Destiny

M. walked out of the university and looked wistfully at the large gate. He had taught there for 40 years and had retired the previous day. He planned to leave the city to spend the rest of his days in the warm, anonymous solitude of a sea-side town.

That day he decided to take a last walk around the city. An hour later he found himself, inadvertently, on the road he had carefully avoided for the last three decades. His eyes leaped to the small white house surrounded by a well-maintained garden. Painful memories that had been suppressed forever rose from rusty corners of his mind.

He saw Lila, 30 years back, with a tuft of hair falling over her forehead, her slender limbs flitting around her careless gait....When their eyes had smiled at each other, he knew that his love for her was deeper than anything he had felt before. He was incomplete without her and why was that so obvious to him when he held her hands....He saw himself kissing her and still remembered the strange feeling he had had after - that everything in his life before that moment had been a mistake. The life they both yearned for lay in each others' arms and everything else felt absurd.

Flashes from the past flew around in his mind threading the story of their lives. He froze for a moment when he saw himself so clearly that night, long long ago. The stars seemed to twinkle despondently between the passing clouds that were being pushed by a pleasantly chill wind.
Lila: I have to go back now.
M: How can we live like this without each other Lila?
Lila: I have to leave him. I have no other choice. I feel very sad for him, he has been so good to me. But he has to understand what I feel for you.

M. saw himself, the very next day, staring at the small painting of a child hanging on the hospital wall. He could have painted that picture himself even today for he had stared at it for so long. Lila was beside him in tears. She was narrating, fitfully, the events of the previous night.
...they called me and asked if I was his wife....he is paralyzed....he may be able to speak and think....
M. was silent and was looking at the painting gravely. Lila began sobbing.
....he was not fully conscious last night....he held my hand and said don't leave me Lila....

M. heard a creaking sound and quickly hid himself behind a tree. He saw a wheelchair emerging from the door and wrinkled hands that were intimately familiar. He turned his face away and walked back.

Old Man - Part II

In the past few months, I have read many articles about the professor in the newspapers. Naturally, the death of a curious character like the professor cannot skip today's vigilant media attention.
Here are a few excerpts, in chronological order:

“…opinions regarding the relevance of the professor’s works are divided among the mathematical community. Some claim that his works are the result of a truly original thinker and the world has much to gain from the study of his unusual but outstanding contributions. While others think that his seclusion led to his (possibly psychotic) imagination that works of other mathematicians are actually his own creation …”

“…roughly half of the professor’s works have been perused by his colleagues. It has been found that the professor was diligent and neat in recording his findings and all his works are chronologically arranged. His works have touched many fields of mathematics such as…and researchers have found mathematically elegant proofs of many known as well as unknown theorems.”

“…`We have unearthed a potential goldmine`, says Professor K.”

“…Professor S. has now disclosed that he had collaborated with the professor for a number of years and is familiar with some of his works. He also claims that he is a co-author of some of the papers found. When asked why he didn’t announce this earlier, he said that the professor had forbid him to do so, when alive…”

“…in a startling new statement, Professor S. has accused the professor of fabricating the dates of some of his works. He said that the mentally ill professor was in the habit of reading current literature in mathematics and re-writing them as pre-dated entries in his journal. This has now led to doubts about the originality of the professor’s works. However, numerous other original results of the professor make the possibility of such fraud unlikely, say other colleagues of the professor. Is this a case of professional jealousy or an idiosyncrasy of a mentally ill man? Only time can tell…”

“…Professor S. has filed a case of willful plagiarism against the professor supporting his previous claim…the mathematical community has decided not to consider the professor’s works until the case is settled…”

And, many months later –

“…the latest international rankings have placed the department of mathematics at Z. among the top 20 in the world. The meteoric rise in the rankings is due to the fact that in the past few months, the research efforts of a number of mathematicians in the department have borne fruit yielding a surge of groundbreaking new results…”

Old man

As I sip my Sunday morning tea, my dreamy, half-awake eyes fall on the newspaper headline that reads "A lifetime’s work discovered!" This is about the professor. I had read his obituary a few weeks back.

