La'Belle

                    "Mediterannean". Musee D' Orsay 

There is seldom any doubt that French women are one of the most effortlessly sexy and beautiful .

I was going through some old pictures stored in my lap top, and revisited the pictures of the gorgeous looking lass from France. The picture must be about ten years old and I last saw her before she left the company I was then doing business with. The last I met her was in Strasbourg in their office. And that day she and her boss took me out for lunch. I did correspond with her on business matters and some advice about textile fairs in Paris and Lille which she frequented. Well in fact she was a Textile school product and worked in that Company as a designer and Stylist for men’s wear. Hence her twice yearly visits to India.

She must have been twenty four or there about.

Once on her visit to India, she happened to be in the town over the week end and came to our house for dinner. The next day, a Sunday, we all drove down to Malampuzha in Kerala. As she and her boss wanted to see a bit of “God’s own country”, of which they heard much. (The subsequent year we sent them by car to Kumarakom to erase the unpleasant memories of this forgetful trip). It was an awful experience for the heat and the very ravenous men folks of that place. Being a Sunday there was a sizeable crowd of men and women who ventured out to nauseatingly pry and strip another- beautiful women. The kind of people who are intrusive and agape upon seeing a white (pale) skinned alien woman.

Now she was a very beautiful and debonair. Tall slightly tanned and had exquisite assets that makes women glamorous and attractive to men folks and envy of the same sex. Being her second or third visit to India she was not quite aware of the prejudice and hypocrisies of the land. Wearing jeans and a round neck t shirt that clings to a beautiful  body was indeed quite provocative to the gentry there in Kerala. I and C could feel and she too, the prying and lecherous eyes roving all over her. In fact we had to be more conscious and ensure that none of them got berserk and laid hands on her. There was no dearth for comments that were derisive, mocking and vulgar. It was a wonderful relief when we were back in the car to drive back to our town. The only quite side of the day adventure being the boat ride on the lake, which was away from offensive eyes.

After she left the company the contact just faded out, though it must be the pleasure of every man who appreciates feminine physical beauty and charm, to be in contact with her. 

The next I heard about her, (let me call her M, after the first alphabet of her name), was just a few years ago from the woman who was her boss. Well, M was going steady with a young man who lived in her town of Strasbourg. And they were quite intimate for a while, before she was befriended by another fellow.  She was I presume dating two men at the same time. It was immediately after that, that she found her pregnant. And she decided to marry her new boy friend. Marry they did. Because she had this good news for him that she conceived and will bore him a child. However a few months into marriage she went in for a paternity test and found that the child was from her earlier boyfriend. The man whom she married was not prepared to continue the relationship if she did not medically terminate the pregnancy. This she refused outright. His persuasive skills running out of steam and on a limbo, he (her husband) walked out of the marriage. She was left to fend for herself. 

She eventually gave birth to a child, a boy. She was living by herself, a single young mother, in dire need of a job. In an unenviable state of bringing up the infant and meeting ends meets.

Quite an unfortunate turn of events for a woman who was captivatingly beautiful.

One can laugh away the confusion of parentage and the comedy of errors if one sees it that way. However the same life style is quite in our garden too! Isn’t it?

IODEX

There was this old joke doing the rounds in college- Question, “What is the height of innocence”?  Answer, “Pregnant woman rubbing Iodex.”

Well that was a trifle naughty joke. And can be exercised in circle of friends during banter. There are then statements that may be intended as jokes but when pronounced at the wrong place, at the wrong time can create an awful lot of embarrassment. And when it originates from an adult it may be frowned upon, and may create a piquant situation. Which tells that jokes apart, one must as an adult have common sense in good proportion and good judgment, lest an occasion of banter will be transformed a spoiled stage?

But the liberty and license to thrill and kill are with the toddlers and the little ones. The little children who walk with unsteady steps and utter matters that sometimes thrills to kill you. Embarrass you to no end, evoke erupting laughter, and hush silence in agape and sheer comical situations too. It is height of innocence and witty at that!

“It is not a bad thing that children should occasionally and politely put their parents in their place.”

It was quite a few years ago and my niece was growing out of toddle. She was taken one day to the zoo in Thpuram by her parents. I guess she was two years old at that time. Moving around the enclosures she was carried by her father, my sister’s husband. As usual, when little children are taken to zoo- the arena where primates are enclosed, that would be a fascinating halting point. So my sister and brother in law hung around with the little girl around the enclosure where they had the baboons and chimps. That day had quite a good commune of people at the zoo. The little girl was so thrilled and elated with the primates inside. That she refused to leave the area. My brother in law was carrying her prodded her that they have more great animals to gaze elsewhere. She suddenly blurted out in high pitched voice pointing her finger at the monkeys and  tapping her father’s face, “look the monkey looks like Atcham(dad).” The guy was certainly miffed and embarrassed and apparently people around heard the child’s statement. He gently pinched her and asked her to be quite. She then blurted louder still, “why do you pinch me for that”.” I understand that since that day the poor fellow have not taken fancy with zoos.

She now has grown up into a woman and finished her masters in zoology. She does not rattle or pass trivial talk, but if she tells something, it will as meaningful and sharp that it is difficult to refute the statement.

C’s parents were living in a small hamlet in the Nilgiris. Aravind, my son was quite fond of the old man, her father. We were once out there with the old folks on a short week end ors o. The boy was about four years of age. We were all watching some programme on the television. I guess it was some sports channel and the boy was fascinated with some body building competition that was being telecast. The boy was asking questions to the old fella and he was trying to give the child an explanation or a satisfactory answer. Not quite convincing for the boy! We heard the grandfather tell him something about the muscular physique of the men and how they built it over. The little fella, caught the old man unawares when he asked him,” appuppa why are all their muscles inside their underwear?” The old man a benign and timid fellow was stuttering to answer that question.

An Ode to Mother Dearest

I have seen him, his brothers and sisters do that. I have seen that when I was little and was trifle amused by what I then thought was a kind of acrobatics. Bending and touching at her feet or falling prostrate at her feet whenever they ventured out on a long journey or before engaging in any labour of importance. He, (my father) had asked me and my sister too, to touch her feet (in reverence) before we returned from the summer and mid- term vacations at her place. Which was then a serene, sprawling country side by the sea  with copious  paddy fields  that go beyond the horizon straddling back water canals  and  meandering rivulets on one   side of the  hamlet  , lush green all over with coconut  and areca- nut palms , majestic mango  and jack fruit trees  standing on the fringes of beautiful fresh water ponds - bearing fruits seldom found even in paradise.

I did not literally imbibe the gesture of obeisance I saw him bear with humility towards his mother. But I have not let a day by , since I have  begun using my faculties of thought  as an adolescent  where I have not  gotten off the bed in the morning and began  another day without remembering her, my mother, where ever  she was- in the same house or elsewhere. Day begins with thought of respect, gratitude and remorse for my many delinquencies as a teenager that have pained her much.

