February musings

Summer has suddenly arrived or so it seemed. Till mid-February the weather was quite pleasant unlike earlier years and we were enjoying the exception. Yesterday while watering a few flower plants we have, I noticed the dryness and enhanced the quota of their fluid intake in anticipation of the approval of the home ministry. At bed time when I tried to switch on the AC for a few minutes it was immediately switched off with a stern warning-with soaring electric bills, forget AC till mid-May. It was followed by a long sermon- you are lucky to have electric fans at your home. Imagine how people were enjoying their lives with hand-made fans that too for years together. They were all strong and healthy unlike you people-popping up a medicine for blood pressure in the morning, then another before meal for blood sugar and yet another for excruciating body ache and finally a tranquilizer for sound sleep. I don’t take all those, I protested. The sermon was louder this time-I am not talking about you, I am saying about people in general. Exposure to nature is the best cure. But then why don’t we go to the roof top and enjoy pristine nature instead? Stop howling, it is already late- was the curt answer. So summer has arrived at my bedroom.  

Last year the summer was terrible and adds to it there was voltage problem. I was in service then. We had to switch off regular power supply to run the ACs with the generator so that regular classes of the Academy could function un-interrupted. Ours is a surplus power State I believe I asked the authorities of power Supply Company. It was Sir, but not now-they replied.  This past tense is because of your negligence or our over consumption, I enquired. Both Sir was the indifferent reply. I had to leave it at that. You cannot improve the work culture without a sense of belonging. Amazingly we lack that, I realised.  

In our city, we have incessant programmes throughout the year. Recently many people are simply crazy about the opera or ‘Yatra’ as we call such open air theatre. I marked yesterday that the men at the milk parlour were rejoicing the narration of an inspired opera goer, ‘the heroine cried her heart out so intensely that we all, including an indifferent person like me, sobbed in unison for several minutes’. In my childhood days the Yatra or opera was the major source of entertainment in a village. After completing the household chores the women folk join their men to witness opera which lasts about six hours –from 11pm to 5am of the next day. There was orchestra, a story, song, dance, duets and comic interludes which were exhilarating enough to unwind them for weeks.  Thing are different now with ticketed shows that start in the late evening for a duration of three to four hours. No more mythological stories-now all stories are imaginary reflecting the social milieu at large with improved acoustics, stage technique, light and of course female artists not men masquerading as women. To top it all the nomenclature of all plays can be called- sensational. Taste transformation-should we call it?

The girl of a reputed Jewellery shop was probably impressed by my new found wealth and rang me off and on with the pleading-prices have been slashed substantially, please purchase gold coin if not jewellery. I admit it was not her fault. I thought of purchasing an earring set as marriage anniversary gift to my wife and secretly went to the shop. In hurry I had chosen a defective set and more importantly it did not receive the approval of the recipient. So I had to take it back to the shop with the rightful owner on the anniversary day for its replacement. She chose a better set but was unwilling to purchase because of its price but I insisted on it coughing of a few thousands more in the process. That was the mystery behind her assumption. The poor lady does not know, it was my first ornament-gift after many years of married life that too in anticipation of retirement benefits.

During college days, one of my friends’ wrote, ‘death is not dyeing but life is’. The line sounded philosophical and impressive. Should we deliberate on the existential agony or accept life in its sublime form with pleasure and pain caressing each other? ‘Why fret about those if today be sweet?’ it is Omar Khayyam all the way that keeps me moving.

           