It was a decade ago when I had first met this strange man. I was attending a seminar in the university where he was teaching then. He was almost sixty and was the most senior professor in the department. By a quirk of fate, I happened to stay with him for a week. The room previously allotted to me was burnt in an accident and there was no other room available. The professor was requested to house me in his dwelling and he graciously accepted.

After exchanging a few pleasantries he took me home, that afternoon, and said - "Please use the bedroom for yourself. I am in the study most of the time." With this he vanished into the study and locked himself up. The gentleness in his voice was soothing and friendly but I was perturbed by his sudden disappearance. I slowly made myself at home. There was a single mat on the bedroom floor. Traveling had exhausted me and I slept immediately. When I got up, it was almost nine and the professor was in his study. I knocked and he came out and said, "I usually cook my own meals. Would you prefer eating out?" Most of his sentences began and ended abruptly like these. I offered to take him out but he refused. Wanting to spend more time with him, I agreed to help him in the kitchen and dine with him.

The professor lived alone. I got to know later that his wife and only child had died in a road accident thirty years back. Ever since, he had lived alone in this house. The house was Spartan - a minimal kitchen and living room. There was a large wooden cupboard full of books except for one of the shelves that had his clothes. The professor was of average height and had a long, rectangular face with a neat crew cut. He was clean shaven and wore simple clothes. He had a relaxed, pleasing look that bore no trace of malice. It was a face that you could trust instantly.

The first thing one observed about him was the silence surrounding him. He was obviously not used to human company and was exceptionally reticent. All my efforts of striking a conversation with him while cooking failed. He answered all my questions with monosyllables or with a few words. But for his friendly face and politeness, I would have branded him an arrogant snob. We ate and washed dishes in an awkward silence.

After dinner, he went back to his study and when I woke up the next day, he was still locked up in the study. I decided to cancel all my other plans and spend the week studying this curious old man. Observing him was easy - he was indifferent to his surroundings and even when you sat in front of him, he ignored you completely until you asked him a question. He spent an astounding 14-16 hours in his study everyday. He slept for 4 hours daily – from 7 to 11 in the morning, ate 2 meals a day and spent 2 hours in the afternoon either walking or taking a class in the university.

I spoke to a few of his students who said that he was a good teacher who knew the subject well but was always aloof and didn’t interact much with the students. The subject he took was a relatively easy one and the students didn’t need to consult him much. Even during the lecture, he didn’t speak much. He would write on the board and then urge the students to think on their own. He would then wait for their queries and diligently reply to each one of them. He was not a popular teacher.

I was particularly fascinated by his eyes. They were dull and dreamy during his daily chores. Occasionally, there would be a sparkle, a twinkling brightness that would light his eyes. I could see fireworks going on behind his eyes in such moments. Once I woke up at night and saw him pacing in the living room with the same glow in his eyes. It was an absurd sight - a paranoid pair of eyes set in a calm face.

After a few days, he started opening up to my persistent interrogation. I learnt from him that he had been working on various research topics in mathematics for the last thirty years. When asked why he was solitary and why he never collaborated with other researchers, he replied almost hysterically –
“I do not have much time left on earth. I have so many ideas that I want to document before I die. Speeches, publications and collaboration do not interest me and I can spend my time better by noting down all that my head is producing.” This is was the longest I had ever heard him speak at one stretch.
“But all your research may be futile if you don’t let the world know,” I pleaded, sounding like a teenager asking his father for pocket-money.
By then, he became oblivious of my presence and walked into his study.

His colleagues told me that nobody had ever seen him do anything other than his personal study and research. When asked to discuss his research he had given the same reply to everyone. He had no hobbies. Nobody had ever seen a friend or relative of his. He had no interest in current affairs or politics or religion. Everyone thought he was excessively shy and soon he was forgotten as nobody ever saw him. There were rumors about great works, about his spiritual powers and even about his criminal links. All of them died simply because nothing ever happened in his life. Unlike so many others like him he was never idolized and put on a pedestal. He was almost non-existent!