Sometimes I trust that the karmic philosophy is just not a theory but a fact of life. Because perhaps what ails one’s life may be the just requital of what one does to one’s parent – mother in particular. Metaphorical though, makes sound sense to pursue as a matter of good living.

She has been the most cultivated and Spartan of women. Her pictures from the old tell much about her pretty countenance and demeanour, the gracefulness of beauty. This, my sister has not been fortunate to genetically acquire. She was called “mayil peeli chechi” (sister with peacock plumes). Such was the amazing lush, long black hair she had. I remember my elder cousins (father’s nieces) reminisce that they were in awe of her the day she came home to my paternal mother’s as the bride just married. They have told me that they wanted to befriend her as quickly as they could, to touch her. My father’s sisters never had a word of remote resent for her, only admiration and respect ,so were all her relatives in law.

No one had ever spoke ill of her and never have she spoken ill of any. Even the difficulties she encountered in marital life, did not make her succumb to speak ill about my father or reveal even a wee bit about her melancholy.  It was not that he was unkind to her .This happened while I was little, may be eight or nine years old. The conversation took place between my maternal grandfather and my mother. Or was it a monologue from him? He was a domineering person as men were more autocratic those days. He did not meet eye to eye with my father and they had mutual dislike. It was some matter that troubled my mother and I saw her weep. She was being admonished by her father (my grandfather) for putting up with my father. He wanted her to separate from him and proclaimed that he had the obligation and the resources to take care of her and her two children. She was not angry with her father for what he wanted her to dare. He in fact understood that of all his six children, it was she who would be with him and not for his wealth. And she was a portrait of decorum even in the most distressful times of her life. We in jest say she is the eponym for tolerance. But she has never forsaken self respect.

She was quite a terror to me sometimes. I now guess that it was more out of her frustrations that she was annoyed with me than my provoking her anger.

The respect that came forth for her from all because of her demenour was conspicuously apparent to me when elder members of the acquaintances, friends and relatives we have one after the other  reminded me of not to hurt her by word or deed. This was when they were told that I was to marry a girl from a catholic Christian background. There was this friend and school mate of her who did not mince words in reprimanding me and reminding me about my decision and that in no way must hurt her.  And it has not , I’m fortunate!

Genteel as genteel can be,!

Wisecrack

A friend feels that perhaps what he sees as my intemperate reactions these days is because of my state of mind. Coming from a good friend the comment cannot be dismissed as insensible or not true and I indulged in self analysis and introspection. Though he was the only fellow to make this fantastic judgment! But I had to be discreet; tread with care, not to be biased about myself if I might suddenly notice my not so exemplary quality as he sniffed. I must be cautious that I do not go forward with the sole aim of rubbishing his/her observation. I must be sure to be diacritical.

It is a funny game this social living. I’m certain primates too may be having all the advantages and difficulties of gregarious living. It is funny when we sit back and rewind, sensitive indeed is this art of “communicating”. Unlike what Bindu mentioned in her comment in her Blog post, it is just not in business matters alone that communication can be important. Even in mundane affairs, among spouses, parent and children, between friends, with acquaintances, the stranger on the road-with everybody it matters.  A pause or a comma, a colon or silence, all might be construed as meaning something different than intended and diametrically opposite too.

Once a person opined that if someone calls you ‘monkey’, wisely there should not be any recrimination or reaction even. He said such name calling would not make one so. It certainly will should one react angrily at such an act.

 Yes indeed, the mental plight plays a great deal in affairs of a person and the way he conducts himself. Am I petulant? Do I throw my peevishness, my stress, my disturbed mental or physical state upon an unassuming person?

Yes I have done so. I have picked up quarrel and raised voices with frustration than anger, well that was mostly with C. In the office I have sometimes got quickly provoked at the slightest pitfall in a person. I have thrown files back at the person. These were, call it temperamental reactions to certain event or person over whom I could not exercise control .I guess this most of us do. We pick up some one manoeuvrable to vent our pent up helplessness.  And often that will be our spouse.

It was long ago may be in the early years of our married life, I picked up few din with C. Reason I really do not remember. But I suppose that the villain of the piece must have been me. One was a verbal confrontation of sorts and I guess I was quite pissed out with C’s callous attitude at my excitement that out of annoyance I picked up the decoction of coffee and poured on her head. She looked the victim of a prankster on holi. Yet another time we were arguing on something and again I was annoyed at her retorts or indifference that I threw the plate of omelets to the far corner of the room. It rang through immediately all over my nerves that I did something horrendous with food. I remember aplogising to her, picked up the platter and ate in remorse over my action. Sulk, I did!

Have I abused someone because of my failures or mental state?  Certainly no. In fact throwing the anguish of one’s meekness at home, error of judgments and repercussions in professional or personal matters on someone has not been my conspicuous attribute. There are many who do that and are an incorrigible lot.

What transpires in my mind of my travails in life has been my sole companion as my shadow itself. And I do not think that even C or the children have thought of leaning over to see what  goes through in my mind. More often it has been a lonely haul in abasement, except that, there were a few close ones who spied out in anguish that devastation shows out. This has been the matter in affairs thick and thin.

Then how the hell is this fascinating discovery that my words and deeds reflect my travails and perils? It is easy to be in judgment, I suppose. And it will be wise to not react when one is called a primate or an ass for example, because if one is sure, it is silly to retort on something that is silly and untrue .Let the Troubadour sing in praise of what I’m not.

The Weaker Sex

I say this as an observer and as a member of the male species. I’m not even a distant “Man watcher” in the Desmond Morris mould. What is noted is only from my observations, reading and experiences of self and of people around I know.

There are certain biological qualities that predominate male and female. The female, be it in the animal kingdom or among human beings prefer the strongest and the indisputable of the male lot. Among beasts procreation being the sole motive that drives towards courtship, the female choose the best among male to continue her lineage. Among human beings things are not confined to just ensuring that the seed is fertilised by the best of men, because human wants are different and not merely natural as procreation alone.  Wealth is associated with power and that may be often preferred over raw physical prowess; education and physical charm; character and moral up righteousness, all play significant part or some may be the sole criteria as well. 

There are not many women who would opt for a man who is incapable of providing her the security she wants. An infatuation in the genre of Romeo & Juliet or Laila & Majnu is only madness and exceptions to the rule. Often seen in fictional works than in real life! The word “security” is relative. To some it can be money, sex, affection, faithfulness etc.

The fact is women are adept in choosing the best that they deem is appropriate for them. While men are by far obsessed with the physical curvature that attracts. Fortunately further enactment is restricted by social laws and etiquettes. A time without restraints that are enforced from outside is rather frightening and can be a dangerous situation that may throw open the real nature of the male species. To some this natural fascination or disposition can be a mad obsession. Like in the animal kingdom the male among the Homo sapiens seem to be   genetically driven by the primordial urge and the refining has been only because of social controls.

