CATEGORY:Short Stories

Today is Ram Navami. The birthday of Lord Ram. Millions of devotees celebrate today, praying to Him, asking Him for His blessings and His bounty. Whilst doing so, perhaps we should spare a moment to think about what He went through in His life. And wonder, did we and do we expect too much of Him?

The Washerman

The dhobi smote the greying dhoti hard on the stone. Soapy water sprayed. He lifted the soggy garment and struck the stone harder. Again. And again. The fabric protested and frayed, unable to contain his frustration.

“Why should she not come back?” he thought, angrily. “She’s my wife. What happens between us is our personal matter. Why the hell is everyone else getting involved?”

He threw the tired dhoti on the washed pile, and snatched up a sheet. He began scrubbing it furiously on the stone.

“So she walked out after our argument. So she went and stayed with someone else. She just wanted to prove a point. Now, it’s become a big issue; about her virtue! To everyone else! I know her. She did not sleep with Balu; he is her Rakhi brother. She has always been faithful and loyal and honest. Now, everyone says she is ‘soiled’! What is she, some kind of undergarment?

His shoulders sagged. The reality of the situation pressed down on him. He stopped washing the clothes as his eyes filled with tears. He knew that his marriage was over. And that he did not have a say in the matter. He cursed and angrily wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“I know that I am just a dhobi. I can’t stand against society,” he gritted to himself. “Am I to always bear the burden of others’ expectations? Am I never to be free?

His Mother

The old woman squatted next to the stove, stirring the glutinous mix that was bubbling in the stone pot.

“What is wrong with this world?”, she muttered, “How am I going to manage without my bahu? What am I, 30 years old? And what has she done? Nothing! She and my son fought, she walked out, she went to Balu’s place where she knew she would be safe, and then, when she knew he would be sufficiently contrite, she came back. Now, the elders are saying that she is unclean, and cannot return!

The dish was slowly coagulating, and the stirrer moved sluggishly. The old woman did not notice. She was visualizing a broken future, with a devastated son and a desolate household.

“I know I am just a woman. I can’t stand against society,” she wearily thought. “Are we to always carry the burden of societal norms? Are we never to be free?”

The King

Lord Ram leaned back on the throne, as his ministers and courtiers filed out of the room. The plush softness against his skin and the gentle breeze wafted by the punkhas did nothing to soothe His agitation.

“How am I supposed to tell my beloved?” He wondered, “How am I to live a day without her?”

He took a deep breath. His Kshatriya blood began to simmer.

“What has this world come to? Just because a dhobi is not taking his wife back after she stayed for a day in someone else’s house, does this mean that Sita is to be punished? What has she done? She is the paragon of virtue, the epitome of everything loving, caring and joyful. Only she has stood by me through thick and thin, even enduring fourteen years of a mendicant’s life in the forest because of me. Because of me, she was kidnapped. She was imprisoned in a foreign land. She walked through fire for me, for God’s sake!”

He stood up, unable to control His emotions any more. He began pacing the length of the throne room. As the minutes passed, His walk changed gradually, from a confident and assertive stride, to a passive and reluctant amble.

He went back to the throne, and lowered Himself into it gingerly, all His vitality having faded away. He turned to the courtier standing to His right.

“Call the royal charioteer,” He ordered. “Tell him to prepare for a journey to the forest…”

He lowered His head in His hands. “I know I am just a king. I can’t stand against society,” He mourned. “Am I to always dance to the tune of others’ opinions? Am I ever going to be free?”

The Victim

Lady Sita folded the sari carefully and slide it into the cloth hold-all. She stood back and looked around at the bedroom that she and her husband had shared for the past few years. Her lovely face was ashen, sorrow and dignity warring to dominate her expression.

“I knew this day would come,” she thought, “I knew it wasn’t enough being tested by fire. Finally, it is about walking the gauntlet of pitiless expectations.”

Against her will, a tear broke free from her lashes and slid down her cheek.

“I don’t want to blame Him,” she reined her emotions firmly, “I know that He is King, and that He has to bow to the will of the people. But, banishing me? Me, who has loved Him and stood by Him and surrendered everything to Him? It was not my fault that I was kidnapped…”

The tears flowed freely, as her hands squeezed the pallu of her sari.

“How will I live without Him?” she mourned. “How will I live in the forest again, without Him? He is the Supreme Being; if He casts me away, where do I go for shelter?”

Her hands left the pallu to swing free. Unconsciously, they went to her belly.

“And He doesn’t even know that I am pregnant. And I can’t tell Him. Not now”

“How long will we always have to please others, instead of living for ourselves?” she wept, “Will the earth have to swallow me before that happens?”

****

SHESH / SINGAPORE / 13 APRIL 2019

Prologue

The sniper lay on the promontory, between two misshapen rocks, camouflaged in his ghillie suit. His M40 rifle rested on a bipod, which was covered with plastic vines and leaves to blur its profile. His left eye was pressed against the scope as he scanned the supply route straggling through the valley. The light was fading as the sun sank silently behind him.

His famed patience was wearing thin. Forty eight hours and not a single kill. He would have to break camp tonight and return to base and he did not want to do so without another notch on his rifle’s barrel. Seventeen kills so far, and none of the victims knew what hit them! Pride suffused him.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. His focus sharpened. What was it? He scanned the barren terrain, all dusty mud and crumbling rock. Ah there! As he looked, he saw a mountain cougar crouching on a pile of rocks, its greyish brown pelt almost invisible against the background. The cougar moved again, a small adjustment to its stance. What was it doing? He widened the scope vision. Another flicker of movement. Then he saw the cause. The soldier crawling along the gully, inch by inch, taking care not to send up any dust, hoping not to attract any attention. Finally, a target!

