08 December 2008

My wedding and related incidents

'Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it so that the other half may reach you.'
– Khalil Gibran

I am going to tell you about an incident totally unrelated to this article. I just have to get that thing off my chest, before I continue. I promise I will not stray later.
This incident happened at my first visit to Dubai. Dad was working in Dubai that time. It was a short visit. We met at the hotel room.
“What’s the noise on the roof?” he asked.
“There is a swimming pool on the top,” I said, “We can have a look after the breakfast.”
While in the elevator, on the way to the cafeteria, a lady in bikini entered. Now, I had probably seen thousands of ladies in bikini. My dad probably had seen thousands in bikini. However we hadn’t seen a lady in bikini together.
It was Dubai; you have to be lucky to see anyone in bikini there. I am a lucky person. Time froze, nothing moved except the elevator; which was going down for a long time. It was probably going to hell. It was impossible to avoid her without closing eyes. I am a writer. My dad is a writer. My grandpa was a writer. Writers don’t close their eyes to art.
Finally, we dispersed in the lobby. At the breakfast table, I and dad discussed many things: Dostoyevsky, Dickens, Narayan, and Gogol. In fact we discussed everything in the world except the lady in bikini. I never saw the lady again. We didn’t check the pool either.
That was the incident. Nothing really happened. You might wonder, what is my point? My point is: there is no point! Many things in life are totally meaningless. Trying to find a meaning in them is foolishness; over to my marriage day.

Wedding day
Many people thought my marriage would be some kind of a fiasco. I don’t blame them. I myself thought that way.
On the D-day, waiting out side the church, in front of the main door, for my future wife, I had a funny feeling: Is she going to turn up or not?
It was late. The priest was already on the altar. I had an altercation with him a few days ago. “Wedding mass will start at 9 sharp,” he had said, “with you or without you!”

The Priest: a few days before the wedding
I have a great respect for priests. Remember, these are the guys who said NO to sex! That’s not easy. In many Hindi movies priests have a very limited role. They vanish after the one liner——God Bless You My Child. I am yet see a priest who says GBYMC in real life. Our parish priest never said GBYMC. Nevertheless, he used to conduct compulsory one-to-one interviews with future couples.
At the interview, I was expecting usual questions: Tell me something about yourself. Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Your top 3 weak points? etc. Being in IT, I could have answered these questions from the operation theatre, while someone working on my brain.
However the first question was, “Do you know the daily prayers?”
I was about to say, “what the …?” followed by a bad word you often don't see on Mangalorean web sites.
“I don’t know them by-heart,” I said, “however I know their essence.” This street smart answer didn’t convince him.
“You probably know Hindi film songs by-heart,” this was really uncalled for, “What is the use of getting married if you don’t know the day-to-day prayers? How will you raise your children in Mangalorean Catholic way?”
“I have not thought about children yet, father” I said. I don’t like to call anyone FATHER, who is not my biological father.
Later he asked, “Did anyone force you for this marriage?”
“Yes” I said, after thinking awhile.
“Mom,” I said, “She thinks no one will marry me if I wait any more.”
“Mom is not counted. Anybody else?”
“Grandma,” I said “She thinks——”
“Mom’s mom is not counted.”
This interrogation went for sometime. Finally, with a suspicious narrow look he asked, “Did you anytime commit the sin of flesh?” This is a priestly way of asking: did you have sex anytime?
“Father, can you please rephrase the question?”
“I cannot rephrase, you know what I mean, answer the question.”
“Certainly not,” I said.
“All right then, you may go now. Come on time for the wedding mass, it will start at 9 sharp, with you or without you.” He warned me.

Wedding day
I was ready at 8:30 one day before. Did she change her mind? Once again I thought. There is a reason for this.
Historically, almost all the time there has been something or the other wrong with creative people. For e.g., E M Forster, Oscar Wilde, Maugham, were gays; In fact Maugham was bisexual! Gorge Eliot was a lady with a male pen-name, she had an affair, probably she wanted to hide that; Hemingway and Van Gogh committed suicide; Salinger went recluse; Rushdie had a Fatwa; Dostoyevsky had epilepsy; Pushkin got wounded in a dual died subsequently; You won’t believe what extent Truman Capote went, to write - In Cold Blood.
My future wife knew at least a few of this. She had done her homework before marrying a creative person (debatable!).
Finally the wedding car arrived. I personally opened the door. Normally best-man does that. Since the mass was on, there was no time for formalities.
“Why so late?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Can’t you come on time, at least for your marriage?”
“Are we going to fight on our wedding day?”
“All right, All right, my mistake!”
When we entered the church, we had already missed the initial part. The priest was angry for not being on time, for the most important day of my life. I feared that I must have missed the “I DO” part. Nevertheless, just to make sure I said, “I do,” loud enough for the priest to hear.
“This is not where you say, ‘I do’; Let me ask you the question first,” he said.
“You, Ravi bla bla bla , take Reema bla bla bla as your lawful wedded wife?”
“What kind of a question is this? Why do you think I am here today?”
“Just say ‘I Do’ moron”
“Oops! I do!”
When he was about to turn, I said, “Father, you forgot something.”
“When you are going to say: You may kiss the bride now?”

