Nemesis

Sitting on the bar stool, smoking his eighth cigarette, Rishaan stopped counting his drinks. ‘Is this the sixth?’ he asked himself. ‘No, this should be the seventh…..’ ‘Was not that the fifth I was having with the last cigarette, so this should be the sixth…’ The questions kept pounding his head. Not that the numbers mattered. Not that anything mattered. Not now, when there is no turning back…


He knew this was coming. He realized this was one evening he had been dreading for the last nineteen years. He could perfectly re-run the script any time, the course he had imagined it would take, for all of the last nineteen years. His worst fear came true ten days back, exactly at this hour, when Maya called. He bitterly rued his naivete when he let Maya go nineteen years back with a bagful of used notes for five lac rupees. He had then assumed that the ghost will not return. It has, now. He had then believed Maya when she promised that she would never return to his life, the trade-off being loads of money in exchange for Kiara. That was the barter they both agreed on, not long after Maya disclosed that she was pregnant with Rishaan’s child.


Rishaan was aghast then on hearing the bombshell explode. “Pregnant?” Rishaan tried to sound surprised but deep inside he felt no surprise, only an inescapable sensation of nausea.


“Yes,” was Maya’s stoic monosyllable.


“But…but, how is it possible Maya?” Rishaan was desperate. “I took all the precautions and you know that”. As if the precautions taken would wipe away with a single stroke all the consequences and the responsibilities that come with the consequences.


Maya didn’t answer. The first feeling she experienced was one of relief that Rishaan did not raise any doubt on who the parent could be, of the bundle of budding life inside her womb. She didn’t really suspect that Rishaan would run away like a coward, though, in all truth, she admitted that relief is what she felt when Rishaan was hee-hawing on the ‘precautions’ taken rather than dwell on how it could not be him and that Maya was mistaken. ‘Precautions….’ she could not help chuckle, ‘passion, ring-fenced by precautions….’


“Know what Rishaan?” she asked. “Despite the best laid plans, things have a funny way of taking its own course, especially in one-night stand-offs”.


They both kept silent for a while. The coffee pots were turning cold. ‘What next’, was the thought that was occupying both. They knew the options were limited. None of them promising or palatable. But the accountant in Rishaan soon took charge. He did some quick mental math on what this mess could entail financially and psychologically. He quickly decided on what needed to be done and then spluttered out, “ Look, Maya. There is a way out of this…”


Maya was half-expecting what was coming. Even though their relationship was only two months old, she could strip Rishaan mentally and see thro Sitting on the bar stool, smoking his eighth cigarette, Rishaan stopped counting his drinks. ‘Is this the sixth?’ he asked himself. ‘No, this should be the seventh…..’ ‘Was not that the fifth I was having with the last cigarette, so this should be the sixth…’ The questions kept pounding his head. Not that the numbers mattered. Not that anything mattered. Not now, when there is no turning back…


He knew this was coming. He realized this was one evening he had been dreading for the last nineteen years. He could perfectly re-run the script any time, the course he had imagined it would take, for all of the last nineteen years. His worst fear came true ten days back, exactly at this hour, when Maya called. He bitterly rued his naivete when he let Maya go nineteen years back with a bagful of used notes for five lac rupees. He had then assumed that the ghost will not return. It has, now. He had then believed Maya when she promised that she would never return to his life, the trade-off being loads of money in exchange for Kiara. That was the barter they both agreed on, not long after Maya disclosed that she was pregnant with Rishaan’s child.

Rishaan was aghast then on hearing the bombshell explode. “Pregnant?” Rishaan tried to sound surprised but deep inside h ugh what was behind the veneer.


“I am listening”, she said.


“Look Maya, I love you. More than what you could imagine. I love you and our sweet little bundle of joy inside you. But a way has to be found for this. You have always wanted to pursue that exciting career in advertising in Goa in that little start-up you have planned, haven’t you, Maya? We can work that out. To our mutual convenience and good. How about five lacs? That should take care of your aspirations…”


“And your guilt and your impending marriage as well….” Maya could not help interject.


Rishaan shrugged helplessly. “Come on, Maya. What guilt you are talking about? It is all for our well-being and peace of mind, can’t you see? After all, there is a thing called reality. I take care of you till the delivery of the child. And after you recover, you are free to forget everything, like it was a horrible nightmare and go after the things you always loved”


“Like advertising?” Maya sarcastically asked. Rishaan did not spot the sarcasm or pretended not to.


“Exactly! Like advertising”.


“And what do you plan to do with the baby?”


“I shall take care of that too. I can pull a few strings and arrange to bring her up in the best possible way, in a children’s home, all expenses paid by me”.