He looked back at the cougar. The animal seemed to tense, as if preparing to leap. The soldier, completely focussed on not becoming sniper fodder, was not aware that he was prey to another kind of predator. The sniper hesitated. Then, mind made up, his finger eased onto the trigger. All his senses converged as he squeezed gently. The shot rang out, echoing across the valley.

The untangled version

The woman folded the letter. Her face was streaked with tears. She gently eased herself onto the chair. The words continued to play in her mind.

“,,,suddenly, the carcass of the cougar dropped behind me…”

“…if not for the sniper…”

“…escaped death once again. I am truly blessed…”

She felt a sense of lightness. Her husband was alive. Thank God! He was alive. She took a deep breath, and winced as pain lanced through her. Her extended belly was causing her back to ache like she had never known. She rose, still in a fog of disbelief. She turned and waddled towards the kitchen, her swollen ankles complaining with every step.

With every step, she felt a renewed sense of love and gratitude. Her love was alive. Never again would she take his presence for granted. No more silly arguments and quarrels. He was alive!

She walked to the kitchen window and looked out and up. The full moon hung motionless in the clear air. As the breeze came in, so did the sounds of bells and laughter. Her brow furrowed. What..? Ah. It was Raksha Bandhan. She was the only child of parents long dead, so never had the chance to celebrate this festival.

But today…

She looked out at the moon.

“Thank you, Bhayya, whoever you are…”

The #MeToo version

The woman watched the major and subaltern leave. The door shut behind them. She gently eased herself onto the chair. Their words continued to ring in her ears.

“,,,a hero. A true soldier who gave his life for his country…”

“…shot by a cowardly sniper…”

“…closed coffin, as there were wild animals in the area…”

She felt a sense of lightness. The bastard was dead. Thank God! He was dead. She took a deep breath, and winced as pain lanced through her. Her ribs and clavicle were still healing. She rose, still in a fog of disbelief. She turned and limped towards the kitchen, her poorly healed tibia twinging with each step.

With every step, she felt the years of fear and pain and hurt seep away. She was free! Never again would she have to cower as her abusive husband thrashed and kicked her into submission. No more flinching at every little sound. No more dread every time she heard his heavy footsteps. She was finally free!

She walked to the kitchen window and looked out and up. The full moon hung motionless in the clear air. As the breeze came in, so did the sounds of bells and laughter. Her brow furrowed. What..? Ah. It was Raksha Bandhan. She was the only child of parents long dead, so never had the chance to celebrate this festival.

But today…

She looked out at the moon.

“Thank you, Bhayya, whoever you are…”

Even though it was coming to spring, the palace was shrouded in gloom. The large windows that normally allowed the sun to stream in unimpeded, today somehow seemed to be veiled. The central atrium that boasted the land’s only glass domed ceiling, which was normally so bright as to hurt one’s eyes, was cast with shadows. Corridors stretched into the distance like unlit tunnels, anterooms formed caves. The darkness that lay like a thick blanket slowly seeped into limbs, minds and hearts.

The man stood at the balustrade, looking down at the courtyard. He was a big man, standing more than six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His bare upper body glistened with the unguents applied, defining the muscles in his upper arms and back. His hair was lustrous, and cascaded loosely on his shoulders. He held his arms behind him, his fingers laced lightly together. More

Mrs. Patel hated the monsoon. Her bones ached, for one, and the clothes never dried. And in Mumbai, once it started, it never stopped raining! She stood on the balcony looking down from her second story flat as she snapped out the wet clothes before pinning them irritably on the clothesline. The roads were wet, and the autos were followed by a light curving spray as they sped past the building. She shook her head and picked up the next garment.

Mr. Patel switched on the TV. Ahhh. He settled down in his easy chair, gingerly holding the steel glass holding his second coffee of the day. Retired life is good, he thought to himself. No having to get up at 5 AM and rushing through the morning. No more local trains. He unfurled the newspaper with his left hand. A thought occurred.

“Rashmi”, he called out.

“Jeee?” came the response from the balcony. “What is it? I am hanging out the clothes.”

“Where is Naresh today?” asked Mr. Patel.

“He has gone to Kurla to meet some customers,” replied Mrs. Patel, “he said he would be back early today.”

“Good,” said Mr. Patel, “I need to sit with him in regard to a couple of offers we have received. One of them is from Ahmedabad, and the family seems very nice. The girl’s name is Mrinalini, you remember?”

“Yes, I do,” she called back, “God’s grace, the wedding should be fixed soon. He is already twenty six. Only after he gets married can we start looking for Preeti…”

“Don’t worry, ma”, said Mr. Patel, “all will be well. When has He ever forsaken us?”

The day grew grayer. The rain, previously mild and summery, became more insistent. Mr. Patel increased the volume a couple of notches as the steady thrumming of the rain was quite loud now. He looked over his shoulder incuriously. All he could see through the dingy windows was a sheet of water. He turned back to his newspaper and TV programme.

***

Naresh Patel stopped his car on LBS Marg. Wow, I am so lucky to have got a parking spot here at this time of the day. He picked up his laptop and opened the door. The rain slammed into him. He shut the door quickly.

