Eulogy to a Frank-fart-er

Statue of Agastya

Dear Son:

Have you ever come across a frank-FART-er? I always thought that the being was extinct. Indeed, if it did exist today, it would surely have qualified as the eighth wonder of our planet, don’t you think? Wait though my son, wait. It seems now that you and I, as well as other specimens of humanity whose footsteps have been guiding us, were utterly wrong in our convictions. Frank-FART-ers exist in profusion, or so at least the menus of a delicatessen or two are advertising in Kolkata. In large letters, capitalized that is. At the very entrance of the shops. You can’t miss them.

Come to think of it though, most of us might have been exposed to a somewhat lesser variety of the species, frank-FART-ers minus the boldness of it carried by the first five letters. They exist and perform with gay abandon in night trains as well as crowded buses, as evidenced by the diverse range of noises one’s ears are exposed to every now and then. And one can’t help wondering. Is there a technology that can decode these audio signals, or at least unravel the mysterious emotions they represent? Pride? Anger? Mockery? Pathos? Humility? Mind boggling you know, a bit like the inscrutable smile on Mona Lisa’s face.

Almost none of these musicians, mind you, have ever been accused of frankness. They remain as invisible to the naked eye as the mellifluous sound waves they produce. Yes, oh yes my child. I know you are as alert as a leopard in search of its prey. So you couldn’t have missed my hesitation at the very beginning of this paragraph. “Almost” said I. And if you scroll back upwards, you will notice further that I suggested that the animal was extinct. This means, doesn’t it, that there was a period in the history of mankind when it may well have existed. Dinosaur style.

But don’t you start googling in search of the creature. Neither historians nor archaeologists will offer you help in your quest. When your thirst for knowledge overpowers you, there is only one reference you should consult — the Mahabharata. That’s the ultimate source of history that historians always ignore. Fortunately, I am not a student of history, so I never fail to pay my due respects to this magnificent compendium.

And that is precisely the direction in which I ran the day I saw the advertisement at the delicatessen and burnt all the midnight oil at my disposal till I met with success. I am dying now to share with you my findings. The story of a magnificent frank-FART-er picked directly out of the pages of Krishnadwaipayan Vyas’ personal diary.

The f-f in question was the venerable Agastya, of whom I daresay you must have heard. I reckon he was one of the most powerful amongst the Hindu saints who found their place in the epic tale. His abilities manifested in the form of a great many miraculous events, but none as great as the one concerning the demon Illwal and his young brother Bataapi.

Whether this conjecture is correct or not, I can’t say. Vyas confirms though that Illwal made a somewhat questionable use of his faculty. And to go straight to the point, it appears that Illwal had once approached a Brahman with a strange request. He asked this B chap to grant him a boon that his son be as mighty as the King of Gods, viz. Lord Indra himself, armed with thunder, fury and the rest of the paraphernalia. The Brahman unfortunately refused. To tell the truth, the poor chap really had no other choice. First, he didn’t know Indra personally and could not therefore make someone he didn’t know resemble yet another guy he didn’t know either. Secondly, even if he tried to cater to Illwal’s whim, it is doubtful that Indra himself would be too happy to oblige. I mean, there was always this stray chance that the Lord would be transformed in the process to Illwal’s pampered child and be forced to remain in that state till the rest of eternity. That such possibilities are real enough will be revealed to you as you read through this tale.

So, the B refused and this Ill chap in turn was livid with anger. He decided to depopulate the earth of Brahmans. Towards this end, he began to invite all the Brahmans he could locate to his residence and serve them a variety of delicacies. Amongst them was a curry, made apparently out of goat meat. In reality though, he was using his magic to transform Bataapi into a goat. And it was this Bataapi cum goat that he was slaughtering to be cooked into a curry for the consumption of the unsuspecting invitees. No harm in this, since Bat boy could not die even when decimated, thanks to Ill boy’s sorcery.

Apparently, the preparation made out of Bataapi’s meat was real tasty and the Brahman’s lapped it up with relish. However, immediately after the feast was over, Illwal would call out for his brother in a heart rending baritone and as soon as he did so, the hapless Brahman’s stomach would explode and a smiling Batapi walk out unharmed from the mess.

There is a question that bothers me though at this point of the story. To the best of my understanding, few Brahmans outside Bengal are meat eaters. If so, do we conclude that Illwal was only after Bengali Brahmans? Unfair man, God’s so unfair to the Bongs. Or, does it suggest that Brahmans living in other parts of the country, being more intelligent, got wind of Illwal’s machinations and promptly converted to vegetarianism? Whichever, it’s worth researching whether the forefathers of today’s vegetarian Brahmans were vegetarians during V’deva’s times.

Serendipitously enough, it was around this time that Agastya was seen in the vicinity. It was easy enough for him to secure an invitation card for Illwal’s party and Illwal merrily went through the ritual. Agastya too ate up the meat to his fill. And then, just when he was about to lie down for a well-deserved siesta, Illwal strung up the Bataapi tune on his harp. In response, much to Illwal’s dismay, Bataapi failed to reappear. And what emerged instead was a hurricane of sorts directly from Agastya’s posterior, accompanied by great thunder and lightning.

Make no mistake. Agastya admitted with all the frankness at his possession that it was he who had broken wind, thereby earning for himself the well deserved title of an f-f. Illwal was almost blown away by the force of the turbulence, but managed to hold his ground with the last bit of strength left in him. And as he stared open mouthed at Agastya, the latter smiled a beatific smile and came out with his immortal statement in chaste Sanskrit — “Bataapih jeerna bhava!” Which, translated into simple English runs — ” Bataapi dear, be thou digested!” In other words, following the rules of Physics, Agastya demonstrated the truth of what scientists describe as the Law of Conservation of Energy. He had converted a breathing Bataapi into as unattractive a form of energy as a blighted f**t!! And Prevented Illwal from transforming his kid brother back to the energy mass he started out from. You see now why Lord Indra would have refused to undergo the requested change? If Bataapi could not be restored back to his original self, what guarantee did Indra himself have?

Having proceeded this far, there must clearly be a question or two that are bothering you. First, what is it that they are selling in Kolkata? Fossilized pieces of Agastyas may be? Not unlikely in fact, if the Vyas story was solely concerned with Brahmans in this region of India. I am dead sure that Brahmans from other parts of the country would want to wash their hands off any involvement with Illwal, unless there was a vegetarian version of Illwal’s magic. I have to carry out further research before I can throw more light on the matter.

But there is a second question that might trouble you too. Was it pure serendipity that made Agastya appear to perform his miracle? The answer is, as you might suspect, a clear no. Agastya too had his designs. And I being at my garrulous worst today, let me end up with a summary of that incident too.

Agastya had not arrived at Illwal’s door with philanthropic propensities at all. As a matter of fact, it was quite the other way around. It was Illwal’s philanthropy that he demanded. If Vyasdeva is to be trusted, then during one of his lonesome morning walks through the omnipresent forests of yore, the young Agastya received the shock of his life to discover, not one, but the entire dynasty of his forefathers, apes included I suppose, hanging upside down inside a freshly dug hole, located inches away from this lofty tree under which he had sat down to rest. And mind you, this was no circus show they were performing for their progeny’s entertainment. For, without exception, each one had a glum expression written clearly on his face. To tell you frankly, a sight as scary as this would have prompted me to run for my life. But the great Agastya was made of sterner stuff. He approached the hole in question and paid obeisance to each member of the mourning generations and requested them in all humility to explain what had caused them to suspend themselves in mournful gloom in such a supremely demanding athletic posture.

