A man of riches

I was adopted by my father when I was 2 or 3, he wasn't able to remember exactly. What he does remember though, is a frail looking woman walking up to the temple he looked after, with me in a bundle of rags. She was distraught, exhausted and broken. She didn't have a thaali or a ring. I was a bastard child and she was escaping society. My father took me in his arms to give her respite; she said she wanted to relieve herself and went. She never came back. And so it came to be that my father was now a father.

My father was an orphan himself. Having lost his parents at a young age he survived by helping the temple priest. He was honest and quiet. He did as told and never asked for anything. He ate what was offered and slept on the temple veranda. He became the caretaker of the temple. Priests came and went, he was the permanent one there. 

He took care of me as best he could. He gave me education. He taught me the virtues of a simple and honest life. His lessons were never told, they were shown to me. He was kind to the bone and never once regretted that fact that I was thrust into his otherwise carefree world. I was his true son. At an appropriate age he told me of the incidence of how I came into his life. Even as he said it, I didn't feel even for an instant if he has second thoughts about me. He did not have money, but he had the heart and he did all he could to make my life comfortable.

I studied hard. I went to college and then to work in the city. I visited the coconut palmed, dried fish smelling village as often as I could ; to see my father and to make life better for him as much I could. He refused monetary help. He refused to hire a maid or a helper. He was far too simple, principled and generous to depend on another to do his work. So I offered the best I could, my company. We would share meals together and sit on the beach and talk. He loved listening to my stories of the city. He took an active interest in my work. He always encouraged me to find a wife and settle down. He said I would make a great father. 

After 10 years of working, I got the call from the present temple priest. I harbored a secret fear for this call. I rushed home. Father was ill. He was too weak to sit up. I put in my leave request and decided to stay with him a few days. I fed him and did all the things necessary to make him comfortable. I was relieved that I was able to reciprocate at-least this much for him.

Father had many a visitor during the time I was there. People from all walks of life came to ask after his health. Fishermen, local shokeepers, tourists, priests, rich landowners and so on. I had not realized that father had so many acquaintances. It was surprising to see the genuine worry people had for this man, who I thought was a very quiet reserved person.

On one the days, an old lady walked into the house. She asked for my father and I showed her in. She sat next to father, held his hand and wept. She sat silently, nodded to him and shifted to leave. I was intrigued. I followed her and asked her to wait. I then asked her to sit and asked he who she was and what was her relationship with my father. 

She said "Your father was an acquaintance once. Today he is my savior. A few years back, my son had an accident when he went fishing. When I stood helpless in the temple looking for the lord to answer my prayers, your father came up and asked me why I was in despair. Hearing me and understanding my situation of lack of money to get my son to the town hospital, he paid for the ambulance. My son survived. He did this for me when I was a total stranger. He has been a friend ever since". She had tears in her eyes saying this as she left.

 I was not too surprised. My father was helpful. He was kind. 

On another day he was visited by a man of roughly my fathers age. He sat beside father and tried to cheer him up. He spoke of the village stories and his family. My father was all smiles hearing about this mans grandchild's antics. I asked him how he know father. 

He said "A few years ago my son decided to marry a girl from a lower caste. I was furious and vehemently resisted. My son went ahead and married the girl in the temple your father worked in. I arrived there with my community people to separate them, or even better, strike them down. Your father protected them. He gave me wise counsel and asked me to wait a year. If I was still not ok, he would help in resolving the matter. My son was happy and the girl made all of our lives so much better. We have grandchildren and we don't care what others say now. Your father cared about us - even when were strangers.

There were so many more men and women who visited my father during his last days. All of them people whose lives he had touched in some small way or the other. His one common tool to transform all their lives was his smile. He always had it on.

My father passed away a few days later. His funeral was one the most attended ones in the village. Not a man lost the chance to come up to me and tell me how much my father meant to them. 

I realized my father was not poor. He was a man of immense riches.

The wall

I came into existence during one of harshest months seen in this part of the country. In an already scorching land, this month was one of those cursed ones that rendered the farmers jobless and bankrupt. It was the month that made the women of the village walk for miles for pots of semi potable water that nurtured their lives and little possessions. It was the month that drove many a man to turn into the devil that lurked within and drove many others to the one possible solution to all their miseries - death, the final equalizer and purifier.

