A volte-face that mattered

A sinuous road culminates at the apex of the hillock. It is said that a great emperor once stood on top of it and looked down at the meandering river Daya that had turned crimson with blood. The sight is purported to have transformed the man. A testimony to that legend lies at the base of the hillock etched in stone (in the ancient Pali script).

Two millenniums and two centuries later, the idyllic river still flows albeit belying the morbid sight it once witnessed. A herd of buffaloes lie prostrate on its bank, basking in the sun that beats hard on the anvil of Utkal. The benign calm of the place is eerily deafening, like the introduction of Death in The Seventh Seal. The warm air flowing over the expanse of the region rushes through the nostril, fills the lungs and forces a gasp out of the bystander; As if to say that perusing such a sight only befits a lion-hearted monarch and not a lesser mortal. The land, whose allurement once caused the war (that cost a "million" lives) now gives life in the form of lush green farming fields, as if in an act of penance.


On fulfilling this tryst with history the traveler now walks down the circutous path to where the rock edict lies, at the foot of the hillock. A monolithic elephant (left in its semi-sculpted state) stands sentinel, guarding the edict for two thousand years. Time shows in the eroded tusks and the tired eyes. A dozen rules on morality and benevolence are etched in the stone below. It is the closest to the proverbial "writing on the wall" that I have witnessed in my life. This is not Belshazzar's court; Neither were the inscriptions written by the hand of god. And it wasn't certainly deciphered by Daniel. That these could be the rules charted by the same man who caused the Daya to turn scarlet is beyond the comprehension of a lesser man.


There have been ruthless conquerors like Alexander, Chengis Khan and Julius Caesar. And there have been supreme givers like Mahavira and Buddha. But perhaps none who transitioned from a ruthless ruler to a supreme giver in one lifetime, like Asoka!

As I mull over, I realize how difficult it must have been to change oneself, so late in life, and after much "success". The depth of self introspection required to realize ones own flaws (amidst the "glory" of this success) and the subsequent determination to be able to alter oneself for the better, is unfathomable. Asoka could have left his legacy at Kalinga. History would have remembered him as a great emperor still, like Alexander, Akbar, Caesar and others. Shahrukh would have still made the movie despite being deprived of the melodramatic ending. True, there would have been no Dharmashoka, but the rest of history would have remained unaltered.

Like Asoka, perhaps most humans with even a semi-fertile brain hear the "guilty" verdict often in the courtroom of our head. A student hears it when he cheats in class, the teacher when he answers incorrectly to camouflage his ignorance, the policeman as he accepts a bribe, and a politician as he reads a hollow speech. A "foreign-returned" condescending soul hears it when he complains of filth in his motherland. A writer when he sells plagiarized work, an auctioneer when he sells a fake, et al. I hear it for all the morally incorrect things that I do and the duties that I shirk off as "not mine". To hear that verdict in our little heads is not so much a rare human faculty as is the ability thereafter to walk the path of redemption.

The Asokan edicts evince a complete understanding of the magnitude of the emperor's own guilt (which in his case arose from the taking of innumerable lives) and a subsequent effort to redeem himself. They mostly evince the man's disgust of his own gory "success". Asoka's is a perpetual example to all present day corporate honchos and political heads (as well as to the rest of us with moral/social responsibilities) that standing at the apex does not absolve one of an immoral path traversed to reach there. There is glory not in ensconcing oneself on the mound of dead, but in the ability to accept ones guilt and do a volte-face in pursuit of being a better human.

Of travel and travail

A train journey has always enthralled me with its kaleidoscopic experience. The leisurely moving landscapes, the golden wheat fields interspersed by greener ones; The more hurried string of coconut trees, the motley orchards, the blur of wild shrubs along the railway tracks, the occasional village urchin waving a tattered cloth, the metal rails of the adjacent track, the air garnished by the pungent aroma of diesel, and the distant hoot that heralds the passing of the giant serpent. Together they have left an indelible mark.

I have spent hours sticking my face close to the window grill into the abysmal darkness of the amavasya night or at the haloed aura of a full-moon one. The beauty of the clouds and the sun rays peeping through them (as witnessed from an aircraft window) although spectacular has never been able to replace this experience.

A lot of water has flown under the bridge since I made my last substantial journey in 2005, from Kolkata to Bangalore. The ticket was a paltry Rs 450 then. That it provided a berth in a 3-tier Sleeper Class coach and covered a distance of 2000 kms made the amount seem "paltry". Also, the 50% concession on the ticket price provided those invaluable alms to the hollow pocket of a student returning home for vacation. This pocket-money was invaluable for my sustenance of the journey just like a warm coat would have been to one of Napoleon's soldiers returning from Russia, .