On being questioned, the ancestors could no longer control their emotions and shed an ocean of tears, thereby wiping out all traces of the hole they had occupied. Nevertheless, they managed to keep the conversation going. It’s best that we keep in abeyance questions regarding the technicalities surrounding this event, or else you will not get to hear the rest of the tale. Miracles those days were available a dime a dozen.

The progenitors, it appears, whimpered lugubriously much to the discomfort of the progeny that he was doing them much wrong by refusing to procreate and soon there would be no one left to solace them with the satisfying thought that they had done their bit in keeping God’s creativity alive and kicking. Agastya accepted his lapses without argument and set out on his way to fill up the lacuna.

Unfortunately though, there was a fly in the ointment. Agastya, despite his renunciation of worldly pleasures, suffered from a Pygmalion like weakness. No woman short of Miss Universe in person would satisfy him. He imagined therefore a wife who would be composed of the most scintillating features collected from all creatures ever created and prayed fervently for her arrival to cleanse him of the crime of non-procreation. Luckily for him, it was precisely around this time that the King of Vidarva was engaged in severe ascetic rituals in the hope of fathering the most flawless child on earth. Agastya’s wishes fitted the King’s as perfectly as pieces in a jigsaw puzzle and soon enough Lopamudra, Agastya’s wife to be, was born. There must have been quite an age difference between the groom and the bride, but Agastya bided his time keeping her under close observation, till Lopa was a nubile young woman. She had, needless to say, all the virtues Agastya had wished for and the marriage was arranged between the two, though Vyas tells us the King was not too happy to give away the apple of his eye to a middle aged forest roaming hermit with no more than a dubious career ahead of him. In other words, it was not exactly clear from Agastya’s looks if he would ascend to the status of a Hindu Pope.

But Lopamudra didn’t object, afraid perhaps of the consequences of her refusal, and followed her husband to his abode, which needless to say, was a bit of a demotion from her palatial habitat. Worse, Agastya insisted that she shed her princess’ attire and preserve her modesty in tattered clothes or deer skin at best. In my opinion, the chap was dying to see his wife in a bikini and used the tall excuse that a sage’s wife needed to live a life of sacrifice. Can’t be helped. Men dominated the world on the one hand and on the other, Agastya was known to possess superhuman abilities. One wouldn’t dare disobey his commands. So, Lopamudra accepted his dictates with little objection and went about bikini clad performing her household chores, cooking, sweeping the courtyard, washing dishes, massaging Agastya’s tired forest roaming limbs and, last but not least, keeping her bikini sets in order. And, as expected, seeing her regularly in this state, Agastya went all horny and remembered conveniently that he had promised to keep the clan flourishing.

Now, Lopamudra, whom we have so far perceived as an epitome of female acquiescence, was in reality a feminist at heart. She was, without a doubt, waiting for a chance to deal a brutal blow to her husband’s divine affectations. Her deer skinned bikini she claimed now was too holy a garment for her to wear to start the proceedings that Agastya was dying to start. In other words, she refused to be un-bikini-ed. She was a princess and if Agastya had to undress her, he would have to fetch her a princess’ garments as well as a matching bed to perform the ritual. Nothing less was acceptable to her. Agastya therefore had only two choices left before him. Either apply force, which was tantamount to raping, or meet her demands. The first alternative wouldn’t work of course, since this would not please his ancestors. So, Agastya, much to his regret agreed to meet Lopamudra’s demands.

He left her in her bikinis, which needless to say was not a particularly safe thing to do, and went in search of wealth from king to king, Srutava, Vradhnashwa, Trasadasyu and so on. (I don’t know how to pronounce these names, so you needn’t worry too much either.) But, to his massive disappointment, each of these kings told him that they were following IMF norms and practising strict fiscal discipline. Their incomes exactly equalled there expenditure and they didn’t have even an extra paisa to spare to buy Lopamudra her bridal bed and costly saree. They were obviously not telling the truth, being somewhat stingy it would seem. One wonders why Agastya didn’t approach his father in law too, but Vyas was once again silent on this issue. I have a feeling that that poor king had left for his heavenly abode soon after he heard about the clothing Agastya forced upon his poor daughter.

Srutava et al, however, were not totally unhelpful. They suggested that Agastya approach Illwal, who, by all accounts, was the richest chap around. I mean, he was the only king who had the means to buy a cot for you know what. I think deep down in their hearts, these balanced budget kings wanted to put Illwal in his place and were hoping to use Agastya for that ultimate purpose. So, as I said, the fact that Agastya landed up in Illwal’s palace was no coincidence. And what I did not inform you earlier, Illwal was so scared after Agastya’s stormy performance that he gave him all the stuff he needed to keep humanity growing.

What beats my imagination though is why Monsignor Agastya had to perform the diverse set of miracles to fetch a princely bed for Lopamudra. If he could digest Bataapi and convert him into thin air, he should surely have possessed the ability to manufacture a miserable bed out of the same thin air. But then, that’s the way Vyas wanted his characters to behave.

Does this story have moral though? I am afraid that it does and it applies to you my son. If you ever come across an apparition bearing the slightest resemblance to your father, hanging upside down, batman-style, in a poorly lit cave in your neighbourhood, you are well advised not to treat it as an optical illusion. Oh yes, I am fully aware that you live in the US. That unlike the renowned profs of Indian mythology, who were congenitally inclined to loiter about aimlessly in wooded hills and dales in search of convenient locations for launching Hubble telescopes in search of truant Gods and Goddesses, you teach in centrally heated, brightly lit classrooms to gum chewing, jeans clad kids with their legs stretched atop the nearest table or chair. Nonetheless, you are well advised to keep your eyes open, especially for cavernous confines, where a forefather or two, living or dead, might be lurking, in the aforementioned gymnastic state. Never neglect these hoary old acrobats, for they are doubtlessly trying to communicate with you, somewhat in the manner of Hamlet’s father’s spirit, when things were rotting in the state of Denmark.

Tons of love.

Baba

September 27, 2011 – 2:46 pm Categories: Humour - Satire | Post a comment

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Metamorphosis a la Vyasdeva

My dear Srinivasan:

I waste a lot of time in idle thinking as you know. Especially about things that never happened. Yet, they could have happened all the same. The subject in question today refers to a somewhat mind boggling tale, picked up from the Anushasana Parva in the Mahabharata. It was Grandpa Vishma apparently who related the story to Yudhishthira.

There was a pious King called Vangasvana. He was childless and performed the Agnishtuta Yajna to please God Agni and the latter, having been amply appeased, granted not one, not two, not even three, but a hundred sons (mind you, no daughters) to the Rajarshi.

Now, it so happened that the Yajna in question was directed towards satisfying Lord Agni alone. And this fact pissed off no less a God than Indra himself. He was mad as hell. (See how mean and envious these Gods were? Always counting curses! So, to take it out on poor Vangasvana, he created a magic spell and made the chap lose his way. He was tired as hell and landed near a lake. He made his thirsty horse drink the water and took a plunge into the lake to cool himself off.