I haven’t met a more solitary or laconic man. The article describes his works and comments of other researchers.
“We have found an astonishing 30 volumes of work. Sadly, most of his work is already known to the research community. There are a few results that are ambiguous and a few more that we need to still work on. Right now, nothing spectacular is expected. Of course, we must acknowledge the man’s life-long perseverance.”
Somehow, my heart refuses to believe the expert comments. An entire life, a devoted passionate life – and a futile life!

My Story

I am old and forgotten now. But I have had quite an adventurous life; and a long one too. This is my story – not in entirety but only glimpses of it.

Every life is shaped by the environment in which it develops and I was no exception. My formative years were inundated with varied emotions and experiences. I was, and in fact, I am a huge bundle of emotions. And, I loved observing the emotions within and around me. When I looked I found curiosity, fervor, affection, joy, grief, fury, passion, misery, anxiety, fear, apprehension, malice, jealousy, greed, shame, lust, pride and betrayal – each thread of emotion intertwined with many others and all the threads defining my very existence. The experiences which life threw at me every day further embellished the diversity of emotions within me.

The wanderlust within me enriched me with knowledge of the world and exposed me to the beauty of life’s inscrutable contradictions. My life was never static – with every new encounter I changed. I reveled in the joy of my own maturation! As I grew, my faculty of observation – observing both inside and outside of myself - matured. I enjoyed the drama of life and its actors. I had this innate ability of absorbing the histrionics of life around me and presenting it in a convoluted, disguised form which appealed to others.

My first encounter with love left an indelible impression on me. I had seen her in exulting times when she would dance in joy. I had seen her in times of depression when she would weep bitterly, hiding her face in the pillow. She was a bubbly, caring, sensitive girl who grew up to become a charming young woman.

The transformation was gradual. She was softer than ever, calmer than ever and dreamier than ever. She was in love and she had not experienced anything like this before. She would talk to me about him for hours at a stretch, looking at me with eyes that were vacant – lost in his thoughts. She would think of the long, ecstatic hours spent with him, incessantly dream of their future together – until past, present and future became one undivided stretch of phantasmagoria. Even a few days of living apart due to their callings, were times of agony for both of them.

How it could happen, nobody knows. One day when he went to meet her, she wasn’t home. He waited for her to call on him but minutes turned to hours and hours to days and still there was no sign of her. His anxiety turned to desperation. His days were spent in searching for his sweetheart and nights in Kafkaesque deliberations. It was a blow which devastated him not only because it was severe but also because he had absolutely no clue about its why or how!

After innumerable quirks of fate the details of which I shall skip, two years later she was found talking to some of her acquaintances. She was more pensive. She was talking about him. She had not betrayed him. She said, “I have exhausted all my emotions for him.” All of a sudden, all she felt was a void. What triggered it, she herself couldn’t understand. She wished she could explain it to him but refrained from doing so because she knew that he wouldn’t understand it. This tale of capricious and transitory human love and all its mystifying intricacies has remained etched within me till today.

After I was no longer impressionable, the only thing that changed was the outlook of others towards me. I felt that everyone saw me in a different light and I would always wonder what I really was, or rather, what I really am.

But that happened after that great day! Yes, it was a great day in my life – for that day I became famous. My name was on the tips of the tongue of all who mattered. Newspaper and magazine articles, drawing-room-conversations of the elite – I featured everywhere. I felt I was omnipresent then. One moment I felt that I was in the hubbub of New York and the very next moment I felt cozily lapped in the tranquil shores of Goa. Fame was wonderful!

But fame transformed to anonymity and pride to jealousy. Soon I was forgotten and replaced by others – some known to me, some unknown. I remained only in the dark shelves of forgotten memories. Oblivion exasperated me; it paled me with rage and jealousy. Some did utter my name in passing, but seldom was there any hint of my past glory. I was as transitory as the emotions within me.

Oh, my fervent apologies, I haven't introduced myself - I am a story.

Morning walk

On the left, is a towering apartment block. It has huge gates well guarded by dark, thin men, elegantly dressed, with proud faces adorned by moustaches. They have a separate room at the side with a window through which they can peep with irritated, raised eyebrows at every passer-by who looks at the gates. There are hundreds of flats in the block, the windows and balconies of each flat overlooking the road - each room looking identical but encumbering a distinct fascinating tales of human lives.