Once during a discussion a person stated that male of the human species are obsessed with sex and women .They hardly let a woman pass by, by not undressing her in his mind. He attributed this disposition even in Gandhi which perhaps made him rebel against, in his conscience. There is also an opinion which states that he straddling two women on either shoulder was his way of negating the ubiquitous urge of male. Hence his many trysts with Sataygraha!

That consigns male to a genetically charged group disposed to copulation. And to many, sexual relationships end with copulation and one night stand as some call it, be it in marriage or outside. Other feelings of emotion and love are certainly there and are more often the result of social conditioning.

However women are choosy, and survey the male before she concludes his suitability as the partner. She prefers to choose the Man among men. She can plan with tremendous far sight. She can sense when he is weak, financially and physically. And can find ingenious ways to shun him when not required.  She has the charm to mesmerize and enchant. She is stronger emotionally too. What else and how else can I explain the passing away of at least five men I knew who bade good bye soon after their spouse died? They were hearty and healthy until the wives were around. On the contrary widows enjoy longevity. Men break down emotionally inside and fall ill physically as soon as they lose the partner. The zest to survive is lost in them.

And I have not come across a man who has used a woman when need be and shun her later. Financially encumbered women are exceptions and are like prey to the civilized predators of the society.  On the contrary I have known women who have with uncanny acumen and cunningness use men physically and monetarily literally as serfs. Discard them like pariahs and disposable napkins once they are weak. Man’s weakness is adeptly exploited by the “weaker sex”. If this is not the genetically feeble mind of men in realtion to the strong mindset of women, what else is it?

A woman can wear a man down emotionally. She can make him beg, plead,make him beseech and weep. .But still she may not have him have his way. I can relate this to courtship times among beasts. The casual impassivity and indifference exhibited by the lioness or the doe when male after male lions and stags lurk pleadingly around her. Makes me wonder are we not just another bipedal ones in the animal kingdom?

Lady Macbeth is a stark example. We have had similar examples in the Indian mythical works as well.  Was it Rasputin or the Russian empress who maneuvered the other? It is indeed an easy guess.

Confucius

Confucious

The Confucian exhortation, “if you cannot avoid rape lie back and enjoy it”, seems relevant to many circumstances that have nothing to do with the profane act he meant. A matter of not seeing the essence of a suggestion, literally! And hence, I assume that the lump in the throat that I seem to carry these days is best left to wither away on its own. Any attempt at confronting it to excise will be futile and, so I decided to see how long I can sleep  with assault ipso facto.

Consequently, I decided to witter.

There is no dearth of educated men and women in India. In fact the number of graduates and post graduates our Universities and educational syndicates hatch and consign to the outer world would even pale the alma mater of repute in the west. Quality indeed is dispensed with in Indian education. Hence there is no great astonishment when it was reported in the media that there were about four hundred applications to the post of “executioner’ when the position was advertised by the Jailor of the central prison in Thpuram. And many were post graduates! A highly literate state indeed, Kerala!

Montek Singh Aluwalia is a feline that has nine lives. And an acrobatic bureaucrat that he is, he has the uncanny knack of falling on his four from where ever you flung him down. He has survived this long as the deputy chief of the planning commission. And true to his acrobatic prowess he did a Don Quixote when he opined for the government that a daily income of above Rs 32 in urban areas and Rs 29 in rural areas shall be considered as above poverty line. Quixotic, but rude,cruel, outrageous and stupid. Or perhaps anyone out there who can do the sorcery of living on Rs 32 a day, with (roti, kapada and makkhan), food clothing and shelter?

The apartment where I lead a single life these days is shared by  two young men. Not so often I get together with them for a few sundowners over weekend. Once I walked in to their room while they were enjoying alcohol with my glass of whisky in my hand  and with flip flops on my feet. I always wear flip flops while in the house. One of the fellows jumped up aghast and requested me in serious tone that I should leave the footwear outside the room. He said there was “god “inside and pointed at the picture of the genial “Ganapathi” hung on the wall. I wondered to myself if Sri Vinayakan is pleased when it comes to whisky but frowns upon foot wear.

A few days ago I bought some good veal to cook. I ‘m not well set with kitchen wares and since I'm not sure of the duration of my stay in Bahrain, I did not invest in things like pressure cooker etc. And the two companions graciously offered me the utility of their wares should I need. While I was cleaning up the irresistible meat, one of the guys sneaked behind and intoned that I do not cook the beef in the pressure cooker as they are chaste Hindus. They would do all bad things but not touch beef even with a barge pole. I wondered to myself, why other beasts and avian lowly creatures compared to cows and bulls of the bovine world. And also what would they do to ensure that the restaurants where they  devour meat , cook beef in sterile environs.

The Void

It has been some days since I could collect myself to write and post on the Blog. And today is no different, though I have been almost daily, visiting blogs, reading posts and commenting on them. Some of the regulars have not fallen by the wayside like I have. Doc Antony has given an excuse of being over worked and Balan an alibi of nesting in Alleppy. Oshu who used to bring sharp topics with good language, vanished for a while resurfaced with something honest and candid, but that can still be abhorring to many. There are the earnest faithfuls like, Melange with her never ending repository of cuisine , Bindu with her usual self, NRIgirl as always, KParthasarathi  with his fictional chronicles, SG with her perennial challenges, Petty Witter with her tittle-tattle that has no dearth and Deeps with his discourses mantras.

We have Arun Meethalle still insisting to be an irregular frequent, Sandy still a blue moon, and the others as infrequent as they can get.

Should I infer that many others are also going through the intermittent phases when mind is blank and staunchly refuse to gather thoughts?  Do I go wrong if I deduce that the regular ones are unaffected by the numbness life craftily enforce? Some hold forth a reason of busy schedule and shortage of time for even a square meal. Should I understand that Bindu is having a relentlessly energetic time that she is faithfully and incessantly blogging? Or is it that she has the resource to overcome the malady of mental stress and ennui?And, Melange to churn plethora of gourmets delight? 

I cannot tell! But here I feel absolutely steamrolled over and cannot escape from the throbbing that happens. The mirror refuses to project the image of that stands in front -It is blank. Is it blank from soot? Or is it that it refuses to oblige? 

The Void!

A weekend in Dubai with a friend on an escapade plus a bit of prospecting has not helped. His generosity in cleansing me with good whisky and good food has not alleviated my plight. And makes me wonder if the medication that I faithfully intake has done little to assuage hypertension that afflicts, and Scotch has only been momentarily helpful- a transient tool and aid.

It is a damn thing, this mind is, that it worsens the situation that surrounds you! Seems to play up as it is a cul de sac.

The One Eyed Tiger

                          The audacious straight drive.