Wonder of wonders, he emerged from the lake changed into a female!! A result of Indra’s trick of course. According to the Mahabharata, her (his?) shame knew no bound, as would obviously be the case for any woman who finds herself in a state of total undress in the middle of nowhere in full view of no less a witness than a horse! Nonetheless, she returned back to the Palace. (Now don’t you get ideas. She found clothes to wear before she undertook her journey to the Palace. Women’s clothes I mean. Where did she find the stated clothes? I don’t know. Why can’t you stop asking silly questions man? They make me lose my concentration.) No one recognized him there of course, given that it was her they saw and not him, but they believed the story. Especially so since the once upon a time “he” announced that he was abdicating the throne, which the now transformed “she” had no bloody right to abdicate. But then, there were no lawyers around to point out the legal complications. She asked all his one hundred sons to rule in tandem. (I wonder how simple the latter act would be though. The UPA Government at Delhi has fewer than ten parties to share the throne amongst themselves and look what they are doing to one another with each passing day!!)

The sexually transformed Vangasvana disappeared thereafter inside the depth of a forest where a willing hermit was waiting in horny anticipation. They started to live together. (Nowadays, the forests are inhabited by the Maoists alone and I don’t know what could have happened if she turned into a Maoist. She could cause a worry or two for politicians in Delhi and West Bengal.

The hermit and VT (Vangasvana Transformed) began to live together. But living together usually involves a corollary. Sleeping together. The corollary it seems worked with a vengeance, for soon enough the voluptuous VT conceived. And, as was V’s wont, VT too produced exactly one hundred sons. (Sons again, no daughters. What an MCP world! Makes me sick.)

Well VT goes back now to her first litter of a hundred sons (Confusion again, her or his litter?) and tells them that the empire needs to be shared between all the two hundred kids!! (The lawyers are yelling and screaming now, I am sure.) More fragmentation. Which would probably have meant that each son ruled there onwards over a square inch of land. (But then this is India. Population over a billion. They were a mere two hundred, yet the signal was clear.) I think the children were somewhat dim-witted and failed to see the absurdity of the situation.

Trouble started needless to say. Not on account of the sons, for, as I said, they were not particularly well-endowed with grey cells. Actually, the same old Indra threw up a tantrum, lamenting to himself that in trying to get V into trouble, he had ended up making him happier. Quite clearly, the sons were living in peace and harmony, despite the number of kings in the kingdom exceeding the number of subjects.

Indra the vicious, now posed as a Brahmin (I know not why a Brahmin was called for by the way) and approached the sons. He poisoned the minds of the first hundred with the following piece of undeniable logic: “You are the sons of the erstwhile King. The newcomers are the fruits of a hermit’s loins. How can they lay claim to the throne?” (Or thrones may be. I am highly confused now, as you can guess.) How mean indeed. Especially so since I in the shape of a B (I mean I as in Indra, not as in “me” by the way) refrained from pointing out that half of them had sprung out of V’s sperms and the second out of VT’s ova!! Unless of course, he was himself an MC and thought sperms, like Brahmins, had a higher position in the social ladder than ova! (Idea, idea! What is a Brahmin? A Brahmin is just an MCS, a male chauvinist sperm!!)

No sooner was this said than the first batch took up arms against the second and destroyed one another. I mean all of them ceased to exist. The news reached VT, who wept an ocean of tears. I (not “me” recall) to save himself from being drowned, decided instead to soften his heart. Or, may be, drenched in saline water, his heart turned mushy.

Whatever the cause may have been, he rushed back to VT and told her (him? — so confusing man!) the reason underlying the miseries she was undergoing. VT immediately prostrated herself (?) at I’s feet asking for forgiveness. (He was clearly in trouble. If she went on crying, he would need to board Noah’s ark!) Her crime of course was that he had ignored the jealous God without meaning to. I, it appears, was not hard to please. No wonder. He was on the point of being drowned. He grinned happily, splitting his face neatly into two halves, equal to one another in all respects (as Euclid might have observed).

And now of course, he had to offer a boon or two. “I will grant you a wish?” he said, or the two halves of his face said, inspiring more fear I suspect (I = “me” this time) than relief in the heart of the damsel in distress. At the cost of repetition, it was the damsel who was in distress (not to speak of I too of course, not me this time), but not the king on horseback who had lost his way. There was a caveat though. “I will bring your sons back to life, but not all of them. Which ones do you wish to come alive, the sperm-wallas or the ovum-wallas?”

And you know what she replied? She said she wanted the ovum-wallas. I was puzzled as well as curious. “But why so,” he asked.

VT replied, “Dear Lord, women know how to love more than men. So, the love I showered on my ova generated sons was greater than the love I was able to spare the sperm chaps, especially when I was busy producing the sperms that fathered them.”

It seems Indra was delighted by the answer. (What was so delightful about it, I don’t know. This I chap seems to me to be pretty close to being mindless. But, may be, in the old days people enjoyed laughing a lot more than we do. As civilization progresses, frowns are overtaking smiles at an ever increasing rate. Curse counting is one of the most popular of pastimes in modern societies. Even Durbasa had probably giggled every now and then. I mean, I suspect so. I as in “me” this time by the way. I know this, because I cry most of the time, unless someone begins to tickle me. And then I can’t stop laughing. Lack of balance surely.) Coming back to the story, I brought all the two hundred alive. (I mean not I as in I, but as in … Come on chap. Why do you make me repeat? What a bore you are! Will you please let me finish the story before I forget it?) In instilling life into all the two hundred, the God I was offering a discount no doubt to ensure that people visited his temple more often. (We don’t know, by the way, if the sons immediately started killing each other again.)

Fret not my friend, I am almost near the end of my story. I (the other I of course) now asked VT, “Pray, tell me what your heart craves for. Your former sperm generating self or the current ovum filled existence?”

VT replied without the slightest hesitation that she wished to continue as VT and had no desire at all to be re-transformed into V.

Once again, I, full of inquisitiveness (too nosey don’t you think), wished her to explain her choice.

The answer was: “As far as conjugal satisfaction goes, it’s the woman who enjoys the act more than the man. So, I (i.e. VT) want to continue to be a woman.”

“Tathastu,” said the God incredulously and vanished. (Whether he transformed himself to a woman to test things out, no one has found out so far.)

That’s the end of the story.

But I have a question for Vyas though. And surely you don’t know the answer to this question. I wouldn’t have known even the question had I not been an economist. You see, economists make a lot of fuss over whether satisfaction is comparable. I mean, if you and I were to eat a mango each and declare that we both liked our mangoes, who on earth can decide which one amongst us

liked it more? Did you like your mango twice as much as I? Utility is not cardinal these theorists argue. You can’t compare two persons’ utilities. So, how seriously should VT’s preference for “sleeping” in the shape of a female rather than a male be taken?

On the other hand, come to think of it, may be she did have a point. After all it was the same person (?) who had enjoyed both ways of love making. And while Indra had changed her sex, he may have kept the part of the mind that registers sexual enjoyment unaltered!.

Garrulously yours,

I = ME

September 27, 2011 – 11:47 am Categories: Humour - Satire | Post a comment

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Ardhanarisvara — A Mobile Fantasy

Note: For the purpose of this composition, I have taken the liberty of borrowing the names of two of my closest friends. The first is Cheeniya (an affectionate form of Srinivasan) who lives in Chennai. The second is Kamal, who lives in Jaipur.
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It was around 8 PM in the evening I think when I tiptoed into the bedroom and sat quietly on the bed next to my wife. She was half reclining on pillows watching a movie on the TV. I didn’t wish to make a noisy entry, because she loves her movies and doesn’t want to be disturbed when she digests her staple diet. She didn’t notice me more than she notices a piece of furniture that’s long ceased to be functional, but cannot be disposed of in the absence of a willing buyer. It can be gifted away free of charge of course, but I do not know if she has begun entertaining such thoughts yet.