A few things have changed since that time. An addition of Rs 58 to the fare, a couple of bed lamps embedded on the side walls beside each berth, and two 3-pin plug points for the convenience of passengers in the coup. The number of vendors selling puri-sabzi at Bhuvaneshwar station however has dwindled to almost nil. The plastic cups in which pineapple juice used to be sold at the Vijayawada Junction have halved in size, and doubled in price. Also, the juice tastes less of pineapple and more of the ubiquitous "Rail Neer" now. Lastly, the Indian Railway employees have reincarnated in their red black and white checkered uniforms shedding their erstwhile navy blue ones.

Other things have remained gladly the same. The distant hooting of the diesel engine, the breakneck speed and the shaking berths at the advent of the wee hours, the beeline of impatient travelers wishing to get down as the train approaches a station, and scampering to get back inside as it departs from one. The taste of coffee has thankfully remained true to its original self. So have the idli-vada and the dry coconut chutney that so many of my Bengali friends loathed. The latrines have "maintained" their standards and still require the passenger to know the right time during the journey to use them. I have traditionally used them only after the train departed from Vijaywada or Vishakhapatnam, strongly believing that these two are the only stations where the latrines are cleaned and the water tanks refilled.

I was making this trip with my wife. I have narrated many a story about my train journeys to her before, and this was my chance to have her experience the thrills and the perils of undertaking one. Therefore, one must pardon my demeanour at discovering the two pairs of eyes ogling in our direction as if to suggest the screening of a riveting movie.

The middle-aged man and the boy in his early twenties were sitting on the berth facing us. Now, I do not suffer from colour-bias, but the complexion of the two men suggested that they may have taken a fresh dip in a bucket of tar. This made their eyes and teeth seem outstandingly bright. At first, I felt a tad irritated by their constant smile, but soon dismissed it as an aberration caused by the contrast in the colour of the skin and the teeth. The man could be best described as a sooted version of Santosh Dutta (I almost waited with bated breath for him to pounce on a khukri and exclaim eta amaar!). The boy was thinner, more talkative and often used a Bengali dialect that I found difficulty in comprehending. He seemed an impatient sort and liked bossing around the older man. I suppressed a compelling urge to straighten him.

Time was whisking by. My wife and I were busy admiring the beauty of the farmlands as the train rushed through the wheat fields of northern Andhra Pradesh. Not being reared in an agrarian family and harbouring only a minimal knowledge about farming I was finding it difficult to answer my wife's queries about the type of crop, vegetables, reaping seasons et al. The boy heard her, sprang to his feet and with a spark in his eyes started explaining the types of crops to her. Soon we could distinguish the onion fields from the okra, and the tomato plantations from the chili. The man joined in and explained that the haystacks in the center of the fields were residue from machine-threshing of the strands of wheat. He lamented that in southern India they use machines to thresh wheat whereas in Bengal it is still done manually. Their knowledge impressed the ignorant middle-class in us and made them a little more tolerable.

As the train stopped at Vishakhapatnam for the change of engine, a sea of humanity filled the station. Shouts of "anda biryani", and "idli-vada" filled the air that was already saturated by the myriad sounds of children crying, mother's yelling and men bellowing. I joined the crowd and inhaled my share of the ether. My wife never left her seat. She was guarding our belongings like an Emperor penguin guards its chicks during the Antarctic winter. Long ago when we were in college she had once slept in a train and had woken up to find her bag missing. It is another story how she managed to retrieve it (after intense negotiation over phone) from the thief. But since then she has vowed not to abandon her belongings while in transit. As I stood alone looking for a pattern in the random movements of the passenger, out of the crowd came a dark finger and poked straight at my ribs! It was Santosh Dutta (my mind by then had already conferred him the name). I had apparently functioned as a human lighthouse and saved him from being lost in the crowd. On discovering me he had ensured that he would end up in the right coach when the train decided to leave the station.

When a man finds something he fears he may have lost, the release of angst sometimes makes him act funny. Such was the case with my friend. He was offering me tea and biscuit for no apparent reason. When I declined he asked about my whereabouts (in an effort to strike an amiable conversation). Not being a particularly suspicious man I gave him the details. I also told him that in case he wondered why my wife speaks broken Bengali, it is because she is not a Bengali by birth. Then I explained to him what "Konkani" means and where this section of humans dwell, because that is where my wife comes from. Although inquisitive, I found the man rather congenial.

We were back in the train. The night was approaching fast. The dim incandescent lamps illuminated the coup and one could see ones own countenance in the glass window. A few street lamps whisked by suggesting that the train was passing through a semi-urban area. After having a fairly sumptuous meal for dinner (the quality of which I found to have improved), my wife shifted to the middle berth to read something she was carrying for the journey. I was lying supine on the lower berth gazing at the ceiling fan. It said "Himalaya" at its center. I remembered the name. Another of the things that have not changed in Indian Railways. I noticed that the odd couple (Santosh Dutta and his stooge) were preparing to get down. The whites of their eyes were scanning in the dark to ensure that they did not leave any stray luggage behind.