I have questioned the purpose of my existence more than any mortal could possible have. I did it every day of the 40 years of my life, day in and day out. I did it as I stood in the sun and rain, as I watched the world go while I stood motionless. I didn't have anything else to do you see. I was conceived with intentions that were pure and those that arose out of the need for conservancy of my creators ilk. That is the story woven around my rise, one cursedly parched and devilishly dusty day in the middle of this village where I still stand.

I am a wall.

I was built by one class of people to keep out another. I was built to keep the purity of one side of my existence intact by cutting off contact with the other side. The purer side possesses all the material wealth that this miserable land has managed to squeeze out. The other side bears all the miseries as if to ensure the balance of the world is in order. I for one didn't see much of a difference in the inhabitants of either side. They all looked the same and behaved the same. Males on either side doused me with liberal amounts of their excretions. Juveniles on either side sat on my parapet and leered at girls. Women folk on either adorned me with thick cakes of dung until it dried. From my view they were the same, but I am a miserably lower form of creation and I will never see the things the humans see.

My existence has been witness to the upheavals and the calamities of this village. I have seen the bounty that this land enjoyed and also seen its wretchedness at its worst. I have been a mute spectator to the fury of this villages inhabitants and also the compassion they show in equal measure. I have been fortified with the blood of many and also with offerings of worship in equal measure.

There have been laws drafted and high ranking officials have been visiting the village on and off to remove me for the divide I was causing in the lives of the people. Nothing came about. It was not because the officials were incompetent, it was because one group on this side of me didn't want it. I was designed to keep the status quo and as far as they were concerned I was doing my job fine.

I stand testament to the egregiousness of mankind. I am proof of the need for man to put man down to feel good about themselves. I have been around for a good many years now. I have seen many a man from the poorer side try to fight for their rights to passage - I was blocking their way to the only school available in the locality. This was a government school where everyone is supposed to be equal. 

But none came close to the fight put up by the great Ms A. She was tired of the beatings her drunk husband doled out generously when asked for money to run the house. She was tired of working away day and night for meeting her and her twos sons food needs alone. She decided that she was going to get her children educated. 

She visited the Thahsildar every week, the collector every month and the MLA every year. The action was always the same - "we will look into this, come back in a week", they said. She toiled on, not letting the despair get to her. Her sons deserved better. 

Angels do exist, but they do not always have blonde hair or wear white robes. Ms A's angel was a college student who was visiting the village for a project on rural hygiene. The girl walked in one day asking about how people in this side of the wall urinated and defecated. Ms A looked at me wistfully and lamented about how the common latrine along with any and all other facilities existed on the other side of the wall. 

The girl wrote a petition and filed it formally with the collector. The collector visited and wrote a formal complaint to the relevant authorities. Time went by and nothing happened to me, I still existed. 

But the angel that visited Ms A taught her something. The power of knowledge and the written word. Years of visiting the collector did nothing, but one signed piece of paper with the right words sent at the right time to the right person and things were moving. 

Ms A forgot all about me and did everything in her power to educate her sons. It has now been over 20 years since the angel visited. Ms A's elder son studied with a vengeance. He left the village and went to the city. He came back to the village a collector. 

Today bulldozers and men with crowbars stand awaiting the final orders. I am going to be obliterated. Its a relief, I cant stand the stench of human excrement or hatred anymore.

Parting gift

As the family sat beside the withered old man's body, a young man silently walked up to the glass topped freezer box.

He wore black. black suit, black hat, black rimmed glasses and held a black umbrella.

The gathered had been mourning the whole night and after the well of tears had been spent, a sombre silence replaced the wails and sobs. The intensity of the mourning was much reduced now as if to acknowledge the fact that the old man was not coming back, no matter how much they called out and cried.

The new young man stood watching over the old man's face, intently studying it. His face was stoic and nobody could deduce what his emotions were. In his mind, he was screeching and yelling in pain. He was rolling in the soil and crying a river of tears. Outside he was civil and just one adamant tear escaped his eyes. He quickly wiped it away and turned away to leave.

