bliss. His heart full of happiness, his mind calm, he feels so balanced, so ‘one’ with everything around.