Dream

Sudesh felt tired. He also had a nagging headache. It had been a long, trying and fruitless week. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eight in the evening.

“Oh Shit!” he thought. Now he was going to be late. And Anupama would give him hell or forgetting. With reason too! She would be dressed up and waiting – for a long time. He had promised her he would be home by seven so that, for once, they would be on time for the party. Anyway, it could not be helped now.

Quickly setting his table in order, he ran downstairs and at the same time called his driver to have the car ready.

As he got into the car, he felt a bout of panic. There was no reason to panic, but he felt it anyway. People, by now, expected him to be late. The drive would take almost forty five minutes. Time to grab a quick nap; maybe he would feel better. At the moment he was not feeling up to the party, but that could not be avoided. He was the host. It was one of the things that he really did not enjoy but it was expected of him. It would be the same people, the same shitty talk, and the same “informal” formality. It was not as if the guests were friends, more like prospective and current clients. Appearances had to be lived up to.

He had a successful life till now. And he had enjoyed it. At least till a few years ago. Then the fun had slowly seeped out. He had been more engaged in managing stupid squabbles than actually doing things. When would people grow up? Petty politics, jealousy, boot licking and incompetence had to be managed. The constant fight for pushing ideas that made sense, getting around his boss who was shit scared of making tough decisions, a constant struggle to get the best people on board, fighting off recommendations for including nincompoops favoured by influential people in the teams, going through dreary bureaucratic approval notes had taken up more time than the actual work. And the actual work was not done by him anymore – it was done by a handful of people in his team while the others kept trying to derail the activity, yet hang on. Getting the fringe and their supporters to lay off the actual “workers” had become his primary job.

And all this for what? To increase output of a product that nobody really needed. Had there been sense in the customers, they would have avoided this product like plague. It was not needed for living a good life; it actually had a very negative impact on it. But the advertisers had done a great job and people not only accepted the product but hankered after it! This made big bucks for the promoters and some of the huge profits trickled down to the employees in the form of incentives. He enjoyed the incentives that he received and as he grew in the organization, he gradually understood that the incentives were only a small portion of the benefits that some employees received by virtue of their being in key positions.

There was a beautifully corrupt system in place. Each person in decision-making had a separate set of parameters for approving activities. The Chairman, the CEO, the heads of Finance, Stores, Procurement and Project Execution would all receive a cutback from the activity. And this cutback accounted for nearly thirty per cent of the actual cost. Add the exorbitant profits of the promoters- nearly seventy percent -the price in the market was up by over 100%. There was money all around! And the customers were lapping up the products.

No one was asking the question “Do we really need it? Is the price right?”. The product was playing truant with the appetites of the kids, using plastics as if there was no tomorrow, using water, fuel without control. The State Pollution Control Board was happy with the data provided and never bothered to check as long as the data came in on time even if it was fudged. No one was questioning the effect of the product on the health of the children – the target customers, because there were too many similar products in the market to pin down the ill effects on any one in particular. The Doctors, the hospitals, the Government were all having good time.

But he had been shocked to hear the discussion of a couple of the company’s lawyers a few days ago. They were discussing the likely impact of the legal suit that was due for hearing. One of them was sounding worried but the other was flippant about it. Becoming interested, he asked them about it. He was told that there was no need to worry! These suits had always been around and usually there were too many loose ends in the findings to actually implicate the company. The Judiciary and the Government were also not very inclined to take the information seriously. They were discussing this with him openly without any hint of suspicion about his interest. Then it hit him. They were not suspicious because they considered him a co-conspirator! But it had set him thinking.

He had arrived at his home and fortunately the first of his guests had also arrived. That saved him from his wife’s wrath. Quickly apologizing for being late he headed to his bedroom for a shower and a change. In five minutes he was with his guests but the headache refused to go away. More guests arrived and the rounds of drinks seemed never ending. The food was served and the party was finally over well past midnight.

Lying in bed, Anupama finally asked him “Is everything OK? You don’t look very well!” He admitted to her that there was a lot on his mind but did not elaborate. Anu knew him well enough not to push. He would tell her when he was ready.

Next morning he woke up with the same throbbing headache. He did not have a good night. He had been in a state of half wakefulness throughout. There were many thoughts running through his head but they were too disjointed to make any sense. Perhaps a cup of tea would make things better.

Anu came in with the tea and as she sat with him, her look was concerned. He understood that she wanted to ask him but was holding herself back. With his first sip he began. He told her how he felt about his job, about the conversation with the lawyers, about his feeling of doing nothing worthwhile in life. She listened patiently and then started asking small questions. He knew these would help clear his thoughts too. Finally she asked him “Should you not take a holiday for a few days to get away from it all? The change might make you feel better. It has been a long time since we had a real holiday.”

Sudesh shook his head. “It’s not about stress or a break. It’s about the worth of what I do. A holiday is not going to make this feeling go away.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Not sure. Let me try to work out things in my head before I decide.”

It was a weekend so there was no pressure to hurry. The idea of quitting was there but he was not sure of his assets and finances. And what to do next; he wanted it to be something worthwhile, but was not sure exactly what. People always told him he could have the pick of jobs. But he knew it was not so easy when you were at a senior position. And even if he did manage to get another job, would it be substantially different from his present one? Unlikely! Anyway, first things first! He spent a better part of the day trying to get a handle on his financial worth. How much was enough even if he did not work for the rest of his days? That was the most difficult question to answer. Next he tried to make a balance sheet of his assets and liabilities, both current and for the future. Finally he arrived at a reasonable answer to his first question. He could afford to quit with a reasonably small amount of risk.

The next question proved more difficult to answer. What would he do to make himself worthwhile? He pondered alone and with Anu and many ideas were discussed. By the end of the day they had not arrived at an acceptable result. The next day was the same. No real plan was in place, but the decision to quit had been made.

Monday morning, he felt renewed. He had his resignation letter ready. He breezed into his office, wishing Good Mornings, left right and centre. Some of his colleagues and subordinates were surprised. Usually he would be in a bad temper even in the mornings with a thousand things nagging at the back if his mind. The formality of handing over his resignation done, he spent the rest of the days in the organization trying his best to coach people informally and sharing thoughts with them. His exit interview was not notable on account of his refusing to discuss the reason for leaving. This left the HR man in a quandary for he would not have anything of value to report. Anyway, “personal reasons” would have to do. In a couple of months it was time to finally go out of the doors one last time. He did not wish it to be anything but quiet and it was generally so. He did not feel any real attachment to the office now.