After the mass, one of my aunts started crying, in the church. One kind old man reminded her that it was a wedding——not a funeral. Still the crying went on. Till today it is a mystery, like the lady in the bikini. Many people thought that she might be from my wife’s side. She was not. Even if she was my wife’s aunt, there was no reason to cry. My wife’s home is 10 minutes from my home. This is not only true in my case but also for many Kinnigolians. Now, before you Google it, let me tell you, Kinnigoli is a small obscure town outskirts of Mangalore; quiet, calm, peaceful, unheard——till a recent event changed all that.
If you are a Kinnigolian, chances are, you marry a Kinnigolian! This is unique about my small town. Often I have attended marriages, where I belonged to both the parties. In these cases I have taken two gifts, one for the bride and one for the groom. Often I knew the couple much before they knew each other. I knew their little secrets.
There is something in the air, climate, or simply tap water——which forces the people of Kinnigoli to stick to this place. That’s why time and again Kinnigolians have married Kinnigolians. If you are a modern ambitious Kinnigolian, for example a software engineer, first thing you do is , you run out of this place, probably go to US or Middle East, stay there for a couple of years, make some money, come back, settle down and finally marry a Kinnigolian!
Nevertheless this was a beautiful place. Foreigners were not cheated here. Travelers were not misdirected here. Conductors (of buses, not music) have infamously given change for the biggest currency notes. It was almost a holy place.
Even then, till some time back, people living just 10 miles out side of Kinnigoli were unaware of this little paradise. One time, I strayed, landed in the border town.
“When is the next bus to Kinnigoli?” I asked an old man at the bus stop.
“What is it again?”
“Next bus to Kinnigoli?” I repeated.
“Next bus to what?”
“Kinnigoli? What a stupid name. Now where is that damned place? Is it in Spain?”
The old crone laughed at his silly joke. Now let me tell you sir, modern day old-men are not like olden days old-men. Nowadays old people are more demanding, they think young people should respect them just because they arrived on the planet a bit early.
However, I feel this alienation on the global map or from global spotlight was because there had been no famous person from Kinnigoli. There had been no visionary, cricketer, visionary-cricketer, magician, criminal, serial killer, psychopath or movie star from Kinnigoli. Also for reasons beyond comprehension, famous people have avoided Kinnigoli since time immemorial. Gandhiji visited Mangalore during the independence. However he didn’t visit Kinnigoli. Pope John Paul II traveled thousands of miles to reach Bajpe, he could have traveled another couple of miles to reach Kinnigoli, but he didn’t. Arvind Adiga, the only Mangalorean Booker winner, shy, soft spoken, famously known for staying at Woodland hotel, prefers idli/vada over croissants, simple man, SSLC state topper, as far as I know never visited Kinnigoli.
Unknown, unheard, unspoiled by modernization and MTV, Kinnigoli was patiently waiting for its turn for global recognition. Till a small incident made it much more famous than the wildest dream of any Kinnigolian.

After the marriage mass, we proceeded to the hall where I was shocked to see an almost empty marriage hall.
“We have some time before the people start coming,” said the cameraman. “I have an idea; let’s go to my studio,” he said, “I have some pigeons there. I will give 2 pigeons to both of you. At the count of 3, both of you let off the pigeons, I will click the camera, flash, both of you will be frozen in time, along with the pigeons, paragons of love, isn’t it a marvelous idea?”
“It is too flashy,” I said. It sounded too artificial to me. “Let’s go home and meet the grandparents,” I said. They were too old to attend the marriage.
“I want a gundu gundu son for you,” Grandma said.
“Marriage is not yet over, grandma.”
“What? Speak louder”
“Marriage is not yet over, grandma,” I repeated, louder.
“Hey, is it not you married last time?” grandpa asked.
“That’s my sister, grandpa”
“Don’t shout. I can hear you clearly.” He said.
“God! You guys will drive me nuts.”
“Nuts! What nuts? In this old age——”
“All right both of you, stay calm here. I have to rush back. I will answer all your questions once I am back.”
By the time we reached the hall it was almost time for lunch. Hall was full this time. People were angry and frustrated for keeping them waiting; they wanted to finish the marriage business and move on to the more important next step: lunch. “I will be missing my last bus,” one old man staying in a remote village cribbed.
I had particularly included my favorite dish, Rakti in the menu. Mom was dead against it; Rakti is an expensive dish. By the time I reached the food counter Rakti was all gone. Not having the favorite dish on my wedding made me sad.

A dream comes true
I am married for quite sometime now. No major ups or downs. No tsunamis. People are surprised! I am taking one day at a time.
Sometimes, I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, and stare with horror at the woman sleeping next to me. It takes me sometime to realize that the woman is my wife. I get up, go to the kitchen, drink a glass of water, and go to sleep again.
And other times, mom’s calls wake me up suddenly. I have told her not to call me at 3 am in the morning. But I guess you can not teach new tricks to old moms.
Few days back, a sudden call woke me up in the middle of the night.
“Mom, please consider the difference in time, before calling”
“Important news!” she said.
“What is it?”
“Your dream has come true! Finally Kinnigoli has become famous.”
“What? O God! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,” sleep gone, fully alert now, “Did anyone get the national award? Nobel? Solution for Global warming. Crop circle mystery solved? Any one going to the moon from our place? What is it? Tell me, tell me.”
“Nothing like that;” she said calmly, “they just arrested a terrorist in Kinnigoli bus stand.”
“What? You are lying. Mom, if this is some kind of joke, you will regret it”. I warned her.
“Check Daiji; it is on the front page.”
“Ok, hold on, let me start my computer”. Computer took eons to boot.
“Did you see it?”
“No computer is booting,” I said.
“Why so long? Are you using Vista?”
“How many times I have to tell you to stick to XP?”
“Mom, I am the computer guy, I know what is good for me! Hold on here it is——”
I saw the news on front page of Daiji. Saw all those weapons and ammunition, which earlier I had seen only in Arnold Schwarzeneggers Hollywood movies. I crashed into my chair.
Later when I recovered a bit, I checked the “about us” section of Daiji. Looks like, Daiji has 100,000 daily viewers from 180 countries! God, this is no more a kid site. Out of these 100,000 readers, only 10-15 people read my articles. However when there is a negative news, I am sure each and every one of them will read it. Sadly, it dawned on me, that there is no Ctrl+z for this news. There is no undoing this!
Later when I went to bed my wife was awake.
“Where were you?”
“Call from India,” I said.
“Anything critical?”
“Nothing; go to sleep.”
“What were you doing so long?”
“I was checking something on the net. Computer took a long time boot,” I said.
“Are you still using Vista?” she asked.
Note: If you liked this memoir, you might like the others in the series as well. Click Here.  
This article got the most number of votes on daiji. You can read it here.