My first introduction to this game was when I was in the fourth standard at the convent. The neighborhood friend of mine who was doing his 6 th standard in the then famous school in the town revealed one evening a new game. A strange game in which you hold a stick with broad blade and was called bat (the makeshift bat was the coconut palm leaf stem). And another fellow throws a tennis ball from his hand held high and involves a bit of twist, turn and dancing motion. The fellow with the “bat” swings it violently and sends the ball to distant corners, more often to the compound of the neighbor. He does this to avoid the ball hitting three thin bamboo sticks behind him. He hits the ball and runs to the far end as if his life was depending on his reaching there as quick as he can. Then some arithmetic was involved and bingo, after exchanging swinging of bat and throwing the ball the winner is declared. Again based on some weird arithmetic calculations. A subject that was my bête noire.

I was not at all fascinated with the introduction to this new game. And was angry with my friend more because I could not figure out the strange acts and then math that is vital part of playing that game. I could not imagine and understand the raison d'être in involving math in fun and while at play. Ridiculous!

One year down the line I was sent to the very same school my friend was in. I was into the middle school and in the 5 th standard. New environs, bigger boys, no girls, strange angry words exchanged when boys fought, and menacing looking men as teachers. And most of all the strange game of three sticks a bat, ball, excited players and onlookers. The game was seen played in a many groups at the same time on all the play grounds, strips and corners. My first hand initiation into cricket. A fascination that stayed in me for the next many years as an avid player and follower of the game. Until belligerent opposition and disapproval from home muffled out that life from me.

Fascination metamorphosed into obsession and in a short while I began to play and listen to the running commentary on AIR, read avidly the Sports page in The Hindu. Often I cornered clandestinely a few paise from home to by sports magazines, Sport & Pastimes” and the “Sports Week’. My father used to buy the "Illustrated Weekly" regularly and those days it was “the news magazine”. And they brought out great articles on cricket and with beautiful colour photos of action. The little breaks in school and any available daylight time, I was playing the game.

And then India won the first ever test match and series overseas in New Zealand. Along with that I heard for the first time the name Pataudi. My father was an avid follower of the game and he had with him cricket books and coaching manuals written by Sir Len Hutton, Ted Dexter and so on. He used to listen to the commentary on AIR. And strange indeed, he did not frown upon me following the game.

Later that year sitting in the sidelines of the cricket matches to decide the best House before the annual Day celebrations, I heard of Pataudi who was the school captain. He was a senior in the final class. And strangely except for the darker complexion he was Nawab Pataudi’s look alike- be it appearance, hair-styling, gaze or swagger. And he was a good batsman. He was mobbed by the rest of the school. And because of him being the name sake of the Nawab, he was an icon.

My father in some rare moments of interaction that we ever had, used to tell me about how he and  a few of his colleagues ferried Pataudi from Hyderabad to Madras  once in the Air Force aircraft and then the Test matches that he witnessed Pataudi in action. He also told me why Pataudi was a Tiger. He was not named Tiger Pataudi, he said for his ferocity, (he in fact was a decent man), but for the tenacity and spirit of never say die. It was then I understood that Pataudi lost an eye in a road accident and was handicapped that way. My father told me that he had great difficulty in sighting and he always saw a ball being bowled as two. And because of his impaired vision he had to use his senses to know which was illusion and which was real. No ordinary man can adjust like he did and mock illusion and fate.

There were two means of conveying the period and time in films that had the plot taking place in the 1960’s. One was the signing on theme music of the AIR and the other was the running commentary on a cricket Test match on the AIR. And the commentator can be heard saying animatedly and in excitement that Pataudi has executed another glamorous stroke.

I met the prince at close quarters, that I could almost touch him. That was sometime in the early 1970’s during the three day Hyderabad-Kerala ,Ranji Trophy match at the University stadium in Trivandrum. M.L.Jaisimha was the captain. And there was besides Pataudi, another handsome player, his cousin Abas Ali Baig, Abid Ali and many others.

I must say that I have never met another handsome, charming and captivating person. He was absolutely gold like in pallor and had the elegance of the lineage, education and stature. Unfortunately he was bruised all over his elbows after some fascinating fielding. I do not remember taking his autograph, for I was bewitched and amazed at having got to see the man himself.

There were college girls in plenty shouting, shrieking and howling. They were kept at bay by the police, for they would have shred him. He was, at that time already married to Sharmila Tagore. The gossip went around that a boisterous college lass who was obsessed with him, gate crashed into the Mascot hotel where the team stayed. And she pleaded that she wanted to sleep with Pataudi. Pataudi was irritated by the lass and her tantrums that he closed himself in his room and got her evicted from the hotel. The grape vine has it that another player Mumtazr Hussain dated her during the duration of the match.

“No, don’t call me sir, call me tiger”. This was Pataudi himself when another player of later years tried to pick up a conversation with him.

In the 1960’s there were a few Indians who provoked ones imagination, they were Mrs. Indira Gandhi, Vikram Sarabhai and the other was Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi.

Crime & Punishment

Premeditating a crime outweighs by great extent the enacting of the crime itself. The actor is a mere instrument, a tool. While I ‘m an accomplice, a co-conspirator and culpable murder, because I have been part of many premeditated murders. Murder most foul!

Kalliappan  an old dying man in the former Central Travancore is one illustration of a man destroyed by remorse and guilt. He finds transient solace in alcohol. And hence he consumes more and more…! He is aged and emaciated. Bidding his time when he will cease to have any days remaining in this world. For he has killed many! And it now dawns more in him, how often there were innocents sent to the gallows by his very hands. This young man now standing at the gallows is innocent. The jailor told him so in no uncertain words and as another instance of egregious application of the law and evidence in court. But his son who accompanied him to the execution takes up the job when he stumbles, does it more out of revulsion and anger for what he feels is his father’s false piety.( the plot of Adoor Gopalakrishan Movie- Nizhal kuthu)

Now wake up, wake up from your blissful, nay forced slumber. It was I and you, the ones who premeditated and did murders most foul. And we continue to clamour for more. More blood that may even put to pale oblivion the insatiable thirst for blood of the merchant of death or even as old timers say of the Goddess Kali.

Mohammed Sadd- al Beshi is far younger and in his mid forties. When he came on television, he looked ordinary and I would pass him on the street without a second glance at his unassuming countenance. In fact the butcher who I remember from my childhood when I used to be sent to the local abattoir, had blood shot eyes, dark complexion massive chest, broad shoulders, prominent cheek bones and muscular biceps. He also sported frightening whiskers. And I can remember him vividly, though it was many years ago, on the whole he generated a fearsome visage.

“Despite the fact that I despise violence against women, I happily undertake my job as it is decreed by the one and only almighty God.” He expresses without batting an eyelid and in a calm voice. He continues, "I must say that women are strong kneed than men. Men cannot stand straight on the execution platform. I have not seen a weak kneed woman in my 400 plus beheadings willed by God.” He had a mocking tone in his voice, derision towards men and their infirmity before the sword he wields and send their head cart wheeling on the dusty sand, with the trunk shuddering spasmodically on the ground. Blood gushing out of the gaping hole in the trunk at the neck where the head was. He is the official executioner of the custodians of Islam, the kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

These are two faces of men who are by lineage and profession employed to murder, to kill, to enforce execution or capital punishment as called in jurisprudence. These are people from two distinct cultures and our contemporaries.

