After meeting Manoj I left the building needing to smoke. Maybe if I went home earlier than Shefali and cleaned up she wouldn’t find out right away. But she has great instincts and it won’t be long before she knows that the addiction has taken me in its vice-like grip. The only person who will be thrilled would be my colleague Das knowing that he can bum fags* off of me until I stop smoking again.
The letter stays in my pocket weighing more than a ton of bricks. But before I deal with that I have to go to the police station to make sure the cops have an FIR registered for Khan’s death.
As I walk a little girl comes and grabs hold of my leg. She is just over a foot tall, and very thin, her clothes are the same hue of brown as the earth beneath. I reach into my shirt pocket for change and hand it over. She closes her fist around the money, lets go of me and clutches someone else’s pants. He quickly brushes past her without looking down.
“Welcome back to Traffic Jam. I am Atosha, and I have caller Rajiv on the line. So Rajiv, tell us what song you would like to dedicate today” says the radio from the tea shop on the corner. It is a busy traffic light but people always have time for some tea.
“Thanks Atosha, I can’t believe I am on air. Can you please play Landslide by Fleetwood Mac? I would like to dedicate it to my cousin Radha.”
I wonder again if Abhaya had noticed my odd behaviour.
She had but she also had other pressing questions to think of, thinks Khan to himself, remembering the conversation between Abhaya and Vittala.
“And can you tell us why you are making this dedication?” Atosha asks with a smile in her voice.
“Haha, sure thing. Radha is leaving on a trek to the Himalayas tomorrow. I know it’s not exactly a good luck song, but it is appropriate.”
“Wow, the Himalayas? It’s a good time of the year to go there. I went last year. Ha ha, interesting choice of song indeed. Well, I hope Radha comes back safe and sound, and you should call us to let us know! Landslide by Fleetwood Mac coming right up, and don’t forget to sms 4242 with your dedications.”
“....And I saw my reflection…” plays on the radio. I head to the sink with my nail clipper and think back to my conversation with Vittala.
“How do you know the Shetty brothers?” I had repeated quietly.
“I don’t really know them” he had said, surprised, the dimples disappearing to be replaced by a frown on his forehead. “Why do you ask?”
“You know how I edit the ‘On this day’ column by publishing stories from the same day a few years ago? Well, I was looking through 2008’s paper when I saw a picture of you with one of the Shettys.”
Vittala scrunches up his face as he thinks, making wrinkle lines appear. Abhaya steels herself, wondering how she would react to his explanation. If there was one.
“Hmm May 2008? That would have been the first Sangama Utsava at Bellary. The local temple there received a huge donation from the Shetty brothers and decided to renovate and reopen the temple with a bang. They had a weeklong celebration, ending with a Yakshagana performance every night. My entire troupe was there. We were asked to go and thank the Shetty brothers for making such a spectacle happen. I don’t think I have met them since. Bellary called us back for performances, but the Shettys have gotten too busy to stay for the entire performance apparently. I don’t think I met them again.”
Satisfied, I had left it at that.
I open the tap to let the nail clippings wash down. Mom hated it when I did that. She used to ask me to carefully cut my nails over a newspaper spread out on the floor, pick up any stray pieces, and then go outside to throw it in the bin. When someone close to you dies, their presence and words never leave you.
Walking back down to the study, I tear paper out of my little journal and begin to write.
I need you to
Erase my scars and make me heal
Wipe away my dried up tears
Remain silent while I scream
Piece together the broken shards
Tell me I can breathe again
Steady my world and suspend belief
Bring back the sun on the morrow
Warm the chill in my bones
Let the wind muss my hair once more
Stay when I want you to go away
“Oleanders” I then write on top, where the title must be.
She turns around in her chair to look at one of the books on the second shelf behind her desk. “Red Oleanders” it says. She smiles, and leaves the study to put the paper up on the board in the stairwell, next to Vittala’s poem.
Taking her phone out of her right jeans pocket she called a retired judge, “Uncle, remember the MCOCA case?”
She agreed with his reply, and promised to visit him in person soon. Given that she had just conveyed her suspicion that their phones were being wire-tapped, a visit was necessary if they wanted to discuss any sensitive information.
She climbs the remaining stairs to her room.
“Welcome back to Traffic Jam, and I am your host Atosha. Our listeners are advising you against going on MG Road, there has been an accident and you will be stuck for quite a while. If you spot any other trouble spots, do sms 4242 and keep us informed. Alright then, we have Sheela on the line. Sheela, what song would you like to listen to today?”
“Hi Atosha! Can you please play Pee Loon? I would like to dedicate it to my dance instructor Aru. We have been rehearsing the choreography for that song for SDIPA’s Summer Funk show and she has been phenomenal.”
“That’s wonderful! When is the show?”
“Next weekend. We are all excited!”
“I am sure you are! Well, have fun dancing. Pee Loon, dedicated to Aru, will be coming up after a short commercial break. Don’t forget to sms your requests to 4242.”
Rishab listens to the song on his iPod’s radio as he enters his house. Shefali had messaged him saying she had taken their daughter Mridula to the park. He has time for a quick shower.
But he sits down on the divan instead, and takes out the letter from his pocket. He uses his keys to open the envelope and pulls the letter out. The ‘From’ address on the envelope is empty. On the stamp there is a red seal on it, the only indication of its source.
“Chinnu” it says, with each letter carefully written in a child-like handwriting. “When you coming? I miss you. Hug Mridula. Bye.” Rishab blinks back tears of love, guilt and regret. Mridula doesn’t know that she has an uncle. He wonders if he will ever introduce Hemanth to his wife and daughter. In the beginning, it was easier not to share his story and now it has become too difficult to bring it up. Where should he even begin? Abhaya’s face swims before his eyes. He pictures her smiling, a playful smile showing her upper teeth while her hand ran through her short hair. She laughed the same way more than a decade ago when he last saw her, and she still had the same high cheekbones. If her dad had not helped his family in the midst of the scandal wrought by Hemanth, who knows how different his life would have been right now.
He straightens up and folds the letter into its envelope.
*****
Glossary:
"Red Oleanders" is one of Rabindranath Tagore's most famous plays.
*****
* - note by author: no disrespect meant by the word used.