10 October 2008

Grandpa and grandson

"My grandpa didn't believe in hugging and kissing, or saying ‘I love you.’ His love had to do with the way he treated you. When he said, ‘We're going here, we're going there,’ he was telling me about life. That was his love for me. My love for him was listening to what he said, keeping out of trouble, doing right, being fair."
-Bill Cosby

There won’t be any statues for grandpa. He won’t be remembered by many (or probably any), in 50 years from now. He was not a go-getter, super achiever, diplomat – nothing of that sort. He didn’t change the course of history; Didn’t use credit cards, no email id, no personal blog, didn’t know the difference between iPhone and iTouch ; he was almost an alien in the modern world.

He was more like R. K. Laxman’s Common Man. I have a feeling, somewhere in the past R. K. Laxman might have met grandpa from whom he got the inspiration for his famous and now not so common – COMMON MAN!

The man
In a family of giants, he was the only slim guy. Though he never tried Weight Watchers (trade mark registered) or did any kind of aerobics in front of the TV.

Mostly a quiet man, won’t talk unless talked to, won’t advice unless asked for; listened to people all the time and sympathized for their problems as if they were his own.

Although not much different from other grandpas, he had this unique habit of staring at the void! While walking on the road, he would suddenly stop, look at the sky, stare at nothingness above and be a statue for at least 10 minutes or sometimes more. For a stranger he would look like a scientist, thinking about some strange formulae. Subsequently he would come out of his stupor, continue his walk as if nothing had happened. I was always amazed by this trance. It would always be a mystery to me!

I have a feeling, grandpa must be like Galileo – who became famous only after hundred years of his death. Deep in my heart, I have a small hope that grandpa would become famous one day! May not be now, may not be in near future, for that matter may not be in our life time but some day!

He was in Saudi for 30 years. In those days, if you were in Saudi that long, you could buy our whole village. And yet he didn’t do anything of that sort. He was an ascetic. Sometimes mistaken pedestrians would offer him some money - "Here you go old man have a cup of coffee" they would say, unknown to the fact that old man could anytime afford Starbucks!

Never the less he would give a polite nod to these strangers and gracefully accept their kind gesture.
Grandpa’s predictionsIt seems, long time back, a foreigner strayed to land in our small town.
“Any sadhus sleeping on nail beds, here?” he asked the first person at the bus stop.
“No, Sir!” said the old man; who happened to be my grandpa.
“Any rope tricks or snake charmers here?” queried the foreigner adjusting the high-end camera.
“No sir! I have been here whole my life, not seen any of them” said grandpa.
“Nothing to shoot here then!”

The next outbound bus being late, they chatted for some more time. Foreigner showed his album of pictures.
“Every year I go to a new country” said the foreigner.
“That is nice”
“There is a date below every picture.”
“I noticed that,” said grandpa, “Why do you use 2 digits for years?”
“Oh! You see, I am a COBOL programmer, I work for IBM; since in any year the initial 2 digits are common, I don’t write them, it saves space! It’s a programming habit! ”
“That sounds interesting, however when you cross year 2000, how will your program differentiates 01 is 1901 or 2001? “ asked grandpa.
“Old man, year 2000 is so far! Who knows we will be there at that time or not?”
“No No I am serious,” continued grandpa, “probably you should talk about this with your seniors at IBM when you go back”
“Don’t worry old man, this is no big deal. “

Years later, grandpa’s innocent remarks at the bus stop materialized into millennium bug or simply Y2K. It became a multi million dollar project. US announced that it won’t commerce with any country not compatible with Y2K. Half of the passengers in any aeroplane destined to US from India were software engineers. In Andhra Pradesh, there were only old people and women, it was literally empty, all its young software engineers moved to US.

Though grandpa predicted Y2K, years before IBM and contemporaries, when Y2K, really hit us, he was ignorant of the global events. It really didn’t affect him much.

Common Man
While other grandpas were famous with rich flashback memories, mine was just the opposite.
“How come you didn’t fight for freedom?” I asked him once.
“I don’t know “ he said
“Did you ever see Gandhi?”
“Yes. Ben Kingsley has done a good job.”
“Not the movie, the real one!”
“Oh. Yes. I met him once “ he said.
“How was it like?”
“It was like trance….” And he drifted into trance.
I waited sometime, for him to continue. But he was already deep in trance. When he came out of it few minutes later, he carried on with whatever he was doing, as if everything was normal.

A writer in the makingWhen grandpa was a young man it seems he had the option of marrying a rich lady or a poor lady. And the romantic man he was, he chose to marry the poor lady my grandma. This romantic couple has managed to produce a family full dreamers, zombies, zonks, authors with more unpublished material and poets whose poems no mortals would understand.

The only practical person in our family is mom, who realized early in her marriage that there is no money in writing. Like all the contemporary moms she wanted me to be an engineer or doctor or both! Hence all my writing efforts were discouraged to the max.