The footpath in front of the apartment bears men and women jostling to begin their day. Most have blank looks which betray some expression only when they see their watch or an irregularity in their attire or some curious incident on the road - like the motorcyclist hurling abuses at the autorickshaw for having rammed into him. Meanwhile, other two-wheelers are busy strenuously finding ways of moving ahead - some move into the footpath, they tilt at various angles to squeeze through gulleys, furrows and other formations created by the traffic.

A pirated-books seller is busy laying out the books on the footpath, dusting each book before placing it. Bevies of young girls continuously cross the road to reach the college gate on the opposite side. Most of them are giggling at each others' gossip. Some glance at the books. Each glance diverts the attention of the book seller, frustration quickly following expectation from both sides.
Some men with company tags hanging out of their pockets also stop to look at the books. Most men wear formal clothes, have a briefcase like bag and a serious look. The tags unite them like dogs of a pedigree. With men possessing similar tags, they share a common future and common jokes. [Different tags only change the names and some jargon - the essence of the conversation remains same among the tagged men!]

The bus stops are thronged by many colors and dull faces. Eager faces pop out of every bus that arrives, each face yelling - announcing the route and the destination. Most people want to go where the most packed buses go. Empty buses seem to be going where nobody wants to go and there are so many empty buses and so few packed buses!

The shopping mall looks lifeless. All the shops are closed and the mannequins stare eerily from the dark backgrounds. Coffee Day has woken up and are serving the morning dose of MTV to the cleaners of the mall. A sharp turn after the mall, and my office comes into my cone of vision.

Moribund (1)

The first rays of the sun tore through the clouds and burst forth with all their might. The night put up a struggle and was unwilling to leave. Strands of day and night adorning the dawn sky lit up the struggle. Below on earth another encounter witnessed the divine play of light above. It was an encounter of unequal foes – life and the will to perish.

Chetan was lying on a bench in the park. The park was surrounded by roads on all sides, rather one busy road and three narrow lanes – two of the lanes joined the road and the third lane was narrow and lonely. The bench was along this lane. The park was thickly populated with trees – so many that neither could he see the boundary walls on the farther sides of the park and nor could he discern the presence of another person. There was path that had been hemmed out from this thick outgrowth and ran parallel to the boundary walls on all the sides.

He had escaped from the hospital. He didn’t know what he was doing and where he was going. He watched the sky with a child-like expression of wonder and a moribund stillness. He felt blank. He felt empty. He was wearing a gown given him in the hospital – he had nothing but the gown and his underwear.

He could see a tent at the edge of the park. An old hag became visible as the sun started gaining in the encounter - she was sitting outside the tent. She wore a ragged gown which had been stitched together from various pieces of dull, faded clothes. The gown was too big for her and made her look bigger than she actually was. From the opening of this gown on the top a face emerged that was dark, ugly and wrinkled. Her hair was grey and dusty. Her eyes were sharp, piercing and a strange madness in them – a penetrating ferocity.

She was trying to light a fire with some twigs that she had collected. He looked around and found a saucepan beside her. He imagined tea in the pan and the smell of tea wafted its way from his mind to his nose. He longed for a cup of hot tea. One year back, at this time he was demanding tea at home and his mother was preparing tea at top speed. She had to prepare tea for Chetan, coffee for herself and her husband and then get ready to leave for office. Chetan liked tea more than coffee – he preferred coffee only before serious studies. He used to like tea more than coffee – now he liked nothing, wanted nothing and yet missed everything – he felt that it was this feeling which was the weakness of his soul and life sowed the seeds for this weakness. The dream suddenly dissolved in his tears – tears not of sadness or nostalgia - and when the drops fell on his cheeks clearing his eyes of the dream, he could see the old hag lifting the pan from the fire which was now burning vigorously.