Find Chapter One here.
Showing posts with label Novelette Unnamed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Novelette Unnamed. Show all posts
December 25, 2011
September 01, 2011
Chapter Four: You Said It!
Do you ever feel like we live in an increasingly noisy world? I have been around a long while, so I can attest to it. Open up your newspaper, switch on the TV, everyone is jostling to get your attention. And I am fairly certain that it has been getting hotter. It is hard for me to actually feel these things, admittedly, but I am very perceptive.
But we are not here to talk about me. So where were we? Ah yes, the world is getting noisier and hotter. No wonder then that people don’t pay attention anymore to anything that is not about them! As you may have construed by now, those that pay attention and notice a pattern get killed or are very close to being so.
I saw the people that took Khan’s life. Clearly the surface layer in the cesspool of evil, they are the nobodies that do the dirty work for someone else. You have to wade deeper into murkier waters to find the perpetrators, but they are the smart ones with power and money. A woeful combination if there ever was any. Woeful for others, of course. Khan would agree. He was helping Abhaya piece a story together, and paid for it. In this Kali Yuga, there is no reward for good or charity, is there? But I am getting distracted into a theological discussion. I will have to rely on you to keep me on topic. With old age comes a tendency to generously part with wisdom unasked.
You know, I don’t think I will ever understand how people can be so desensitized to killing. There was no emotion when Khan was killed. It was a job to them, and it was done. He could have been a chicken for all they cared. Maybe they would have showed more emotion for the chicken? After a koli’s head has been sliced apart, it still walks around in a distressing circle for a few long minutes before it collapses. Men can be killed without a show like that.
So Khan is dead, as are two more of Abhaya’s sources. I like her, I think she is a plucky child. And her Appa is from Mysore, just as I am. There are those that say it doesn’t matter where you are from. Don’t listen to them. That is just youthful foolishness talking. A place binds you together in its roots and etches its mark on you. There is someone I know that I say this of “you can take a person out of the gutter, but you cannot take the gutter out of the person”. Don’t you agree?
I am intrigued by what we have seen so far. If you knew me, you would already know that I see a lot of things. Such is my fortune. Or fate, you ask? That is your interpretation to make, isn’t it?
I think Abhaya will do well. I am not sure we will need to learn too much about Vittala, one cannot learn everything about everyone in the telling of a story. We may not need to know much about Manoj, the lawyer, either. They are both seemingly good and decent people and we will have to leave it at that. For now. I hope Vittala’s entanglements with the Shetty brothers will be explained by him. Rishab Yadav seems to be someone we have to learn more about, wouldn’t you say? He appears to genuinely care for Khan, but he may be hiding something. As for Khan, he is experiencing life anew as a ghost now. Is he real? That sounds like an oxymoron.
In all of this, however, consider what separates the good from the evil. Is it parenting, economic considerations or the individual state of being? Remember these lines from a popular movie:
"You see, their morals, their code...it's a bad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show you. When the chips are down, these...these civilized people...they'll eat each other. See, I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve."
Let me show you a poem, of my own making, do indulge me.
We cuff their dirty hands
Throw them in jail
Hang them by the neck
Cower in disgust at the evil
Appalled, we point and ask
We are human, decent and good,
Wherefrom sprang this specter?
Power gives it life,
Power over another.
Be it the torture at Abu Ghraib
The diamond mine bosses at Marange
Or the local school bully
Power over another.
At heart you wonder in fear
Wherefrom sprang this specter?
Perhaps, perhaps --The monster is within.
It is part of us I am sure, much like the rainbow hues on your skin when you raise your arm to sunlight. How well we hide it is the difference.
The Shetty brothers started out innocuously enough. Their grandfather had been a lowly mine worker. He worked deep within the mines, in the heyday of the Kolar Gold Fields. Well, I suppose that can be disputed, given that gold has been mined in Kolar for well near two millennia. Alright, the past century then, after the British brought in equipment for large scale drilling. Their father was a shrewd man.
He was sitting near the Kalyani in front of the temple, lost in contemplation when the idea struck him. Now I must tell you about the temple. The Kashi Vishweshwara temple is about 4 kms from Kolar and you have to climb a few hundred steps to reach the top of the mountain, which is nestled in the Antaragange mountain range. Antaragange means ganga within, and is an obvious reference to the holy river of Ganga thousands of kilometers to the north. Most Indian temples have water near them, which is allowed to conveniently collect in a pond, also called Kalyani. The water for the Kalyani at this temple comes from the mouth of a stone bull. No one knows the exact source of this underground stream, but water flows throughout the year. If you ask nicely, the poojari will let you drink the water from the stone bull, and it is as sweet as they say it is. Watch out for the monkeys, they are quite notorious for prying food away from unsuspecting hands.
One day, as Ramanna sat at the temple surrounded by the smell of fresh flowers adorning the deities, he contemplated the coming liberation. He had been married the year before at the tender age of 14, his bride a few years younger than him. His father was exhibiting signs of what would later be defined at Kolar for the first time in the world: silicosis. He did not want to work in the mines all his life like his father had done. Nor did he have the desire to toil knee-deep in the earth as was the norm in the agricultural belt. The British were readying themselves for an exit; everyone knew that long sought after day was near.
To some people freedom meant a period of birthing joys of bravely struggled for ideals come to fruition that presented itself through new governance, to some it changed nothing: they barely noticed, and for some others, it meant a period of painful disruption. The Brits had until 1956 to transfer rights over to the Indian government, and they did what you would reasonably expect them to do: exploit the hell out of it. This may have been where the expression “it’s a freaking goldmine” was born. I jest. I seem to have learnt a few phrases from RKL’s grandchildren.
Of Ramanna Shetty, we may return to his exploits another day. Suffice to say that shortly after that day by the temple pond, Ramanna Shetty left town, and the next we hear of him is a little over a decade later, as a man of means, in another town that was fast becoming a center for iron ore mining. When those from unprivileged backgrounds emerge from the shackles of their circumstances, there are whispers of wrongdoing.