“Man, it’s pouring today,” he said to himself. “Where in hell is the umbrella?”

He gathered his fold-up umbrella and opening the car door gingerly, unfurled it. Then, he stepped out, pulled his lap top and locked the door. By the time he reached the entrance of KVR Service Station, he was sopping wet. The drains were unable to cope, he saw, as he waded through ankle deep water.

“Come in, sir”, said Mr. Raghunath heartily, “come in, come in. Oh, you are all wet. Can I get you a towel? A fresh shirt?”

Naresh made polite protestations, even though both the towel and a fresh shirt would have suited him just fine. Soon, he as drinking a cup of hot and very welcome tea as they went through the loan repayment schedule for the 3 bedroom flat Mr. Raghunath was buying in Ghatkopar.

The rain gradually increased its tempo and its volume. Much like the frog in a pot of cold water gradually being brought to boil, not many noticed.

***

Mr. Patel took some saunf from the container and started chewing it contentedly. The dal was perfect today. Time for a nap, he said to himself, mentally stretching. He stood up and went to the balcony. It was almost 2 PM. Oh, I can’t see anything outside, he thought. The rain is coming on heavily. He looked down. He could barely see past the first floor, but it was clear that the road was not to be seen. All there was was a dimpled sheet of water, thrashing under the onslaught of water pouring down from the skies.

I pity anybody out there, he thought. He turned back inside, yawning.

Mrs. Patel was clearing away the dishes, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, mummy? Preeti here. College is shut down today. I’ll be coming home soon.”

“Why? What happened? Any trouble?” asked Mrs. Patel.

“No, mummy, no trouble. The rain is so heavy that the Principal thought it is best we leave before the trains and buses stop.”

“Yes, okay, come quickly. Take an auto, sweetie. Don’t be late.”

“Bye, mum!”

Mrs. Patel went to the bedroom. Mr. Patel was just putting away the newspaper and taking off his glasses. She told him about Preeti’s call.

“Yes, that is a good decision,” he said, “I am sure the trains will shut down. Let me put on the TV and see what they are saying,” he said, getting up from the bed. “Do we have enough milk?”

***

At 2.30 PM, the heavens opened, and submerged Mumbai.

***

“Ji, please come here, quickly!” Mrs. Patel’s voice was panicked. “Quickly!”

“What happened?” said Mr. Patel, as he rose from his chair and walked towards the balcony. “What is it?”

As he stepped into the balcony and looked down, his heart almost stopped. The sheet of water that had lapped against the compound wall an hour ago now covered it. There was an auto rickshaw just outside the compound, and all they could see was the rexine roof. A little ahead, a BEST bus stood stranded, its lights glowing dimly. The bus was full of people, and even had a few on the roof.

“My God!” the words escaped him involuntarily. “What in heaven is this?”

His wife looked at him in agony. “What about Preeti?” she asked, her lips trembling. “And where is Naresh?”

“Let me call them, ma”, said Mr. Patel, “Don’t worry, both of them have mobile phones. I will speak to them right away.”

A few minutes later, he replaced the receiver on the cradle, his shoulders slumped. “No network”, he said, “that is all the message I am getting, no network.”

Mrs. Patel’s face grew tight and drawn. Her eyes filled. “Where could Preeti be? She was to come in an auto? How will autos move like this? What should we do?”

Mr. Patel was already moving to his room. “I shall change up and go down and see,” he said, his face grim.

“No! How can you go down? Are you going to swim at this age? No, please don’t”, she wailed.

“Hush, ma”, he said, tenderly, “I have to go down and look. We cannot just sit here and worry. Naresh has a car and can look after himself, but Preeti…”

He quickly threw on a pair of pants and a shirt, put on his sandals, picked up his umbrella, recognizing the futility as he did so, and opened the door.

Preeti stood there, soaked from head to foot, shivering.

“Preeti!!” he stepped forward and embraced her, “thank God! I was just going to look for you!”

Mrs. Patel raced to the door. “Oh Preeti, Preeti. Thank God you are safe! Come in beta, don’t stand there. Oh God, thank you. Come, come.”

Preeti smiled. “What an adventure, mummy! The water came upto here,” she said gesturing at her shoulders. “I thought I might have to climb up on the bus as others are doing. Have you seen such rain? It’s incredible!”

“Adventure, shmadventure!” said her mother, crossly. “You don’t know how worried…”

The lights went out. The TV news anchor vanished to a point. The gloomy room became dark.

“What? What..”

“The power has gone off,” said Mr. Patel with the authority of an engineer, albeit retired. “No wonder, with five feet of water on the streets. Come, let us light some candles and get you dried off.”

“Papa, I am fine. But there are children and old people out there, in the bus and sitting in cars. Shouldn’t we do something…”

“Sweetie, go dry yourself off, I am going down to see what we can do. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“No!” said Mrs. Patel again. “Don’t go out there! It’s dangerous!”

“Hush, I’ll be back soon.” And Mr. Patel slipped out of the door.

***

Naresh sat in his car. The road was jammed. The water on the street was lapping just below his window. Inside the car, he was already upto his knees. Multitudes of people were walking in both directions, heads bowed against the rain, resignation and determination showing in equal parts in their steady tread.

“Shit, this is going nowhere!” he said irritatedly to himself. “I will have to get out and walk.”