A sequel to the Story

Writing a story is not free from worldly hazards. It is like any other human activity which can earn you fame or notoriety and at times both in the same vein. I was contemplative of the subject because of my recent venture in honing my skills of story-writing which was my passion for years. My imitative took almost a week to give shape to a story, if it can be called one. After reading the story my wife didn't say a word and took to her bed rather early. I knew she did not like the tragic ending. But then nobody loves tragedy.
I often ask myself –what are the other options available to a writer in such a situation. Honestly I don’t find any. In some of the plays of earlier years a mechanism in shape of deus ex machina was employed which was a sort of divine intervention to give poetic justice to a situation which was grievously wrong. Unfortunately life is not a well-made play with a beginning, the middle and the end. When the very existence is an enigma, if one expected the sequences to re-enact –frustration would be the answer. I curse myself for remaining aloof from the filmy trend where hero always wins and all tragedies culminate in mid-summer night’s dream with hero heroine dancing together in a scintillating duet.
Back from imagination I found myself immobile with the surgical treatment of cataract. The super specialist in ophthalmology –who happened to be my brother-in-law, advised me rest for a week with no laptop around. After the third day I rang up and said, ‘how can you be that cruel in the post-surgical treatment? Hitler must be a pleasing personality compared to your advice.’ He grumbled initially but agreed for a check-up the next day. After examining he was pleased with the developments but said sternly, ’five minutes for mail and ten minutes for Facebook- that is all you get for the next seven days and mind you, for any violation the leniency stands terminated’. ‘But dear’ I pleaded ‘I don’t need laptop for those things. I need it for writing and your fifteen minutes quota is as good as nothing’. He threw a phial of eye drop and said ‘lubricate your eyes when you are uncomfortable with your vision but use laptop half an hour at a stretch and don’t use more than three hours in a day. I would ring up Bhauja to monitor your viewing and install CCTV camera if need be. I wish I could see the footage.’ These Docs are as suspicious as women I murmured’. ‘Did you say something?’ he enquired. ‘Yes I said-thank you Doctor’. He threw me a suspicious glance.
My friend rang up yesterday and said ‘I read your nice little story and enjoyed the writing I know of. Keep it up and we expect more’.
These sorts of contradictory reactions made me sad and happy alternatively and consequently leave me in an indecisive mode. Should I pursue my passion or concentrate on poetry instead? The friend rang up once again and said, ‘I re-read your story and believe me it is poetry all through’. I wish my wife heard it too.
   

Backdrop of a Story

I have started writing short stories quite recently after a gap of almost thirty years. The moment I begin to start writing, my wife would appear from nowhere with the pleading, ’don’t give me a sad story’. I don’t know wherefrom she discovered my potential to kill the characters. True I am not a vegetarian, but does that turn me into a potential murderer? Do I look like a killer or for that matter a mercenary? I must ask my friends but they would be equally biased because of their affection. Unable to find a solution, I started writing humorous pieces on post-retirement scenario making her the recipient of all satirical blows which she enjoyed without grumbling. I believe she enjoyed the stories, in spite of descriptive tantrums because she was portrayed as the heroine. Now, enough is enough, I declared. I have already written four pieces within three months of retirement. Don’t cajole me into offering you lolly pops all the time I said in disgust. Let us do something serious. She showed me the utmost indifference a lady can offer. I put my hands on my head cursing all gods that came to my mind for this predicament. But that is no consolation either.

Come whatever may, I must fight headlong and with that promise I began writing stories. I had uninterrupted existence for a couple of days but on the third day the uninvited intruder started throwing medium-sized pebbles in shape of questions, ‘so rustic characters with amorous scenes-that you call stories hey’. ‘Honey where do you get such vulgar ideas’ I retorted. ‘It is a love story and I hope it would be a nice one’. ‘So you are on a mission to recount all your numerous escapades with those glamour girls who flirt but never love?’ ‘Stop, stop what are you suggesting honey? I am a dignified person with decent disposition. You cannot accuse me of adultery’. ‘But your friends say you were a live Casanova in your college days’. Oh my God, those innocent looking affectionate friends have turned villains indeed. I must take these traitors to task but I cannot believe it. I became impatient and said ‘give me peace of mind to concentrate and complete’. ‘You have all the time in the world to complete it, but remember if I discovered traces of your exploits in any of the romantic dialogues with the heroine or whatever you call that idiot- the story will go to the flames I usually light every day to burn the weeds’. With those stern words she marched out of the room in military style. I took a couple of glasses of cold water to regain my composure. So the volcano is active again.

I confined myself in a room and tightly locked it inside, except in the dining time, to prevent different instrumental notes emanating from the chatter-box that I call wife. Story telling is not easy once your skills became rustic because of negligence. But I tried to revive it with emotions in late nights and could somehow manage to complete only yesterday. ‘Don’t forget the censor’ my wife reminded. ‘No I don’t, how can one forget it? Even the film people come crawling. I am a mundane human being, how can I forget You Highness’ scissors?’ I humbly submitted. ‘Don’t be over simplistic and don’t put up any drama. Tell me the story in nutshell before I actually went through’.

After the Post-graduate final examination the protagonist wanted to stay an extra day in the hostel to roam around the campus and bask down the memory lane. Accidentally he came across a classmate who happened to be a lady and requested her to stay back for a day so that they could make a stroll around the campus together to make it memorable. Initially the lady did not agree but to his utter surprise he discovered the lady in the college square waiting for him. It touched a tender chord and unknowingly they started loving each other. That is how the story developed. ‘The story sounds interesting and decent without Bollywood spices. But tell me what is the end?’ she inquired. ‘Read it yourself’ I said calmly.

Unfortunately the story ends with the protagonist expiring in a road accident and his lady-love, for the last seven years has been pining each moment of their immortal love that lasted only for twenty-four hours.