As a passing query I asked my man, kothai jachhen aapnara? Anticipating a conversation he settled cross-legged on his berth and replied, Kaaatpadi Jaanction. The place rang a distant bell in my mind, but I could not comprehend why. Then he landed the blow directly in my solar plexus. It wasn't a physical one, but it hurt more. He said he makes this journey every month, with his stooge, who happens to be his nephew by relation. The reason; The boy suffers from blood cancer and requires blood transfusion every month. Hence, destination Vellore, hence Katpadi junction. He blurted out the reason of his travel in a matter-of-fact way, all the while flashing his teeth as if to make a mockery of any response I could muster. It was 11 pm. And the train would not reach Katpadi till 1 am at night. But, these seasoned pilgrims knew better than to lie down and close their eyes. They kept looking at each other in the dark, as I purged all my predicaments in the fire of their eyes. I recalled all the little worries that I have not been brave enough to bear with a smile. They were still smiling at me, and each time they did so my mind strained hard to maintain composure, to hold back that tear drop from a free fall. I looked out at the darkness. It was my only ally for the moment.

I stayed awake for the next two hours to bid them goodbye. As the train left Katpadi, I could see two shadows outside the window. Santosh Dutta was patiently standing. The young man was animatedly describing which way to go to his uncle. He exuded the same arrogance, the same irritation with the world that i had witnessed when I first say him. But this time, I bore no malice.

Much ado about happiness

I was once given a farewell card by a friend. It said "Happiness is not a destination to reach, but a road to travel". On prima facie the proverb sounds correct, but, I have often wondered if it is true. If one is always happy (as in "a road to travel") will one value happiness anymore? Once it becomes part of the diurnal cycle will it not be akin to every other brand of emotion, banal and hackneyed? Also, what is so wrong about happiness being a destination? One can then look forward to it, and once there, savour it.

I have often believed that happiness is a state of mind. It is that state of ones' mind in which one wishes to stay a little while longer than usual. Years ago, I read in my physics lessons that an atom (or was it a particle) always desires to be in its lowest energy state. It stays "happy" in that state, and if altered, will eternally persevere to reach that state. It is like a constant "destination" that the atom tries to reach. Think about it. We are all like that atom persevering to be "happy". Only, man's definition of happiness keeps changing with time unlike that of an atom. Now, would you consider a path with constantly changing destinations a "road"? I do not know. Therein lies the intrigue of the word,"happy".

When I ponder about what I understand by "happy", they are the moments in life which I would like to volunteer to revisit, not forced to. The refreshing mango juice at the Vijayawada train station (enroute from Kolkata to Madras); The odd ride on a van-rickshaw from Digha to Talshari via the idyllic countryside; The first experience of the Colosseum-like atmosphere of Eden Gardens; The impromptu Goa trip in that tempo-traveler; The dip in the stream behind the college where buffaloes bathed are some of those random memories that I can instantly garner and label as "happy". As anomalous as they may seem to the idea of happiness, they are the ones that have etched fond memories in my subconscious. And fond memories have an odd way of lingering like the smell of mutton curry in your fingers long after you have come home from that Bengali wedding.They make me happy.

This definition of happiness has a certain predicament though. It can only be felt once the moment has passed! While I can be happy at this moment thinking about something pleasant that happened to me in the past, I have no way of being happy by virtue of something that is happening in the present. In essence i may be falling behind in the race for the pursuit of happiness. I sometimes think that perhaps my inability to exude an impulsive reaction hinders me from being instantly "happy" even when there is something conspicuously delightful. It is this lack of spontaniety that constrains me from proclaiming a "WOW" on seeing a decent photograph by an amateur photographer. It is again the reason for a stifled reaction on seeing a decent work of painting, eating a decently palatable dish, wearing a decent dress, or meeting a decent human.

I am almost never instantly "WOW"ed by any of the above. However, that does not mean that I never feel a superlative reaction. However, it is usually much later when something (or someone) WOW-worthy has been revisited by the mind several times and has passed the test of quality. You may say that I like to chew the cud. I am bovine in a sense that I like gazing all day at the meadows but cannot bring myself to exclaim "WOW" at the taste of grass.

Speaking about "WOW", how often does one really feel wowed, I wonder. If "WOWS" were meant for all things "decent" what reaction should one reserve for things that are truly astounding. Say, the Pieta, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the Parthenon, the Taj, the creme de la creme of mankind's achievement? The few wows in my life have been, the Jog (when I stood at its abyssmal depth), the Kanchenjunga (as i spotted it momentarily through a shroud of cloud), the Starry Night (comprising the brush strokes of a troubled genius), and the Konark temple (or what remains of it). Each of them has inevitably evoked a sense of how small I am in mind soul and skill. And that has made me exclaim, Wow !