He pushed the door open against the water pressure, and stoically withstood the gush of brown oily water into his 3-month old car. “Oh crap!”. He looked at his mobile. Emergency calls only, it said. Ha! He took his laptop and mobile phone and got off into the waist high water. Shutting his door, he locked the car, and looked around. It was dark already, and the rain seemed as if it was never going to cease.

He turned around and carefully started wading through the water.

***

It was now close to midnight. The Patel’s flat was full. There were wet people everywhere. Older people sat on Mrs. Patel’s new upholstery drinking hot tea. Children sat on cushions against the walls. Others stood around, not moving much, especially as there was no place to move. In the bedroom, a doctor from the third floor was examining an elderly man whose breathing was unhealthily arrhythmic. More people sat around in the bedrooms and stood in the balcony. Mrs. Patel, Preeti and two other women were serving water, tea and biscuits to everyone. The house was dark and hot, with only a couple of candles feebly pushing at the gloom.

The door opened again, and Mr. Patel came in, sopping wet, leading a young man and two children.

“Please find some place and make yourself comfortable”, he said, “Preeti, can you please give these people a towel?”

“Yes, papa,” came her harried reply.

Three of the children sitting against the far wall gathered together to make some place for the dripping new guests.

“Thank you, sir” said the young man, softly “thank you so much. I did not know what to do when the water came above the car windows. I was so scared for the children…” His voice broke.

Mr. Patel smiled at him, wearily. He was tired to the bone. “Don’t worry, son. All is well now.” He turned to Mrs. Patel has she walked past with a tray. “Any news from Naresh, ma?

“No,” she said, “nothing yet.” Her brow was furrowed with worry and exhaustion.

“Well, I am going down again,” he said. “Ram and Manoj are downstairs, seeing if they can spot anybody else. If you hear anything…”

***
Naresh had taken a wrong turn. He was sure of it. The road was narrow and completely dark. The steady stream of people had dwindled to nothing. The water was now upto his chest. His bag and laptop were completely wet, but he could not let go of the bag, how much ever he wanted to. He looked around and behind him. There was no glimmer of light and no people anywhere. He shrugged and continued walking. The water level rose to his chest.

***
The day dawned sluggishly. Mrs. Patel sat up on the floor in the kitchen where she had been lying down. Five other women were sleeping there. She stood carefully, her body aching as it had never done before. She looked out into the living room. All she could see was a sea of bodies, sitting, lying, reclining. There, in the far corner, Mr. Patel stood, looking out of the window, watching, waiting. Her heart sank. Naresh…

***

Naresh’s heart jumped when he saw the hand. It was startlingly white and was scrabbling against the rear wind screen of the SUV, that was almost completely submerged. He stepped forward closer to the car. He could make out some movement inside.

“My God, there are children inside!”

He tried the doors. The handles moved, but the doors remained firmly locked. He finally dropped the lap top. What am I going to say to my boss, he wondered briefly. He took a deep breath and dropped to his knees in the water. His hands felt around, and found a largish rock. He stood up and took a breath, and then brought the rock down on the rear door window with all his might. Again, and again. The glass starred and cracked. He pushed it aside, and reached inside. Slowly, very slowly, he pulled at a hand, and a girl emerged. Her eyes stared whitely at him. He pulled her out and placed her on the roof of the car. She clung on to his hand.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, you are fine now,” he said. “who else is there in the car?”

She did not speak.

He leaned in through the window. He could dimly see two more forms. He reached in and pulled and a young boy came out, coughing and sputtering. Naresh held him close for a moment, till the boy regained his breath, and then placed him next to the girl. She reached out and clung to the boy.

Naresh pushed into the car again. This was a bigger person. His hand brushed against a breast. Oh, man. He groped and found an arm and pulled. It was not possible to move her. He gathered his strength and reached in again, and pulled. The form slowly moved and slid down the seat. Naresh pulled at the door, unlocked it and opened it. He stepped in and got his arms under both her arms and pulled, as hard as he could. He couldn’t budge her. He pushed her again, till she was upright. Her eyes were open, unseeing.

“Oh, my God!” he said, his heart racing in fear and horror. He looked up at the children sitting on the roof of the car. Their eyes bored into him in the lightening gloom. He ducked into the car again. He knelt on the seat and shook the lady. He pushed against her chest, and beat on her back. Her head nodded and fell forward, limply.

He stepped out of the car. He shut the door. Mutely, he lifted one child in each arm, and started walking again. The water came up to his chin now.

***

It was noon of the twenty seventh. The rain had abated, but far from stopped. The Patel’s house was emptier now, with less than twenty people in the living room. Husbands, sons and parents had been contacted, and had come, some of them breaking down in relief and gratitude on seeing their loved ones safe. A few children continued to sleep on the settees and in the bedrooms, still awaiting their parents. Mrs. Patel sat near the kitchen against the wall, weeping steadily. There was still no news from Naresh. Mr. Patel continued his forays outside, determined to keep doing something, rather than lapse into despair. He has always looked after us, he said to himself, and He will do so now, too…

***

Mr. Mhatre stepped out into his balcony. He could still barely see more than ten feet away. The day was gray, the sheet of water surrounding the flats was gray, the buildings were gray. He turned to go back in. Just then, a flash of colour caught his eye. He peered through the gloom. Were those two children sitting on the wall? He could only make out their chests and faces above the water. And what was that in the water next to them? Was it, my God, was it…? He turned into the house, calling for his brother, telling him that they needed to go down right away…

***

The living room was empty now. Except for Mr. Patel, sitting on the easy chair, his head back, eyes closed. Mrs. Patel was sleeping in the bedroom. Preeti was in her room, trying to connect to the emergency room, the police or the fire station for the thousandth time.