I do not know what would be the reaction of my wife at the end. But am I a potential sadist?

              

January-Part Two

During my formative years I had been asked time and again ‘What is your aim in life?’ I remember I had dissimilar answers on various stages. It is quite obvious because you cannot expect a youngster of eighteen to repeat what he stated as a boy at ten. Boys are very imaginative and are prone to influences that impressed them. I have seen boys declaring ‘I want to be a Joker’ after visiting a circus because he enjoyed the exciting and entertaining antics. What is so embarrassing to raise our eye brows? A joker may be his idol at that age. I for one never believed in asking a question like this except in interviews, that too if the attitude of a candidate is confusing. I sometimes wonder if the rationale behind such query was not obscure and dated. But then I am not an expert.

After clearing the written test for Probationary Officers of a Bank I was asked in the Viva-voce ‘Mr Dash, you look older than your age’. ‘How can I help it Sir? There is no way I could know my age except the documents showing my date of birth’, I replied. In contrast when I retired many said- you look younger than your age. Divergent views reminded me of Keats who once wrote ‘beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder’. Here of course it is not the beauty but age. With a little liberty a Shakespearean quote could be twisted as, ’what is there in an age? A mind at any age could smell as sweet’. (Is it really?)

‘April is the cruellest month, but O sweet new one, Eliot would have changed his version had he seen you today. Welcome to the Department’. It was the month of April and the welcome message was written on the black board by one of our friends welcoming a new student who enrolled in our Post-graduate class. The new entrant who happened to be a lady blushed but others were enjoying the note. Youthful exuberance I suppose. The professor-a true Gandhian with Khaddar dhoti and kurta- entered the classroom and took attendance. While delivering the lecture he noticed some sensitive under current and suddenly looked back to find the source. ‘Who has written this?’ he asked. No one answered in spite of his repeated queries. Unable to find the duster he started wiping out the writing by his own dress while muttering ‘See what your professor is doing’. Tears rolled down his cheeks when he left the classroom. Our friend who later became a good writer, academician and social worker immediately rushed to the chamber of the professor and confessed. The professor initially did not believe at all but our friend was able to convince him. He was a brilliant teacher but very sensitive and emotional. I am yet to find a professor who teaches Shakespearian plays as beautifully as he was able to. He considers the students as his children and was a tremendous human being too. Alas, he is no more. I feel my wet eyes remembering him with love and reverence.

The weather in January remains cool and pleasant, offering ideal time for picnics and celebrations. So I was not surprised when my friend rang up and asked whether I would be free to attend the get together the following day. By all means, yes, I replied. He hesitantly asked again if he could count my name in the list. What is so offensive in counting my name, I demanded. He was apologetic and explained that he was under the impression that I would be attending the picnic of the Retired Officers’ Association scheduled on the same day and that was the reason for his confusion. I laughed and said that the problem had been resolved by our learned friend in the Association who refused to recognise my credential as a retired officer. “What credential” he was still not satisfied. I would explain that when we meet, I assured him.

Our learned friend had given me a ring earlier in the day and knowing my inconvenience in attending the picnic declared that I was not qualified to be a retired officer because I didn’t complete the probation. “Did you say probation?” I exclaimed. “Yes mate,” he replied calmly “for not completing one year of retirement”.

We had a hearty laugh together in the evening when I explained my disqualification to my other friends.

 In spite of all these the fact remains that I have retired from Government service. Charaibeti…charaibeti Go on go on until the road ends until there is no other place to go I chide myself. Don’t stop don’t rest till you are able to replace some one’s tear with a smile.

  

Thoughts of January

Probably after reaching a certain stage we are psychologically conscious of our position and responsibilities for which it is never easy to commit any mistake but once we start committing mistakes, the psychological barrier fades. Subsequent violations do not look as imposing as the first one. This realisation dawned on me recently while I was taking stock of my negligence in life. I imagine I could have been much more enterprising had I been a little careful and such thought made me sad for a moment. However, the penitence was short lived when I remembered ‘to err is human’. Is it the normal practice of other reprobates too? I must find out.

To lead a life of perfection is an aspiration that keeps us ticking. We strive to be perfectionist, but it is a huge task. Many years back when I wished ‘Happy Diwali’ to my boss he retorted by saying, “It is the darkest Diwali of my life”. Mr Perfectionist was upset that I could not achieve the target fixed by him for the month. He had distributed the tax collection target evenly and was expecting proportionate collection. I explained the pattern of tax collection and reasoned out the unevenness because of the market behaviour. The statistics of the last five years was illustrative of the pattern. He would not listen to it simply because a person cannot remain hungry for days together to enjoy a feast. You need ration every day to survive, he argued. He is an honest and upright administrator besides being a virtuous person but never accepts ‘no’ as answer. I had a very difficult time differentiating the animate with the inanimate and their existential requirements. But then life is not a bed of roses.