He lifted himself from the bench with much effort. His leg where he had been operated hurt him and walking was difficult. The fire and the food provoked him to draw near. He was attracted as though by some invisible force. He had completely surrendered his mind to his body and his body moved instinctively towards nourishment, towards the burning fire of life.

The old hag saw him approaching and her features became taut. She guarded herself, her pan and her tent with a maternal ferocity. As Chetan limped forward, she clutched a branch which was shaped like a club and stared constantly at Chetan. Chetan was too feeble to speak and approached without a word. Without any warning, the old hag got up, ran towards Chetan swearing incessantly. He was shocked and paralyzed at this sudden revolt. He saw the club descending on him and the thorns in the branch scratched his head leaving a bleeding gash behind. He fell on the muddy ground with a pain piercing his leg. A stone had abraded the bandage from his leg and his wound now lay open to the brutality of nature all around. The old hag could see a deep wound stretching from his left knee to the middle of his calf muscles. Half the leg had been scooped out and the raw flesh was visible. The wound looked fresh although there was no blood. It seemed as though blood was tired of oozing out. There were stains of blood all over the wound and she could see the faint outline of his bone in the middle of the wound. Chetan was crying softly as the sunlight, having won the battle against night, sought its next victim in his leg.

The hag saw his leg and felt nauseated. She went back to her tent muttering constantly to herself. Chetan’s head was bleeding at two places - near his left temple where the branch had hit him and on the other side where his head had landed with a thud on the ground. The pain in his leg was moving slowly upwards and he could feel the excruciating radiating pain. In agony, he kicked his left leg with his right leg. His right toe touched the wound and he yelled out in pain. His head was throbbing as blood dripped from over his eyebrow and mingled with his tears on his cheek.

He felt as though the pain from his leg wanted to meet the pain from his head and his chest and torso prevented the meeting. He felt a tug of war being played at the two ends of his body. The sunlight had become harsher and he could feel each ray clawing into the two ends of his body. He could not hear his own wailing increasing in intensity. The old hag heard it and ran away from the park with her pan. There was nobody in Chetan’s vicinity. Then the wailing ceased and Chetan saw himself in a different place. In fact he saw himself in two places – lying in the park tormented with pain and standing in his house just out of bed. He knew that one Chetan was a reality and the other a dream. How he wished it was the other way round. He tried hard to concentrate on the dream. The other Chetan was now static and slowly he could only see the events of his past unfurling in front of his closed eyes...

The Reprobate

There were two rival groups of dogs in that area. Both were proud of their ancestors and both upheld the values of their clans ferociously.
Actually, the story of the two groups had a common beginning.

In the beginning there were just two dogs and their mates. The two dogs had been brought up together and were friendly. How the four of them came there, nobody knows. But once they came, they never left.
Because of a misunderstanding between the two males and because of a natural instinct of possessing one’s own territory, they separated. Their territories were clearly demarcated and were fiercely protected by each pair. They co-existed as rival neighbors and never went anywhere else.

Their families grew as the females gave birth to healthy litters. The pups were schooled well by their parents and they imbibed noble virtues of love for territory, parents and kith and kin. The enmity between the two groups was now a family matter. Each group ferociously guarded its territory and didn’t allow any dog from another group to enter. A dog from the neighboring group wouldn’t dare to enter the territory of the other. And if one ventured by mistake, the unity and ferocity of the pack would soon pounce upon it. The lone adventurer would then not flee, for it was from a brave and proud clan. It would fight with enormous courage as its brothers would soon join it and carnage would ensue. Bodies would be terribly wounded and the souls would be glowing with pride. The females would have another story to narrate to their young and the unity of the group and their pride in their values would strengthen.

One day, a reprobate was born to one of the groups. The entire group cursed their stars for the puny male pup was the weakest creature they had even seen. How could a clan that boasted of its valor ever produce an animal like that! The pup grew and was different from others. It was devoid of anger – it was gentle and caring. It was despised by the entire group. The males of the group had to be dogs of valor, power and ferocity – such a weakling was a blemish to the group. He was ostracized from the activities of the group. He stayed in the territory of the group and managed to fend for himself but was a failure in school. The noble virtues of patriotism and savage strength always eluded him – he was a depraved creature.