“Did you know, he horded away temple jewellery and artifacts, sold them to foreign buyers for a lot of money…that’s how he got started”
“He hid some of the gold that he had mined for the concessionaire”
“He lied on his permit forms”
The tales go on like a game of Chinese whispers. The version at the end of the chain has perhaps a modicum of truth, if at all. But no one has any doubt that for someone to rise to miraculous heights within a lifetime, some misdeeds remain hidden.
“The misdemeanours of the parents visit their children” they say, hope and fear mingling in their envious voices. It is an important tenet of Karma. If it were not so, everything they had believed all their lives would have been false, wouldn’t it? They follow the rules of dharma because they are told to do so or suffer the consequences. When the spawn of the Ramannas of the world seem to lead carefree lives, they watch carefully for misfortune, and pounce on it to say “Aha! It had to be thus!”
But when there are no apparent calamities that befall that next generation, they begin to wonder. Was Tolkien right when he said “History became legend? Legend became myth?”. Maybe our gods are merely aggrandized stories of extraordinary people. What if there are no supernatural powers watching over us to ensure our happiness? They question: do we have a creator? Does He have a plan for us? Do we exist? Maybe we are all part of someone’s imagination and none of us really exist!
I asked you to keep me on topic! I don’t think I have any more time today to talk about the Shetty brothers. But I will leave you with an anecdote that is reflective of how they turned out. There is so much of a nexus between government and crime that kids these days say they want to get into organized crime when they grow up and the parents in turn ask, “Government or private sector?”
Now that I have given you some background, you are probably wondering what my role in all this is. My friend, I will tell you who I am. I am always on the fringe. Like the extras in a movie scene or like the hairdresser that gives you a haircut while you chat animatedly with your friend. No one notices that I am there. People discuss their secrets in front of me because in their eyes, people like me do not matter.
I am one of those people that watched the Times of India go from a respected institution to a trashy tabloid not worthy of the paper it is printed on. Who am I, you ask?
I am that befuddled spectacled creature, The Common Man.
***
Find Chapter Five here.
But we are not here to talk about me. So where were we? Ah yes, the world is getting noisier and hotter. No wonder then that people don’t pay attention anymore to anything that is not about them! As you may have construed by now, those that pay attention and notice a pattern get killed or are very close to being so.
I saw the people that took Khan’s life. Clearly the surface layer in the cesspool of evil, they are the nobodies that do the dirty work for someone else. You have to wade deeper into murkier waters to find the perpetrators, but they are the smart ones with power and money. A woeful combination if there ever was any. Woeful for others, of course. Khan would agree. He was helping Abhaya piece a story together, and paid for it. In this Kali Yuga, there is no reward for good or charity, is there? But I am getting distracted into a theological discussion. I will have to rely on you to keep me on topic. With old age comes a tendency to generously part with wisdom unasked.
You know, I don’t think I will ever understand how people can be so desensitized to killing. There was no emotion when Khan was killed. It was a job to them, and it was done. He could have been a chicken for all they cared. Maybe they would have showed more emotion for the chicken? After a koli’s head has been sliced apart, it still walks around in a distressing circle for a few long minutes before it collapses. Men can be killed without a show like that.
So Khan is dead, as are two more of Abhaya’s sources. I like her, I think she is a plucky child. And her Appa is from Mysore, just as I am. There are those that say it doesn’t matter where you are from. Don’t listen to them. That is just youthful foolishness talking. A place binds you together in its roots and etches its mark on you. There is someone I know that I say this of “you can take a person out of the gutter, but you cannot take the gutter out of the person”. Don’t you agree?
I am intrigued by what we have seen so far. If you knew me, you would already know that I see a lot of things. Such is my fortune. Or fate, you ask? That is your interpretation to make, isn’t it?
I think Abhaya will do well. I am not sure we will need to learn too much about Vittala, one cannot learn everything about everyone in the telling of a story. We may not need to know much about Manoj, the lawyer, either. They are both seemingly good and decent people and we will have to leave it at that. For now. I hope Vittala’s entanglements with the Shetty brothers will be explained by him. Rishab Yadav seems to be someone we have to learn more about, wouldn’t you say? He appears to genuinely care for Khan, but he may be hiding something. As for Khan, he is experiencing life anew as a ghost now. Is he real? That sounds like an oxymoron.
In all of this, however, consider what separates the good from the evil. Is it parenting, economic considerations or the individual state of being? Remember these lines from a popular movie:
"You see, their morals, their code...it's a bad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show you. When the chips are down, these...these civilized people...they'll eat each other. See, I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve."
Let me show you a poem, of my own making, do indulge me.
We cuff their dirty hands
Throw them in jail
Hang them by the neck
Cower in disgust at the evil
Appalled, we point and ask
We are human, decent and good,
Wherefrom sprang this specter?
Power gives it life,
Power over another.
Be it the torture at Abu Ghraib
The diamond mine bosses at Marange
Or the local school bully
Power over another.
At heart you wonder in fear
Wherefrom sprang this specter?
Perhaps, perhaps --The monster is within.
It is part of us I am sure, much like the rainbow hues on your skin when you raise your arm to sunlight. How well we hide it is the difference.
The Shetty brothers started out innocuously enough. Their grandfather had been a lowly mine worker. He worked deep within the mines, in the heyday of the Kolar Gold Fields. Well, I suppose that can be disputed, given that gold has been mined in Kolar for well near two millennia. Alright, the past century then, after the British brought in equipment for large scale drilling. Their father was a shrewd man.
He was sitting near the Kalyani in front of the temple, lost in contemplation when the idea struck him. Now I must tell you about the temple. The Kashi Vishweshwara temple is about 4 kms from Kolar and you have to climb a few hundred steps to reach the top of the mountain, which is nestled in the Antaragange mountain range. Antaragange means ganga within, and is an obvious reference to the holy river of Ganga thousands of kilometers to the north. Most Indian temples have water near them, which is allowed to conveniently collect in a pond, also called Kalyani. The water for the Kalyani at this temple comes from the mouth of a stone bull. No one knows the exact source of this underground stream, but water flows throughout the year. If you ask nicely, the poojari will let you drink the water from the stone bull, and it is as sweet as they say it is. Watch out for the monkeys, they are quite notorious for prying food away from unsuspecting hands.