The first in a society that dares to call itself “democratic and civilised”! The second in a society that is teetering still in medieval barbaric practices. The former presumes that man has to be made aware to think of death penalty when he sets out to murder and hence must be operatively deterrent. The latter quotes the rash and archaic unveiling of eye for an eye from institutions found during a different age. Those laws may have been suitable for a clan of tribal barbarians wandering along the deserts of Arabia , Palestine and Egypt  and are absolutely ill for a generation that claim to be civilised and enlightened .

Now let us leave aside countries like Saudi Arabia and some other Islamic States who have refused to sign the United Nations Declarations of Human Rights, that calls for abolition of death penalty and that everyone has the right to protection from deprivation of life. Capital punishment is still given down in signatory countries like India and the USA for instance. Two nations who clamour for being more democratic and upholding human rights than the other! But are derisive and averse to the watch dog Amnesty.

Death penalty has proved that it is not an effective deterrent against crime. As long as premeditated killings are supported by money and political power crime in various forms and intensity will continue to be perpetrated. To assume that society should dispense with certain elements as they are considered unfit for life is another theory that keeps capital punishment on the statute. A flawed and bedeviled theory from the very society that is responsible for an evolution of a felon. The very society who shuns him like a pariah and incorrigible!  The only difference is that he or she is not banished to a remote island- a penal colony, but left in the lurch emotionally and socially, branded as a curse, a scourge to mankind and the very society in which he was born, born not by his volition! And in some cases exterminated!

If a felony is penalised by elimination of the felon, by what law and philosophy is the very murder what we call penalty not a more heinous crime? It is the whole society, the mob against a solitary individual who is branded as unfit to live. The rarest of rare cases as the Supreme Court of India observed   is a contradiction and a unenlightened observation. It means that in rare and strange cases the society can indulge in crime, in mobocracy.

The lust for blood is mans twin .A very dangerous trait that only man has and exercise against his own. I was a pro death penalty criminal all these years. But life has finally given me a realisation that smothering out a life in the name of penalty, as an individual perpetrator or as the silent acqusiser are both the same. And no law can redress or reverse both as the former is a crime and the later uncivilised and barbaric.

There is nothing human in the mode of killing or  be it by the individual or the State. Both are lust, lust for blood and vengeance of perverted and heinous minds.

Requiem

Some people are fortunate to read their own obituary. Well , is  there  something fortunate in getting to read that? It may also turn to  be a painful reminder, a late realization that you are or were a damn fool. How about being present at your memorial service? The white pallor of you, dressed in immaculate  white traditional uniform of the dead? You would come to know what the world- the friends who you loved , the relatives who you thought loved you, the acquaintances who nod while you pass them on the street ,all would subscribe to the requiem.

The eulogy they may read and it may blush your cheeks even though you are dead.

The ones who disparaged you and hounded you to the end of the world while you were alive, or even did the eerie black magic to summon Lucifer and numb your senses, all would in unionism orate in praise  of the magnificent  person you were. You will wonder why your mother , your wife or husband did not notice these  conspicuous qualities  while you were walking around in flesh and blood. And now once you were  interned in the inescapable underground vault the whole world conspire to  bring forth  grand orations about what you were. You may for a moment  pinch your cheek to  know if all is real. But then the dead cannot pinch, they pinch through!

This was what I felt whenever I  have been at the sidelines listening to a few memorial services . After you are gone, you will be eulogised for things that you did not do, and would not have done either. Hallo and saint hood is thrust upon you . And for that to happen, you need not have to be patient and bring forth three miracles like the Vatican insist. You  only just have to pass away. Scoundrel or saint when alive, you will be baptised after death and given a clean chit that you could not have dreamt when alive.

The mother of all jokes  would be a primate throwing tributes to the departed. The closest liaison he must have ever had with  the deceased would be at a  sumptuous meal complimented with exotic spirits, at the home of the departed. But the words and phrases that flow from him in tribute will flatter even Alcapone lying in his grave.

Eulogies have a queer sense. What they really mean one may not understand because it is neigh impossible to enter the mind of the speaker and decipher what he or she  really means  when he says, “I loved him”. By far that is the fact. Exceptions to the rule are not to be forgotten!

Here  are a few tributes to the departed-

-By a husband who excelled in  infidelity  towards  his wife had this to say at the memorial service.”If  tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I’d walk right up to heaven and bring you home again.”

-By the Bishop who lead the memorial service to a young woman of the laity who was raped and killed. “If we have been pleased with life, we should not be displeased with death, it comes from the hand of the same master.”

-A politician’s requiem  at the funeral of his bête noire. “say not in grief he is no more , but live in thankfulness that he was ( is no more).”

-A friend’s eulogy .”The mystery of his love is greater than the mystery of death.”

How  I wish I could speak at the memorial service of at least a few people I know. Remind them of their lives and more ,which that they thought people pretermitted

"In His Lost Childhood..."

In the lost childhood, his youth was lost

Cued by fuss and the cortège near.

Who brewed him, baked him and pampered him

And upon him riches like hail stones they lavished.

When the old must tell stories, of men and women of valour.

They nodded in glee his wallows and escapades galore.

 For they cherished it like stories of Camelot.

Wenches, wine and speeding cars – the spirits that enriched him!

 And riches like as for the Romans, but stealthily devoured him

Inheritance vile and the past wretch eclipsed

By riches of gold  those any man will envy.

And they brewed him, baked him and pampered him

In his spoiled childhood, his youth was lost.

Ozymandias

This morning while chatting on the NET with a  distant relative, we happened to discuss the hubris that envelopes man and woman when propelled by fate, design or by sheer intrigue on to a pedestal of aura, of wealth, of power. And it is  then the feeling of invincibility and infallibility engulf their psyche and persona, which leads to the belief of their omnipotence and immortality.

It could be the sum of wealth and the power wealth brings with it free; when lives of cognate and the ordinary beings that coexist is seen insignificant and of no consequence. Absolute power corrupts absolutely and irretrievably!

We both agreed about this queer nature that is found only in human beings, beginning from the dawn of man, whether one is a creationist or evolutionist.

Lives are trodden upon and the furtherance of material wealth and power irrevocably become the ambitions that drive them.The Kings of the past and the Neolithic ones of the present in different avatars are all perfect symbols.Even in today's world!

The sonnet crafted by Shelly in the 18 th century and later published as poetry is arguably the most evocative painting of verses about such men and women and what hold in store for them in the twilight of their imperious lives and the fate that will  befall their legacies.

In essence the poem refer to the Pharaoh, Ramsey-II . But it means sensible to all who are born.

This poem below is an outstanding and artistic lament of the end that he never saw and may have never thought of, where all his trappings were of no avail.Legacy in ruins!