Grandpa would console me all that time.
“Did your mom say anything?” he asked me one day seeing me sad.

“Mom said my poems are garbage material!”
“Oh! Did she really say that?” he showed mock surprise “You know what, she is wrong! She is becoming old. Let me see your stuff. Where is it?”
“In the dust bin, with garbage”
He recovered the pages from the garbage, read them, after a long pause to my great dismay concluded “I am afraid she is right! “

“Start reading classics,” he said, “when you finish all the classics, start writing”

However, when I started reading “Lady Chatterley’s lover” he promptly took it away.
“This is a classic!” I reasoned.
“You are not ready for it, yet”
“Can I read – Madame Bovary?”
“How about – Lolita?”
“Of course Not! Read R.K. Narayan” he said.
“Who reads Narayan, these days?”

Recently I read Madame Bovary. (I will not say anything about the book, since mom reads everything I write.)

Even though every year for Christmas, I used to be in Mangalore with family, I broke that ritual in 1999.

“Sir, I need one month vacation” I asked my boss in November.
“Nobody is going anywhere,” he said, “Our finance application is not Y2K compliant. You need to be here, for another 2 months!”

Reluctantly I called home.
“Grandpa, I won’t be coming this time”
“Why? What happened?”
“We have this Y2K problem, with one of our applications”
“What is Y2K?’
“Don’t worry grandpa, that is much complex for you, I will come in Feb” I said.

The Motorcycle DiariesWhen I bought my bike, I took him for a ride. We carefully drove dodging the pot holes.
“Did you know, Che Guevara, went on a long bike ride before becoming a revolutionary?” I asked grandpa.
“I am sure he didn’t go with his grandpa”
“No. He went with his friend”

On the way a group performing tiger-dance stopped our bike.
“Don’t smear the bike with your tiger-paint! It is a new bike” I cried.
“New Bike! You need to hang lemon and chili in the front to keep away the spirits!” one of the tigers said.
“Ok, I will do that”
We gave some money, took a detour and traveled on some of the less explored roads.

“Where are we going?” grandpa asked.
“This is a short cut. We will reach Mangalore in few miles”

On our way we stopped near a huge board.
“What is this board?”
“I don’t know, let’s see what it says”
It looked like some kind of religious board. Some kind of wakeup call; it had all the religious jargon. There were even pictures of politicians and old leaders.

“This person is not a religious leader. He was a freedom fighter,” exclaimed grandpa, “He never fought for religious rites! This is misleading. Let’s remove this board”

“Grandpa that may not be a good idea”

In spite of his great efforts, he could not do much.
“I can’t even shake it,” he gave up “This thing is too much rooted in our earth”

There prevailed a long silence.
“Let’s go back,“ he said finally, “Lets not travel on unknown roads. I am happy my days are numbered. Sad for you though. I have a feeling future days will face more religious turmoil. Some time I feel, God is the most dangerous thing man ever invented!”

I didn’t reply. We drove back in silence.

Dead man walking
He was sort of aware when the end was near. He mostly kept to himself and for long walks. He was old, ailing from age problems. Nearing 100, he was aware, he won’t be able to make century this time. (He was an avid cricketer in his youth.)

“Probably I am the only person whose all friends are dead” he used to say. That was really sad, made him restless to reach his friends.

During the end days, his grand children were with him. He was mostly silent. Elders were expecting him to make some kind of final statement, for the records. Something like: world is a stage and we are all actors, or words to that effect. However he didn’t make any such statement.

Finally, one fine day quietly he passed away. When he died, birds didn’t stop flying in mid air, no thunder storm or rain, no camera rolling 360 degrees with great speed, no self extinguishing candles, no crashing milk glasses, pet dog didn’t bark without reason – none of these otherwise expected things happened. It was a quiet departure.

Death of a HeroTwo important things happened during his funeral. First of all, photographer didn’t come on time! There were some “so called” important people, who had a curious desire to get photographed with my dead grandpa. Everyone was in a hurry, priest was in a hurry, and altar boys were in a hurry. The only person who was not in a hurry was grandpa.

“That’s it” someone shouted in the kitchen “we are going to change the photographer for all future functions!”

Outside some women were praying and wailing. They were nowhere related to grandpa. “Who are they?” I asked mom.
“I don’t know. This group attends every funeral and prays” The group seemed more in grief than the family members.

Then there was a commotion outside. I went to check out. One of my aunts stopped me on the way - “What is this you are wearing? Change your singlet!” she said.
“Photographer has come!” she said enthusiastically.

After the funeral there was an altercation among his children. Family members were divided in two highly charged groups. The disagreement was - to have a marble grave or not, for grandpa. If you ask me, grandpa was not really a “marble” kind of guy. He was more of a person who believed in something temporary, something less permanent, than something concrete like marble.

Never the less we did manage to build some sort of state-of-the-art ultra modern grave for him; which had all sort of modern amenities needed for a dead person. In a way he is more comfortable in the grave now than when he was alive.

While searching for books, in a used book store, I accidentally found, “A tiger for Malgudi”. It was in the cheapest possible section.

“Why this book is so cheep?” I asked the shop keeper.
“No one reads that author”
“I will take it anyway” I said.

Note: If you liked this memoir, you might like the others in the series as well. Click Here. 

This is probably my first article, which is more than pure entertainment. Sort of a transition for myself. It took me about 2 months to write it, with many edits, still I feel ending could have been better. It was first published on daiji.