One day, the reprobate dog ventured into the neighboring territory and was immediately surrounded by the rival dogs. Their violent barks were deafening. Their threatening canines were waiting to rip the flesh out of him. Their tongues were hanging out ominously and their blood shot eyes were piercing his soul. The difference between his life and death was just a moment. While the rival dogs were surrounding him, dogs from his own group saw him and were rushing forward eager for battle. Then the unthinkable happened. All the dogs from both the groups were stunned and stood motionless. The reprobate bent down and surrendered.

The rival dogs didn’t know how to react – they had neither heard nor even thought of such a happening. The dogs of his own group were looking, awe-struck, waiting for the reaction of the enemy. The rivals cleared the way for the reprobate and the dog got up, head and tail still drooping and made his way to his brothers who were looking at him with a look of abject disgust. The battle had ended without beginning and the soldiers returned home.

The reprobate sat with his head bent with shame while all the other members of the group surrounded him. The eldest (who were the wisest and most brutal) were together, the commoners and females were together and the only thought that was in everyone’s minds was – the group had been insulted. The thought was like a solid wave flowing (through everyone’s minds) and static – it united them and at once gave rise to a communal feeling. It was a united feeling of hatred towards the depraved dog.

Almost simultaneously it was decided and then the elders proclaimed – the reprobate is no longer a part of the group. He is exiled. Being their brother, he will not be attacked by any member of this group. However, no responsible member of the group will allow him to eat anything within this territory.

The reprobate heard the pronouncement calmly and then, slowly walked away. He loved his country and didn’t want to go anywhere else. He was just averse to the violence which was a part of the lives of the two groups. He sat dreamily basking in the sun. He was sad and forlorn.
Then hunger shook him up and he wandered about to swallow something. He found a piece of meat and was about to pick it up when he remembered the morning’s pronouncement. There were two dogs staring at him angrily on the other side of the meat. He turned away and went in another direction. Wherever he went, he always saw the same sight – food and beside the food, his brothers guarding the food from him. Hungry and tired he sat under the shade of the tree. He slept without food. After some time, the hunger was intolerable. He got up and wandered again – in vain.

Then he saw some food that was not guarded – it was in the neighboring territory. His mind was delirious and it saw nothing but the food that was a few yards away. He ran towards it and just when his teeth were about to touch the meat, it vanished. In its place he saw three dogs – enormous and frightening. One of them had the meat in its mouth. They knew him – for the news of his surrender had spread far and wide. They didn’t attack him. He turned under the threat of their cruel glower.
He went back to his land. He waited and slowly life oozed out of him. Insects and infection were devouring him. Agonizingly he starved to death.

Beach 

Karwar Seaside

The silence is scorching and the tranquil sun is speedily westering. The wind is howling into the ears of the waves. The waves are lapping the golden sand and there are vultures croaking (like frogs) in the air, hovering anxiously in search of prey.

We are in Karwar beach. Karwar is a small, sleepy town - still untouched by the smoke and din of fast paced modern city-life. We are staying in a squalid lodge for just Rs. 150 per day. The fish curry I had for lunch was fresh, tasty and just Rs 18 per plate!

The sea is vast and petrifying in its enormity. There are liners guarding the horizon not very far from the beach. It looks like the sky and the sea would meet and rejoice at the horizon but for these ships. There are hills flanking the beach on either side. The hills on my left are covered with dense forest and those on my right are too far for my eyes to notice the details. Trees lining the beach are constantly dropping dry twigs on the sand.

The vastness of the sea and the sky belittles the physical self of man but not his spirit. It challenges him, provokes him - to explore, to seek, to conquer. It drives him in his quest to comprehend the profundity of existence. Human mind, vain that it is, seeks the meaning in the humdrum affairs of life, in the tranquility of life, in life's pleasures and in life's miseries. Desire after desire, quest after quest! Thousands of years! Oh, the insatiable spirit!

Is the human mind as vast as the sea? Or, is the sea vast because the mind is not?

"Its difficult to believe that this astounding beauty is meaningless!" says my friend Ashok.