life

[Middle: Times of India: April 28, 1995]

Now the days grow longer, with golden dawns and crimson sunsets, with Spring in the air and in the pedestrians’ footsteps. Winter yet possesses a weapon. His final kick will be hard, the ancients murmur: yet, hearing the incredible tumult of sparrows each morning and seeing, at dusk, great formations of parrots winging their way northwards, it seems hard to believe.

Till one remembers Ruknuddin.

Never wrong in his weather predictions, Ruknuddin has yet to make his appearance. And that means, Spring is not yet come.

A quiet and unassuming fellow, Ruknuddin is nevertheless firm in his principles and will, when pushed to the wall, fight tooth and nail to defend his rights. He is essentially an outdoor person, and lists rock-climbing among his favourite pursuits. His scaly hide would put most public sector employees to shame; but no lounge-lizard is he! His ancestors ruled the earth for a hundred million years—and that, even on the geological scale, is a long time.

Ruknuddin now hibernates, deep within the stormwater pipe that leads from the terrace to the ground four storeys beneath. It must be pleasant in there…quiet, cool, with just a glimmer of light filtering in through the narrow vents above and below. For these past three months he has dreamed, sheltered from the biting winds of cruel Winter—though what, after all, would he care for cold! He, whose genes carry memory of the Ice Ages, of the great glaciers of yester-eon.

But there will soon come a day when Ruknuddin will awake, and stretch his cramped limbs, and wave his 18-inch tail about languidly. And presently he will glide up the drain, his taloned feet finding effortless purchase on the stone, and peer out through the iron grating at the broken-tiled expanse of the terrace.

And Ruknuddin will smile as he beholds the blazing sunlight; for he knows the time has come for him to break his fast. And while possessed of neither fork nor knife, he will carry in him a tremendous appetite, whetted by his fourteen-week-long penance; and there before him, the table is laid.

The service is simple, as befits an individual of his austerity—a flattish ceramic bowl filled with fresh water, resting on a stone flower pot. To this limpid pool come, each day, the sparrows, pigeons, mynahs, crows, transitory parrots, squirrels, and even the occasional kite and eagle. Ruknuddin will wait in silence while six sparrows finish their ritual immersions. Shy by nature, he is uncomfortable in the midst of strangers; and besides, he far prefers to arrive at lunch unannounced.

But hark! Five sparrows flutter their wings, converse earnestly, and shoot off towards a neighbouring tree. Now the sixth is alone. It looks about, is reassured by the stillness of the landscape, and dips its little head into the pool for a final sip. A brown blur of movement, a flash of glistening scale, a millisecond-long glimpse of a rearing snakes-head…and then the sparrow is gone and Ruknuddin’s tail is vanishing down the stormwater drain.

For a while the golden sun will shine benignly upon the terrace; and soon, the sparrows will return to their pool to drink and frolic—but now there will be a new watchfulness about them. For they, too, will know that with the coming of Ruknuddin, Spring has returned.

[Published in the Times of India , 29 January 1994. Now, nearly 30 years later, it’s an appropriate time to re-inflict it upon thee, O hapless and most valued Readers, as I contemplate a career shift while still young…]

Twelve years. For twelve years did I immerse myself in the Sea of Black Ink, but already the memories are fading. Of the thousands of acres of neatly typed audit reports; the yellow and red vouchers; the sing-song tones of head clerks checking the balance books (…two hundred and thirteen fifty, one thousand and four sixty five…); the sweet jingle of token and coin, the rustle of currency notes. Time, then, was measured by the daily day-book, the weekly performance report, the quarterly returns; and the annual closing was a ceremony in itself, culminating in shrill cries of joy – or sometimes, when the branch office showed a loss of something like 32 lakhs, in the most horrendous moaning, and the only sound to break the silence thereafter would be a sharp rip-and-tear as the manager divested himself of what little hair he had left.

Exciting indeed were those 12 years…

But now, suddenly, here I am. Adrift upon the oceans, having cast my anchor overboard and the oars after it. I’ve quit the bank, and now the memories are slipping away, faster and faster, in a steady stream, soon to become a torrent and then a raging cataract, emptying the mind and leaving a great hollowness to be filled by…what?

My friends have, of course, been of immense support.

“You’re mad,” they said, shaking their heads in disbelief. “No job waiting for you, yet you just up and quit!”

“You’re lucky,” they said excitedly, “Now you can do anything you like! Row a boat across the Brahmaputra, buy an elephant, why, you’re so lucky!”

“You’ve got guts!” they exclaimed. “Just quitting like that…why, wish we could do the same!” Having said which they glanced at their watches and rushed off to their telephones and PCs and deadlines and conferences.

And when they’ve left I look around at my priceless possessions – the accumulated debris of 12 years – and I begin to tremble. Were they right after all? Am I really nuts, or at least a wee bit gaga?

Consider: I have, to my credit, a music system; a mixer; a settee; a guitar; a dhol, clay pot and six flutes; four cushions, twenty potted plants, a few score books and garbled memories.

Where do I go now?

Stop! I cry to myself. Think! Consider and analyse your innermost desires! You can do whatever you set your mind on doing. Focus upon your yearning, give it a direction, and strengthen yourself for the journey with the courage of conviction. Aha! That’s it.

I want to play music. To play the drums and the clay pot before a suitably delirious audience of three million. I want to drive a suburban train. To trek across the Himalayan ranges; to eat from a copper pot cooked over a slow wood fire in a silent pine forest. I want to dream, and to live in my dreams as long as I wish with the option to change channels. I want to write the greatest story ever written…so that they’ll know my name from Managua to Mokokchung.

Dear Ed, do you think I have possibilities? Please make out your crossed cheque favouring…but there I go again, slipping back into the mindset of yesteryear.

Alas! Like too many I’d come across in those 12 years, this account is overdrawn.

Wanderings and Wonderings

The Writings and Writhings of Mani

Weather Monitor

Call to account

[Published in the Times of India , 29 January 1994. Now, nearly 30 years later, it’s an appropriate time to re-inflict it upon thee, O hapless and most valued Readers, as I contemplate a career shift while still young…]