08 July 2008

My world

“Completely at home? You mean in my natural state? ……….You know, blessed father, you shouldn’t challenge me to be in my natural state, you shouldn’t risk it … I myself will not go so far as to be in my natural state. I am warning you in order to protect you”
- Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov
Fyodor Dostoevsky’s - The Brothers Karamazov )

Often people fail to recognize the artist in them. You may say to yourself (or to the computer screen in front), art is not my cup of tea or not my cup of coffee (if you are a sophisticated coffee drinker).

But let me assure you, like M&Ms, there is a little bit of artist in every one of us. If you have ever written a leave note, to attend grandpa’s funeral, when he was still alive, congratulate yourself, you are a creative writer! If you have forged parent’s signature for reasons unmentionable and un-publishable, you are an artist yourself.

Now that I have convinced (or confused) you, that you are an artist, let’s move forward.

I had an impression (probably have, even now), any person, who can write two sentences ending in rhymes; and who writes them in individual lines is a - Poet. I don’t know how I got that idea; probably I read contemporary poems, or probably an overdose of popular cinema. Funny, what all kind of notions people carry.

One of my first poems was,

My name is Ravi
I am a - Kavi

Now when I remember those lines, I feel may be those were my lowest days of creativity. The dumbest people I know can not come up with dumber lines than my 2 lines. Some critics think they are my ONLY creative lines. Let’s hope they are wrong and forgive them.

In those days though, I really got charged up, considered my self a poet, showed the piece of art to my mom.

She stared the paper for a whole minute, tore it into hundred pieces. Grabbed me by the collar, gave me a narrow look, “Listen to me carefully Ravi,” she said, “I am investing thousands for your education. I don't want you to be a dumb writer. There is no MONEY in writing.”

“Believe me!” she looked desperate, “I have married a poet; I don’t want another in the family!”

That, kind of sealed my fate. I didn’t write a single creative line, for years to come, till I married, till my wife came to know my history, and she said one day – “Let me see who is stopping my husband from writing!”

So with new backup, new vigor, with new woman in my life (old woman was – mom!), I wrote few articles, which to my horror got published. I can not believe (even now) there are real life people in flesh and blood who read my articles! People who, if they like, opt to read Tolstoy, Narayan, O. Henry, Dickens but have found time to read my articles. Can life be more beautiful? Or is this an early indication of world coming to an end.

The other Boleyn man
Being a writer is not sexy. People think you are useless. Useless to do anything meaningful, that is money oriented. World is full of people not understanding the meaning of: A thing of beauty is joy forever. But they definitely understand what Shakespeare said: All I want is money! Just kidding, Shakespeare didn’t say that!

There is no writer’s day; but there is one for fools! (April 1st sad I have to mention that for the sake of people, for whom the day is celebrated).

Not much money in writing though, not much respect either. My mom was correct there, although she was wrong about many other things, including her opinion about my wife!

Your prospects in any venture reduce drastically and exponentially the moment people come to know you are a writer. My father in law thinks, not only I am useless (writer or not), but also rest of the writing gang. “Why write a story,” he says, “when everyone knows it is not real!” Can you counter that?

I spent considerable amount of time and energy convincing this person that I am the most suitable boy for his Barbie doll. And I almost failed.

First time I met him, he asked – “Can you keep my daughter happy?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Frankly I feel she has better prospects. But I guess one can not expect everything from this MTV generation. I am happy; at least she has not selected a story teller or song writer.”

“I am a writer myself” I said. That was a mistake.
“I knew it! God, do you earn your living by writing?”
“No Sir. I am a software engineer by profession.”
“Good choice! They pay outrageously for software engineers. What are you going to do once this Y2K is solved?”
“I will find something”

“Have you ever thought of becoming a full time writer?”
“No Sir”
“Good. If you have any such plans, then forget about marrying my daughter”
That was sometime back. Subsequently I have started writing, not full time, but now and then. No Jay Leno, Letterman shows for me! No people standing in line for autograph, just a man in the crowd.

Mom’s influence
If you have read my previous articles (which I am sure you have not), you might have noticed that all my articles are real life incidents; with very less (debatable) literary license. That is because I have very little or near-to-zero imagination to write stories.

This lack of imagination has forced me to write real life incidents, some of them I am not really proud about.

Once, long time back, accidentally (debatable again), I went to a dance bar. Which no one knew in my family, till I wrote about it (Can you believe that?) in one of my earlier articles. Now it has sort of become a family scandal.

“Why did you write about it?” mom asked me last time.
“Mom, I went there only once, 10 years ago, that was an enlightening experience.”

“Enlightening?! Are you out of your…God! What kind of person gets enlightened in a dance bar?” she cribbed, “More over you are abroad, we have to face the music here. You have put more mud on our family reputation than any one else. Write Chandamama kind of stories. Write about the thirsty crow, finding a half filled jug of water- ”
“That story is already told…” I said.
“Write the same story again, replace the crow with some other bird, may be a pigeon”
“Mom, that is plagiarism!”
“What? You think you can use high sounding phony words with me? Forgot, who taught you A B C?”

One can not really convince ones mom.

Wild goose chasers
After this lecture from mom, for sometime, I stopped writing real life incidents. Instead, I wrote a short story; with only one character in it; an old man waiting for his death. My relatives and close friends will notice traces of my grand father in the old man. I can’t help it.

I am sure it is not publishable. There is no alien attack or magic wands in the story; only an old man waiting for his death. It’s an art -movie kind of story. Tea without milk, Diet Coke, You know what I mean? The kind of story whose depth people will understand only after writer’s death. At the moment though, only a ground nut seller would find any use from the pages of the story.

Still, I asked a literary colleague of mine to have a look at it.

“I am very sorry” he said “I read only Chekhov!”