So, as I said, we sat next to one another, an idyllic picture of peaceful coexistence. She watching the TV and I striking a pose which, even if it reminds you of your grandfather’s termite ridden book-shelf, I would like to compare with Rodin’s Thinker. 

I don’t know if Rodin’s Thinker had ever had an opportunity to actually engage himself in thinking. But be assured that this was not the case with me. I was waiting in suspended animation for the inevitable commercial break. Finally, like all honest prayers, mine was answered, as a set of comely young women showed up on the screen, dying to kiss to death a man, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs and a perfume which apparently opened for him the door to the women’s restroom. I have no idea what the connection was between the briefs, the perfume, the women and the restroom. But I had better things to occupy myself with because I saw that my opportunity had finally arrived. I cleared my throat to attract attention. Not of the comely women on TV, but of the single one sitting outside the TV set, in my uneneviable company.

She reacted with a start, as any human would I suppose to hear a table or a book-shelf clear its throat.

“What are you up to?” she asked suspiciously. “You gave me a scare.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to. I have been sitting here for the last fifteen minutes … without startling you.”

“But you just did,” she said. You made an odd noise that reminded me of Hamlet’s father.”

Dear Reader, you have three choices now to visualize me. As a bookshelf, as Hamlet’s father and as Rodin’s Thinker. It’s the availability of choice that economists say improves the state of the society. But I am digressing. Let me go back to my wife’s remark, one that I bore with a patient shrug as Shylock might have observed. Unlike Shylock, however, my shrug didn’t belong to the unaccustomed category. Yet, I shurgged her remark off, because I had an ulterior motive that called for the wife’s help. I waited for a long moment as she went back to absorbing the advertisements in silent mode and then said as obsequiously as possible, “I need your help …,” my voice trailing off.

“Look, I am watching my favourite movie now. I can’t leave it to make you an omlette. Why are you such a glutton? You behave like those kids in Tom Brown’s School Days.”

“Oh no, don’t worry,” I interjected. “You can help me sitting where you are. There is very little exertion involved in this.”

“Well, what is it?” she asked somewhat sceptically. “Tell me quickly, the ad will soon be over.

“Will you please make me a phone call? I mean from your phone to mine? You don’t have to labour at all. I will dial my number on your phone for you and wait here to take the call on my phone,” I tried to sound as casual as possible.

She sat up straight now and stared at me in total disbelief. “I knew you were crazy, but since when did you turn into a stark lunatic?”

Actually, I don’t think I had lost my sanity. Being a computer buff, I was simply trying to test if my newly purchased bluetooth earphone was correctly paired to one of my many mobile phones. I had just finished pairing them sitting in my study and now I needed someone to call me up. So, I had travelled all the way from my study to the bedroom, somewhat in the manner of Hiuen Tsang in search of knowledge. And now, after reaching my destination, I was paying obeisance to my wife prior to asking her for a boon. The way you deal with the gods and goddesses you know.

But the goddess was not exactly in a mood to oblige. Instead she had expressed concern over the state of my mind. To make things clearer therefore I turned the other side of my face towards her to reveal the bluetooth earphone adorning my right ear. She was shell-schoked now and moved several inches away from me. the way normal persons avoid the psychologically violent. 

“Since when have you developed hearing problems? How come you never told me?” she was now almost accusing.

“I haven’t developed a hearing problem,” I tried to explain.

“Then why are you wearing a hearing aid? People without hearing problems don’t wear hearing aids, do they?”

“No they don’t,” said I. “Nor am I wearing a hearing aid, at least not the sort of hearing aid you have in mind. This is simply a bluetooth earphone …”

“What!” she exclaimed. “You are using a hearing device to cure a dental problem? You are not only mad, you are stupid and exasperating too. Haven’t you bothered me enough ever since that fateful night …”

I knew what was coming. So, I quickly intervened. “Trust me for once please.”

“No, I won’t. You are upto some mischief I am sure. Let me watch my movie in peace and why don’t you vanish into your lair and leave me alone.” With this ultimatum, she un-muted the TV and concentrated back on the movie. I in turn transformed back to The Thinker (or your grandpa’s bookshelf, if this latter personification appeals more to you) and began to wait in patience for the next break. During this interval, I admit that I ruminated over the total non-cooperation that woman-kind is capable of, or at least a section of it, whenever technology rears its head. On the other hand, I could not see that I had much of an alternative but to keep hoping that she would finally concede.

At the next break, I brought up the issue once more. “Will you please call me? I am dialling the number, so you really don’t have to do anything at all …”

“If I don’t have to do anything at all then what on earth are you bothering me about? I am sure you have something up your sleeve that will create chaos.”

“Well you do need to do something … but no real exertion is required for this … when my phone rings and I respond, you need to say ‘hello’ … that’s all you see! Easy, right.” She heard me without any trace of confidence on her face. But I struggled on. “That’s all you know. If I hear your ‘hello’ through my earphone then I should be satisfied that my mobile phone is correctly paired with my earphone.” I explained as well as I could. But she still looked unnerved.

“I have never heard of anything more ridiculous … speaking over the phone to someone who is located less than two feet away. This was not the purpose for which a phone was invented, do you realize that?”

“I do, I do. But this is just an experiment. If I can hear your voice through my earphone, then my love’s labour was not lost. It means I can then hear you from anywhere in the world.”

“Why can’t you call Cheeniya?” she asked gloomily. “Your great buddy should be willing to oblige you, or won’t he?”

“I am not sure. I had sent an sms to Cheeniya a few days ago asking him if I could call him and he didn’t reply. Probably his number has changed. He may have found other friends too and forgotten me.” I said this last bit with a trace of a sigh, this time conjuring up the Hamlet’s father image.

She almost giggled to hear this, I mean as much of a giggle as she is capable of producing, given that, like me, she is on the wrong side of the age that matters. “Oh, he didn’t reply did he? Good for you. See, people want to keep a safe distance from you even when they are a thousand miles away. No wonder. Try Kamal then.”

“No hope there. He is busy building a house for his bhavi. He could also be enjoying his whisky now. He is too intoxicated at the moment to follow anything I say. Why don’t you please help?” I was ready to prostrate before her now. But the ad was over once again and I metamorphosed back to the cupboard no one had any use for. Or that Thinker, if this helps you visualize. And waited again, patiently, as patiently in fact as most cupboards are used to waiting. And then, Vetal-Pratapaditya style, conversation resumed after a while.

I had no perfume on me, like that briefs clad much kissed young man, so instead of my wife chasing me, I had to chase her. I didn’t wait this time for a conversation. I simply dialed my number on her phone and passed it on to her. My phone began to ring and I quickly swithched on the bluetooth earphone. But the ringing phone did not stop ringing. I turned off the earphone and turned it on again as swiftly and as many times as I could. Without any result at all. My phone refused to budge. It kept on ringing with the dogged determination of sirens before air raids.

As I was desperately trying to make my phone stop misbehaving, I suddenly became aware that my wife was actually speaking through her phone. She was singing, “Hello … hello … hello …” into her phone with a gay abandon, reminding me of recurring decimals at school. Not a single one of those hellos was travelling down to my phone. I was hearing her as I would have heard her before phones were invented, or perhaps even before mankind had learnt the use of fire. By this time I had lost my patience altogether, forgetting my cupboard status I suppose. Of course, I was impatient with the phone, not with my wife. Unfortunately though, much in the fashion of a trasferred epithet, I directed the impatience to my wife. I began to yell at her, far too loudly for cupboards,. “Will you please stop hello-ing? I requested you for a single hello, just one you know, not a river bank breaching flood of them!”