Next morning he got up to a leisurely breakfast, went through the newspaper, end to end. He still had not found an answer to the question “What next?” He had considered becoming an activist and filing a suit against his own organization for starters. He had even discussed it with a few friends. But he had ultimately decided against it. God knows, he was in the best position to fight his own organization but friends had convinced him that it would not be a great idea. There would be counter-suits, money would be required, there would be breach of trust motions and it might take years by the time anything happened provided he still had the strength and the money to sustain it. But the argument which finally convinced him not to do this was that it would be reactive. There was no reason to believe that his beliefs would be shared by others and he would become a pawn in the game of legal arguments and counter arguments; better to do something positive – of that he was sure. The question still was – what?

With his present unemployment there were many reactions. His children felt vulnerable even after he tried to convince them that their needs were accounted for. His wife enjoyed his company initially but was now gently prodding him to do something about it, and with good reason! Some neighbours were talking, some relatives were speculating, some friends were worried – but he was not affected. He knew he had made the right decision but was waiting to discover where he wanted to go next. He had lots of time to think but he was nowhere close to the answer.

As time went by he settled into a routine existence. One day was not different from the other. It had become boring and monotonous. The lazy days were getting a grip on him and he was beginning to find comfort in the laziness. The signs of decay were setting in. Anu realized it before he did. But what was to be done? He was not old enough to do nothing and while away his time. The hobbies that he had developed had become boring. However his mind was still active. He was drawn towards the discussions on climate change. There were many theories and proposed solutions. While most of them were excellent in themselves, he felt that they were symptomatic cures and did not address the root cause. He would often argue with himself about the pros and cons of each solution. But no real implementable idea caught his fancy.

One day he decided to effect a change in his routine. He decided to visit his village. It had been nearly two decades since he had been there. Maybe the change would be good. So the bags were packed and he was off with Anu. He remembered the place as if it was yesterday. An old family retainer had been looking after things as best as he could and he had often requested him to visit – without much success. This would make him happy too.

As he got down at the station after the overnight journey, he was surprised by the change. The place which had a back of beyond feeling earlier was bustling with humanity. There were people and more people all around. Everyone seemed in a hurry. There were dingy looking shops everywhere an increase of many times since he remembered it. The place looked dirty and full of dust and one had to be careful on the road to avoid being hit by motorcycles and carts. There were signboards advertising all sorts of coaching classes (both in terrible Hindi and even worse English). There were tractor and motorcycle fumes threatening to choke you.

It was usual to walk the mile and a half to our village, but he thought it would be prudent to take a rickshaw. All along the route there was a clack-clack of the stone crushing mills and a haze of stone dust which were likely to kill you if you inhaled them long enough. The fresh air that Sudesh remembered was long gone. The one thing that remained constant was the state of the road which remained as bad as ever!

As they reached the village they found that the dirt track down to their house had been replaced by a concrete “road”. The word road would be a misnomer since it was a series of concrete slabs laid one after the other, without proper joining and the edges falling off sharply. The concrete was also coming off even though the work was quite recent. They reached the house and the rest of the day was spent having it cleaned enough to become liveable. Proper cleaning would take another few days. Fortunately there was electricity in the house though the light would flicker of its own accord owing to the large scale power theft and patchwork repairs. Evenings could be spent in front of the house talking to some villagers.

They planned to stay there for about a week. The next day he went for a walk in the fields with the caretaker who pointed out the various plots which belonged to his family and the types of crop and the seasons that were best for them. At the end of the day Sudesh had only the vaguest of ideas about what he had been taught. Too much, too early; and he was not really interested. After all he would be back in the city in a week. The simple lunch was still as delicious as he remembered it. Or was it? There were subtle differences. The “Dal” was not as tasty as he remembered it. The vegetable was almost as good and so was the rice.

In the afternoon, he went for a walk in the village with Shankar, his childhood friend. There were more “pucca” houses now. But the place looked filthy. There was a lot of noise now as compared to the silence earlier. This was primarily due to a mill which had come up and also due to the many pumps that had been installed for irrigation and also for drinking water. He was told that the mill provided for most of the employment in and around the village. The workers were mainly women of the village. The owner was a affluent family of the village. They also owned most of the pumps and also most of the land by now – he was informed in an undertone. There was something wrong. He could not pin it down exactly but he had the feeling that all was not well.

A hail brought him to reality. It was Ramdhari, his childhood friend. He smiled and went up to hug him. His escort, however, stood respectfully behind with his hands folded in a Namaste. This was odd! He was also a childhood friend. Ramdhari took me to his home and soon hot tea and pakoras were served. Ramdhari looked prosperous. His house seemed larger than he remembered though it was decorated in a crude sort of way. Shankar however stood outside waiting for him. Sudesh asked Ramdhari to call him, but he seemed evasive. Sudesh let the matter pass. Maybe it was one of the petty disputes which often cropped up in villages.

A short while later, he bade Ramdhari farewell and started off for his home. Shankar again joined him. He seemed quieter and withdrawn. He enquired about the sudden change in mood, but Shankar kept quiet. He was to find out the reason later.

The next few days passed without incident. He had decided to have solar panels installed on the terrace of his house and this proved to be quite difficult. There were not many vendors willing to take up this work for only one house. Finally, Sudesh got hold of one and the process of installation started. In the meantime he got his old bicycle repaired and oiled so that it was easier to make the trip to the local “kasba” – this had become almost a daily activity. Shankar often accompanied him and would help renew old acquaintances.

Gradually, a picture of how the village had transformed was becoming clearer. Apparently, Ramdhari had become a big shot and owned most of the industries around the place. He owned the stone crushers (all illegal), the mill, majority of irrigation pumps and tractors, and was the de-facto owner of a large tracts of the land. He was also the local strongman and a feared man for he had a small army of paid criminals to look after his interests. He charged exorbitant amounts for use of his pumps and tractors and also for the oil which came from the mills. He also used strong arm tactics to discourage competition. No one dared challenge his authority.

Most of the mining leases had been garnered by him and the surrounding hills had been stripped bare for the stone chips which were in high demand. All this was illegally done but piles of cash ensured that the officials looked the other way. He was the unchallenged king. He never put forward his candidature for elections but you could be sure that the winning candidate was his stooge. He paid his employees much lower than the minimum wages prescribed to ensure that they lived in poverty. With land going fast and limited means to earn enough for a decent life, the young men had left mainly to go to Surat for employment in the chemical factories which employed masses in terrible corrosive conditions but paid enough to attract the poor and desperate. That was the thing that had struck me earlier. There were very few young men in the village. It was mostly women, children and old people who stayed there with a few sick young men. The young men were sick because of continued exposure to the corrosive chemicals of Surat. The expected working life of a chemical factory worker was about ten years after which they would be too sick to be of any real use. Same was true for the people who worked in the stone crushers near the village. The fine stone dust spread and slowly but surely killed off the people and also the land nearby.