This made me immensely sad but also curious about Chekhov. I read couple of stories by Anton Chekhov. I must admit he was a great writer. With what ever knowledge I have, of contemporary literature I can boldly say there will not be another Chekhov in my life time. For that matter there won’t be a Chekhov in your life time as well (Don’t stare the monitor like that!).

This may be sad news for ONLY-Chekhov guys. Sad, they have raised the bar so high. Sad the contemporary literature is not in a position to quench their superior literary thirst.

Interestingly Chekov himself read lot of other writers who were far below his standards!

In the beginning
Sometime I wonder why one should write. There may be numeral reasons for others. I have a special reason though.

People have ignored me life long. They have side lined me, rejected me, discarded my ideas. This constant rejection and a need for recognition have made me a rambler.

Long time back (flash back time), must be very long, I can’t recollect the exact date. I was in school. It must be some kind of catechism class. I was not really concentrating, but one thing the teacher said really caught my attention.

“…..probably the most important thing he said was: Love your enemy. No one has said that before, till today. Just three little words. Love your enemy. So powerful. My dear students, such a wonderful thought, such marvelous and absolutely wonderful -”

“I disagree!” I shouted from the last bench.
“What? Who is that?”

“It is not only utopian but also impractical.”
“Do you know whom you are disagreeing with?” teacher asked.
“I have to agree, I don’t know the gentleman personally, or at least I am positive about it, never the less I disagree with his statement”

“Shut up and sit down,” said the teacher bluntly, “Ignorant fool”
“Don’t corrupt other children with your ideas” she warned.
“I am not corrupting anyone”

“Yes, you are! Well, the other day I was told, you roam around telling people that there will be telephones in future without wires?”

“Yes!” I said enthusiastically.

“And how would they communicate? Telepathy?”
“I don’t know, but it seems possible”
“And also according to you, in future, people no need to go to banks to withdraw money. There will be small automated machines which will do that for us?”
“Probably the machine will ask the potential customer, whether he wants notes in hundreds or tens?” sarcastically she asked.
“It is possible”
“And all these so called intelligent automated machines – just sit around, with large amount of cash in them, without getting attention from burglars and thieves?”
“Now, isn’t it utopian Mr. Lobo? Don’t spoil the students. Well, I may even dare to suggest you to keep your ideas to yourself, for the time being, for your own good.”

None of the students understood what she was saying. Though, I clearly recognized the threat. The teacher had a brother in Mumbai, who had come down to our place; there were rumors that he had links with the underworld.

I kept low for sometime; stopped contradicting the teacher. Deep in my heart though, I decided if I ever become a writer, I would write about it.

Grandma’s version
All grandparents exaggerate their grandkids. My grandma almost convinced strangers that her grandkid (that is me) is not less than Alexander! According to her I fought with a mad dog when I was kid and saved the whole family single handedly.

Clearly, I don’t remember this incident, but she says I was too young to remember.

According to her I didn't spend much time with mom, instead with the intellectuals and religious elders in the family. I listened to them when they discussed God, Chaos theory and global warming. So my current writing is a vent to all the listening I did during my kid days!

Nothing is far from truth. Even though I would give my right hand for these incidents to be true, but they are really far fetched.

“Grandma, you should not spread these stories, when people are really thinking of institutionalizing you!” I warned her, “In your last version it was a mad tiger and not mad dog! People don’t doubt my capability to fight the mad tiger at that tender age. But they are more curious to know: How did you find out the tiger was mad? People laugh at you – “

“I don't care. They are the same people who laughed at Galileo”
“What? Who?”
“Galileo Galilei”
“Jesus, grandma, Galileo had a point.” I gave in. It was really useless.

An abstract ending
Apart from everything, a writer should write for himself. He should write for his own satisfaction than enlightening others. Are we all keepers of our brothers? If so, what the brothers will do? Who gives the rights to critics - to judge? Who nominates them? When do you really become a critic? Why there are no statues for critics? Why don’t critics create their own art? Why do moms have to interfere in everything? Why do father in laws hate their son in laws? Why do we have crop circles? Is there an end for Ekta Kapoor serials? Is there really a life after death? Who is John Galt? What am I talking?

[My editor has written me a letter asking the meaning of above paragraph; and its possible relation to the whole article. Frankly I don’t know the meaning myself. I am sure the critics will find some meaning. I have resubmitted the article with this content in brackets, hoping they publish it ‘as is’.]

My old teacher told me last time she read couple of my articles and it seems she liked them.
“Did you ever read – Chekov?” I asked her, to be on the safer side.
“I have read Chekov” she said “Still for a beginner you write well”
What she wants from me? Does she need some sort of donation? Is she serious? There is something fishy here, oh God, am I on air? Am I on MTV Bakra, where is Cyrus? All this confusion bogged my mind. But I have decided to believe her, I believe anything, even flattery, I am prone to flattery.

What next. This is the problem of amateur writers. They just don’t know how to gracefully end an article. As a reader you expect something more, you feel the writer has rambled a lot, probably now he will tell some facts. But no, there is no next page, no more links to click, there is no grand finale, just an abstract ending. You scroll down, expecting more, but there is nothing; you see only links for archived articles and reader comments!
This article was previously published at daiji - RL

06 July 2008

Forgive me father

All major religious traditions carry basically the same message that is love, compassion and forgiveness the important thing is they should be part of our daily lives.
- His Holiness The Dalai Lama

If you judge people, you have no time to love them.
- Mother Teresa

Finally a Christian
Normally, people can not remember events before age 5; but with authors, poets and semi talented writers (like me) it is a different matter. They can remember events much before age 5, or at least imagine what would have happened.