The old man's daughter stood behind him, offering him a glass of water. He was dazed and for a minute looked out of sorts.

" Did you know my father well?" she asked.

"He was a close business associate" replied the young man in black, now back to his old composed self.

"Would you be able to say a few words about him? His business was his primary passion and someone who could say a few words about that would be a memory for all us to cherish" she said.

The young man in black was at first hesitant, his eyes betrayed a slight sadness, but again, he quickly composed himself and nodded to say yes.

As he stood at the pulpit, he cleared his throat, collected his thoughts and in a steady base voice, started.

"I have know him for a long time now. More than 20 years actually. We started off on a business deal that was extremely pleasant, courteous and trustworthy. That one deal was enough for me to realize the his value as a business associate. Thereafter we had regular business deals and he was my first choice for any deal that came by.

He was meticulous, adroit even. He knew his job as if it were a natural talent, which of course it wasn't. Whatever he achieved was out of sheer hard work and practice. 

I have learned a lot of things from him and will forever remember him as much more than just a business associate. He was a mentor to me, though I have never told him I thought of him as such. I also never did get around to telling him how much I valued his presence in my life. In the last few years of his life I fell out of touch on account of a personal altercation with him and I regret it beyond what my words can convey. I realize that we all take life and the time it allocates us for granted which is the saddest thing to do. If I could go back in time, I'd go back and make amends.

I wish his family strength during these hard times, I know how much it means to lose family. Thank you all. With swelling tears in his eyes he hurriely stepped down and took his seat.

The old mans daughter held his hand as she walked to the pulpit.

" Thank you for your kind words. My father has left behind a letter for you and wanted it read out to the people who gathered here. I hope you would agree to this."

The man just blinked without saying anything.

She now took the place behind the pulpit, opened a yellow envelope and took out a single white sheet of paper. She then began to read in a voice filled with tremors and occasional sobs. 

"Dear all gathered here, I write this letter in poor health. After a life of relative ease and success, I must admit that I am going away from this material world, all in all, a happy man. I know my end is near and am not afraid of the inevitable death that awaits me in the next corner of the road called life.

But I do have one small regret. We are after all men and we commit blunders, some small and some large. 

My blunder was that I never told the young man sitting next to you that he is my son. The man who spoke to you all just now about the business partnership - he is my son. 

I never got around to say this to him in person and don't think I ever can, I am a coward if that is the word that will describe my behavior. But what I would like to say is this. 

Son, I am extremely proud of you. What you have made of your life and what you have become is beyond what I could have ever done given your circumstances. I was never around to help you grow and I am ashamed of it. I wish I had done more and done it sooner. 

I wish to rectify this grave error. I do it by gifting you one last thing - a family. My daughter, the girl reading this letter, knows all about you and already considers you her brother. My wife, knows about you too and is awaiting the moment she can spend time with you as family. 

I am extremely sorry for the inadequacies I have been responsible for in your life son. I hope this would soften the wound. I know this may be asking too much of you, but I implore you to be part of this family and take care of them. 

Along with the gift I leave you half my business estate and house - trifles compared to how much a family is valued. 

I love you son. Good bye. 

Love

Your father

The man in black, with a stream of tears, hugged the girl in the pulpit, shook his head with a forced smile and walked out of the chapel, sad at the loss but also painfully hopeful about a family - he was not an orphan any more. 

Blood

Karnan was a blood donor. There are a hundred other ways in which I could have described him. He was an athlete, a star performer at work, a good singer, a great husband and dad ; but to me he was a blood donor.

There was never a 6 month gap that went by where he didn't donate blood. It was either at the official blood donation drive or somewhere else that he sought out and went; the point being' he ensured that he had donated once every 6 months. I can safely say that if the allowed frequency of blood donation was once in 6 days he would have done it every week without batting an eyelid. I know that an average human being is a helpful one - he would help the fellow human given the circumstances are right; he got a sense of pride or a sense of doing good for society out of it. It boosted his ego, but Karnan was different. One could easily see that for him this activity was beyond the usual motives.