One day, as Ramanna sat at the temple surrounded by the smell of fresh flowers adorning the deities, he contemplated the coming liberation. He had been married the year before at the tender age of 14, his bride a few years younger than him. His father was exhibiting signs of what would later be defined at Kolar for the first time in the world: silicosis. He did not want to work in the mines all his life like his father had done. Nor did he have the desire to toil knee-deep in the earth as was the norm in the agricultural belt. The British were readying themselves for an exit; everyone knew that long sought after day was near.
To some people freedom meant a period of birthing joys of bravely struggled for ideals come to fruition that presented itself through new governance, to some it changed nothing: they barely noticed, and for some others, it meant a period of painful disruption. The Brits had until 1956 to transfer rights over to the Indian government, and they did what you would reasonably expect them to do: exploit the hell out of it. This may have been where the expression “it’s a freaking goldmine” was born. I jest. I seem to have learnt a few phrases from RKL’s grandchildren.
Of Ramanna Shetty, we may return to his exploits another day. Suffice to say that shortly after that day by the temple pond, Ramanna Shetty left town, and the next we hear of him is a little over a decade later, as a man of means, in another town that was fast becoming a center for iron ore mining. When those from unprivileged backgrounds emerge from the shackles of their circumstances, there are whispers of wrongdoing.
“Did you know, he horded away temple jewellery and artifacts, sold them to foreign buyers for a lot of money…that’s how he got started”
“He hid some of the gold that he had mined for the concessionaire”
“He lied on his permit forms”
The tales go on like a game of Chinese whispers. The version at the end of the chain has perhaps a modicum of truth, if at all. But no one has any doubt that for someone to rise to miraculous heights within a lifetime, some misdeeds remain hidden.
“The misdemeanours of the parents visit their children” they say, hope and fear mingling in their envious voices. It is an important tenet of Karma. If it were not so, everything they had believed all their lives would have been false, wouldn’t it? They follow the rules of dharma because they are told to do so or suffer the consequences. When the spawn of the Ramannas of the world seem to lead carefree lives, they watch carefully for misfortune, and pounce on it to say “Aha! It had to be thus!”
But when there are no apparent calamities that befall that next generation, they begin to wonder. Was Tolkien right when he said “History became legend? Legend became myth?”. Maybe our gods are merely aggrandized stories of extraordinary people. What if there are no supernatural powers watching over us to ensure our happiness? They question: do we have a creator? Does He have a plan for us? Do we exist? Maybe we are all part of someone’s imagination and none of us really exist!
I asked you to keep me on topic! I don’t think I have any more time today to talk about the Shetty brothers. But I will leave you with an anecdote that is reflective of how they turned out. There is so much of a nexus between government and crime that kids these days say they want to get into organized crime when they grow up and the parents in turn ask, “Government or private sector?”
Now that I have given you some background, you are probably wondering what my role in all this is. My friend, I will tell you who I am. I am always on the fringe. Like the extras in a movie scene or like the hairdresser that gives you a haircut while you chat animatedly with your friend. No one notices that I am there. People discuss their secrets in front of me because in their eyes, people like me do not matter.
I am one of those people that watched the Times of India go from a respected institution to a trashy tabloid not worthy of the paper it is printed on. Who am I, you ask?
I am that befuddled spectacled creature, The Common Man.
***
Find Chapter Five here.
July 30, 2011
Chapter Three: The Sixth Tarot
I have always been good at reading people. Trying to understand their motivations and raison d’être.
Rishab seemed a bit put off when Manoj introduced me, but he recovered his composure very quickly. I wonder if it was because he recognized me, or if he disliked all journalists.
In an interview with a women’s journal recently, I was asked if being born with a silver spoon made life a bit easier.
“A silver spoon can be a choking hazard” I had said. My troubles with my siblings were very much in the public realm, so there was no need to elaborate.
My father started his paper, Kempooru Patrike, when he was in his 30s, because he was disgusted by the mainstream reporting of his time that didn’t ask the questions that needed to be asked. His paper acquired something of a cult following, a rarity especially for a non-English publication and is one of the most respected journalists in this bustling metropolis of the red earth and red gulmohars. Kempooru. The Mysore-born writer-turned-filmmaker became a journalist with the launch of his paper named after his adopted city.
Coming to work for him was the most natural and the most difficult decision of my life. But I have never regretted it. Sometimes I look at my friends’ lives – or for that matter, my siblings, with their growing families, and feel like life has moved on, leaving me behind. But the sacrifice has been worth it and I have learnt so much from working with my father. My first story was about cutbacks in infrastructure projects. All road projects were granted with the unspoken understanding that 30% of the winning bid amount went to line the pocket of the person accepting the bid. This usually meant that the contractors would adulterate and use low quality materials to pave the roads. When the rains came, they washed away and left potholes behind. Goondas followed me around for two days after that story, which was a bit unnerving. I had quietly pulled out my .32 Browning from my boot and aimed it at one of them. I didn’t see them again. For good measure, my father told one of his sources who had connections with the politicians, that he had accumulated a lot of evidence of wrongdoing over the years as a protective action. That took care of the problem. Well, I thought it had. The events of the past few days have given me pause.
I know that he would like me to take over the paper someday. But he struggles with the same questions that he had asked: will appointing his own daughter reek of the same nepotism that he had accused the politicians of?
“Everything in this country is ever-changing.. including morals and principles” says my current lover, his cheeks dimpling, when I bring the topic up. “It is quite alright for your dad to appoint you even though he had vehemently opposed politicians appointing family members to positions of power. No one will say a word. After all, we still cling so tightly to our castes, which essentially came about because children were unquestioningly apprenticed to the same professions as their parents.”
I love watching him speak. A Yakshagana artist, his face is poetry in motion. I don’t even have to listen to his words, I can tell what he wants to say just by looking at his beautiful, expressive face. The dulcet tones of his voice, an attractive distraction. I met him when I was sent to report on last year’s Yakshagana Sammelana. We are so different. I am religious, Vittala is not. And yet he takes on God-roles and plays them with conviction. My hair is close-cropped, just a couple of inches from my skull. His wavy mane reaches down to his shoulders. I grew up in the city, he, Vittala Hegde of Mangalooru, grew up on the coast.