An old problem of the village was the subdivision of land with passing generations. This kept decreasing the effective area left for agriculture. The reduced crop yield, the tight control of the access to the market by ruffians like Ramdhari, the lack of proper education for the children, the sordid state of law enforcement, the inter caste squabbles all were leading to death of the village economy. This death led to other deaths – that of the urban economy owing to the huge influx of the rural population to the cities creating pressure on land, water, employment, transport, law and order and many other things.

Sudesh could, of course, make a donation of money to help a few. He had the means but he had spent long years in the corporate world to realize that this would be an exercise in futility. The dole would be soon gone and the money would draw the wrong kind of attention. If he was perceived as a threat, his existence would be in danger. The rural world was not very different from the corporate world in this respect, maybe more dangerous, if anything.

He thought long about it. The week that he had planned to spend in the village was long gone. It had been a couple of months now. His presence was no more a novelty. He had become a part of the scene though not fully so. He refused to get into the village politics though Ramdhari tried to rope him in many times. The germ of an idea was forming in his mind. The picture of the English countryside that he had visited a while ago became a framework for his dream. The English countryside was beautiful, green, serene, clean, safe and quiet. But not perfect. There were mostly aged people living in it. The youngsters had gone off to find employment in the cities. And it was expensive.

The Indian countryside could be all this and more. It required avenues to generate income, access to healthcare, law and order, education. Tall order? Yes! But not impossible. All it required was a will to implement. Something needed to be done. He was sure of that. But what? And how? He did not know.

Yet!

He had to give more thought to it.

He was sitting in an armchair in front of his house as was customary after lunch. In the villages, this is the most common place to relax. There are no drawing rooms or sitting rooms. The spot in front of the main gate is the most common area for relaxing. Lunch had been good. All the aches and pains had long disappeared. The sun was shining. Life was good. His head was nodding. Sudesh don’t know when he dropped off.

What did villages have? Land – lots of it. Manpower – dwindling now, but the potential was there. Clean air and water – dwindling but potentially there. So what could be the means to tap these resources? The first source for earning would be farming income. The improvement would come from scientific, mechanized farming using collective resources. The obvious conclusion was co-operative farming with large tracts of land, cooperative access to credit and returns, reduction of risk, access to scientific methods, regular and legal employment for those who sought it and collective wisdom. The only issue is that of mistrust! So he decided to keep it on his list but be cautious about the approach.

The second source could be “Eco-Tourism”. Offer real comfortable but rustic holidays to city folk since the demand already existed and expose them to a better life. Create infrastructure to provide good accommodation, activities for engagement, clean air and water. One potential hurdle had to be crossed- transport and safety. Solution – rope in someone like Ramdhari as a partner initially till the traffic was large enough to warrant administration action. Do-able!

The mindset change would not come from lectures. It could only come from real life demonstration. It has been seen in the past that lawbreakers and Dons transform into legitimate businessmen once they see it is easier, safer and almost equally remunerative. But one has to tread cautiously and be patient. So he set about it. He now knew what he wanted to do. He had an aim and a plan. His house was large with an advantage of location; right at the end of the village with vast expanse of fields behind it. The closest house was about a hundred meters away. So it provided a reasonable amount of privacy.

The first thing he started on was to prepare a kitchen garden in the plot within the boundary. All sorts of vegetables were to be grown and he employed a part time worker–caretaker for it on a regular salary. He sold off a few plots on the outskirts of his holding to fund the enterprise. The money went to carrying out renovations to the house to make it guest friendly. Things like a modern kitchen, modern washrooms, some comfortable beds, a neat coat of paint, higher boundary walls, better gates, a small reception desk. The solar panels were supplemented in number and storage batteries were provided to have reasonable amount of lighting power even in the night.

All this work did not escape the attention of Ramdhari. At the opportune time, Sudesh shared the plan with him. The deal was simple. He could either invest in it now (which he would not, Sudesh knew) or have an option to invest within two years as a partner for up to twenty percent at a predetermined price. In return, he had to provide his Scorpio (his prized possession) for ferrying the potential guests to and from the station at a fixed cost to the guest house and for sightseeing (at a fee for the guests). He also had to ensure that the guests did not face any local trouble during their stay there. He looked disinterested but Sudesh knew he had him. For good measure, he also dropped hints that business would pick up only if the first guests felt comfortable with the host and Ramdhari was not one to make city folks feel at ease. So Sudesh was indispensable. The deal took a mere week to finalize and the first step of his plan was underway.

The next step was more subtle. Ramdhari’s grand children were beginning school and Sudesh offered to help them in their education. But he had to extend this to the other kids of the village as well. This would not be easy given the caste and class tensions in the village.

So he started visiting Ramdhari more often. From time to time he would show him the college album and plant the idea that it was necessary for a student to be able to live with other students of different castes to get admitted to these colleges. The smartly dressed young men in suits and then with swanky cars made an impression on him. Though initially he feigned disinterest, Sudesh knew that everyone, including gangsters, wanted a better life for their children. So, in time, he started asking him lots of questions about life in these colleges; and the prospects after education. Sudesh slowly planted the idea of caste integration for a better life for his grand children without once saying so. Ramdhari, one day suggested including other children in the coaching sessions. Sudesh was overjoyed but only displayed indifference. Now Ramdhari was working on his behalf – collecting kids for these one hour classes.

Sudesh did not wish to throw the kids in the deep end and lose them. So he started with group recitation of poetry, going on to the meanings, analysis and then competition between students. The going was slow but sure. The children hardly spent any other time on what he taught. So it had to be the one hour that he got. Gradually he would have more time, and would add more subjects-English, Maths, Science. The teaching would have to be non conventional, mainly verbal and participative but he was sure it would be good and long lasting.

He would also use Ramdhari to accept and propagate the idea of cooperative farming. But that would have to wait for some time. Too much, too soon would spoil the plan.

He felt a tingling warm sensation on the back of his hand. He woke with a jerk. Anu was laughing and holding a hot cup of tea which she had used to wake him up by holding it against the back of his hand. She handed him his cup and sat down.

“What were you dreaming of? You were smiling in your sleep.” she asked.

 “Let me tell you. I now know what I have to do. Things will not happen as I saw them, but I sure will give it a try.”

And he sure would!

The Wheels of Time

My first memories of my father are holding on to his index finger and walking to the saloon to have a haircut. I would hold on and trot along while trying to take in the sights at the same time. I would be placed on a plank on the chair handles so that the barber found it easy to access my head and also so that I could see myself in the mirror. All this I did without question.

Often my brother and I would do something completely selfish like finishing off all the chicken rolls that he had got for the three of us while he was driving, and all he would do was laugh it off. I, being older, would feel a bit guilty later on but by that time it would be too late.