Was that the phone ringing?

Mr. Patel felt a hand on his shoulder. He wearily opened his eyes. It was Preeti, holding the cordless.

“Papa,” she said, her eyes glistening, “papa, you need to take this call…”

*********************

Last night I went to a Dandiya dance again.

A few months ago, a member of India’s intellectually aware elite woke after a deep sleep. He had three choices. “Should I,” he asked himself, his hand stroking his stubbled chin, “have a cup of coffee? Or read the newspaper? Or should I file a public interest litigation?” He blearily evaluated these options. The coffee his maid kept in front of him was a paler brown than normal. The newspaper, folded alongside, was a faded pink, and drooped listlessly. “No!” he roared to himself, aware that roaring aloud would frighten his maid into leaving, and thus invite the wrath of his wife, “I shall file a PIL against Dandiya dances! They are a veritable nuisance and a horrendous disturbance to all honest, law abiding folk. They must be comprehensively banned! Forever and more!” This is how most of the Indian bourgeois speak, especially before shaving.

Soon, the scene shifts to the venerable High Court. “Aha!” says a Judge. “Ah-ha! Finally, a case one can sink one’s teeth into!” And saying thus, he reaches for his dentures, simultaneously confining to the pending bin the huge roster of cases piling up on his desks, involving murder, political corruption and wholesale burglary. From that moment on, the lights of the High Court building blaze through day and night. Senior judges, law clerks, paralegals and peons pore and peruse and ponder. They surmise and they presume, they submit and they argue. And then, a surprisingly short while later, in a burst of rare unanimity, the High Court banned all Dandiya dances from continuing past 10 PM.

This ruling caused furore. Thousands of citizens, mostly young, male and frustrated, rail against this sheer injustice against humanity. They are joined by hundreds of dance organisers, whose glittering dreams of untold wealth are disappearing faster than darkness at dawn. Varied artistes (singers, musicians, deejays, and such) protest and refuse to ply their trade in such reprehensible conditions. Parallels to Nazi Germany and the Iron Curtain are drawn and quartered.

While all this was happening, in some households, life continues as normal. The common man wonders whether he should buy a pair of green Dandiya sticks. Or blue for that matter. We common people are not choosy.

As the pressure built to the point where there would be rioting on the streets and blood flowing in the gutters, another righteous citizen appealed this verdict with the Supreme Court. Here, too, the revered Justices acted with merciless dispatch. Imagine, if you will, the scene in the Supreme Court – a hoary Justice sweeping off all the files from his desk in a grandiose gesture, causing clouds of dust to set him sneezing till his chest heaves. Or the milky gleam in another’s half closed eyes, the most evidence of enthusiasm in many years. Breathless anticipation filling the offices, the former more due to age and asthma than anything else. No public assassination ever received so much attention and action. No stock market scam ever held a candle. How do these mundane issues matter, when the critically important issue of the duration of the Dandiya needs to be addressed?

Hearings were held, personal interviews conducted, religious tomes studied, and cultural angst explored. Newspapers and TV stations followed this erudite process with bated breath and blaring body copy. The whole city of Mumbai stood still, waiting on the Supreme Court’s verdict.

While all this was happening, the common man’s daughter appeals to her mother that she needs silver ghaghra-choli, which costs Rs. 5,500.00. After much tears and recrimination ensue, her other acquiesces, and compensates for her initial refusal with matching slippers, jewelry and bangles. The common man settles for ordinary unpainted sticks that can be found in the public park behind his apartments.

As the Supreme Court weighed its decision, India lost two cricket matches, three hurricanes ravaged USA and four hundred Chinese miners disappeared into the face of the earth.

The city writhed in an agony of suspense, with half of the citizens supporting the ruling, half of them opposing it, and the balance not caring one way or the other. Strangers in the local trains asked one another, grimacing while disentangling their limbs, “What do you think the Supreme Court will do? Will they allow the dance to go on to midnight? Or won’t they?” Kitty parties became hushed affairs with desperate housewives wondering whether the common man’s daughter would be forced to fling herself on the bed, sobbing as if her heart would bleed through her eyes. Corporate lunch rooms rung with the sound of raised voices wondering if the city’s fleeing artistes would return, their proud stances vindicated, or whether they would forever eke out their livings in exile…

Finally, a few days ago, the Supreme Court’s hardened heart melted. The Chief Justice stood on the podium, his arthritic knees protesting the unaccustomed athletics. “The Dandiya dances may continue till midnight,” he said, in a six hundred and eighty page judgement. “We have taken pity on the toiling masses, who need to party once in a while,” summarised the verdict, “and have ignored the cries of the aged, infirm and musically challenged, who prefer to sleep rather than listen to Indipop remixes late into the night.”

The crisis was resolved. Anarchy was averted. While the bourgeois fumed and muttered imprecations, India returned to worrying about less consequential issues such as disinvestment, potholes and insurgency in the North East.

When he heard the news, the common man sighed, and put his white kurta and churidar under the mattress so that they may be pressed. His home becomes a flurry of dresses being tried on, make up being appliquéd, phones ringing in cacophonous tunes and the steady flutter of bills as they softly accumulate on his desk.