OZYMANDIAS     

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said. Two vast and trunk less legs of stone

Stand in the desert.Near them on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stampede on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

“My name is Ozymandias,king of kings

Look on my works, ye Mighty and despair!”

Nothing beside remains Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and the level sands stretch far away.

Mr.S

Should we take birth signs in the Zodiac at their prescribed value or believe their alleged influence over our lives, capable of propelling us forward or knocking us down? Some say yes, others a stern no, dismissing it as nonsense. Personally, I care little for it, as the veracity seems humbug and the whole matter mere mumbo jumbo. However, I’ve had enough experience to know what some people can do with an unassuming zodiac sign. A few individuals born under a particular sign have caused me considerable discomfort and trouble. One fellow stands out as the enfant terrible of the constellation—a Sagittarian. Mercifully, I last met him in 1995.

This takes me back to 1982, when I was posted to Cochin after a six-month stint in New Delhi. I was raw, fresh out of college, and something of a pushover in an organisation, regardless of my position. After all, I was a trainee, being inducted over two years. This fellow, let’s call him Mr S—as S is the first letter of his name, evoking holiness—was anything but saintly. In fact, he shared his name with a revered figure and his consort from the mythical Ramayana, yet in real life, he was their antithesis.

It was through enduring him that I learned his attitude stemmed not from fault but from his limitations and his acute awareness of them. Such people need a fig leaf to cover their shortcomings, and he required many. Yet, there was no limit to my annoyance with his idiosyncrasies. As a co-worker, I had no choice but to tolerate him. He was short, about 5 feet 3 inches, which seemed to fuel his inferiority complex. A veteran who had risen to some extent from a low level in the organisation, his years of service ensured his continuity on the payroll. That says it all.

Beyond the annoyance he was adept at creating, his innuendos and duplicitous games at the workplace simmered within me, with anger always waiting to erupt. The quality I detested most was his servility to senior managers. He stooped miserably low, crawling when he merely needed to bend. It was nauseating.

During review meetings and conferences, held in five-star hotels across various metropolises, he was at his most ridiculous. I saw hotel staff managing banquets, lunches, and breaks laugh and smile mockingly at his conduct. The worst was reserved for evening cocktails and dinners, when, under the influence of spirits, he became a derisive caricature of himself.

I could tolerate his personality quirks, but the attribute I loathed most was his “shoestring tying” and sudden vanishing act to the loo. He wasn’t exactly a miser but was artful in living off others while safeguarding his wallet. He drank like a fish and ate like a famished Rip Van Winkle. Once, during a dinner when kebabs were served, someone remarked loudly on his clownish behaviour, “Arey, kebab mein haddi kaise?” (How could there be a bone in the kebab?)

The shoestring act was always reserved for the end of evening gatherings, to which he tagged along like a limpet, even uninvited. When the bill arrived, Mr S’s diminutive figure would vanish below the table—either fumbling with his shoelaces or disappearing to the washroom, only to resurface after we had paid. He would then enquire earnestly about the “damages” for the evening before slinking like an eel to his vehicle in the car park.

Why do I write this memoir about Mr S? Because I had a dream in which he was devouring kebabs alone, caring not a hoot for me standing nearby, smacking my lips and drooling uncontrollably. When I awoke, my pillow was damp, and I could almost smell the kebabs.

Escape to Dreamland

Raman Menon hailed from a well-respected family of upper-caste Nairs in the erstwhile princely state of Cochin. The aristocracy that Menon clans among Nairs claim is more self-proclaimed than bestowed by extraterrestrial largesse or former princes. They resemble the British aristocracy of India, with their stiff upper lip and a “Gallic” or even haughty nose up in the air. They seem to believe in and convey the spirit of pristine Nair heritage and culture.

But Raman Menon cared little for the trappings of his surname. He was an ambitious and fun-loving person. Holding a respected position in the state bureaucracy, combined with his family’s lineage and social standing, he was poised to soar to greater heights. Young, handsome, and with masculine charm, he seemed destined for success.

He married into a family of Menons from Palghat, in the erstwhile Madras Presidency. The bride was a well-educated, sophisticated woman, an epitome of haute couture and an alumna of Yale in the USA. But this alliance was perhaps a serious misstep in the course of Raman Menon’s life. The incompatibility of the relationship led Mr Menon to file for divorce after much acrimony. The marriage ended with the same intensity with which it began. The stress of the divorce and its aftermath left Mr Menon drained. The marriage lasted about a year—a year of utmost turmoil.

Determined not to be left searching for a compatible partner, the Menon family arranged another bride for the young man—a distant cousin. Raman Menon married again. But ill fortune shadowed him like a relentless spectre; tragedy struck as nothing else could. The bride died less than six months into the marriage, succumbing to lymphoma. It was darkness at noon. Raman Menon’s life was shattered, his rising professional trajectory twisted like a mangled ladder. He was at a loss to pick up the threads once more. Cruel innuendos circulated, speculating about his ill luck and why fate seemed to deny comfort or longevity to any woman who became his consort.

He vanished from society and from the country. Settling in a foreign land, he never returned to the town of his birth. Once an agnostic, he became a theist and joined a Hindu religious outfit. He spent all his leisure time outside work at the ashram, adopting the name Sudhama. He lived frugally, walking about like an ascetic. Unlike fellow members of the congregation, who saw their involvement as a cherished luxury, Raman Menon was hermitic. He ate the simple food devotees brought. While travelling, he walked great distances like a nomad, subsisting on morsels from compassionate strangers. He resembled Jain monks on their long road to what they believe is nirvana and salvation. Rarely did he open up, but when he did, it was to confide that this life at the ashram was his dream and a calling.

A man who once professed agnostic beliefs, struck by successive tragedies, turned into a hermit and ascetic! A man who harboured utopian fantasies and dreams of living! Though this story is real, the tragic events in his life serve as a metaphor for the challenges we all face at different times. For less fortunate souls, the tempest lingers longer. Tragedy need not be overt but may manifest as dejection, disgust, frustration, or devastation—anything potent enough to persistently stress us. Then comes the time for wool-gathering, hoping for bliss and mirth in pursuits we once loved. For some, it sparks a frantic search for an escape route.

There is indeed a life out there, as I mentioned in the post “The Road Not Taken,” that beckons but is no longer mine. When it mattered, when I could have trodden that road, I did not—out of conditioning and unawareness of its pathos. I feel awed and envious of friends and ordinary people who, despite constraints, have achieved the extraordinary. They have not taken the cowardly path of an ill-clad, unwashed, smelly absconder claiming abstinence, nor are they escape artists who could outshine Houdini. Instead, within the bounds of social living, they have embraced the life of the liberated wanderer—like birds that transcend land and sea to migrate—embarking on occasional journeys of bliss and mirth to the dream that is Zion, a traveller’s Zion.