As I open the gate that leads to my house, I notice that the drishti bombe that my mom used to hang above her door is missing. I smile. He’s home. The Yakshagana touring season ends in May, but he tries to visit when his troupe is near the city. And when he does, he removes the drishti bombe, saying ‘you don’t need the demon face to ward off the evil eye, I am here now’. He puts it back when he leaves.
I had wondered what my father would make of him. Since my mother’s death he has become very protective. I had taken Vittala over to the family house and disappeared into the kitchen to make tea. When I returned both of them were talking amicably, with my father asking questions and listening intently. A few days later, he wrote an editorial lamenting the state of Yakshagana - ignored by the masses that is necessary for the art form to survive, and incorporated Vittala’s ideas on what should be done to address the situation. I knew then that he approved.
I open the door to my house and step in. I hear music: my Chanson collection. Brel’s Marieke is playing. I look through the glass doors of my study. It is my favourite room, and I always keep it locked. My breath catches in my throat. My papers are in a disarray.
She doesn’t see Khan look up from the papers, smile and stand, and then realizing that she cannot see him, go back to reading her case files.
I think back to the case. Three of my contacts are dead. I try to make a mental list of all the people that have access and could have leaked information. I start walking up the stairs to the first floor. I find a new paper stuck to the small wooden board by the stairwell, where I put up clippings.
They shed the skins of their past
And snake far away, to a new life
Lands unknown they make their own
The strings to their skins unravel
Yet never break
Invisible, underneath the surface
They don’t see, or care to understand
The past follows, battered, bruised, always behind
Never forgotten, yet held at bay
I want to begin afresh
Join the seemingly past-less blissful swarm
But my skin stays firmly on me
Vittala’s new piece has no name yet. Marieke ends and Le Gorille comes on next. As the song starts I hear Vittala singing “Kadagola tarenna chinnave”, his clear voice loud over Georges Brassens’.
There was something else that was puzzling. When we were leaving Manoj’s office earlier today, Rishab had asked me which paper I worked for.
“Kempooru Patrike”, Manoj had said before I could answer, “She is the daughter of Mr L Prakash.”
His face went pale when he heard my father’s name, and he left immediately, without saying anything. I could have sworn that there was a glimmer of recognition, closely followed by fear. Manoj had just shrugged it off. “Bihari”, he had added, smiling.
I walk into my room and turn off the music. Vittala is facing the windows and is on the other side of the bed. He jumps happily and crosses over to me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately.
It never ceases to surprise me how in tune we are with each other.
I push a lock of his hair behind his right ear, look into his eyes.
“How do you know the Shetty brothers?”
***
Find Chapter Four here
Rishab seemed a bit put off when Manoj introduced me, but he recovered his composure very quickly. I wonder if it was because he recognized me, or if he disliked all journalists.
In an interview with a women’s journal recently, I was asked if being born with a silver spoon made life a bit easier.
“A silver spoon can be a choking hazard” I had said. My troubles with my siblings were very much in the public realm, so there was no need to elaborate.
My father started his paper, Kempooru Patrike, when he was in his 30s, because he was disgusted by the mainstream reporting of his time that didn’t ask the questions that needed to be asked. His paper acquired something of a cult following, a rarity especially for a non-English publication and is one of the most respected journalists in this bustling metropolis of the red earth and red gulmohars. Kempooru. The Mysore-born writer-turned-filmmaker became a journalist with the launch of his paper named after his adopted city.
Coming to work for him was the most natural and the most difficult decision of my life. But I have never regretted it. Sometimes I look at my friends’ lives – or for that matter, my siblings, with their growing families, and feel like life has moved on, leaving me behind. But the sacrifice has been worth it and I have learnt so much from working with my father. My first story was about cutbacks in infrastructure projects. All road projects were granted with the unspoken understanding that 30% of the winning bid amount went to line the pocket of the person accepting the bid. This usually meant that the contractors would adulterate and use low quality materials to pave the roads. When the rains came, they washed away and left potholes behind. Goondas followed me around for two days after that story, which was a bit unnerving. I had quietly pulled out my .32 Browning from my boot and aimed it at one of them. I didn’t see them again. For good measure, my father told one of his sources who had connections with the politicians, that he had accumulated a lot of evidence of wrongdoing over the years as a protective action. That took care of the problem. Well, I thought it had. The events of the past few days have given me pause.
I know that he would like me to take over the paper someday. But he struggles with the same questions that he had asked: will appointing his own daughter reek of the same nepotism that he had accused the politicians of?
“Everything in this country is ever-changing.. including morals and principles” says my current lover, his cheeks dimpling, when I bring the topic up. “It is quite alright for your dad to appoint you even though he had vehemently opposed politicians appointing family members to positions of power. No one will say a word. After all, we still cling so tightly to our castes, which essentially came about because children were unquestioningly apprenticed to the same professions as their parents.”
I love watching him speak. A Yakshagana artist, his face is poetry in motion. I don’t even have to listen to his words, I can tell what he wants to say just by looking at his beautiful, expressive face. The dulcet tones of his voice, an attractive distraction. I met him when I was sent to report on last year’s Yakshagana Sammelana. We are so different. I am religious, Vittala is not. And yet he takes on God-roles and plays them with conviction. My hair is close-cropped, just a couple of inches from my skull. His wavy mane reaches down to his shoulders. I grew up in the city, he, Vittala Hegde of Mangalooru, grew up on the coast.
As I open the gate that leads to my house, I notice that the drishti bombe that my mom used to hang above her door is missing. I smile. He’s home. The Yakshagana touring season ends in May, but he tries to visit when his troupe is near the city. And when he does, he removes the drishti bombe, saying ‘you don’t need the demon face to ward off the evil eye, I am here now’. He puts it back when he leaves.
I had wondered what my father would make of him. Since my mother’s death he has become very protective. I had taken Vittala over to the family house and disappeared into the kitchen to make tea. When I returned both of them were talking amicably, with my father asking questions and listening intently. A few days later, he wrote an editorial lamenting the state of Yakshagana - ignored by the masses that is necessary for the art form to survive, and incorporated Vittala’s ideas on what should be done to address the situation. I knew then that he approved.