When I was about to be baptized I clearly remember the priest asking – “I am sorry, what’s the name again?”

“It is - Ravi Lobo - father” my parents replied in unison.

“What kind of a totally uncreative, moronic, non-catholic name is this?” he muttered, and reluctantly added, “Do you guys need a 5 minutes time out to come up with a better name?”

“No father, we are kind of finalized on this one” my parents replied.

That’s how the name stuck to me, even though my parents had a second chance to think about it.

Never the less the priest said some more prayers, and sprinkled cold water on me! What kind of person sprinkles cold water on a baby less than 2 months old? But I guess that is the only authentic way of becoming a "real" catholic.

This childhood incident subconsciously created a kind of bond between me and priests I would come across in future.

A soldier of Christ
Father Bernard was probably one of the toughest priests I had ever come across. He was really big, physically as well as matters of the heart. Students were scared of him. There were rumors that he had a gun! Hence in a sense, he was kind of true soldier of Christ!

What ever it is - there is no doubt that his intentions always were good for his people and students. In short he was like coconut – tough outside, nice inside!

One time he noticed, few people attending mass standing outside, even though the church was practically empty. Some of them were smoking. Bernard stopped the mass, went to the guys standing outside, "you guys either go home or come inside," he hollered. They really wanted to go home. But none of them had the courage, quietly they entered the church.

Another time, for some silly reason students went on strike. The whole college was on the road, classes were empty. Teachers were in the canteen not knowing what to do. There was a kind of tension in the atmosphere. When Bernard came to know about this, he went directly into the mob.

“Who ever wants to go on strike step forward, rest go to their class” he said, standing among the huge student crowd. Being a literal person I was about to step forward. “Are you crazy? He will kill you” my friends stopped me. No one stepped forward; everyone went back to their class.

Another time a bus driver made a mistake – he either hit a student or did something wrong. The next day evening, students were playing in the ground “Boys,” Bernard shouted, “Follow me, we need to stop a bus”. I was reluctant this time, but he was real.

An enormous student crowd lead by Bernard stopped the bus from its evening trip. Bernard gave a small lecture to the driver on student safety – “careful with my students” he warned the driver, “Okay boys back to school!”

Some students felt sad, they wanted some action. But Bernard won’t give them any action, when there is really no need for action! The whole thing resolved peacefully.

Old man
Often, in a rectory there will be only three people, parish priest, assistant parish priest and an important member of the trio – The butler. In my childhood there were wild and imaginary anecdotes about this threesome. I will talk about those things, may be another time in leisure.

All parish priests are almost similar. They are old, hence mature. They have seen life; hence nothing can really surprise them. After all these years they just want a simple life, no controversies, and no complications of any sort. They quietly want to finish the business of this world and depart to the one which is supposed to be even better.

There used to be an old priest during my time, a real nice guy, an ascetic to the core. Auto drivers won't take money from him. “No, please take the money,” he would force, “You little devils, you guys are tempting me for these luxuries!”

He was not the kind of person who would make a grand entry at a gathering. Often he was unseen in a crowd; a grass root person. Once he was chief guest at a function. He went without the cloak. A volunteer promptly stopped him at the gate.

“Old man, do you know where you are going?” volunteer asked.

“Do I know where I am going?” old man repeated the question for no one in particular, pondered for few seconds, “A profound question, for which I am searching an answer myself” Later someone recognized him standing beside the gate, and led him inside.

Old man’s mother was buried in the cemetery. Often he was seen late nights near her grave, talking to her for long hours. A group of youngsters tried to attack him near the grave yard once at night time. “Boys, what are you doing?”

“We thought you are a Ghost” they said.
“It is sad” old man pondered “that Ghosts and priests have to wear similar attire!”
“Father, please forgive us” they begged.
“Forgiven and forgotten!” he said philosophically.
“You mean you are not really angry?”
“Angry about what? I can’t remember. I have already forgotten you see!”

Sometime people come to him for land issues. “The land doesn’t belong to you,” he would point to the first party, “Nor to you,” immediately point to the second party, “The whole world belongs to God” he concludes. But people won’t understand his utopian solutions, they go to the court, fight life long and finally realize may be the old man was right. After all, world does belong to God!

Then there were quarrelling couple needing his solicitation. Matrimony was not really his domain. Catholic priests lead a celibate life. Still they are expected to resolve issues creeping in marriage.

“I don’t regret my decision of becoming a priest!” he joked to a couple who came to him over a dispute, “When was the last time you saw the sunrise together?”
“Father, what sunrise has to do with the problems in marriage?”
“It has much to do. Now answer my question” thus he would start his session.

Young priest
Old man was content with life. He forgave people for their trivial mistakes. Some time youngsters used to pull his leg.

“Why don’t you punish them?” some good people would ask him.
“I was worse at their age. This is Gods punishment for me!” Old man would reply.

He used to conduct a catechism class before the children’s mass on Sundays. Normally he used to conduct alone. But that day he was accompanied by a new much younger assistant priest. As usual teenagers started pulling his leg.

“I have a two part question.” One asked. “What is heaven? How do non Catholics get an entry to it?”

There was more of a mockery in the question than a zeal for religious knowledge. The old priest either didn’t realize this or chose to ignore it. “For all these years, I have asked this question to myself numeral times, finally I feel heaven is nothing but a state of mind,” He continued, “And for which religion will get the entry and which will not – I believe, a true Christian is also a Hindu and a true Hindu is also a Muslim.”

The youth could not digest this mysticism. There was a small uproar and cacophony.

“Excuse me father, Can I elaborate your point?” the new assistant priest requested.
“Go, ahead” he was given permission.