But alas, man often fails to see the paradise at hand that could lend wings to fly towards his fantastic dreams. Only when he knows what it is for a paradise to be lost shall he see the beacon that was always alight.

---

Morality- my foot.

I have read the book of Bertrand Russell one of my favourite writers, “Marriage & Morals”. It was when I was into the second year in college and now since much immorally moral living has taken place and the reading was a little over three decades ago, I fail to remember in detail.  But I can tell, Russell in that book confronted and scathed the hypocrisy of Victorian Britain of his time. The subject and his opinions on social living, morality and marriage, I felt were valid generally to men and women everywhere. I was quite fascinated and influenced  my outlook and thought. To the ones who see repugnancy in the ideas and outlook I bear now, can perhaps see that as a worthwhile distortion such a great book of thought did to me. And I love that.

It was Thomas Jefferson who said that what matters more is if  one will be honest to do in public what one will be willing to do in private. I wonder if Thomas Jefferson had catholic leanings or he saw through the hypocrisy of moralists.

But looking around all these years I feel that morality is a blunt edged weapon that the immoral wield to camouflage their illicit self.  Morality per se has become the tool  for  the ones who were not lucky to enjoy the oft branded immoral pleasures the other indulges in. And hence he/she is adversary and immoral.

It is crying wolf and calling the grapes sour.

“We have in fact, two kinds of morality, side by side: one that we preach but do not practice and another we practice but seldom preach”, said Russell. I go with the later because then one need not have to stoop to claim infallibility, or flaunt hypocrisy coated with sugar. Is it not that everyone has an enigma, a secret garden? Social living is more about not being dishonest to not admit so, but not to swear that it is not so.

Now what is morality? I keep asking to myself. Is it not out from the mind and the conditioning of a person that moral and immoral is born or engrained? The foremost matter that comes to mind when one speaks about morals is unrestrained sexual orgy. Even religion speaks only about carnal pleasure and its engagement that is forbidden by the creator. Moral teachings that insist love has to be the harbinger of creation and should not be lustful. But man cannot be equated with beasts that are biologically disposed to copulation only when the genetic motor senses that the ground is fertile to sow. And that is the way Nature maintains her creative balance. Man is biologically disposed to exercise sexual indulgence even outside the intent of procreation. Because man has found morally banished lust a vital factor of his genetic engineering. It is ideal that man, like pigeons or mynas for instance are confined to a single partner for life. But is it the case in real time? Russell was true when he opined that lust is what comes first and love maintains it. I hope I do not sound applauding promiscuity.

To refer a real example of being morally offended and outraged-  A few years ago where I lived, the ground floor of the apartment was occupied by a firm to run their office. This young guy an ex Army captain moved in to work there. And he began using the place as his place of stay as well. He was smart and well educated. And apparently he could easily have girls for friend. And week ends he used to have a few  girl friends of his ( boys as well), descending there after work hours and have a ball late into the night. I was envious but enjoyed his good time. This guy next door a burly giant who sits all day at his verandah trying to observe and hear about the happenings elsewhere  could not tolerate this activity of the Captain. He confronted me and accused me  for being silent about this. He was  aghast  and outraged that girls were staying overnight in the house.  I suggested that that is in no way affecting me and the Captain has his guests in his house. The man said the whole thing was immoral and I must report the matter because  it happens in the floor below my house. I told him I had more serious matters to bother about . And left it there. He went to the owner of the apartment with the matter. I was referred back and I told the owner that it is none of our business. And there is nothing criminal and nefarious going on. The matter rested and our giant must still be sulking about long ago.

Man has certainly journeyed a long way from the Garden of Eden when even nudity was not a subject that fell in the category of immoral or the reprehensible. Now nudity is confined to night clubs and strip dancing in indulgent social gatherings.And we even have self acclaimed moral police who decides what is nudity and scanty in attire. Besides coveting a woman or woman coveting a man outside marriage, or over indulgence of sex, morality as decreed by the establishment does not speak much about unethical conducts like murder, rape, and robbery. Commandments sent forth through men who claimed being the chosen couriers of God have prohibited these acts as sinful but not immoral. That is a weird concept of morality indeed.  

Morality per se is generally preached. In fact, the correct usage is –“flaunted “, by the ones who also pedal spiritualism and devotion to God. It is a contradiction, but a discomforting truth.

So, I infer morality is superimposed by the threat of sin and the long shadow of sin, rather than the good or bad of the act of the protagonist on himself or the society he thrives in.

There is always an alibi an excuse waiting to be used for absolution.

Himalayas

                                        Nandadevi in the setting sun from Auli

Many of us may have wished that our childhood and growing-up years were different. Get into a time warp and relive it all, eliminating the bitter parts. But then how do we get back when we know time travel is still a scientific fantasy? We may then want to enjoy the childhood of our kids. See the beauty and fun in their growing up. Their exultation in all that we could provide them, all that we may not have had the fortune to know as children.

Let me be more candid. I mentioned in a few blog posts the not-so-pleasant relationship with my father. I remember having not felt or cared—I missed out on him when he was alive, when even we had those showdowns, and the autocracy he wielded only added to the distance; the chasm between the two of us grew. But the depth of the loss of having missed out on a vital aspect of human relationship began haunting me, more so when well into my later forties (I suppose it was also the case for him later in his life as well). Many of us who have been through that experience would resolve to be different with our kids, trying to give them an unforgettable and memorable childhood and growing up.

So I always wanted to provide my children, especially my son, with things and moments that eluded me while I grew up. Most of all, the father-son relationship. He, Aravind, was quite a temperamental fellow, even while he was little and also in his early teens. And taciturn too, like me. I decided to go on a trip with him. And it was the summer vacation in May five years ago. He was 15 then and had just finished his ICSE 10th exams. He was back home from boarding, and I planned the journey to the Himalayas—Kedarnath and Bhadari (inspired by stories of wilderness and mountains by a mountain-loving wild friend). I felt a trip with Aravind to a new part of India would be a learning experience for the boy and a source of gratification for me—experiencing the pleasure in a reverse way. I mean in giving something I could not get. The journey was only for the curiosity and pleasure of travel, togetherness, the mountains beckoning, and not an iota of spiritual bullshit. In any case, an agnostic like me and a boy whose mind was zealously left unblemished and unstained by religious mumbo jumbo.

He was initially a bit reluctant. But once we boarded the flight from Coimbatore to New Delhi, he became quite at ease. We stayed in New Delhi overnight and took the early morning Shatabdi to Haridwar. It was the second time he was in New Delhi. A few years prior, four of us (I, Christy, Aravind, & Radhika) together made a triangle tour of Agra, Jaipur, and New Delhi in winter. It was a good experience for the kids.