People tell me about the time when I was only about a year old and travelling in the train for the very first time. I was too scared of the swaying train and the whistle and the only way to comfort me was to carry me in the crook of his arm. This made me feel safe and my father carried me like this standing for most of eight hours – something that I find totally heroic today. He must have been exhausted by the end of the journey but he did it smilingly and without complaint.

At that age, he was the biggest idol that I had. I am sure all fathers are idols to their children. I hung on to every word that he spoke and perhaps even unconsciously copied his gestures – the way he would smile, walk, shake his legs, his dressing, his hair styling. I would look on wonderingly when he drove – marveling at the way he controlled the car. I learnt to pray after my bath and try to fix things around the house. Often, in my village, I would hang around for hours while my dad supervised a motley crew of assistants fixing the pump or repairing the wall which had been damaged.

He liked to tinker with the car on Sundays and it was a matter of pride for me when I got my hands dirty for the first time cleaning the carburettor that he had removed. He would go to Jadu bazaar on Sundays to get the meat or fish and I learnt the basics of identifying the types that would cook best.

As I grew into my pre-teens, some of the tasks that we used to do together came to me independent of him. The first time I went to buy vegetables and meat alone was something I shall never forget. The completion of the task made me feel like an Emperor who had captured new territory. Of course, the task had not been done satisfactorily, for I had missed out a few items, forgotten to collect change at a few places and such like. Being a man of few words, my father patted me on the head, and only later did I realize that some essentials had been left out when he went out and got the things himself.

My father was an extremely hard worker and usually worked six days a week usually being out on work for at least twelve hours. On Sunday it was quite busy – market in the morning, followed by washing and tinkering with the car till noon, and afternoons were spent ironing clothes. In all this I joined him and he also roped in any of my cousins who happened to be around. This made me quite skilled at using the press as this was one of the first tasks that he outsourced to me. He would sit there supervising things, correcting a wrong fold or reminding us to check the temperature before I started on any piece.

As I reached my teens, the world started opening up. There were new friends, new places and even new thoughts. Independence loomed large and each foray into new territory was exciting. Bell-bottoms and long hair all the rage then! This was something dad did not approve of. While I did not have the courage to defy him, the resentment to his remarks was always there. The daily application of hair oil was a practice that I no longer wanted to continue. Dad disapproved of my skipping this practice; I disapproved of his interfering with my choices. While I had to resort to ingenious means to avoid his noticing all this, my success rate was not very high.

As I neared the late teens, newspapers gave me opinions. And these opinions were often different from Dad’s beliefs. So there were arguments – initially subdued ones with the heat gradually rising with the growing years. The love did not diminish, but the distance was growing. Resentment was taking over from unconditional acceptance on both sides.

He was outdated, I was a rebel.

He was dour, I lacked elegance.

He was senile I was immature.

The list went on.

Whereas I had copied his mannerisms when I was a boy, I now wanted to be as different as possible. We spoke a lot less. When we did, it was mostly when he started the conversation. I would often reply in monosyllables. In spite of this, the end result would be an argument where being younger, I would receive admonishments but in my head, I would say the things that I dared not to his face.

I would find his interference extremely irritating and irrational. I often wished that he would keep his opinions and disapprovals to himself; they were irrelevant in that day and age. At the end, all conversation would cease and the atmosphere would be uneasy for a couple of days. Then we would return to the coexistence of compromise till the next repeat session of the conversation and argument.

But the love never went away. My father had become financially vulnerable owing to a dramatic loss suffered in his business because of a freak natural event. While he did his best not to expose me to this reality, instinctively I knew that things were not too well for him.

I was going away to college; that would put additional pressure on him. He only encouraged me to do well. I would often go and sit with him. We would sit together saying nothing. He seemed quieter and I did not feel like wasting the few days that we had together before going away in argument. He understood that I was trying to empathize with him and would pat my hand reassuringly.

I mostly stayed away for the next five years. During holidays, when I returned home I found Dad quieter than before but having the same zeal for work. He was busy again having found employment again.

Though there was not much money to go around, he was happy because our bare needs were secured and he was busy. I understood that he was trying his best and did what I could to reduce his financial burden on my account – though my efforts did not amount to much.

Usually my monthly expenses would arrive by Money Order. However, a couple of times my father would make the three hour trip and deliver it personally. While he said that he did it because he had to travel half the way for work anyway, I understood that his sole motive was to see me as he missed me. None of us would admit that it was good to see each other. Often, my mother would come to know about his visit only after he returned.

College was over and I returned home to a job. The financial worries reduced somewhat. But we were back to the same resentments, though less often. There were many things about me that he disliked. And it was the same with me.

But we were old enough to realize the futility of harping on it. Though infrequent, the sparks did fly once in a while. But he was happy that I had the same tendency to work as hard as he had done. I admit my hard work was not of the scale that my Dad had reached. Nevertheless, it was one thing that he liked about me. And he trusted me like no other, in spite of our disagreements.

My marriage did not change things much, though it made him more restrained. The birth of my daughter, though, changed things dramatically. He now had a new source of joy. He would bring little things for her when he returned from office. He would take her to the market and would playfully deny her wishes before giving in to them.

My daughter became the centre of attention for all of us. Her antics would sometimes irritate me when I was in the midst of something important, but she played her cards well. She would run to him knowing that I was powerless to scold her there. She was a little warrior. She would match my temper and stood her ground defiantly as she grew older.

The birth of my son was another event which caused a significant change in our lives. The little fellow had five people doting over him. Even my daughter became a little mother to him. The brother was very different from his sister.

While she was quick of temper, he was a peace loving little thing. Never got into fights, would never throw tantrums, and would accept admonishments with a sad face which made it impossible to remain angry with him for long.

While she was inclined to working hard towards what she wanted, the little guy was naturally sharp of mind. He would grasp things quickly, but the flip side was that he lost interest in things quickly too.

By now my parents seemed visibly aged. Though my Dad was working as tirelessly as ever, his attitude was more pacifist now. He did not get into arguments as quickly as he did earlier. He enjoyed spending time with the children and most of the times he would be defending them when I was angry because of some mischief.

Both my children would accompany me to the market, would help me clean the car, and would be my assistants when something would need fixing.

It was my childhood playing all over again; the roles had changed.

My daughter would accompany me to the garage every morning with the understanding that I buy her a toffee on the return journey. I was the world to them as they were to me. My son would not insist but suggest (as was his nature) that an ice cream would be welcome. And he would get it. The little fellow would run around behind his sister when she played with her friends.

Often when there were disagreements, grandfather and granddaughter would gang up against me with my pacifist son trying to broker peace.

Once, when my wife took the children for a visit to my brother’s place in Bokaro during their school vacations, I could not accompany them due to a busy schedule. My wife would put them to work every morning for a couple of hours doing their homework or something of the sort. One day, she instructed my son to write a few lines on the topic “My Holidays”. The composition went as follows:

“I have come to Bokaro for my holidays.