‘So neat,’ Maya thought. ‘That is the Rishaan I always knew. So meticulous and perfect’. She suddenly felt like throwing up. A momentary flash of indignation overwhelmed her. She felt like slapping Rishaan, one hard, full-palmed slap. But then she bit her lips and began thinking fast. She had the honesty to admit that a baby or marriage with Rishaan was the last thing she wanted. Yes, she really still nurtured that little dream of hers, to become something in the advertising world. She took a deep breath. Now things seemed a little okay. Five lacs was too large a sum to be traded off with some foolish sentiment.


“I accept the offer”, she said. Rishaan heaved a sigh of relief. He always believed in the power of money. Now is the time to demand his pound of flesh.


“There is, though, a small condition….er… request, Maya’, he said. “you are to sever all links with me henceforth. You shall never ever try to establish any contact with me or the child. On my part, I promise that the child will be well taken care of.” Maya agreed.


That was the last he saw of Maya. He admired himself on the felicity with which he disposed off the crisis. After all, his CA & MBA upbringing did not fail him. This episode was just another case study for which he had a ready and convincing solution. As the years rolled by, he kept keeping tab intermittently on what Maya was up to. Looked like she did, after all, found her calling in the glitzy, glamorous world of advertising. She co-founded a firm in Goa which was, well, doing quite decently. ‘What was the last campaign they did? For that baby food?’ he tried to recollect, could not, and brushed it aside as irrelevant. As long as Maya and her baby food did not land at his door, as long as they kept a safe distance, he could not care two hoots. On his part, he felt an odd sense of pride in having kept his word by providing for the child, Kiara, in a high-end children’s home. Kiara! What a beautiful woman she has grown up into! Her brown eyes and the sexy pout always reminded him of Maya. And what a stroke of luck that Kiara got to grow up in his house-hold! God schemes to give good things to good schemers, he thought, reminiscing about how it all happened…..


It was not until he was married to Diya for two years that he realized that she could not conceive because of a medical condition. Which might or might not reverse, but chances are minimal. The doctors suggested adoption. Diya was heart-broken on hearing the news. She loved Rishaan so much that she could not reconcile to the guilt of not being able to bear his children. On his part, Rishaan too loved Diya. More than her, the money she brought along with the marriage appealed to him more. When the subject of adoption came up, he deftly and casually mentioned of a little, beautiful girl in a children’s home he knew of. How did he know? Of course, he knew because the kid is the child of a man he once worked with. The parents died in an accident, how sad! Would Diya care to see the child and then they can decide? No rushing here, Diya, if you feel like bringing her home, maybe I can pull a few strings, cut the paper-work and bring the kid home with minimum fuss. Diya saw the girl, was immediately besotted with her charm and Kiara found her way into her father’s home. All things nicely sewn up and Rishaan was happy. A loaded trophy wife, a doting daughter and a thriving practice….


….Rishaan was momentarily woken up from his reverie by the bartender. “Sir, one more? Frankly I think you have had enough. Shall I call for a cab, Sir?’’


“No James, please, one more. Make it small, okay?” James sighed and turned back to fetch the single malt.


‘How could I have been so foolish to trust the bitch?’ Rishaan cursed himself. ‘But what could I have done otherwise? There was always the risk of blackmail’. As he was asking himself the question, he decided that this time he would ensure that there would be no comebacks. He shuddered to even think of what he was plotting. But the liquor inside him started making plans on its own. ‘I would think about it tomorrow when I am sober’, he dismissed the thoughts that swirled inside his head. ‘For the present, there is a flight to catch tomorrow. As ordered by the bitch’.


His mind turned to the phone call he received ten days back. He was attending a national conference of Chartered Accountants in Delhi. The caller ID showed an unknown number. He ignored the call. Fifty seconds later, the message followed.


MY DOLL RISHAAN, MIND CALLING ME BACK?


It was like a 25000 volt shock. MY DOLL! Only one soul on earth used to call him that. Maya! He nearly had a heart attack. His immediate instinct was to ignore the message but it became impossible for him to concentrate on what was going on in the meeting. He excused himself and half-ran to the lobby of the hotel. With trembling fingers, he called the number.


“Maya?”


“How sweet of you to remember, Doll”


“Don’t call me that”


“But that’s what you loved about me most, Rishaan, callng you Doll!” she mockingly protested.


“What do you want now Maya? I thought it was understood that no more one contacting the other till life?”