Haridwar was quite warm and sweltering in the May heat. For the boy it was the beginning of a dawn of realisation, something he could not have imagined or knew existed. A kind of cultural shock, a bolt. The dirt, the human excreta by the sides of the road, the muck, the disease, the penury, and the dust all around when we got off the train and walked to the bus station nearby to go to Rishikesh! He became silent and gloomy, quite confused! We checked in at the Rishikesh tourist lodge and went out in the late afternoon for a stroll down the Ganga and the joolas. There were lepers and ailing people waiting all around, begging for alms. All that, I suppose, made the little fellow very distressed that he refused to walk further and wanted to go back. I cajoled him to the ghat by the mighty river Ganga. He always trailed behind, very irritated, and kept saying we should go back home. Then, the argument began by the Ganga. He just walked away from me. I could not leave him. He frowned and fumed and wanted to know why I was following him. I felt miserable—very miserable! I sat by the ghat on the steps, and I could still remember me weeping; it ached within me. A dream was turning sour! Was it? Then I noticed suddenly that he was missing. In panic I ran around frantically and utterly distressed and at last found him sitting elsewhere further down by the ghats.

I felt that I might have to cancel the trip and get back to Delhi. I telephoned Christy that evening to tell her Aravind was upset about the whole thing. She suggested I change plans and travel elsewhere with him, where he wanted, or even get back home. I asked him what he wanted. He refused to answer. That night he slept without eating. The next morning, we had to take the bus well before dawn to Gowrikund. At three in the morning I coaxed him out of bed. He would not walk by my side and strayed behind. I was running out of patience, but yet I had to be patient and not be worn down by a very uncooperative, petulant, and obstinate young fellow. He was still moody, and till almost half of the nine-hour journey, he was not in his element. Then, just as the fickle weather in the Himalayan heights, he changed, became different, and a pleasant, gay boy. He was enjoying the journey.

                                       En route to Kedhar

En route to Kedhar

We had very good moments that evening in Gowrikund, a tiny mountain hamlet. To make matters rather unpredictable again, I suddenly began to feel chill and feverish. It seemed I was going to be bedeviled by fever. Fortunately, the next morning I was feeling fine. He was the first to wake and arise the next morning at 4 ’o'clock, and we set off on the long climb of 17 km to Kedarnath. It was a fascinating journey. Of course both of us were not at ease with the undisciplined pilgrims and their cacophony. They were missing the mountains and their gods! We drank from the mountain streams, ate chocolates for energy, and had a few encounters with Sadhus smoking bhang and marijuana in their rock lair by the wayside. I wished I could borrow their smoking chillums! It took us almost 9 hours to walk the serpentine, rocky mountain path.

When Kedhar welcomed us with its snow-clad, silvery, shining peaks resplendent in the rays of the sun, he was thrilled. I enjoyed his happiness. We went around the town. The temple where they have faithfully incarcerated Lord Kedhanath was too crowded. I wondered how God can be comfortable in that melee and the relentless petitions and lobbying from pilgrims and devotees. We empathised with God in his misery! I suppose he vanished from the shrine long ago and moved further up into the inaccessible, icy, wind-beaten mountains. Far from his maddening devotees.

                                            The peak at Kedhar

It was six in the evening and was fast getting dark. We devoured a good meal of roti, dal fry, and sabji. Now either we hang around the night and try our luck at getting space to sleep, or we must descend. But it was not so wise either way, and a storm was gathering. It was going to be risky walking back in the dark. We fixed a deal with two ghardwali men, and for Rs 500 per head, they agreed to give us two mules for the downhill journey. Aravind enjoyed the precarious ride on the mule in the heavy rain and over the tricky terrain. I was hollering the hell out in panic. And Aravind was smiling and laughing, all the while enjoying the ride on the mule. Even in my utter horrible fear, I could see his happiness. Then, I looked down into the deep valley below; I feared the awful thing to happen—the mules losing their footing and taking us down into the abyss below. The muleteers were irritated with my moaning and were laughing amongst themselves at my precarious perch on the mule. One said to the other, “Ye ladka teek hai. Wow, admi pagal hai." The other said to me, certainly not thoughtful of my knowledge of Hindi, “Arey, chillana math.”.

We reached back at Gowrikund by eight at night. Aravind asked me why I was throwing tantrums all the way down and shouting like a kid. He was laughing at the comic character I was perched on the mule and wailing.

I felt immensely happy that he was enjoying the travel, the togetherness at last!

                                              At Auli a moment

At Auli

The next morning we traveled by bus and broke our journey at the ski resort of Auli, where we stayed for a couple of days. Being the height of summer, the absence of snow was indeed disappointing for Aravind. On the journey to Auli we crossed a valley that came into view from nowhere—a mighty Himalayan peak suddenly coming into view as the bus negotiated a sharp bend in the road. God at his closest. Most of the passengers were either fast asleep or chanting gibberish, eyes closed. Only we both saw God. To me, an agnostic God presented himself as the massive, humbling might of the snow-clad mountain range. It was an awesome experience and mightily humbling, one's insignificance unequivocally felt, the beauty beyond explanation.

At Auli, late in the evening, we watched Nanda Devi at her golden best, vividly bathed in the rays of the setting sun, its peak resplendent and majestic - solid peak of gold from a far away star! Lucky are those who found God and bliss in the beauty and humbling majesty of the mountains. I thought of Spinoza's God and the depth of truth in that concept of God. The same idea that Einstein endorsed, that he found more tempting and wise than those gods humans created in their own form, ways, and manners.

We went to Bhadarinath from Auli before coming back to Joshi Math and then travelling back to New Delhi.The Alakananda was in full flow—its icy waters relentlessly gushing forth over rocky boulders—water colder than ice! Seldom did the river know that downhill by the plains she would be violated—raped and polluted beyond even the wildest imaginations of the evil demons Lord of Kedar and Badari guard us mortals from.

Something again began bothering him the little fellow at Badarinath, where, to my utter consternation, he again went missing in the crowd. He became moody and irritated. But there were quite a few moments to cherish for both, ordeals as well!

 

He now wants to redo the tour with me. I jestfully tell him, “Not me anymore with you.” Now he has grown out of his teens; he is twenty and went with a couple of friends of his to a remote mountainside in Uttarakhand. They even went to Rishikesh and set off on white-water river rafting. And elsewhere near Kasol, they were even caught unawares in a hailstorm in the forest. They lost their way and spent the night in the forest. He travelled second class “two way’’ from Thpuram. A fifty-two-hour journey one way, and he wanted it so. Journeying in second class (cattle class) on Indian Rail is the surest way of understanding and knowing the throb of India. He understood quite a bit of what life in India is all about, and he has many more miles to go to understand much. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in trying to show him outside the comparative safety of the cocoon he lived in as a little boy. Perhaps the real world was shell-shocking, incomprehensible, and cruelly disturbing, and I, his father, being the catalyst to peeling off without warning the protective armour around him, may have provoked him, made him feel let down, insecure, and he expressed rebellion.

He wants to plan another trip up north soon. He has begun to enjoy moments that eluded me while I was his age! I guess, at long last, I could also give something I could not experience, feel, or enjoy!