My father could not come.

I wonder what he is doing……”

The rest of the essay was about his father. The topic was quite forgotten. We had a good laugh when we saw it later! But I could see the same sort of devotion to me that I had as a child towards my father.

My father was so emotionally attached to our village that he would hop over whenever he got the slightest chance. His heart belonged there. And it was during one of those visits at the end of the last millennium that he was struck down by a cerebral stroke on Christmas Day.

Unfortunately, the medical facilities in our villages are not equipped to handle such emergencies on priority so it was a few hours before he got any medical care. This delay meant that he never recovered fully. He remained partially paralyzed for the rest of the next fourteen long years that he lived.

During the early days of his recovery, he was fired up with the zeal to get himself fit and go back to work. We knew that it was impossible, but seeing his enthusiastic efforts, did not have the heart to tell him otherwise.

Meanwhile my children were also growing up. My son was finding his feet in the world. The days of hanging on to my index finger were fast flying away. He would still discuss things with me but I could sense that with the passing of years, he did not accept my explanations unconditionally. For, his own opinions were taking shape. And they were not always aligned to mine.

My father had become more dependent on my mother and me. He had mellowed and would often try to make me aware of our properties in our village. He hoped that my brother and I would work to sustain and increase it. 

While we gently tried to make it clear to him that it was an impossible dream that he had. It would not be possible for us to leave our jobs for any significant amount of time to devote our serious attention there, he hoped against hope that we would come around to his viewpoint. It became the only source of difference between us. He did not take kindly to our suggestion to dispose of the property before it was too late. But the differences did not lead to arguments as before.

My son was growing and as is natural amongst youngsters, he was acquiring the uniform lifestyle of his generation. Video games, coke, fast food, snazzy shoes, casual clothing, cell phone addiction, social media – all were the norm. Most of these did not meet my approval. One does not visit one’s relatives dressed in khaki shorts, loose shirts, unkempt hair and sneakers with laces undone. This would lead to criticism from me and defiance from him and finally to arguments and frayed tempers. The seventies were being relived again with different players.

With the death of my mother, there was a distinct change in my father. The fight went out of him as did the will to work towards his fitness. He appeared to more like a child than an elder. He wanted things that he disliked before. He wanted pizzas, ice creams, sweets, and an occasional drink. Significantly, he refused to argue. He became like our third child.

We also changed. When he wanted something, he would wait till he was sure I had left for work. Then he would ask my wife – he was sure she would not deny him. Perhaps the memory of my argumentative self remained strong in his memory. But now I did not want to deny him anything. I wanted to make my peace but his transformation into a man-child denied me this opportunity. I had waited too long! If only I had foreseen this! It was only during his last days that I felt he caught on to the change in me. The time of my childhood was back – only the roles had reversed.

My son has now grown into a handsome young man. But the change in his outlook to life is very different from mine. And it makes me uncomfortable and often frustrated. Perhaps, my suggestions appear stupid to him. His appearance is a great cause of distress to me. I refuse to take his suggestions about the way I dress. The feeling of antagonism is mutual. Perhaps, antagonism is too strong a word! But while I understand it, it appears impossible to reconcile myself to the fact. The period of my youth has come to revisit me – with my role being that of an old fool and his role being that of a rebel.

We both know that the love is still strong. But the mind refuses to accept the differences.

Perhaps, acceptance is the key. Or is it?

Will either of us be able to accept the other’s point of view?

Reconcile – maybe! Accept – possibly no!

I do not think we take too kindly to change in roles – child to youth to adult to child. The change is too subtle and too gradual to allow acceptance. The role changes but the mind initially surges ahead of the change and then lingers while the change overtakes it. 

I hope someday we shall be mature enough to keep pace with the wheels of time.

A World Of Their Own

He was a common sight in our campus.

Not a person one would notice, if you did not hear him muttering endlessly to himself. Short and portly, with a full head of curly hair, he could be seen all over the campus walking with a sense of purpose but going nowhere. Much later, I came to know that people referred to him as Majumdar. No one seemed to know his first name and not many seemed to be interested enough in finding out. It was also not clear whether he was a student, a research scholar, or a professor. He could have been twenty or fifty – it was impossible to guess.

I came to know him by chance. I had missed breakfast in the mess one Sunday morning and therefore trudged to Nikhil’s teashop. Nikhil served a wonderful toast with “malai” and hot sweet tea. A friend who had also come for breakfast soon joined me and he was carrying a notebook and a pen. This was strange as we were such dedicated students only a week before examinations, and that was a few weeks away.

It appeared that they had been given an assignment, which had to be submitted on Monday, and completing this involved understanding some tricky mathematics. Having nothing better to do, I joined him in trying to solve the problems but soon it became obvious that we were not getting anywhere.

“Can I see that?” the voice was soft and courteous. We looked around to see Majumdar stretching his hand out for the notebook. We were taken aback, but did not want to say no to his face. Also, we were making no headway, in any case. We moved to a table with flat benches on both sides and handed over the problems to Majumdar.

He looked at the problems as if we did not exist. After some time, he beckoned to us to pay attention and started explaining. At the same time, he was writing out the steps of the solution sequentially. We were struck by the clarity of his thought and the way he explained things. It became so simple. It was soon obvious that we were in the company of a person with extraordinary understanding of the subject.

Once or twice, we interrupted him because his explanation had not been clear to us. With great patience, he explained again but what was different about him was that he did not repeat what he had already said. He used a different route to make the explanation easier to understand. This rare ability is found only in some of the great teachers.

After about an hour and a half, the problems done and at least four cups of tea consumed. We thanked Majumdar and were on the verge of asking him more about himself. However, he abruptly got up and walked away. This was strange but then we knew that he was what most people referred to as a “Looney”.

I saw Majumdar frequently but when I said Hello or smiled, he would just look through me as if I was a complete stranger. The couple of hours spent together solving problems had not been enough to make me a friend or even an acquaintance. Once I was walking just behind him for quite a while in the corridors of our department when I overheard his mutterings. He was repeatedly saying “sine theta, cos theta, tan theta…..” repeatedly under his breath. This was crazy! No sane person would keep uttering such rubbish. Then, Majumdar was a “looney” – a title well deserved. Since I had no more classes that afternoon, I decided to follow him to see where he went and try to know more about him.

This quest proved futile. He walked and walked. I got so tired but kept after him gamely. He also kept muttering to himself and neither acknowledged anyone who cared to wish him nor was it clear where he was going. After about two hours, I had to give up lest I start acting in the same manner by induction.