I one day casually joked to him about it. I said "Karna - you donate blood like donating water, it almost seems like you want to get rid of your blood. I have seen people maintain calendars for a lot of weird things, but your's tops the list"

He smiled the charming smile that made everyone like him and went about his tasks as usual.

And then one day we had the official Diwali family dinner organized by the company. I, the bachelor got to meet Karnan's family - his wife and his extremely cute daughter. We got acquainted and Karnan went to the buffet table with his daughter to get her to eat something.

Not knowing what else to talk about to his wife, I commented to her jokingly about his tendency to donate blood. I said " Karnan is a bloody fanatic - literally; he donates blood like he has nothing else to live for! I have made fun about it and even asked him seriously about it, but have not understood his motive. Do you know why he is so?"

Her reaction turned grim. I was apprehensive about the answer to come. Maybe I was prying. Maybe I had crossed an unwritten border that separated friendship from personal freedom.

But she quickly composed herself and started - "Karnan was not always like this. 7 years back Karnan was a different man. He was what one can call wasted. Literally and figuratively. He was a chronic alchoholic. He was beyond redemption - that is what the doctors had said. He would start his alchoholic binging at 5 in the morning and close it at 8 in the night when his body could take no more. He was hardly sober and speaking to him was impossible. He would get violent and he even started having delusions in his alchoholic stupors. His family had a hard time reigning him in. Society, in all its benevolent splendour, aggravated the problem by spurning him and pushing him deeper into his well of despair.

Karnan's father was a retired teacher with meagre means and his mother was a house wife. In all of this turmoil, it fell to Karnan's younger brother to shoulder the family responsibility. The boy took to it like it was his destiny and worked night and day to provide not only for the family, but also for fuelling Karnan's addiction.

In spite of Karnan's habits he was extrenely fond of his brother. Call it blood relationship or dependancy love - the fact was that Karnan loved his brother more than anybody else. The boy was sympathetic to Karnan's plight and always had faith that his big brother would one day be ok. He put up with all of Karnan's antics and even benevolently gave up things at home for his brother. If ever there was a guardian angel for Karnan, it was his younger brother.

His brother was a salesman and used to travel often - traversing his markets on a two wheeler, always returning home late at night after slogging away for the family. Fate, the pisser on every ones party, had big plans for the family. On one of his return trips home from his sales call at night, a truck rammed into his bike and he was injured seriously.

He was admitted to a hospital in the nearby town and the doctors said he needed blood; lots of it. His parents donated, his friends donated, neighbours donated. Everybody that knew Karnan's brother did their bit to save the boy. Karnan, for once in a long time, chose to be at the hospital instead of drinking. He went to donate blood, only to be rejected for the alchohol in it.

Karnan's brother died the next morning. Karnan was sober when it happened and has been ever since. In his brothers memory, he does a simple thing once every 6 months. He donates blood. He knows that nothing he does can redeem him for the mistakes in his life, but he tries to make it better by this act.

He believes that some younger brother out there in the world can survive with the blood that he donates and he believes his younger brother is watching - finally happy at Karnan's turn for the good."

With tears in my eyes and my throat aching from holding back sobs, I uselessly apologized to his wife. I thanked her for telling me so much and watched Karnan feed his daughter with all the love and care only parenthood can bring about.

I didn't know if to feel sad for Karnan or feel happy, but I knew that I would never make fun of his donating blood ever again.

Book review - A train to Pakistan by Khushwanth Singh

There is a pet theory of mine. It can be called a philosophy even. It says that there is no wrong or right in the absolute sense. The protagonist of this book confirms that thought of mine - I was happy that the great Mr Khushwanth Singh thought the same way too. While the protagonist is an ex-dacoit and a accused in a murder case, a village ruffian,we are shown another side of him which makes us wonder - what is right and what is wrong - it is but perspective from two different sides.

The book is about a painful period in Indian history called as the partition. It was a time of heinous atrocities in the name of religion and nationalism. It was a time when a handful of politicians and bureaucrats used turmoil and fanned the fires of intolerance to achieve goals - for some political, for some monetary and for some others pure fanaticism.