The night of the Dandiya dusked. The common man slips on his festive best, straightens his shoulders, gathers his Dandiya sticks, and with visible pride trails his glowing daughter and wife out of the door, to attend the dance.

Now, I know that it has been presumptuous on my part to believe that the uninitiated reader knows what I have been talking about. Many questions must be jostling for place in your puzzled mind. No, I was not referring to what exactly do birds do to bees. Or why Bush was re-elected. Let’s address the more top-of-mind ones – what is this Dandiya? What is the occasion for this dance? Where? Who? How?

Gujaratis (those belonging to the state of Gujarat, in Western India) perform the traditional dances of Garba & Dandiya-Raas during Navratri. Dussera or Navratri is a festival of worship, dance and music celebrated over a period of nine nights (Nav – nine and Ratri – nights), usually in October. This festival celebrates the worship of the Divine Trinity – three days devoted to Durga (Goddess of Valour), three days to Lakshmi (Goddess of Wealth) and three days to Saraswati (Goddess of Knowledge).

You are aware that India is a traditional country, where casual dating and love marriages are largely frowned upon, and some times shot at, with large caliber guns. These group dances are an accepted custom wherein young singles may form (or attempt to form) romantic attachments in a socially acceptable milieu. Needless to say, such romances rarely last as they quickly culminate in marriage. Over a period of time, this tradition of dances has percolated past the borders of Gujarat, and has become an annual ritual in various cities across India. More than religious, these have become huge social functions, organized by various cultural societies, apartment complexes and politico-social groups, transcending community, caste and ethnicity.

Now that I have revealed all, and the lamentable mists of your ignorance have been cleared, let us return to the dance.

We walked towards the community ground where the dance was organized. The night was balmy, even though the skies were clear, and the stars competed with a waning moon to feebly illuminate the darkening sky. The streets were busy with people moving with purposeful energy and briefcases or bags in their hands. Shops bustled in a burst of energy before closing for the night, children darted in and out of dark cul de sacs, their shrieks of laughter resonating off concrete walls. As we walked, the faint streams of music, barely audible from afar, strengthened into steady flows of foot tapping rhythm. Sedate ties and formal skirts began to give way to the bright plumage of lehngas, stone washed jeans, churidar-kurtas and bare midriffs.

Ah there! The grand pandal! Fashioned of cloth, bamboo poles and hope, it glitters brighter than the sun. Spotlights and strobes illuminate the age-old battle between constancy and promiscuity. Banners flutter in the limp breeze, buntings swooping and soaring, sometimes crashing and lying wounded on the unyielding ground. The music has now become a gushing roar of sound, sweeping all thought from the mind. The common man’s leisurely walk picks up pace, and his daughter skips as we approach closer.

We produce our passes at the crush near the entrance. Sweaty young men with large, colourfully pleated badges adorning most of their left breast, usher us in.

Imagine, if you will, a moderately sized piece of ground, about an acre, bracketed by coloured canvas held up by bamboo poles, precariously swaying in the non-existent breeze. Imagine, then, a rude stage at one end of this ground, dominated by large items of musical equipment. Finally, stretch your already quailing imagination to visualize two thousand young, colourfully clad people jostling with one another, attempting the intricate movements of the Dandiya. That was the scene that met our amazed eyes when we stepped past the cloth barriers that kept this disturbing spectacle from the bypassers’ eyes.

There was heat, as Ruth Prawer Jhabwala would succinctly put it, and dust. The former was more than just the combined temperatures of two thousand gyrating warm bodies. There was heat in the clash of the Dandiya sticks, and in the sway of lissome youth. There was heat in the slicing of glances, and in the rhythmic judder of four thousand feet hitting the ground at the end of a reel. The ground yielded into dust, which swirled and swayed between and around the dancers, the motes catching fire as the strobes alighted on them, and then winking into temporary oblivion, only to gleam again.

There, you could see a young couple, unmindful of anyone but each other, swaying to a tune no one else could hear. Beyond them, was a boisterous group, their laughter drowning out the sound of clashing sticks. Here was a sedate harem of matrons, contentedly performing the intricate movements that allowed them to meet one another, clap their sticks in a tuneful cadence, and then swirl away to meet the next person in the circle, and on and on. Further away, you could see some disenchanted young men listlessly beating their sticks, their eyes following a swirling skirt, skipping to a bangled arm, alighting on a heaving breast.

The common man’s daughter waved her hand, shrieked once and disappeared into a disheveled mass of bodies. Her mother sidled away into the maws of a group of ladies standing and sitting on the sidelines, oscillating paper fans and drinking large Pepsis. The common man looked around. Ah there! He spots a group of middle aged friends. He waves and weaves through the jostle, and seamlessly joins the dancing group, sticks clashing while the state of the nation is analysed and dissected. The body loses its identity and becomes one with the surroundings. Speech ceases. The raucous blare of music, the clash of sticks, the tympani of feet meeting the hard ground, the swish of silk, and the tinkle of bangles and chains hypnotise. The movement of feet, the raising and lowering of arms, the deft twist every four beats, the crossing of sticks mesmerize.

The singers sang, the amplifiers soared, the strobes flashed. Steady beats would yield to crescendos would change to slow rhythm would shift gear to a rapid staccato. Bodies gyrated and slithered and spun and swayed. Faces gleamed, make up streaked, blouses soaked, hair straggled, hand fans fluttered. Now, one perfectly synchronized group would disappear, replaced by another fumbling one, forming a new kaleidoscopic pattern. There a couple would move closer past all decorum. Here excitement, there envy, here frustration, there serenity. Different steps of the dance.