She had every reason now to turn off her phone and refuse to converse with me any further, neither through a phone nor without the aid of one. I tried to coax and cajole. I tried to request her to understand my situation. The only thing she had to say was, “Call Cheeniya! And if he refuses, call yourself!”

I resumed now my Rodin pose again and began accessing my grey cells. And soon enough an idea struck me. I broke out of my petrified state and turned thoroughly dynamic, performing what I thought was a cha-cha but ended up with something precariously close to Atal Vihari Bajpayee’s walk exercise after his knees were replaced. Then, much to her astonishment, I patted my wife on her back and exited the bedroom, like Hiuen Tsang on his return journey to China.

The ultimate truth had dawned on me, thanks to my wife’s remark. I remembered that I had two ears and not one and both were in well-serviced condition. Back in my study, I called my mobile number from our landline, holding the handset against my left ear, while keeping my right ear firmly glued to the earphone. As soon as my mobile began to ring, I switched on the headphone and, yes God is kind, the mobile stopped ringing this time. I could see a clear signal on its screen that it was now bluetooth connected.

I whispered in my sweetest possible tone, “Hello …,” speaking into the land phone, attached to the left ear if you remember. And the earphone did definitely transmit this sweet nothing emerging out of the left half of my lips into my right ear.

To make sure that the right half of my face didn’t get to see the caller, I even put up my free right palm in front of my nose, thereby denying each half of my face the freedom to keep track of the other. The way a scientificlly minded Neanderthal man might have avoided experimental errors.  

“Hello,” I replied through the right half of my lips, in a lovelorn voice. “Where have you been so long dear?” I even added for the sake of variety.

“I was sitting right next to you dearie. Only you didn’t notice me,” left complained to right.

“Oh come on,” right said to left, “don’t be naughty. You think I was not watching. You were trying to woo that TV watching woman forgetting all about me. That is why I kept quiet. If you do that again, I’ll leave you for sure.”

“Please, no!” left said to right in alarm. “You are truly my best half. If your half leaves me, how will my part of the half survive?” At this point, the right palm had left its wall like post in nervousness and frantically signalling a “PLEASE NO” to whoever was interested in its entrea.

“It will, it will. Or else why should they have invented an Ardhanareesvara? I think that’s exactly what you were doing in the bedroom. Trying to turn yourself into an Ardhanarisvara. Only the “nari” didn’t comply. Rightly served. Anyway, I am calling off now. But I shall keep a watch over you. Be careful.”

I switched off the earphone at this point and sat staring at my new acquisition. Full of admiration of course. And then, mustering up all the courage I possessed, I called my wife’s number from my study, remembering to keep the bluetooth turned on. Soon enough, she answered the phone and I heard her “hello” loud and clear on my earphone. Not the recurring decimal anymore. I hello-ed back and quickly turned off the earphone.

If she thought that was a call from Hamlet’s father, she has not revealed her mind to me so far.

Ardhanarisvara from Karnataka

 

 

 

September 27, 2011 – 10:58 am Categories: Humour - Satire | Post a comment

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Three Haikus

Crickets

A desolate street –
Thronging the chirping crickets
In shower washed trees

 

Comfort

Sitting in comfort
A baby fungus enjoys
Music of the stream –

 

Walking

Did they leave too soon,
Or, are they yet to arrive?
Pondered I, walking –

 

 

August 30, 2011 – 3:33 am Categories: Poetry | Comments (6)

Lost – A Haiku

 

 

Lost beyond the bend,
Deserted memory lane –
Sighing summer breeze

August 25, 2011 – 9:58 pm Categories: Poetry | Comments (2)

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Niagara Night — A Haiku

 

How inane it is
To paint up Niagara
When silver moon smiles!

 

Photo: Rakhi Purnima at Niagara, August 13, 2010

August 16, 2011 – 4:08 am Categories: Poetry | Post a comment

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When it Began to Rain

Picture of Shiuli Flower

 

It’s begun to rain deep inside me, my boat has lost its keel
To quit the shore in search of the shoreless, I have no means I feel
At hand, perhaps, I had them before the showers had arrived
Severe palsy’s afflicted me, could this be what’s revived
Memories of a deserted house? Of days infused with dreams?
Severe palsy’s afflicted me, severe palsy it seems.

All alone towards the courtyard, as soon as the rains began
Hoping I might sight your there, in my haste I ran
Perchance amidst the clouds and the rains, or under the Shiuli trees
With sky strained waters, drenching lush hairs, reaching down to your knees
But you are nowhere in the open, clouds’ve gathered inside
Deep down inside me, the rains are falling far and wide.

 

Translation of a Bengali poem by Shakti Chattopadhyay. The Bengali title of the poem was “jokhon brishti namlo”. Shiuli is the name of a flower found commonly in Bengal. The flower is deeply rooted in Bengali culture. In particular, it is a flower that has found great favour with poets.

July 9, 2011 – 5:48 am Categories: Poetry | Comments (2)

I, Ghost

Amongst the many deep, dark questions I have been assailed by through the years, there is none that disturbed me more than the one concerning supernatural creatures. Yes, you have guessed it correctly. I am indeed referring to ghosts. And the question in question is: Do they really exist? I have to admit that I am still searching for an answer, which means, amongst other things, that I often find myself in uncomfortable situations. Such as wondering whether the person sitting next to me in a theatre, say, is a … you know what I mean, don’t you?

Being fair minded though, I allow my neighbour the same right that I exercise. So, when the person glares back at me with misgivings in response to my repeated furtive glances, I respond with profound humility. In fact, I am even tempted to embark upon a conversation with such people on the subject of our mutual mistrusts, simply to assure him or her that I am as much uncertain of my own true identity as I am of others’. To be precise, I am willing to admit without any hesitation whatsoever, that I could well be a ghost posing as a living being, which, needless to say, leaves enough room for the reverse possibility too. The former option, however, sounds more convincing, since ghosts are known to be particularly well-endowed with abilities to transform their shapes whenever they will, except of course for the fact that I am not exactly sure if I myself am one such spirit engaged in the bizarre gimmick.

The only reason I desist from engaging people in such profound discussions is that I am almost certain that it would precipitate undesirable consequences. Understandably enough, ghost or no, I hate being the centre of attraction, be it in praise or revulsion. Normally, Lady Luck has favoured me with all the bounty at her disposal. Even if people doubted what I really was, just as I kept doubting all the time what they were, they remained poker faced, holding their cards pretty close to their chests.

Meanwhile, the river of my life, or after life for all I know, flowed placidly. No storm, not even a ripple, till of course the fateful day when Yamini arrived.

Yamini was a stenographer. Do you know what a stenographer is? She is someone who takes dictations from dictators who are too arthritic to write or type with their own fingers and occupy enormous chambers allotted to them in recognition of their disability. Medical records confirmed that the uric acid in my blood stream had reached alarming levels and facilitated thereby my entry into the aforementioned chamber, the enormous one, in case you have lost track. I moved into my newly decorated office, consisting of an outsized desk, five empty filing cabinets, six bookshelves full of dust but empty of books, I being as uninterested in them as the three geckos who shared the room with me. There was a room-heater of course to keep me warm when I dozed off on winter afternoons. Soon, like all high officials occupying enormous c’s with attached wc’s, I fell in love with my well-appointed facilities. And Yamini, whom I hope you haven’t forgotten on account of my garrulity induced distraction, was asked to submit to my dictates along with those of others elevated to my rank.