The book reminded me very much about my favourite author - the great George Orwell for the fact that it lucidly brought out an analysis of how exactly a political event impacted the lives of a nation's subjects.The partition until today was just a historic event for me, but after this book, it will never remain the same. It was much more - it was blood shed, it was politics at the cost of humanity.

The plot revolves around two characters,  one a rustic Sikh from the village of Mano Majra where the story in the book unfolds, and the second one a communist, stark opposite of the first character mentioned, foreign educated, whisky drinking, intellectual types. The contrast in character has significance in the way the narrative ends. The book brings out in vivid detail the level of violence that gripped both sides of the border. The geographical and figurative blood line of the story is the railway line that runs through the village and how much of a role it played in the lives of people affected by partition in 1947.

While the setting for the plot is the tumultuous partition period of 1947, the story itself is about the lives of the protagonists. It is about love found and lost. It is about how police officers and government employees functioned in those dark hours and how a handful of men sacrificed their lives for the good of the many - often times for people of the other religion.

In a eerily relevant message for the times, the author brings out how a handful of few religious fanatics stoke the fire of communalism and instigate violence. The book touches upon everything that we are fighting for as Indians even today - freedom from caste based oppression, freedom from religions intolerance, freedom from the superstitions and social fetters that religion forces its believers to carry.

Each character of the novel has a role that is not just a role in the novel, it is a message to the world. For example the message about Meet Singh, the village Sikh priest at the end of the book is this - while in the good times he was revered and given importance, his voice at the time of the violence is muted by the angry Sikh mob.

The irony of the characters is delicious - the authors perspective on the way of the world under religious tyranny is a tribute to the liberals and humanists who did whatever they could to save lives. This book will bring out tears for the horrors of partition and also open ones eyes to how a few men can convert a calm and seemingly peaceful society into one that lusts for blood.

This book is a must read in today's India where religious intolerance is spreading its vicious venom in the name of religion and hollow nationalism. It talks about how a false sense of nationalism helped in ruining lives, and created unending misery - all for a cause that a few politicians wanted.

Love in the time of Whatsapp

Anyone who has read the masterpiece of a novel "Love in the Time of Cholera" must know the centre piece of the story - true love survives, the story ends with two separated lovers getting back together at a ripe old age. It sounds all nice and romantic, but is that how relationships are today? Love in the time of cholera was one thing, but love in the time of Whatsapp is another. We don't have cholera as much as the times Mr Marquez wrote in and we definitely don't have the kind of relationships either. What we do have are confused people wondering why relationships are so hard to find and keep. Here is my post on what they need to understand to make it big in a relationship today.

Lifestyles have changed, fashion has changed, foods have changed, incomes have changed and on that note love and relationships have changed too. Here's a look at some of the biggest changes in relationships today.

The hunter gatherer roles have merged - everyone does everything
In the history of humankind, it is said that women were more of gatherers who stayed closer home to gather berries and fruits while taking care of the home. The men in turn went out hunting for game. This is the reason women have arms that tend to curve out when they place it parallel to their bodies. It helps in gathering.

This does not hold good in relationships today. Women go to work (hunt is the parallel from our ancestors world for work today) and there are many a case of men being stay at home dads (the role of gatherer in the prehistoric world). There is no sex based role classifications today and for a relationship to be successful partners need to realize this.


There is no man of the house
The caveman of prehistoric times is shown as a club wielding brute who beats the bonkers out of the woman he fancies and just drags her home if he liked it. Times have changed. Forget clouting a woman, even holding a club can get you into a lot of trouble .

The term "man of the house" is redundant. There is no man of the house, both in its literal and metaphorical sense. Both partners are educated, independent and ambitious. Love in the time of Whatsapp is more about partnership and collaboration, everyone is the leader and everyone is the follower!

Its not about money. Its not about love either. What the hell is it about?
Its about the sum total of all things put together.Unlike marriages and relationships of the prehistoric times, men and women of today look for much more than sex, and stability alone respectively.They want shared romance, they want new experiences, they want long vacations and they also want cuddles and of course sex.

The sum total of our past generations expectation in a relationships is only a small part of today's expectations. So wake up to the fact and start acting accordingly if you want your relationship to blossom.