And then, midnight tolled.

The ground now seemed vast. And eerily empty. The last stragglers were leaving, leaving behind stray peals of laughter. Paper cups and fans lay scattered and crushed as if beaten by a marauding army. The security guards walked around the site, switching off lights, stacking chairs.

The common man stood with his wife and daughter beside him. His eyes looked into the distance, or was it into another time? Did he see sparkling, kohl rimmed eyes clash with his, and then demurely give way? Did he smell the fragrance of lost youth? Did he hear the rustle of silk across a swaying hip? Did he feel the blood pounding through his head as he saw her gracefully move towards him, and then lose herself in the crowds?

I tapped him on his shoulder. “Come,” I said, “It’s time to go home now.”

His eyes returned to the world around us. He turned to see his wife looking at him. His daughter seemed tired, but a smile he had never seen before tugged at the corners of her mouth. His eyes met his wife’s and he smiled, a smile of ineffable beauty. He took her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. “Yes,” he said, “it’s time to go home.”

Venkatraman Sheshashayee
09 October 2005

Last week I was in Andheri again.

“Don’t step out on Saturday,” they told me.

“It is a complete disaster,” they warned me.

“You will be on the roads for more than 12 hours if you make the stupid decision of venturing out,” they cautioned me.

“Please stay at home, and watch TV,” they cajoled me.

I planned on heeding all this unsolicited advice. Being new to Mumbai, and being extremely cautious, even cowardly, I resolved that I would not take a single step outside the house on Saturday, 18th September. I stocked up on books, potato wafers, peanuts (masala and roasted), diverse aerated liquids, and four DVDs. I darkened the bedroom, forming a cocoon against the cruel world lapping at my door.

And then, at 4 PM, when I was just settling into my hedonistic routine, Abhimanyu came to me and tentatively broke the news.

“I need three books,” he said, his eyes seeking mine in the gloom, only sporadically offset by the flickering images of Rani Mukherjee meeting Saif Ali Khan for the third time in London.

“Wonderful,” I said. “And you will have them.”

I always try to sound enthusiastic and positive with the kids, even when they are intruding into the bond I was trying to form with Rani.

“I need them today,” he said, insistently. “I have a project to complete and submit on Monday. They are available at Book-Point, in Andheri.”

My connection with Rani shattered like so much china in the hands of Damini.

“What?” I pulled myself out of the warm and soft mound of pillows and quilts that had formed my machan through the day. “Andheri? Today? It will be impossible to reach Andheri. Use the internet!”

Having delivered this brilliant advice, I hunted around, found the bag of chips that had slipped to the side, and settled back to recapture what Rani and I had just lost.

“No, Dad,” he said, “I need specific books and have to quote certain paragraphs in the report. I am sorry to trouble you, but please can we get them now?” Abhimanyu is nothing if not persistent.

Conflict. This word has so many connotations. It is used so often, especially in today’s fragmented world. But, not between Iran and USA, not North Korea and USA, not China and USA, not Iraq and USA, none of these disagreements come even close to the degree of conflict that raged in my breast. On the one hand, there was Rani, potato chips, peace and Coke. On the other there was mayhem, mobs and my son’s stumbling quest for education.

It was close. Thoughts of setting up an annuity for him passed my mind. So what, I thought, if he doesn’t get a degree? He will manage. Hopefully, he will develop something in the garage.

But no, bitter conscience and those famed middle class values won. But not by much. Not by much at all.

And so, at 5.00 PM on 18th September, Abhimanyu and I left for Andheri. On the day that more than three million devotees leave their homes (at about the same time) to immerse and bid adieu to more than 230,000 large (many larger than life) idols of Ganesha. Which means 230,000 individual processions, about 200,000 trucks, 50,000 buses and 75,000 other vehicles on the roads of this beleaguered city. All the same time, and largely heading in the same direction. Towards the sea.

Let me digress a little to give you an idea of Mumbai’s topography. Mumbai is an island – seven islands actually, but bound together now by bridges and land fills and reclamations to form a thin, long one. (I know all of you in the e-group know this, but there is this possibility that these literary gems that I produce are published to wide acclaim posthumously, and translated into 23 languages, and thus, in the interests of future readers from Kazakhstan, Wales and Ecuador, I need to describe this further.) The sea is on the West. So are the beaches. There is a breakwater (called a creek) to the East. There are no beaches in the East. Where we live, Powai, is bang in the middle. And Andheri is in the West. So, to reach Andheri, we needed to drive West, for about ten kilometers. And then, we have to locate the book shop, buy the books, and then, come back home. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Except that the 230,000 processions, idols, trucks, buses, cars are all going West, to immerse the idols in the sea. What joy!

When Abhi and I stepped out of the building, we were hit by a wall of noise. There were drums, cymbals, trumpets, horns, loudspeakers, people chanting, trucks revving. It was like standing in the middle of a particularly agitated thunderstorm. I thought of turning back, but all those years of encouraging Abhimanyu to indulge in physical activities such as football, karate, gymnastics, etc., had yielded a young man considerably stronger and more agile than an over the hill, office-bound manager, whose devotion to alcohol and tobacco is the stuff of legend. The desire to return home was strong, but that to avoid an undignified scuffle ruled. So, with dragging feet and an achin’, breakin’ heart, I walked into the maelstrom.