Since the nature of my work was not clearly defined, they adorned me with a designation, somewhat in the spirit of a Minister without portfolio, a recognition granted to prevent party MP’s from bickering. In my case, they worked out a rather pompous title. I forget though what exactly it was, because it was long and convoluted, apart from containing difficult words. As far as I can reconstruct from my rapidly decaying memory, the position I held sounded somewhat as follows: “Crisis Coordinator for Devastating Predicaments in the Absence of Emergencies of any Variety At All”. Long, as I said. Even the acronym CCDPAEVAA is a strain on one’s memory. I will refer to it therefore simply as cc. If nothing else, it rhymes well with the ec and wc that went with it.

I spent most of my time in my ec staring out of the window at a tree, watching multi-coloured butterflies flutter in and out. And when that bored me to death, I started dreaming, but sometimes screaming too, as I gave out orders to less big officials when the less big officials were themselves dreaming. And the lesser ones in turn did the same to even lesser ones. This is the way the office worked, right down to the least big of officials, i.e. the doorkeeper. Everyone kept himself or herself busy either dreaming or screaming. But the poor stenographers, whom no one recognized as either big or small, remained in a state of limbo so to speak, running from office to office, scribbling down whatever got dictated, or sometimes just sitting in front of the bosses when they fell asleep.

I soon realised that one of my unwritten duties was to keep Yamini, the little stenographer, running in and out of my ec. The thin, emaciated girl with large timid eyes would rush in pencil and pad in her fragile hands, ready to take a dictation. But, I would normally forget what I wanted to dictate! Which was embarrassing for me, being a cc and all you know. I would start out with something like, “OK Yamini, take a dictation.” “Yes sir,” she would whisper reverentially, her fingers ready to fly across her notebook. And we would be in that situation for the next several minutes without one more word being spoken. With the discomfiture mounting by the seconds, I would try to salvage little bits of my dignity by starting to rock in my chair, pretending to be deeply immersed in thought. And she watched me rock, sitting rock still herself, pencil poised, in stunned silence.

After a while, I would suddenly blurt out, “Dear Mr. Jhunjhunwala, How much longer do you think you will take to realise that the half-bricks you supplied us are turning out to be utterly useless to keep monkeys away from our premises. Please be advised that our aim being atrocious, the bricks we throw usually land in neighbouring buildings, destroying glass panes and sometimes hitting people instead of the monkeys. They have now gone to court against us and we have to prove that you never supplied us any bricks at all. Don’t send us bricks any more please. Besides, do try and appreciate that all my colleagues are descended from monkeys anyway. I, being their cc, am not allowed to throw bricks at them either.”

Having proceeded this far, I would start feeling rather important and satisfied that the job was on its way towards completion. I would pause and look forward to further inspiration to complete my letter. Usually, this led to more chair rocking and Yamini would start waiting patiently once more, her eyes riveted on her notebook. Emphasis on notebook, mind you.

On one occasion however, I rocked somewhat more violently than usual, thereby disturbing the centre of gravity of the total mass comprised of the chair and its occupant. As a result, the steel chair suddenly gave way and before I knew what was happening, I found myself sitting on the floor right next to the seat of the chair, which lay detached from its legs! The incident occurred in a split second. There was associated sound and fury of course, but by the time Yamini raised her eyes from her notebook to check out the source of the noise, I had already succumbed to gravitational pull. Needless to say, she was totally taken aback. For, she discovered that the cc, who was sitting on the other side of the desk only a while ago, had simply ceased to exist! Remember now that the desk was monumental and I was sitting on the floor, completely hidden from her sight.

Well I wasn’t exactly silent either. I was simultaneously cursing Godrej or whoever it was that had designed the chairs and uttering my ooh’s and aah’s as I nursed my posterior, which was the hardest hit area of my remains. These noises, on top of my complete disappearance, did not make a favourable impact on Yamini. Like me, she too must have entertained doubts about the real identity of the people she came across in her everyday travails. It would seem that she did not quite associate the moans with my vocal chords and there being no living animal visible in the room, except for the three geckos, not to lose track of details, she concluded that the supernatural had invaded. Whereupon she backed up her discovery by loud, piercing shrieks. There was nothing but alarm in her voice as she sat petrified in her chair, pouring out her agony in clear D-sharp scale, with an intensity that would amaze even Parveen Sultana. The day had been cloudy and it was somewhat late in the afternoon. The dusk had arrived early therefore, adding the necessary finishing touches to the atmosphere.

Soon enough, the entire office had assembled in my ec. Fortunately, they discovered me, but hesitated for a while to help me rise to my feet, being taken in by Yamini’s yelling. By this time, I too had regained enough of my composure to make out the only word Yamini appeared to have left in her vocabulary. And that word was “Ghooooooooooooost”, loud and clear. She repeated it in a variety of notes of course, with a twist here and a turn there, but the solitary word remained unchanged. Good singing it was, but a bit monotonous, lyric wise I mean. The assembly debated for a while on who needed more help at that moment of time. It was Yamini who won their sympathy, because by this time she had actually fainted and definitely needed to be carried out of the room in a make shift stretcher. They called in a doctor too as I was given to understand later on, who advised her a month’s rest to recover from her shock.

I found out in the meantime that quite apart from my posterior having sustained injuries, there was a little lump in the middle of my head, arising no doubt from a collision with the wall behind my chair. So, as I caressed my bottom with my left hand and my head with the right, an intrepid colleague actually helped his cc limp into his private wc and apply a towel soaked in cold water to the lump on his head.
When faced with tricky situations, ghosts normally dissolve into empty space. From the looks I received for weeks thereafter, I was sanguine that I had failed to live up to the reputation I had acquired following the Yamini incident. The lump on my head remained stubbornly in place for a few more days and the pain in my bottom too persisted, the way it does for most people beyond their prime.

But it was Yamini who did manage to disappear. She failed to join office after her leave expired. Some say she sought transfer to a branch the office had in Coimbatore. Upon inquiries though, I discovered that the branch had long gone out of existence. Yamini, it would appear, had branded me a ghost only to melt away herself. Like “a cake of ice on a hot July day”.

And that, dear friends, completes the circle, bringing us back to the vacuous inquiry we embarked upon. Who’s who indeed in this wide, wide world?

June 6, 2011 – 1:15 pm Categories: Humour - Satire | Comments (2)

To Puff or Not to Puff, That is the Question

Romantically inclined though I am, there are a thing or two I would never share with anyone in the universe. Leave alone with women. I don’t mean our respective beds of course. But there are boundaries I will not cross. For example, I absolutely refuse to brush my teeth with a pretty woman’s used tooth brush.

Nor would I offer mine to aid her. Now, don’t get me wrong dear. I am no stingy old Shylock. I recall, not without a touch of belated regret I admit, that I gifted an expensive collection of Rembrandt reproductions to an American girl I was dating in my youth. It was so expensive that the girl’s mother began to worry. They were Jewish and she even suggested that I convert to Judaism. I beat a hasty retreat of course and reliable sources in Israel inform me that a great grandmother had left it as a gift for the generations that followed, with a Wodehouse like cryptic inscription on the front page — ‘it might have been’.

Such were the thoughts that assailed my mind as I sat in a TV studio the other evening, waiting to be questioned on my perception of the direction towards which our much advertised economy was headed.