Then I decided to make it my business to try to find out more about him. He was not just an ordinary Looney – as had been made clear during the two hours that I had spent as his disciple in Nikhil’s tea shop. Queries over a period of time revealed that he spent his nights in various hostels’ common rooms. He also had his meals irregularly – again in either hostels mess or in one of the various stall that existed in the campus. He was not a student or a faculty member, did not have any known friends, generally avoided professors like plague, was harmless and had been in the campus for ages. The stall owners said that he had once been a student but no one could pin a particular year when this was so.

During my stay in the institute, I took his help in solving problems, which were beyond me a couple of times more. The only way to do this was to catch him at one of the stalls and thrust a notebook in front of him with the problem written on it.

He would transform immediately into an ideal Guru and by the time he was done the matter would stand clarified in a manner which made me understand the magic of mathematics. It was also obvious that I was of no interest to him but the mathematical problem was something, which attracted him like a magnet. These sessions would always end in the same way. He would abruptly get up and walk away and the next moment I was a complete stranger.

Soon my interest about trying to find out more about him waned. I went on with my life in the quest of a degree and of new things to learn. These were not necessarily academic in nature. Bridge and acting became passions ad did debating about all sorts of topics.

One morning on the way to the mess I came across a new character walking along the corridor. Dressed in a white cotton shirt and a white cotton pant (an attire only seen in films at that time!) , he looked too old and too unkempt to look like a student. Though we students were not prime examples of the best-groomed youths of the day, this character beat us by miles. His “Good morning”, spoken in a soft voice was civil enough but did not match the overall impression of seediness that he conveyed.

I was surprised to see him enter the mess and was even more surprised to see Kondaiya – my favorite mess worker – serve him a generous breakfast. It was too late in the term for even postgraduate students or research scholars to join. He certainly was no student. The man had a leisurely breakfast, savoring every morsel after which he just nodded at Kondaiya and left.

Kondaiya understood that we were busting to ask him questions so he came to our table to explain the situation. In his broken Hindi, with a generous sprinkling of Telegu, he told us that this was Abbas Saheb. He had been a student like us many years ago but then he had to leave. One night Abbas became violent. He brutally trashed a fellow student and it took many people to restrain him. The matter was reported and Abbas had to face a disciplinary committee. However, his good record prior to this helped him get off lightly.

Abbas changed after that. Always an amiable man he grew morose and withdrawn. He stopped attending classes. Then one day a girl complained that Abbas had been stalking her and had threatened her. Abbas was summoned by the Dean, but did not appear. The Warden was informed ad requested to produce Abbas before the Dean. However, Abbas refused to heed the Warden saying that it was a personal matter between him and his “wife”. The warden was taken aback.

Abbas’ unnatural nonchalance while making this statement was so unnerving that he did not pursue the argument. Instead he reported to the Dean that probably Abbas needed psychiatric help.

The institute psychologist was assigned to counsel him but Abbas did not go. The students were asked to help and some of his friends cajoled him to accompany them to the psychologist assuring him that in case he felt uncomfortable, they would bring him back immediately.

The session with the psychologist was a failure. Abbas just kept repeating that the matter was personal and that he did not want anyone to interfere in the issues between the “couple”. When he wanted to leave, his friends pressurized him to stay. Abbas was becoming more and more agitated now. Finally, he left.

That night Abbas went crazy. He trashed one of his friends so violently that no one dared interfere. He was like a demon and finally some people in the crowd gathered enough courage to accost him and pin him down.

He was locked in a room and the Warden informed. A telegram was sent to his parents who arrived a few days later. He was taken away in a straight jacket. He never returned as a student.

However, every few years, he would escape from his home and make his way to the college. He came here to look for his “wife” who had deserted him. Usually a quiet person, he could revert to violence if something irked him.

A few days later his family members would come and take him away again. Surprisingly, Abbas would never treat any girl with anything less than respect. The boys were however, at risk.

No one really knew what would set him off and Kondaiya’s advise was to try and steer clear of him as much as possible. If avoiding him was not possible, we were advised to refrain from prying into his past.

We asked Kondaiya whether he was ever violent with any of the mess workers. Kondaiya smiled. “How can my child be violent with me, saheb?” That demonstrated the love with which Kondaiya treated us.

We took Kondaiya's advice seriously enough. We were not eager to be trashed. If we saw him approaching us, we would discreetly leave trying our best not to make it obvious that it was on his account. However, this was not always possible.

How does one leave the canteen when a piping hot cup of tea had just been delivered. We tried our best to feign nonchalance and would even have a limited conversation with him. He appeared to be quite a pleasant person, soft spoken and knowledgeable. At the back of our mind, however, we knew that this could change very quickly.

One day we were sitting chatting in the canteen, when we saw Abbas approaching. By this time we had developed enough acceptance of him so as to not become desperate to leave.

Instead of coming towards us he approached the cobbler who came to our hostel daily and went about his business from morning till dusk. It was an unwritten rule that he did not work once the sun had set. Something about old beliefs, it seems!

Abbas went up to him and in his most courteous manner, said “Mochi Saab, mera joota fat gaya hai. Meri guzarish hai ki aap iski marammat kar dein. “(Mr Cobbler, my shoe is torn. I request you to kindly repair it)

Since the sun had set the cobbler requested him to return next morning for the work.

Without any change in his tone, Abbas said ”Mochi Saab, agar aap yeh kaam abhi kar dein to Allah aapko dua dega, aur aap nahin karenge toh main aapko zinda yehin gaad doonga.” (Mr Cobbler, if you repair it now, Allah will shower his blessings on you. If you don’t, I shall bury you alive right here.)

Without any further thought about his beliefs, the cobbler immediately set to work repairing his torn shoe and achieved the feat in record time!

Gradually snippets of conversations with him revealed that he was from a family of shopkeepers in Aligarh. He, unlike his brothers and cousins was not satisfied with being a shop owner for the rest of his life and always thirsted for education. So he worked at it, without much support from his family, but made his way to one of the premier engineering institutes of the country.

He would say that being here gave him some of the happiest days of his life and he was sure that those days would return soon. Then there would be pain in his eyes and he would clam up. That would be a signal for us to let things be and leave. The fact that he wanted and worked for a life of his choice against all odds was admirable. However, it was sad that this remained an unfulfilled dream.

On the evening that Abbas was to be taken back by his family, I came across a strange sight in the afternoon. I saw Abbas and Majumdar sitting in Nikhil’s shop sipping tea and having a conversation. It was strange because Majumdar never conversed with anyone, except when he was engrossed in solving mathematical problems. But it was clear that they were not discussing maths. They were in fact having a conversation as friends!

Abbas saw me and waved. I waved back, but Abbas requested me to join him for tea. I hesitated, but remembering to keep him in good humour, I reluctantly went and pulled up a bench to sit. Abbas started introductions, but stopped as Majumdar got up and left. Perhaps, he did not like my intrusion, however unintended it was.