But, hark! Even though I use the word noise (you will remember that I had stepped out of a cozy cocoon), after the initial jarring impact, there seemed to, from all the din, form a melody. I agree that calling anything on the wrong side of 350 decibels cannot be remotely described as a melody, but there it was. A rhythmic chant, a metronome of beats, a surging and ebbing wave. It was as if all the disparate groups and their public address systems were somehow finding harmony. There were Hindi film songs, Marathi songs, Sanskrit Shlokas, Indipop, wannabe leaders haranguing the masses, professional bands, amateur bands, religious groups singing loudly. None of these even heard each other, probably. Yet, there was harmony. A strangely serene feeling began to steal over me.

We got into the car, and began our journey. I use the word journey figuratively. The word connotes visions of empty highways stretching into the distance, of the wind blowing through your hair, of the Eagles singing “Hotel California” and speedometers reading in the high nineties. Our outing, alas, was slightly different. As soon as we turned out of the building compound into the road, we were engulfed. It seemed that we had suddenly stepped into the evacuation of Dunkirk. There were people. There were hand carts. There were trucks and buses. There were cars and bullocks. There were pandals and palanquins. There were hawkers and priests and onlookers. There were policemen and firemen and the home guard. The speedometer read in the high zeroes. I reconciled my self to a long night in the car, and mentally kicked myself for not bringing along a book to read during long stretches of apathy.

Then I noticed something strange. With all these impediments, we kept moving. It was rare that we stopped. On first sight, the mass seemed impenetrable, much like the Red Sea must have seemed to Moses and the fleeing Israelis. But, somehow, it parted. (I do not, by the above allusion, mean to imply divine intervention.) Even the most fervent devotee or the most colorfully anointed priest willingly and smilingly gave way. The police worked overtime to ensure that jams were cleared quickly and painlessly. And we kept moving. We zigged past a truck which had a 10-foot high Ganesha precariously balanced on its flatbed, and then zagged past a group of people briskly wheeling a handcart with a 2-foot high one. We squeezed past a riotous crowd of youngsters dancing and throwing coloured powder and water at one other, and crawled between two buses filled with chanting devotees. And we kept moving. And as we moved, the sights around us filled our minds and eyes.

Have you seen a “riot of colour”? Really seen one? I am not talking about your teenage daughter’s wardrobe. I am talking about 256,000 colours, high definition, in your face kind of riot. That’s what surrounded us. The idols in their bright pink, yellow and red; the people in greens, blues, reds, violets, pinks, mauves; the trucks and buses in colours that put the spectrum to shame, the pandals, the flowers, the coloured powders whisking through the air, the banners, the sweets and toys sold by the hawkers. Even the grey skies and the dilapidated buildings seemed to glow brighter and take on a lustre normally absent. The whole city seemed to be on the roads, in their festive best, and it was mindblowingly beautiful.

The idols themselves were fantastic. There were standing Ganeshas, sitting Ganeshas, reclining Ganeshas, dancing Ganeshas, pink Ganeshas (Aryans), blue Ganeshas (Dravidians), artfully designed and executed Ganeshas, crudely constructed Ganeshas. There was a Ganesha leading people through floodwaters (shades of 26 July) and a Ganesha playing cricket (shades of Sachin). There was a Ganesha with Shivaji sitting by the side, there was one with Mr. Thackeray. There was even one with Manmohan Singh. And Sonia Gandhi. It was amazing to be in the midst of so much creativity, and sad knowing that in a few hours, all this will be returning to clay.

And, so we moved steadily on, drinking in the amazing sights around us, our minds filling with syncopated rhythm. Conversation was difficult. The air conditioner hummed, adding its bit to the melody. Once in a while, we hit a dead end, and the police and the devotees, would, working together in an amazing piece of coordination, clear a bit of the road or find a new one altogether. And then, we would be waved on smilingly.

We reached Book-Point at 6:20 PM. It had taken us just one hour and twenty minutes to vend our way through a million people. I could not believe this. I was expecting to reach by about 8:00 PM, and specifically asked the shop if it would be open then, before leaving home. On the way, we had not seen one angry face, or met with impatience or unhappiness of any sort. There was no force used, no fights, no quarrels. Instead, there was sharing (of drinking water, of sweets, of coloured powders and water balloons) and acceptance (of delays, of sudden showers of rain, of other’s need for haste). I wonder about what it took for a more than a million people to move and work together so harmoniously. If we could do it for a day, what about a week? Or was this occasion in some way different?

And thus, we bought the books, and found our way home. The return journey was more of the same, except that we were stuck at one point for about 20 minutes, because a large truck had broken down. We too, taking our cue from the thousands around us, sat comfortably in the car, and waited patiently. Chill, bro!

By the time we reached home, the crowds had waned. Small groups, looking exhausted, yet serene, were walking along, presumably heading home. Children holding balloons and carrying plastic toys, were in turn, being carried by their mothers. Crisp saris had turned limp, faces were shiny with perspiration and colour. The street lamps cast their glow on darkening streets, and stray buntings and pieces of paper fluttered in the dying breeze. Puddles of water glistened, trying to mirror the myriad colours that had passed over them. Stray drummers rent the growing silence with their energy, and the faraway bleat of the odd trumpet sounded lonely and lost.

Mumbai is a city you can fall in love with very easily. I am in the first stages of infatuation.

Venkatraman Sheshashayee
25 September 2005