I open the door to my house and step in. I hear music: my Chanson collection. Brel’s Marieke is playing. I look through the glass doors of my study. It is my favourite room, and I always keep it locked. My breath catches in my throat. My papers are in a disarray.
She doesn’t see Khan look up from the papers, smile and stand, and then realizing that she cannot see him, go back to reading her case files.
I think back to the case. Three of my contacts are dead. I try to make a mental list of all the people that have access and could have leaked information. I start walking up the stairs to the first floor. I find a new paper stuck to the small wooden board by the stairwell, where I put up clippings.
They shed the skins of their past
And snake far away, to a new life
Lands unknown they make their own
The strings to their skins unravel
Yet never break
Invisible, underneath the surface
They don’t see, or care to understand
The past follows, battered, bruised, always behind
Never forgotten, yet held at bay
I want to begin afresh
Join the seemingly past-less blissful swarm
But my skin stays firmly on me
Vittala’s new piece has no name yet. Marieke ends and Le Gorille comes on next. As the song starts I hear Vittala singing “Kadagola tarenna chinnave”, his clear voice loud over Georges Brassens’.
There was something else that was puzzling. When we were leaving Manoj’s office earlier today, Rishab had asked me which paper I worked for.
“Kempooru Patrike”, Manoj had said before I could answer, “She is the daughter of Mr L Prakash.”
His face went pale when he heard my father’s name, and he left immediately, without saying anything. I could have sworn that there was a glimmer of recognition, closely followed by fear. Manoj had just shrugged it off. “Bihari”, he had added, smiling.
I walk into my room and turn off the music. Vittala is facing the windows and is on the other side of the bed. He jumps happily and crosses over to me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately.
It never ceases to surprise me how in tune we are with each other.
I push a lock of his hair behind his right ear, look into his eyes.
“How do you know the Shetty brothers?”
***
Find Chapter Four here
April 26, 2011
Chapter Two: Fallen Heroes
The Gulmohar trees are the first thing you notice when you enter the city. The entire district, in fact, is full of these trees to welcome you into its red-flower bearing arms.
Every time I look at those trees, I feel I am home, and at peace.
I was killed on bhanuvara, Sunday.
I wonder if I will ever be at peace.
I couldn’t stay at my death-filled house anymore so I decided to venture out. I instantly felt tranquil.
The streets have no smells, the wind doesn’t tickle my ears and the bright sun provides no warmth. The train seemed so much more crowded, until I realized not all of them were alive in their physical bodies. I had never thought before about what happens after death. It is hard to accept anyone’s theory of what happens after death, especially when said persons are very much alive. When you buy a watermelon, you make the fruit-seller cut you a piece so you see it is red, taste it and know it’s good before you will buy the whole melon. To see, to touch, to feel, is to believe.
I am glad I couldn’t see all these people before; the city would have seemed even more crowded. A little boy dressed in worn street clothes is running fast in circles, around an old man trying to read a paper. The paper flutters but the old man doesn’t seem too discomfited by the bundle of nervous energy around him. Some of the walking dead find this amusing and smile at each other.
I look across now, at Rishab’s pensive face, which transmits the pain of bereavement. I go across to check in on the newspaper he holds in front of his glazed eyes. I am surprised I made it to the papers. An insignificant man like me! I wonder if I should smile, and if I will feel happy when I do.
“You will” says the little boy in rags who had stopped running around the old man.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“You know what the best part is?” the boy says, completely ignoring my question.
“Tell me” I say, playing along.
“If you fill yourself with any feeling, you can see it being transmitted to the one you want to communicate with”
I find that prospect both scary and exhilarating.
“It takes a while though, so don’t lose heart” he chuckles at his gallows humor, seemingly wise beyond his years. And before I can ask any of the questions milling around in my head, he quickly goes away with a wave of his hand.
Rishab is getting ready to get off the train. He walks out of the bustle of the station, and makes a call. I listen. He tells his boss he needs to take a week off. He makes another call. I recognize the name of the person he is talking to. Shefali, his wife. After a moment’s hesitation, I lean in, with my ear next to the phone and try to listen in. I feel like a voyeur. How quickly one’s morals change when one knows no one is looking!
Shefali expresses her sympathies but doesn’t think getting involved is wise.
“There is a reason we keep our heads low and hope we don’t get shot at, Rishab” she replayed the familiar refrain of the great Indian middle class, in her low office voice.
I don’t want Rishab to get hurt. If he tries to get involved, there is a good chance he will be in trouble.
“Maybe you should leave town for a few days..visit your parents?” Rishab suggests tentatively.
“No, you know I won’t” she cuts him short, without entertaining any room for discussion. “I have to go now, but be careful, will you?” she adds, with concern that hangs around in our ears, as heavy as a grey cloud in a rainy sky, and the call is disconnected.
Rishab sighs as he puts his phone in his pocket. His hand goes to his other pocket, and he nervously touches something inside, then thinking the better of it, leaves the contents of his pocket untouched.
He seems to grow more agitated. Or angry. I am not sure yet. He could be angry that he is attempting something without having a clear plan. Or, at the risk of sounding self-indulgent, that he hadn’t thought to check on me before. He walks to a nearby shop and asks for a pack of cigarettes. I feel like I should tell him to stop, and remind him how good he was the last two months, having gone without a smoke. If only I could talk!
‘Gosh, Khan, stop being the voice in my head’ he mutters and shakes his head as though to free himself of a voice from the grave.
The world is a mysterious place, the mind even more so.
I consider what just happened, while the shop keeper, a boy really, turns around to ask ‘something else sir?’ in his accented English. Rishab shakes his head and pays for the pack.
The cigarette calms him, and as he stamps out the butt, he goes back to the shop to ask something. He heads in the direction of Manoj’s office. The lawyer I work for.
Worked for.
How sudden the transition is, from life to the beyond. It does not give one time to adjust to a new state of being. There is no time for goodbyes. So much left unsaid for another day, a day that would never come.
Rishab talks to Manoj in a hushed voice. I sense discomfort. Rishab seems uncomfortable in the lawyer’s office. You wouldn’t be able to tell from his confident manner, unless you knew him.
As they talk, someone enters the room.