Abbas’ smile was apologetic. Over tea he told me something about Majumdar that probably very few people knew on the campus.

Majumdar was senior to Abbas. Majumdar was a brilliant mathematician and was doing research work on a new concept that could be path breaking. Abbas was in his second year of graduation then. Apparently, Majumdar was staying in Abbas’ hostel (mine too, incidentally!) and since he was what we called a “Buddha” (Old man/ research scholar), he did not have many friends.

However he had helped Abbas with maths and gradually a friendship grew between them. Then one day, Abbas found Majumdar sitting dejected in the canteen. Abbas joined him, fearing that some tragedy had befallen the poor guy.

Maybe he had lost a dear one, and therefore it was imperative that friends support him in this hour. For a long time, Majumdar did not say anything and kept staring at nothing in particular. He would come around – Abbas was sure. Then Majumdar started crying and was inconsolable.

Abbas tried to comfort him as only true friends can. Through his sobs, the entire sordid story came out. Majumdar was working with his guide and as was customary, he would often continue the work at his residence.

The guide knew that Majumdar was an uncommonly brilliant person, maybe even a genius, and so, devoted much more time to him than was customary. He was in the kitchen preparing something for them to eat, when Majumdar, who was clearing the desk so that they could start work, came across a letter from a foreign university addressed to his guide.

He could not help reading it – such was the relationship of trust between them. He saw that the subject of the letter was the topic of his research. The letter was a gracious one in which the writer, a well known authority in the subject, had congratulated his guide on the pioneering work done in the field.

So, his guide had already started referring Majumdar’s work to other well known experts. That was the sort of thing Majumdar would expect him to do. Majumdar himself would not even think that it was important enough to do all this- get some opinion on his work till it was complete. But his guide would.

At least one of them was practical enough to do hat needed to be done. But Majumdar was puzzled. The work was not complete, as yet. The final touches were still to be given. Was it not premature? Maybe the guide knew better!

The guide entered the room with tea and some hot pakoras! As he laid the tray on the table, he saw Majumdar holding the letter in his hand. His face grew ashen! Majumdar was looking excited and asking him something.

He could not clearly hear what was being asked. He could only stare at the nicely bound copy of the thesis that was kept on the top most shelf of the cabinet. It had seemed simple enough to do it.

But poor Majumdar seemed so excited even now. Was he really so innocent as to think that he would get credit for such brilliant work?

Majumdar stopped in the middle of his question. There was something wrong! The guide was not paying attention to his queries. He was, instead, looking at something behind him.

Majumdar turned. He saw the neatly bound copy of a document. He reached for it and looked at the cover. He saw the name of the author. It was not his, but his Guide’s! The world crashed around him! His work was no more his own. It had been pilfered by a lesser being.

As Abbas related this, the pieces fell in place. Perhaps, Abbas’ loss made him more sensitive than the rest of us to Majumdar’s pain. Both of them had vied for something higher, something better. Their loss had shattered them.

They had retreated to a world of their own!

Music To My Ears

My first brush with music, which enthralled me, happened at the age of three or four.

There was an old Grundig Radiogram at our place in Howrah – a town of factories, far removed from art and music lovers. Surrounded mostly by Marwaris, the area did not have the right environment for falling in love with the arts.

Be that as it may, I am told that the one way to keep me quiet was to load the record player with twelve records which played one after the other. The sight of a lever pushing the lowermost record off the bent rod holding them, so that it gently fell on the turntable was in itself a fascinating sight.

What followed was even more so. The record would fall smoothly on the turntable which was already turning at a good speed, and then the stylus with the magnetic needle would, quite deliberately and with a royal air, lift itself up from its stand move over the record and settle down at the precise groove.

The music would start and the stylus moved towards the centre with the progress of the song, at the end of which it would again lift itself up and patting itself on the back would move to rest again on its stand. Then the next record would fall and the process would start all over again!

Almost every month or so, all family members would be asked to list the record that they wanted to be purchased and once the list was compiled, the whole family would travel to Lindsay Street to a particular shop (whose name unfortunately eludes me now) and the records would be bought.

At the age of four, I was also jokingly asked to put in my preference and there was much mirth when I actually did so immediately. I had heard the song over the Radio (which was part of the music contraption) and the song had acted like a magnet to which I was instinctively drawn. The song was “Jo waada kiya who nibhana padega” sung beautifully by Mohammed Rafi from the film Taj Mahal.  I did not understand the lyrics, but the tune and Rafi’s voice was all that was needed to make me play the record ad nauseum (for others, not for me – I just could not have enough of it!).

We would normally have two types of records then – the 78 RPM (with one song on each side) and the 33 RPM Long Play record with about six to eight songs on each side) usually made of vinyl.

The material was brittle and if it accidentally fell it would break into pieces.

Then came the age of EPs or Extended Play records which played at 45 RPM. These would contain three or four songs. This was a wonderful innovation which rang the death knell of the78 RPM records. The material also changed to plastic and this was supposed to be “unbreakable”. There was also a record for 16 RPM but very few of these were available in India.

After the first love with “Jo waada kiya ….” my list of songs that I loved steadily grew. “Mere mehboob tujhe…”, “Sar jo tera chakraye…”, "Pipara Ke Patwa....." (in Bhojpuri), "Kahin deep jale kahin dil…” and many more. Rafi remained my favourite but Lata, Hemant Kumar, Kishore Kumar, Manna Dey, Talat Mehmood, Mukesh, Mahendra Kapoor were also inching closer. Some little known singers also came out with brilliant songs.  Sharda with “Chale jaana zara thehro….”,Sudha Malhotra with “Chain Se Humko kabhi….”.

Bade Papa introduced me to the music of K.L.Saigal. The strains of “Baabul Mora, Naihar chooto jaye….” cast its spell over me though this was unusual for most children found the rendition of this song too boring for their taste. “Ek Bangla bane nyara...”, “Diya jalao, jagmag, jagmag…” -they were all equally beautiful. Pankaj Mullick and S.D. Burman were also introduced and caught my fancy. Suraiya, Raj Kumari and Noor Jehan could not be left behind either.

But two singers with a very different style of singing were holding their own – Asha Bhosle with her nasal tones and Shamshad Begum with her rustic voice. In fact, I believe Shamshad Begum was the original rockstar and her catchy songs became great hits once again in the age of remixes.

As I was growing, I gradually started understanding some meaning of the lyrics many of which were also in Urdu. The beauty of Urdu and the magnificent way in which the language was suited for music was becoming apparent.  The many layers of meanings hidden in the “Shayari” were gradually revealing themselves and the beauty of melody with the pathos hidden in the words was becoming more fascinating by the day. Romance was deeply embedded in the songs.