Now, now, don’t get me wrong. Chances are less than one in a trillion that you’ll get to watch me on TV. But once in a blue moon, they do ask me to show up and pontificate on matters of social relevance. Especially so, when the rest of the local economists are too busy helping the economy caught in a quicksand. Some of these TV guys remember me as a relatively unemployed economist and drag me to their studios to seat me in front of two objects, a camera and a monitor. The camera watches me and beams its perceptions into the monitor. In other words, the camera and I watch myself simultaneously, and believe me chaps, for someone who’s used to hip wriggling Aishwariya Rai-s on TV, watching himself in action, or even inaction, can cause acute pain. Hard realization dawns on you, as it did on the dwarf in the ‘Birthday of the Infanta’, when he saw himself through the princess’ eyes. According to Oscar Wilde, it broke his heart!

The TV chaps are aware of this tragedy I am sure and they try to treat me with as much kindness as they can afford. So, they initiate the proceedings with toiletry, engaging a young girl to apply a magic ointment on my skin, thereby producing an illusion that would deceive the smartest of sleuths from Scotland Yard. Or, hopefully so. As a preamble, she dusts my face with a miniature broomstick and then follows up with other artefacts connected to the art of making up a face. The treatment varies from station to station, but they all end up with a veneer of coloured powder applied with supreme care to every part of my countenance, including, as you might suspect, the top of my head, bereft as it is of vegetation except of the most scraggy kind.

Innocuous enough, you might tend to observe. Behind this facade of innocence though, lurks unsuspected shocks, as I discovered on the aforementioned occasion. It was a shock indeed, for I had no premonition at all of what awaited me as I whistled a light hearted tune standing alone in the elevator on my peaceful way up to the studio floor. As soon as I emerged though, I found to my disappointment that the nimble fingers of the make-up artist were already occupied with the face of an eminent politician, called upon to share the floor with me.

Like mine, his head too did not have too much to boast for itself. But unlike my pate, as I noticed with a feeling bordering on awe and marvel, a profusion of sweat beads shone on his, like the diamonds and rubies that are believed to have glittered on the walls of Sheesh-Mahal, as Anarkali faced a wrathful Emperor Akbar. He had collected these, no doubt, immediately prior to his arrival in the studio while delivering a thunderous speech in some public podium or the other. The girl of course was unaware of the resemblance and used a powder-puff to wipe off the sweat from the guy’s head prior to applying the powder itself. She wiped it dry, thoroughly so mind you, and then leaving this gentleman amply satisfied, she approached me, to my horror and dismay, with intentions that did not appear to me to be too alluring. The same brush, the same mirror, the same comb, the same everything. And, in particular, the same powder-puff, all in battle ready condition, to create illusions in the public mind that I was not who I always thought I was.

I watched her warily as she removed my glasses to apply the broom, or the brush, depending on the way you look at it. And once the intermediate steps were over, she produced the sweat soaked puff, which I was apprehending she would, to wipe my face with infinite tenderness. My first impulse was to run for my life, but the girl’s hypnotic charm held me paralysed, given my admitted weakness towards fair sex. I sat there as immobile therefore as ‘The Thinker’ of Rodin fame, deeply ruminating over the physiology of sweat glands.

And I have continued in that condition till this day, asking myself repeatedly where wisdom dictates the drawing of the line. Frankly, I am caught on the horns of a dilemma. Would I have felt disturbed if the puff had explored a fascinating Waheeda physiognomy, instead of the one it slithered over, prior to its landing on mine? I mean, you know what I mean don’t you, would Waheeda’s sweat-soaked powder-puff count the same way in my list of untouchables as her used tooth-brush? Frankly, I am not too sure.

But I am certain that I don’t want to take chances anymore. If they ever drag me over to a studio, I think I will carry my own powder-puff. My only fear though is that the girl in charge may not take too kindly to a man who carries a powder-puff in his pocket. Of course, given that I have lived through more summers than I can remember, she may not really care.

And you know what? I just received a phone call from one of those stations for an interview tonight. Oh s***! I don’t even know where they sell this puff stuff!

June 6, 2011 – 1:08 pm Categories: Ramblings | Post a comment

A Rambler in the Loo

Takamatsu
Japan
Somewhere in time

Dear Son:

Ever since I reported to you my fateful experience in a Japanese restroom, I have tried my level best to stay clear of any discussion pertaining to that subject. But, as you get older, your resolves start wavering. And then, before you know it, you are back to your infatuation, driving people nuts in the process!

So, here I am, ready to pour out profanities once more. My only defence is that it was you who inspired me this time, by lamenting over the condition of public loos in India. You touched a sensitive chord in me, my son, and there is no way you can stop the tirade anymore, short of committing patricide.

Ah! What a pleasure it is to pontificate on the subject! And what better place to expound on it, except the loo itself? Rather curious this, you know, the Japanese john. The seats are dotted with little light sources, flickering in green, red and orange! And push button switches stare at you tantalizingly when you are at the job. Yet, the explanations written underneath the switches being in Japanese, you feel wary before succumbing to the weakness of pushing one or the other. Hopefully, you might think, the arrangements reflect Japan’s progress in the technology of defecation. But, I must remind you of the immortal scene from Chaplin’s Modern Times, where they had discovered a feeding machine to cut down on workers’ lunch breaks in factories. You cannot help worrying you know. Is this a contraption to make you stop loitering in lavatories? If so, who knows what the push of an innocuous button might lead to? A kick in the bare bottom perhaps? Worse still, suppose it were to activate a centripetal force designed to drag out the contents of your sluggish bowels and, that due to some malfunctioning or the other, it pulled you in instead, lock, stock and barrel! Spending the rest of your life in Japanese sewers is not an appealing prospect, you have got to admit. Pretty close to Dante’s trip through Hell. Even a vague familiarity with the classic would have a sobering influence on ordinary mortals, and prompt them to hold their hands stiffly behind their heads while seated on the suspicious machines.

Well, that at least was the way I was using the toilets till recently. Behind the closed door, I would start out by making apologetic gestures to the bowl itself, resembling Chaplin again in his efforts to appease the boxing rival in City Lights. I dare not sit down before I thought it was adequately propitiated. And even after I succeeded in executing the act of sitting, I remained in terrified agony till I was done. All my mirth gone! No impromptu bathroom singing stirring up my vocal strings! If you were to peep in, my posture might conjure up visions of a bank hold up.

Ever since the Garden of Eden days, however, the strongest of individuals have been seduced. A weakling such as I can hardly be an exception. So, one fateful day in late autumn, I fell! I yielded to the allurement of the all too inviting switches. And discovered the truth in Mephistopheles’ advice to Dr. Faust. Give in to your worst weaknesses, boy, and there follows rich enjoyment. Such indeed was my experience. For, lo and behold! A stream of warm water spouted forth from some region inside the bowl (that I was not acrobatic enough to locate, given the position in which I sat, and imagine the rest of humanity sits when it comes to rendezvous’ with toilet bowls), and began to … ahem! But imagine my surprise as well as glee!

Once you give way to greed, there’s no end to it, as Gautama Buddha would have us believe. So, I pushed yet another switch and almost screamed in delight. The tip of the spout had begun to move around! Gone were my stiffness and fear. Hands no longer behind the head.Bottom no longer petrified. It gyrated instead, in response to the music of the gushing H2O. Or, shall we say the Blue Danube?