“Ah, Rishab, meet Abhaya. She is a journalist. She had been in touch with Khan for a few of his cases” Manoj said, as he turned to make the introductions.
Abhaya interrupts him. “Oh yes, Khan mentioned you. He enjoyed your company on his morning train.”
Rishab smiles politely as he tries to remember if Khan had ever mentioned her. “Nice to meet you” he offers simply, in the end.
“Can we talk in your office” Abhaya asks, as she gestures to the door at the end of the lobby in which they were talking.
As they sit down in Manoj’s office, she turns to them and says “I was talking to quite a few leads on this particular case. I checked on them yesterday after I found out about Khan” she pauses.
Then she adds “so far, two more are missing.”
***
Find Chapter Three here
Every time I look at those trees, I feel I am home, and at peace.
I was killed on bhanuvara, Sunday.
I wonder if I will ever be at peace.
I couldn’t stay at my death-filled house anymore so I decided to venture out. I instantly felt tranquil.
The streets have no smells, the wind doesn’t tickle my ears and the bright sun provides no warmth. The train seemed so much more crowded, until I realized not all of them were alive in their physical bodies. I had never thought before about what happens after death. It is hard to accept anyone’s theory of what happens after death, especially when said persons are very much alive. When you buy a watermelon, you make the fruit-seller cut you a piece so you see it is red, taste it and know it’s good before you will buy the whole melon. To see, to touch, to feel, is to believe.
I am glad I couldn’t see all these people before; the city would have seemed even more crowded. A little boy dressed in worn street clothes is running fast in circles, around an old man trying to read a paper. The paper flutters but the old man doesn’t seem too discomfited by the bundle of nervous energy around him. Some of the walking dead find this amusing and smile at each other.
I look across now, at Rishab’s pensive face, which transmits the pain of bereavement. I go across to check in on the newspaper he holds in front of his glazed eyes. I am surprised I made it to the papers. An insignificant man like me! I wonder if I should smile, and if I will feel happy when I do.
“You will” says the little boy in rags who had stopped running around the old man.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“You know what the best part is?” the boy says, completely ignoring my question.
“Tell me” I say, playing along.
“If you fill yourself with any feeling, you can see it being transmitted to the one you want to communicate with”
I find that prospect both scary and exhilarating.
“It takes a while though, so don’t lose heart” he chuckles at his gallows humor, seemingly wise beyond his years. And before I can ask any of the questions milling around in my head, he quickly goes away with a wave of his hand.
Rishab is getting ready to get off the train. He walks out of the bustle of the station, and makes a call. I listen. He tells his boss he needs to take a week off. He makes another call. I recognize the name of the person he is talking to. Shefali, his wife. After a moment’s hesitation, I lean in, with my ear next to the phone and try to listen in. I feel like a voyeur. How quickly one’s morals change when one knows no one is looking!
Shefali expresses her sympathies but doesn’t think getting involved is wise.
“There is a reason we keep our heads low and hope we don’t get shot at, Rishab” she replayed the familiar refrain of the great Indian middle class, in her low office voice.
I don’t want Rishab to get hurt. If he tries to get involved, there is a good chance he will be in trouble.
“Maybe you should leave town for a few days..visit your parents?” Rishab suggests tentatively.
“No, you know I won’t” she cuts him short, without entertaining any room for discussion. “I have to go now, but be careful, will you?” she adds, with concern that hangs around in our ears, as heavy as a grey cloud in a rainy sky, and the call is disconnected.
Rishab sighs as he puts his phone in his pocket. His hand goes to his other pocket, and he nervously touches something inside, then thinking the better of it, leaves the contents of his pocket untouched.
He seems to grow more agitated. Or angry. I am not sure yet. He could be angry that he is attempting something without having a clear plan. Or, at the risk of sounding self-indulgent, that he hadn’t thought to check on me before. He walks to a nearby shop and asks for a pack of cigarettes. I feel like I should tell him to stop, and remind him how good he was the last two months, having gone without a smoke. If only I could talk!
‘Gosh, Khan, stop being the voice in my head’ he mutters and shakes his head as though to free himself of a voice from the grave.
The world is a mysterious place, the mind even more so.
I consider what just happened, while the shop keeper, a boy really, turns around to ask ‘something else sir?’ in his accented English. Rishab shakes his head and pays for the pack.
The cigarette calms him, and as he stamps out the butt, he goes back to the shop to ask something. He heads in the direction of Manoj’s office. The lawyer I work for.
Worked for.
How sudden the transition is, from life to the beyond. It does not give one time to adjust to a new state of being. There is no time for goodbyes. So much left unsaid for another day, a day that would never come.
Rishab talks to Manoj in a hushed voice. I sense discomfort. Rishab seems uncomfortable in the lawyer’s office. You wouldn’t be able to tell from his confident manner, unless you knew him.
As they talk, someone enters the room.
“Ah, Rishab, meet Abhaya. She is a journalist. She had been in touch with Khan for a few of his cases” Manoj said, as he turned to make the introductions.
Abhaya interrupts him. “Oh yes, Khan mentioned you. He enjoyed your company on his morning train.”
Rishab smiles politely as he tries to remember if Khan had ever mentioned her. “Nice to meet you” he offers simply, in the end.
“Can we talk in your office” Abhaya asks, as she gestures to the door at the end of the lobby in which they were talking.
As they sit down in Manoj’s office, she turns to them and says “I was talking to quite a few leads on this particular case. I checked on them yesterday after I found out about Khan” she pauses.
Then she adds “so far, two more are missing.”
***
Find Chapter Three here
March 22, 2011
Chapter One: Smoke And Mirrors
May 13, 2010
I look for him as soon as I climb into the seventh bogie of the daily train into the city. I always choose this one because it is all the way at the back, and doesn’t get too crowded. I am worried for Khan, it has been three days since I saw him. And in the year that I have known him, he hadn’t missed a single day.
“I can’t take time off” he would smile and say, “We are preparing for court day”.
I had moved to this city for work a little over a year ago. When I got on the train, already listening to my iPod, I would sit down and start reading the newspaper. One day, I noticed a man dressed in a faded plaid shirt staring at the Sudoku puzzle in the paper. His face looked familiar. I assumed he took the train frequently. I smiled and offered that section to him; I had no interest in it anyway.