The usual trend in most schools was to have an assembly of students in the morning which would usually start with a prayer sung in chorus by all students. So was it I my school where one prayer for Saraswati – “Ya Kundendu Tushaar Haar Dhawala….” would be followed by one other from a collection of about a dozen. These would be compositions of Surdas, Rahim, Kabir, Tulsi, Mirabai and others. The music teacher would accompany on the Harmonium and one senior student on the Tabla. This group singing only served to impress upon me the forms that good music could take. “Tu Dayalu Deen Haun….”, “Mere to Giridhar Gopal, doosro na koi….”, “Maiya mori, main nahin maakhan Khayo…” were some of the songs from the collection.

However, till now, I had not been exposed to music from the West and that love affair was to start much later. Though Beatle mania was taking the world by storm, I was then untouched by the frenzy that these four young men had generated.

During one of my visits to my village Pakaria I came across a completely different form of music. The occasion was the festival of colours “Holi” also known as “Phagun” in Bhojpuri.  At about eight I the morning, a ragtag group of villagers led by one of our servants descended on our house with “Dholaks”,” Jhaal”, “Majira” and an assortment of musical instruments that were alien to me. The leader, lovingly named Pritam by his parents, distorted to Pirtamma by the villagers – an emaciated character, was one of the servants cum farmhand at our home. Not a man of many words, on that day his talents were on full display. They settled themselves in our courtyard and then started a continuous flow of “Phagua” or songs specifically sung during Holi. The start was sedate but gradually gained in tempo finally reaching a crescendo before ending at the same sedate tempo as the start. The singers and the musicians also matched the tempo. Starting with sitting on their haunches, they would then lean forward on their knees, and rise with the tempo of the song facing each other as each would aggressively try to outdo the other in the way they sang or played their respective instruments.

All they demanded in return for the rendering of “Hori re rasiayaaa…..” was a continuous flow of food, “bhang” and “ganja”. Pirtamma had a lovely rustic voice and till this day I am at a loss to understand how he could generate so much power in his voice from such a small frame. This performance continued till late in the evening till the musicians were either too tired or too intoxicated to sing anymore. They did not leave but lay down there and were lost in deep slumber as the sun went down. My regret has always been that I could not record the performance for posterity, having no means to do so then, and that this fine art is now lost to the world.

In the village, I also came upon another type of music.

A farmhand, who worked in our fields named Baldeo, was a sturdy man of indeterminate age. He would usually start his day well before sunrise with a break for a couple of hours at eleven for a bath and lunch. He would end work at about five in the evening after tending to the cattle and thereafter would lie down in the hay waiting for dinner at about seven.

This interlude would be spent singing “Nirgun” or songs to the formless almighty in a beautifully sonorous voice. In the quiet and the dark of the evenings the lilting tune and his beautiful voice would have been enough to stop the angels in their tracks had they been lucky enough to be around. He did not sing to entertain people but to thank his God for the peace that he had received in this life.

Fortunately, commercialization of music had not reached the village, else I would have been deprived of firsthand experience of this piece of heaven.

My musical introduction with the west happened when I was approaching my teens.

Our neighbour on the Ground Floor in New Alipur was a Navy Captain and he had a German music system which used spools of tape. During his voyages he had collected a large number of spools of western classical music and when he was home during his periods of his leave, he enjoyed listening to music alone with a glass of whiskey on the rocks.

Fortunately, city houses being clustered together, the strains of music wafted in through our windows and actually helped me concentrate on my studies. I had no idea about who Bach, Beethoven and Mozart were (and even today the knowledge is at best sketchy!) but the music was soothing at times, sad at others and violent from time to time. Abrol Uncle was my initiator to Western Classical music.

When Abrol Uncle moved to his company’s quarters in a posh part of Calcutta, the apartment was rented by a balding middle aged bachelor of nondescript appearance and few words. Bhaskar Ghosh was the complete anti thesis of Abrol Uncle.

There were rumours that he had been passed over by his lady love and had been unable to come to terms with the loss. A lonely character, quite genial but not very social, he would spend the evenings alone playing his violin. The discerning listener could interpret the melancholy sound of his violin as not merely music but outpourings of a broken heart. His sorrow and the sound emanating from the strings of the violin would be one.

The turning point in this journey came with the release of the film “The Sound of Music”.

The music in the film was probably the first with which the uninitiated of my generation could identify. Not all earlier musicals had been able to create such inroads into the Indian middle class youth before this. There had been the occasional “Come September” but the interest had not sustained. “Doe A deer…..” did what others had not been able to. It brought Western Film music into the Desi middle class household. Love Story, Dr Zhivago, Roman Holiday, My Fair Lady, Saturday Night Fever all followed in its wake over a period of time, some with a rebirth.

At this time, another character came into my life with other forms of western music. Rana, my next door neighbour, had a collection of some marvelous music. Jim Reeves, Francis Lai, Englebert Humperdink and the like were his favourites. Gradually I was becoming aware of the range of pop, rock, reggae, country and any other forms of music.

And I discovered the Beatles! Well after they had last played together. Cliff Richards, Abba, BoneyM, Bob Marley, Simon and Garfunkel, Roger Whttaker, Jhonny Cash, Frank Sinatra, Dire Straits, Pink Floyd, Grateful Dead, Led Zepplin, CSNY, Elvis Presly, Neil Diamond, Carlos Santana, Bob Dylan, Tex Ritter, Susan Raye and scores of others came out of nowhere and became my friends for life. Usually I would become a fan of most of these musical legends well after the "in" crowd had moved on.

Indian music was also changing for me. With the rise of A R Rehman, Indian music took a new turn. The sounds were different, the spirit was different. The poetry or Shayari of yore was missing but had been replaced by something beautiful. “Dil hai Chota sa…..” was no less romantic compared to “Raat Ke Humsafar……”. “Toota Toota ek parinda…..” had as much pathos as “Bekaraar Dil, tu Gaye jaa………”.

The exposure to a variety of music started with the humble transistor (Aap ki Farmayish, Binaca Geet Mala, Musical Band Box) followed by audio cassettes, developed with CDs and DVDs went further with online access and I am sure will keep changing the way musical appreciation happens. I have experienced this change. I can enjoy Bhimsen Joshi and BoneyM, Grateful Dead and Hemant Kumar.

Words do not matter. Instruments do not matter. Neither do technicalities.

The sounds do.

The feeling does.

Since I am uneducated as far as the technical aspects of music are concerned, I am free.

I am free to enjoy any music without being looked down upon.

I am free from snobbishness and from barriers.

I listen and enjoy the music from Shankarabharnam as much as I enjoy Lucy In The Sky with Diamonds.

The Gurus may frown at the lack of purity of choice and appreciation but all I hear is music to my ears.