We consider people as performer who have dedication and hard work. Allurement for recognition and praise is perhaps the secret of performance. My grandfather used to tell, ‘nothing is more enchanting than your own praise or denigration of others’. Recently I discovered that the second one is much more attractive and entertaining than the first one. I heard that an educationist had a brilliant record of academic achievements but what engaged the attention of the people around him was his salacious rendezvous with the domestic help. Such are the vagaries of life.

I know an extremely dedicated officer who was some years senior to me. He is so dedicated that sometimes he forgets that he has a family of his own. We all consider him as an authority on tax laws. Surprisingly, after his retirement there was a departmental proceeding for his negligence in completing an enquiry. We all know that he was so involved in the Court cases for the Revenue that he had no time for completing inquiry. Time required for handling a tax case for the revenue depends upon many factors. One only wishes these factors be considered.    

About six months ago the participants of a training programme met me at my chamber and requested to address the trainees. I was surprised because the training programme was over and the relieve order was in the process of being issued, but they persisted with their demand which I conceded rather reluctantly with the rider that it would be matter of minutes. They agreed

What should I tell you now? When the curtain drops and a play concludes, what remains is the indistinct muttering in the wings. Should I get your indulgence to recount those mutterings? What I propose to tell is not part of the syllabus nor did we impart training on these issues. Imagine, after sixty-five years of independence some of our women folk still walk five kilometres to fetch drinking water. Our people continue to suffer the ignominy of indifference when they go to different offices to get their work done. Justice is denied to many for none of their faults. It is not that the God has failed, but rather we have failed our own people. You are all Government officers and part of the establishment that ensures transparency. Don’t you feel disturbed? If you could find time to think these mutterings for a minute and identify your role, I would be most obliged.

I hope against hope that they still remember.

January is refreshingly cool to think, meditate and reflect the events of the past. I chanced upon discovering my old diary of 1982 where I scribbled, ‘to love and to be loved/ Are both perhaps simultaneous desires/Hovering around relationship, old and new’. I wish it were true. 

Charms

Exposure to foggy morning made me indisposed for a couple of days. During this short interlude one day I heard a remix of old Hindi songs with some amazing metallic instruments. I was very curious to find out the musical instrument that accompanied the songs. My curiosity led me to the source of its origin and to my utter surprise I discovered that most of the cutlery and utensils were lying scattered in the kitchen. Immediately I understood the mystery behind the strange instrument.

My wife is very fond of music and listens to the FM station or CD whenever she works in the kitchen. That particular day she had prohibited my daily errands as I was not well and it was a foggy morning but the daredevilry in me refused to listen to her resulting fresh supply of vegetables from the market. That annoyed her so much so that she used cutlery and kitchen wares as missiles to unleash her anger. The rhythmic music created by the missiles in kissing the floor or the wall produced the mirage of a remix. I congratulated her for this rare symphony which she dismissed with disdain but I escaped unhurt because the armory was exhausted. These ladies are really charming in their annoyance.

Recently I have been brooding over Beckettian('Waiting for Godot' by Samuel Beckett) waiting. Is waiting has been our eternal situation? Do we always wait for someone or something which would change our life? I am not sure. Perhaps a person loves to dream because, expectations, remaining un-fulfilled can safely be dreamy of. That probably is the cause of our waiting for the unexpected- so alluring and attractive. Such waiting has a charm of its own.

All charms are attractive and enjoyable.  

I remember an incidence some eight years back. While moving towards the office, I saw a young and fully grown robust cobra near our office at Jeypore at 9.45 am. The driver quickly parked the vehicle and said, “Sir, I can catch this cobra for you to see,” but the reptile was so quick that by the time he alighted it was 100 meters away and quite safe. I heard later that the driver was capable of catching snakes by some magic charms. It reminded me another incident that occurred many years back. One night, during my school days, a cousin of my father had a cobra bite. He was immediately rushed to our family physician. Incidentally he was our relation and had retired as a Government doctor and settled in our village too. The Doctor plucked some Tulsi leaves, forced those leaves to the patient’s mouth while chanting some ‘mantras’. Thereafter he cleaned the wound and applied antiseptic. Within minutes my uncle was cured. It was a known fact that he had cured many such snake bite cases and none of his snake-bite patients expired during treatment. I do not know how it is possible.