“No thanks, I didn’t mean to stare” he said. I half-expected his reply, in my country, acceptance of a gift is preceded by a million ‘No I couldn’t possibly accept it’ protestations. That can lead to interesting contradictions when a hand reaches to greedily accept the offering while the person is mouthing a ‘No’.
I insisted, so he finally took over the Sudoku with child-like delight. I later learned that he approached learning the same way too. His education was largely self-taught, so whenever I corrected his pronunciation of English words or talked about something, he would accept it with a humble desire to learn. Most of the people I knew would refuse to correct their errors, taking slight at being corrected, their fragile egos preventing them from learning. I suppose I am not immune either, but I try not to be these days. Khan’s voracious appetite for information was refreshing.
He worked for a lawyer in the city doing odd-jobs around the office and the court. He had been working there for nearly fifteen years. He had not held a steady job before that. A friend was falsely accused of murder during a communal riot, and had tried to help him quite unsuccessfully. A young boy had picked him out of a line-up and that’s how Mustafa went to jail accused of a murder he did not commit. It did not matter that the young boy had changed his ‘eye-witness’ account many times, that Mustafa wasn’t even at the wrong place at the wrong time – he was somewhere else entirely with his friends. This version of events was simply disregarded. With the snail pace of justice, Mustafa languished in a jail, growing more bitter as years passed. Khan persisted. Wanting to learn more about the legal system when two appeals were rejected, he responded to a 'help wanted' ad at a lawyer’s office. The lawyer, after hearing Mustafa’s case one late evening, had agreed to help him. That was the beginning. Khan resolved to help others when he could, and was always working on a few cases on his own on the side. He would act as a private eye, while getting pro-bono assistance from the lawyer he worked for after amassing an initial swath of material.
I thought back to the cases that Khan had described to me recently. He had filed some RTI requests from the government. I hoped that had nothing to do with Khan’s no-show. I have always heard whispers of RTI activists being beaten up by politicians’ cronies when the information sought was better kept secret.
I shrugged the nagging feeling away as I turned a page in the newspaper.
I nearly dropped it.
There was a small byline in the ‘Crime’ section: “A 49 year old man, Mr. Akbar Khan, was found hanging in his house. There was a suicide note addressed to his wife who was away visiting her family along with their 18 year old son. No foul play is suspected by the police, even though the neighbour who found him claimed that the house appeared rummaged through and that a few files may have been missing.”
I could hear my heart pounding. I was too shocked to cry, the tears would come later. Right now, there was only anger.
I thought of my four year old daughter, my comfortable apartment in the suburbs, my software job, and my wife. How easy it would be not to do anything.
“Rishab, you have to do something” I told myself, as I thought once again of dear, smiling Khan.
***
Glossary: RTI - Right To Information
***
Find Chapter Two here
I look for him as soon as I climb into the seventh bogie of the daily train into the city. I always choose this one because it is all the way at the back, and doesn’t get too crowded. I am worried for Khan, it has been three days since I saw him. And in the year that I have known him, he hadn’t missed a single day.
“I can’t take time off” he would smile and say, “We are preparing for court day”.
I had moved to this city for work a little over a year ago. When I got on the train, already listening to my iPod, I would sit down and start reading the newspaper. One day, I noticed a man dressed in a faded plaid shirt staring at the Sudoku puzzle in the paper. His face looked familiar. I assumed he took the train frequently. I smiled and offered that section to him; I had no interest in it anyway.
“No thanks, I didn’t mean to stare” he said. I half-expected his reply, in my country, acceptance of a gift is preceded by a million ‘No I couldn’t possibly accept it’ protestations. That can lead to interesting contradictions when a hand reaches to greedily accept the offering while the person is mouthing a ‘No’.
I insisted, so he finally took over the Sudoku with child-like delight. I later learned that he approached learning the same way too. His education was largely self-taught, so whenever I corrected his pronunciation of English words or talked about something, he would accept it with a humble desire to learn. Most of the people I knew would refuse to correct their errors, taking slight at being corrected, their fragile egos preventing them from learning. I suppose I am not immune either, but I try not to be these days. Khan’s voracious appetite for information was refreshing.
He worked for a lawyer in the city doing odd-jobs around the office and the court. He had been working there for nearly fifteen years. He had not held a steady job before that. A friend was falsely accused of murder during a communal riot, and had tried to help him quite unsuccessfully. A young boy had picked him out of a line-up and that’s how Mustafa went to jail accused of a murder he did not commit. It did not matter that the young boy had changed his ‘eye-witness’ account many times, that Mustafa wasn’t even at the wrong place at the wrong time – he was somewhere else entirely with his friends. This version of events was simply disregarded. With the snail pace of justice, Mustafa languished in a jail, growing more bitter as years passed. Khan persisted. Wanting to learn more about the legal system when two appeals were rejected, he responded to a 'help wanted' ad at a lawyer’s office. The lawyer, after hearing Mustafa’s case one late evening, had agreed to help him. That was the beginning. Khan resolved to help others when he could, and was always working on a few cases on his own on the side. He would act as a private eye, while getting pro-bono assistance from the lawyer he worked for after amassing an initial swath of material.
I thought back to the cases that Khan had described to me recently. He had filed some RTI requests from the government. I hoped that had nothing to do with Khan’s no-show. I have always heard whispers of RTI activists being beaten up by politicians’ cronies when the information sought was better kept secret.
I shrugged the nagging feeling away as I turned a page in the newspaper.
I nearly dropped it.
There was a small byline in the ‘Crime’ section: “A 49 year old man, Mr. Akbar Khan, was found hanging in his house. There was a suicide note addressed to his wife who was away visiting her family along with their 18 year old son. No foul play is suspected by the police, even though the neighbour who found him claimed that the house appeared rummaged through and that a few files may have been missing.”
I could hear my heart pounding. I was too shocked to cry, the tears would come later. Right now, there was only anger.
I thought of my four year old daughter, my comfortable apartment in the suburbs, my software job, and my wife. How easy it would be not to do anything.
“Rishab, you have to do something” I told myself, as I thought once again of dear, smiling Khan.
***
Glossary: RTI - Right To Information
***
Find Chapter Two here
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