Waltzing about the toilet seat reminds me of the great Tailangaswamy waltzing in the Ganges. He was a hermit who, instead of choosing the woods as his hideout, had decided to live in the rivers. Ganges mainly. Was an expert swimmer by all accounts, but had this habit of popping out of the water where least expected and scaring the bathers out of their wits. Partly because he never wore any clothes and insisted on delivering sermons in that state! It appears moreover, and do please forgive me if this spoils your lunch, that he could suck in the river water through his posterior and wash his intestines! In sterile scientific terminology, he had converted involuntary into voluntary muscles. Not a product of the market economy mind you. Pure yoga and that alone!

Amazing, isn’t it? A naked Indian sadhu, performing a trick that makes Japanese technology blush. Or, for that matter, the entire West. One feels proud of the Indian heritage. Unless of course, you stop to consider the other side of the coin. Swamy was polluting river water regularly as a by-product of his yoga stunts. Worse, he inspired all Indians in his vicinity, whether they possessed yogic skills or not, to pollute rivers with impunity, by merrily washing their asses in them. Which they had been doing in any case since the beginning of creation, or at least the birth of the Ganges.

Poor Ganges, enduring it all through the ages! Come to think of it, the blame lies squarely with Vishnu and Narada. In case you haven’t heard, the latter was a Tansen of sorts among the Hindu Gods. His renowned singing simply melted his listeners. Sometimes literally, as was the case with Vishnu, or at least one of his toes. It melted we are told, while its owner was too absorbed in Narada’s singing to notice, and metamorphosing into a gigantic mass of water, went on wandering hither and thither, like a lonely meteorite lost in outer space. Till, completely by chance, it entered the earth’s atmosphere and rushed downwards at ever increasing speed, presumably under the accelerating influence of gravity. No one was around to save you and me and Vishnu was himself too groggy to undo Newtonian laws, despite the fact that a miracle was in order. Sensing which, a team of weeping Gods ran to Mahadeva and pleaded with him to find a way out of the disaster. He was moved at the sight of the lamenting G’s, who, as far as I can make out, had too few miracles in their repertoires, to be able to solve the harder problems of universe on their own. Suggests a distributional inequality in divine society. Some Gods possessing better miracle kits than others. A bit unfair, you’ve got to admit.

M’deva of course was not stingy. Didn’t mind turning on a charm or two for a common cause. So, he came out of his lair and stood under the canopy of the blue sky like a veritable Atlas, waiting to keep back the irresponsible Vishnu’s liquefied toe from crushing down on earth. M’s head, with all his matted hair, was far bigger no doubt than the monstrous proportions of the molten toe. The miniature representations of M that you see in Indian homes are but caricatures of the real one. He has to reduce his size on occasions, to fit the imaginations of nubile Bengali girls, who, since time immemorial, have been taught to pray for husbands as qualified as a dwarfed Shiva. (Apparently, your mother too went through a lot of such rituals in her youth. The result, alas, was me!!) He was so big indeed that when he came out of his den, there was no place left for anyone else. Imagine how big his den was then. This now is a problem again. I seem to be caught between Scylla and Carbides. To save humanity from imminent destruction, M had to assume his full size, but this itself left no place for human beings either. My knowledge of mythology is too limited. So, I don’t know how the Hindus solved the puzzle. The scientifically minded might appeal to Einstein’s theory of an expanding universe. But the rest had better take recourse in nineteenth century romantic poetry, and agree to exercise a wilful suspension of disbelief. In other words, don’t be a bloody bore. Simply assume away the problem and proceed. Which I will.

Just when the holy T was about to submerge creation, M imposed a blockade. The water mass got completely trapped in his hair and could not find its way out. Everyone concerned heaved a sigh of relief and peace returned toearth. (I seem to recall that they plagiarized the idea of a large mass of water in one of Steve Reeves’ Superman films.)

Unfortunately, the poor kid was not allowed to remain concealed for too long. One King Bhagirath found out about her abode and began to grumble that civilization was on the verge of destruction, this time due to a shortage of water. No water to be found anywhere, except for that huge mass of untapped resource, tucked away in M’s hairy crest. By now, M had gone blue under the colossal weight on his head anyway. He must have been only too relieved therefore to unburden himself. Thus, the Ganges you and I know was eased out of Shiva’s head by Bhagirath and carefully guided through the drought-ridden plains of North India. Being a little pompous himself, the chap even called a part of the river Bhagirathi.

It didn’t take T’swamy and his tribe too long to discover the diverse purposes for which they could use the river. Given the choice, I am sure that Ganges would have preferred to freeze back to her pristine state, as Vishnu’s missing toe. But that was not possible, since V didn’t miss his T, as far as I can tell. Nor was M gullible enough to offer his head a second time for her to roost in. Instead, she had to find solace in the fact that she was decreed as unpollutable. The holiest of holies! Do what you like, you can’t defile her. Tonsure your head, take a dip in the river and voila! Your soul is purified forever, even if your body emerges with a dead frog clinging to your chest.

If the stench disturbs you in your quest for purity, it must be an aberration of your mind. As was the case when you visited a public utility in the not too distant past. Wondering, are you, what this last bit means? I guess I have to draw your attention to the scriptures. Appearance, they say, must by all means be distinguished from the essence. The material world around us is merely an illusion, be it the infinite variety of Gangetic scum or the gruesome sight of public conveniences. I actually read about it in a collection of pamphlets called the Upanishads. I am not sure of course if this is what they really said, because it’s one of the most difficult exercises I have ever subjected my poor brain to. Left me devastated for many weeks, till I found out that there were popular versions of the book also, for simpletons like me. The one I located was called the Bhagvad-Geeta. Don’t believe a word though of what they say about this book. It is no more user friendly than its predecessors. Far from making life easier to pursue, it asked me to perform a task that was horrendously difficult: to remain equally undisturbed in happiness and sorrow! I mean, whether it was an Income Tax Officer who summoned me, or Madhuri Dixit. That was the limit I thought. And recall that the Upanishads added on to this an inane corollary: the dissimilarity we perceive between your loo and mine is purely imaginary. Because, nothing actually exists. May be even you and I don’t. Descartes notwithstanding. Cogito without sum!Hey man! The very notion makes me miss a heartbeat, assuming of course that there is a heart for its miserable beat to be missed.

Perhaps M should have kept his philanthropic propensities at bay and let V’s toe carry out the destruction. That would preclude the existence, amongst lesser beings, of polluters of public johns, and amongst greater ones, of polluters of public minds. Those who scare innocent onlookers by spinning ontological paradoxes. Of course, in that event, the Brahmanda itself would have gone up in smoke. And along with it, the anda-s that fertilized into you and me. But then, what’s the point of creating a guy, merely to make him fret day and night that he may not have been created after all?

See what’s happened? Only a minute ago, I was enjoying my solitude, harmlessly pushing buttons here and there. Watching the multicoloured lights blink. Singing paeans to the potty. Not a care in the world. And now someone’s come out with the loony idea that I may not even be! Oh yes! M should definitely have left Vishnu’s toe alone.

And indeed, this is not the only instance of Monsieur Shiva’s indiscretions. On another occasion, he struck terror in the hearts of many by pampering a wicked, wicked chap called Illwal. Had it not been for the self sacrificing Agastya, I wonder where some of us would be hiding today. Possibly deep inside Veerappan’s jungles. In the interest of mankind, Ag’y boy even committed a supremely impolite act in public. But that story, with its sound and fury, must wait for later.

Tons of love.

Dad

June 6, 2011 – 1:04 pm Categories: Ramblings | Post a comment

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