Apart from magic and magical charms, many other activities become attractive in young age. During my college days one of my aunts, three years senior to me, gathered us all during a summer vacation to have a ‘spirit call’ session. As per the procedure, a cup has to be kept upside down in the centre of a circle. All the twenty-six English alphabets are to be written round the circle. Minimum four participants should keep their finger tips on the cup and concentrate remembering a deceased person they all know. After a few minutes the cup would appear to be moving and the questions asked by the participants would be answered. I always had a hearty laugh when the session ends because I knew all along that it could never be true but could be enjoyed as a good fun and relaxation.

Oration has a wonderful charm to keep the audience spell bound. I have seen many professors taking classes in such absorbing manner that we wished prolongation of the classes. A professor of physics, during my post-graduation, was participating in a seminar organized by the English department. He spoke about Gorge Orwell and ‘Nineteen eighty-four’ for about an hour in such a magical spell that none could move an inch. How a professor of physics could find time to be critically involved in literature is still a mystery but in our college days, most of the teachers were brilliant.

What the stars foretell is an amusing experience. I heard that one day a Lecturer of a college at the end of the session had suddenly picked up the right hand of a student sitting in the first row. He deeply studied the hand and uttered in a low tone, “Yes it clearly shows you are in love but you are to prove yourself in the studies as well to win her”. “But sir,” he protested, but the Lecturer left the class without answering. When the Lecturer was asked about the incident he confided that he did not know anything about palmistry or fortune telling. He had been noticing for about a month that the student was absent minded most of the time. He wanted to bring back his confidence. The story goes on to tell that the student did well in the examination and won his lady-love too. Probably we love to hear sweet lies and interestingly some lies become true. 

What we call the beginning is often the end

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

While ending this piece I am still apprehensive of the beginning of further assault basically because I have been consistently dismissive of feminine advice and the weather continues to remain foggy.

Events

The gentleman at the second row commented, “I wasted my time and money in watching this wretched movie”. But it is a good film reflecting the realities of our society, I argued. “Reality?  Nonsense. Who does not have agony, suffering, pain etc. in his life? We do not go on lamenting all those in public. People come to watch movie for amusement, relaxation-not to carry a heavy head back home to add to his overburdened misery. Cinema is for entertainment. Don’t you agree?”

This encounter occurred some forty years back when I, along with my friends, had gone to a show house to watch a newly released movie. I argued for the sake of argument, but he was correct. “Human kind can not bear very much reality” Eliot writes. How true! But there are movies with tragic ending which move us as deeply as some hilarious ones. The poet writes, “Our sweetest songs are those which tell us the saddest story”. I am reminded of a great poet-Sarojini Naidu

‘The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow, 
The laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of death to-morrow. ‘

The couplet has a sad note but leaves a deep impression. Basically, to my mind, it is the presentation and the treatment of the theme that affects our psyche and leaves a deep scar. That of course does not nullify the fundamental - art, whether literature, film, painting, dancing or any other art form is to give pleasure, to amuse and entertain. While posting the blogs it occurred to me that I deliberately avoided narrating my experiences in handling unjust interference of power centers. Quite true and that is the reason for raising the question-whether literature is for pleasure or otherwise. Having resolved the question in favour of the former, I would seek the indulgence of my readers to allow me to present the pleasant only with minor digression.

I started my service career as a lecturer just after completing my Post Graduation. This assignment offered me the opportunity to read more books as the college had a rich library. Students from eastern states had enrolled in this institution as it was a regional college. I had to prepare a lot before engaging a class mainly because it was my first assignment and secondly the students were young, inquisitive and very keen to participate in the concluding interactive schedule. I enjoyed their company.

Annual play competition was an attractive itinerary in the extra-curricular activities. One of my colleagues was an excellent Director. I had some experience in the dramatic activities in my school days where I acted and directed a small play. We decided to stage an innovative Odia play. We selected the book as well as the players. I remember, I had to spend the entire evening and part of the night at Nandan Kanan (open wild life zoo of the state) to record the bird songs and the sounds of wild animals at night to give sound effect of nocturnal-forest. I had to request my cousin (who was an AIR artiste then) to render a solo song without accompaniment for the supporting actress. Air-rifle of my uncle was borrowed to replicate the gun shot. The play was adjudged the best play of the competition. The Chief Guest, an eminent writer, actor and educationist was overwhelmed and embraced us for such beautiful production. The experience was simply charming.

Much water has flown in between. After a brief stint in education, I moved to Finance where I continued till my superannuation. Life moves on. You have lived much of your life, I told myself. Be patient to see the remnant. Don’t buckle or bend, stand erect to say goodbye at the end.