The younger priest started from Nietzsche and death of God, quickly moved to Spinoza and his biblical criticism; Kant and his answer to what is enlightenment?; Meditation and J Krishnamurthy; Darwin’s religious skepticism and eventual theory of evolution; Osho and his unique user-friendly way to attain mokshya. He was jumping from Indian mystics to western philosophers and God knows where all he was intending to venture, if not the old man intervened.

“Father Henry, father Henry,” old man implored.
“What?” reluctantly the young one stopped.
“The child must have got the answer for his query, by now”
“O I see, any more questions?” he asked the crowd. No one raised a hand.

Later when I was alone with this new guy, he said “Next time when some young idiot meddles with me, I am going to kick his ……” suddenly he stopped. “Oh, Jesus, religion has tied my hands, can’t even use a bad word!”

77 times
This assistant priest became immensely popular. People welcomed his dynamism and new ideas. Often he was seen in the fish market. Fisher woman, who would bargain for hours over 25 paisa, won’t do that with this God’s man in civilian dress. Deep in their heart they had a small hope that in an emergency this man could make 5000 fish out of 2 - a feat achieved 2000 years ago by his CEO and founder member.

“Father, did you ever regret your decision of becoming priest?” occasionally a girl from choir group would ask.
“Not until I met you!” he would say coyly,” Now if you excuse me, I have an appointment with Jesus!”
I was an altar boy those days. I started hanging around with him.
“People like you a lot, there is a large crowd today for the mass” I told him one time just before the mass.
“I don’t know how much true it is. There is a poll after the mass to vote whether to have beer stalls for the parish feast or not; hence the crowd. All the drunkards have come today!

Some time I feel like throwing them all out” he said.
“Like Jesus?”
“Yeh, like Jesus” he resigned.

“But Jesus also said you have to forgive people as much as 77 times.” I tried to inform him.
What ever he was thinking, suddenly he became alert. He gave me a stern look.
“Well well well! Do we have a biblical scholar here? You want to discus 77 times? Fine, let’s meet after the mass”

I made the mistake of challenging the priest in his own domain. I had two sermons that day; one during the mass, one after it.

Never the less he gave a wonderful sermon on implementing teachings of Jesus in current times. But no one listened to him, they were only interested to know whether there will be bear stalls or not for the parish festival.

A visit from Satan
One day on my way home from school, assistant priest stopped me. He was on his bike. “Hop on” he said. I climbed the bike “where are we going?”

“Got an emergency call, Satan has come over Inthru” he said.
“Do you know how to drive away Satan?” I asked skeptically.
“What do you think I am? I am a priest not an exorcist!” sullenly he replied.
“Police is after Inthru” I informed him.
“Is it? Looks like, even the Satan is after him. Let’s check what the moron is up to”

We stopped the bike near the road side; walked along the paddy fields of Paul. Paul was working in the field.
“Good evening father” he recognized us.
“God evening Paul, as a matter of fact it may not be a very good evening. The point is, it has come to the notice of church that you are poisoning the peacocks! You can not do that, Paul. It is against the law. Peacock is our national bird!” he said in one breath.
“Well Father, your national bird is ruining our harvest. They come in groups at night and spoil the whole thing. All the farmers are fed up with peacocks. You know, farmers are backbone of this country!” Paul lamented.
“Oh I see, a serious case of national bird meddling with nation’s backbone! This is a paradox,” he said, “I wonder how Jesus would have handled this predicament.”
“Never the less,” he continued, “At the moment Inthru is priority, I will handle you later”

So we moved ahead. There was a large crowd, gathered in front of inthru’s house. Inthru was an incarnation of Satan, he was dancing and wailing, ferocious and looked dangerous. People were scared to go near. Priest went directly to Inthru muttered something in his ear, after which dancing and wailing stopped at once. Suddenly Inthru was normal. It was my first miracle!

“Let’s go” he told me. One the way back, I asked him “What did you mutter in his ear?”
“Told him, I will call the police if he doesn’t stop the nonsense”

“That is not a religious way to drive away Satan” I felt somewhat let down.
“Religious or not - it is effective!” he replied.

Road less traveled
Rectory is like a jail. Day to day life is boring. One has to be a great person to tolerate long monotonous days of a rectory. How interesting life could be with 3 males and debatable company of God?

Life in the rectory is highly unpredictable. As a priest, one can not really plan anything. Someone would die at odd hours and as a vicar you need to be there. Or Satan will come over someone. There will be people claiming to seen the devil, some claiming to seen God, some believe they are God. All these mental cases need to be handled delicately.

On an average priests study for 12-14 years. Average people don't read a single written page once they complete their education. Hence there is an intellectual difference between the congregation and the priests. Often priests are very good source of knowledge and intelligence. With their intellect they can tackle complex predicaments of the congregation. They are ever-ready to solve the problems. Unfortunately often problems of the local people are meager, sometime down right stupid.

“Father, I need your unbiased opinion” someone would come in a hurry.
“How can I help you?” priest is ready to test his vast knowledge of theology.
“Santhanam’s pig trespasses my rice fields regularly, and spoils the crop, what should I do, tell me frankly?” the person demands. Priest is irritated by this trivial question. He starts,
“Probably you should forgive..”
“Forgive whom? Pig or Santhanam?” retorts the restless man.

Such is the irony of life. As a priest you can’t even laugh at the silliness of your people. Probably you can laugh at yourself, and probably wonder what more tests from God you need to clear before entering his Kingdom.
Note: If you liked this memoir, you might like the others in the series as well. Click Here. 

This article was previously published in Daiji.