I believe that as with all things "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so"; So with happiness there is no rigid definition, but just a concept that one is free to mould by one's own rules. Since, the above paragraphs of incoherent rambling has brought me back to the starting line, I will conclude that happiness may not after all be a destination to reach. Whether it is a road to travel, I leave to the wise minds of the readers to construe. As for me, niether makes a difference as I have comprehensively proved that I do not understand either.

The Murder of the Dead

There was once a man who worked all his life to make a dwelling out of his meager saving. He had a good wife, a good son (or perhaps two, or even more), and a good life. Then one day his wife decided to take leave of her self and his son(s) decided to jump out of the well into the ocean. Then one day the real-estate agents came by like Death Eaters, took the old man by his cot and put him in a rented apartment ("temporarily, off course", they said). They brought down the dwelling faster than the twin towers and erected in its place, a multi-storied cluster of flats. The old man spent the rest of his life in one of these hole-in-the-wall "flats", looking tremulously down from the 10th storey at the ground which he once so wished would belong to him.

Every time I fly over the skyline of Kolkata, this stereotypical story flashes by my eyes as i see the Lego-like multi-storied buildings viciously sprouting among old individual houses, those almost counting their days like hapless chickens in a butcher's shop. Having lived in a similar "multi-storied complex" for fifteen years in a place which supposedly belonged to a once-profitable-now-defunct cotton factory, I cannot wash my hands off this collective crime of our generation.

It is perhaps practical to be nonchalant about the whole saga and sanctimoniously proclaim that "old order giveth way to the new"; But, in the indifference we evince, are we not murdering the very dreams of which we were once a part? How many parents/grandparents do we know who build these individual "dwellings" not keeping their progenies in mind? Were we not part of their dreams? Then why do we so ruthlessly murder the dreams we were part of? The answer to that may be profitable to the way our generation is planning to lead their lives.

Look around, and you will see a generation that is smothering the dreams of its previous one while it harbours its dreams on the next. The same generation that is bulldozing the "dwellings" to make "flats" is expecting the next one to live happily with them in those flats. The irony is so stark that if you let the bygone generation speak they will come running out of their photo frames and say, "Don't do it son, don't repeat the mistake we made!"

That the past has to perish to make way for the present is the eternal truth. But does demolishing the past so ruthlessly and callously make us any better than any of the barbaric invaders of yore, who repeatedly ravaged India and stripped it off its myriad wealth and defaced its architectural beauties? Is the demolition of ones ancestral home any less than the defacing of the Sun temple at Konark, or the destruction of the Bamiyan Buddha?

As a riposte to the above thought, one can argue that the greatest conquerers (from the Romans to the Mughals) who qualify as creators of many global architectural masterpieces were those who were also destroyers of the history of the places they conquered. So, it may not be necessary for one to have respect for history or heritage to make their own. So why is it important to preserve an old man's "dwelling" after he is gone?

I believe that the reason the conquerers treaded so heavily over the places they travelled was that the history that they destroyed was not created by their forbears in the first place. It was someone else's legacy. Someone not related by blood to them. On the other hand the many dwellings that are bursting like popcorns to give way to a mushroom of multi-storied flats are initiated by a generation that is directly related by flesh and blood to the generation of the stereotypical old man. The terminator of the old man's pagoda is none other than the son who jumped out of the well into the ocean. A classic case of, Et tu Brute.. Then fall Caeser.

In a fragmenting world where a relation is more a stroke of fate and less a genetic strain one must take care to preserve ones roots. Else we run the risk of becoming beautiful orchids in a horticulture garden with no primary tree trunk to lean on. I remember my ancestral house that lies in ruins today. The most intriguing part of the house (that catered to a child's fantasy i.e.) was the garden behind it. As a young boy, I remember fighting a squadron of mosquitoes to visit it. The two coconut trees that marked the end of the property; The jackfruit tree whose base my grandmother protected with innumerous twigs and nettle bushes, the Gandharaj tree that precariously and ironically stood next to the sewerage tank; the papaya tree; the lemon trees; all stand testimony to my childhood. That I have fought many Ram-Ravana, Bhim-Duryodhan battles with bows and arrows made of coconut leaves and a "Goda" made of cheap non-recyclable plastic in this place is no less significant to my existence than my "educational degree" or my "work experience".

Sometimes a noble thought is as important as a noble action. I try to convince my argumentative self that I am different from the good son who leapt out of the well. The hypothesis though, remains to be proved.