Community out, couples in.
In the Indian context this can be sacrilegious, but whats got to be said has to be said. Unlike our forefathers who lived in communities today's generation wants out. They want autonomy, they want to be on their own. Our prehistoric ancestors had to have grandmothers to take care of the children and grandfathers to guard the cave as the men went hunting and the women went gathering. Well, we have nannies now for the kids and sophisticated alarms for security and they don't advise on how to cook or how to dress to work. So today's relationships lean towards couples living by themselves without either ones parents in the picture.

In Indian way of life this is almost a crime, but times are changing, you'd have to too.

So our prehistoric ancestors would have a hard time finding and keeping love in today's world, and if you don't realize these facts and adapt, you're going to have to have to discover time travel.

Ganga Snaanam...

His religion carried a belief that a dip in the sacred river Ganges on the day of Diwali was the most auspicious sin-washing ceremony there ever was. He was a religious man. He believed in the tenets of hinduism with all his heart. He liked to believe that his every action was governed by the words professed in the various mediums his religion used to reach him. And so on a cold morning, after his wife anointed him with the customary Diwali oil, he walked down to the rushing cold Ganges to wash away all of his sins, if there was any.

On his way to the banks of the river he saw the world go by, filled with people hurrying, like himself, to wash away all their accumulated sins of the previous years; it was like it was a physical act. The roads were lined with shops selling oil, toiletries and other items devotees needed to complete their daily ablutions and their purifying ceremonies. There were old men with completely tonsured heads but for a tuft of hair symbolizing their disposition as learned men who had access to the gods.

The air was chill with the incipient winter. The crisp air made him feel fresh and pure. He felt the presence in the holy land in itself was a purifying act, his mind was feeling it. The hawkers called out to him, asking him if he needed oil, or mustard for the ritual to appease his ancestors. The tonsured men with tufted hair asked him if he needed their services to act as portents into the world of gods and his ancestors, to reach out to them and seek blessings. He noticed how a number of hawkers and shop owners were of other faiths, how one religion thrived through another he wondered and ironically how people killed each other in the name of religion he smirked into himself.

As he descended the steps to the river he saw the crowd milling around the waters edge. Some drying themselves after their purifying dip, some sitting cross legged with the tufted gentlemen sitting opposite to them with their pooja paraphernalia spread out in front of them, leading them on with mantras and actions that would make their lives better and satisfy their ancestors in the other world. There were some who were there to merge the final remains of their kin with the holy waters of the Ganges. The immortal soul to heaven and the mortal remains to the holy water of the Ganges that would lead it to the ocean.

The crows arrived to pick at the food offered to ancestors by the men making the offerings - it was considered that the ancestors took the form of crows into this physical realm and so it was with happiness this spectacle was taken in contrast to the chasing crows were subjected to in other times and places.

As he felt the water with his feet, he shivered. The winter water was freezing. Goose bumps ran up his legs and reached his arms. If the price to pay for purification of ones sins in life was a little bit of cold, he thought it was a small price to pay. He waddled into the water until he was half submerged in the icy waters.

Parvati looked with wretched eyes at the limp body of her husband as it hung lifeless from the wooden beam that supported their single room hut. Shivan's promise of money for their land didn't come.They placed their inked fingers on the documents he asked them to with promises of prosperity. No money came after a month of the land was taken and Shivan was not to be found, he had moved to the city sources said. With no land to farm and no money for the sold land, her husband, unable to bear the pressure of the lenders, chose the last and lasting solution, death.

In a fit of rage, the ragged Parvati, eyes red from vain tears and saree filthy from wallowing in the mud floor of their temporary hut,  threw mud in the air cursing Shivan, never to be redeemed of his sins. It was said that this act was a curse that would render the person cursed ,to fall into the abyss of irredeemable misery.

Shivan bent, holding his nose. The water engulfed him softly. A moment of shock from the cold that permeated through the before untouched parts of his body by water. He let his mind pray to the almighty to wash away his sins. Shivan felt light. He felt holy. He felt he was reborn and he felt liberated. He felt like a good man.