“One first and last time, Rishaan, please. I cannot bear to go to the grave without seeing our child. I don’t want any money, Rishaan, lest you think this is something of a black mail. I do well enough in life, nowadays. Heard of Mayajal Media? Well, I happen to co-head that. I know you have kept your word, in fact, more than what you promised. That was very considerate of you to bring Kiara into your home, into your life….Don’t interrupt Rishaan…. We all know what’s happening in the world around us, don’t we?”


“What do you want, Maya?”


She told him again. Just seeing Kiara once and spending a quiet hour with her. No, she would not tell her what should not be told. Just idle chatting, you know, between mother and child! How the meeting is arranged and what plot Rishaan would conceive to set up this meeting is his headache. No, she would not take no for an answer. What if Rishaan said no? That is irrelevant, since she knew there would be only ‘Yes’ to her request. ‘The bitch, so confident,’ Rishaan thought. No, my doll, this is not blackmail. This is just a simple request from a long-lost love, wouldn’t Rishaan please say yes?


He said yes. He had no option. At least, for the present. Strangely, convincing Diya and Kiara about the pressing need for them to take a vacation to Goa (they have not gone on one for the last three years, have they?) was pretty easy. And here they were, on the flight to Dabolim that would help connect long-lost people one last time. At least that is what Rishaan hoped, one last time.


The 90 minute flight was not easy for any of them. For each was pre-occupied with how the reaction would be, when each of them did what they had planned to do after landing in Goa.


Like Rishaan, planning to get over the meeting as quickly as possible, with Maya. And then meet the local real estate big-shot there (who helped him seal a few deals years ago with abundant mutual gains) who had promised that what Rishaan asked for could be arranged for a tidy fee. And there would be no more calls from the owner of the number, Rishaan can rest assured. The number would be gone from his life, so would its owner…….


Like Diya, planning to break the lovely news of her conceiving. The gynecologist had assured her that bearing a child at 42 is perfectly normal and would cause no harm to the mother and the child. Diya had wanted to break the news at Delhi itself but since they were anyway planning on this lovely trip to Goa, it would be perfect to share the sweet tidings in a second honeymoon ambience. Diya was too excited and nervous in the flight that she wondered if Rishaan would find anything amiss in her behaviour….


Like Kiara, who, after much thought, planned to break the news to her parents that she is pregnant, that there is nothing to be worried or alarmed about, that she plans to marry the boy, that the boy’s parents have said yes, that she has been going steady with the boy for two years, that he is Senior Vice President or whatever in a top advertising firm called Mayajal Media, that he is well settled in life…..





In the middle of the flight, Kiara woke up to go to the washroom. When she returned, she was too lazy to push her way into the middle seat. And with Rishaan readily offering to shift seats, the seating arrangement changed. With 20 minutes still remaining for the flight to land, a sleep starved Kiara took another power nap, this time holding Rishaan's right hand more firmly. Rishaan's other hand, though, nervously moved to touch Diya's. Her heart skipped a beat. Diya pulled her hand away. But a defiant Rishaan held her wrist again, this time firmly and more reassuringly. The changing behavioral dynamics between the three perhaps gave out a foreboding of what was to come in Goa.

When the flight landed at the Dabolim Airport, Rishaan felt uncanny...his excitement seemed replaced by an unknown fear that he found very difficult to decipher. The plane had just touched down and……what the hell……why it is not slowing down?…Oh, my God….why are the tyres not screeching and braking?.....the airport building was whizzing past….smoke was billowing from the underbelly…..cries and shrieks everywhere……What on earth was happening?....he clutched Diya’s & Kiara’s hands with his own trembling hands….was the plane raising again?.......is it overshooting the runway?…..an eerie terror of impending death gripped him…….the last he remembered seeing was the left wing of the aircraft clipping the tree top… and then there was a black, a deathly void of black he was plunging into at breakneck speed and then he remembered nothing…….. Not even his best-laid plans.

The Necklace, re-crafted

Yes, we all have heard of that famous Guy De Maupassant short story “The Necklace”. You have not? Well,  I too had not, till a week ago. It was a typical Sujatha type short piece of fiction with an interesting premise. Could have very well also fitted into the Kumudham orupakka kadhai scheme of things.  

For those who are not ‘intellectually’ stimulated to have any interest on the Maupassant types, the story goes like this – A vain glorious woman with a poor, henpecked husband. No prizes for guessing who is the hen. Always envious of her richer friends and derisive of her financially incapable husband. Husband is stark poor, some government department clerk or something. Husband invited for an important office party. Big guns will attend and husband somehow manages an invite just to show off to his wife. Fate strikes here.

Husband asks wife to accompany.  Wife sobs and swoons. Says she cannot attend a richman’s party without an appropriate party gown. Husband splurges on a month’s savings of him to buy her one. Wife still sobs. Says she can’t attend without an appropriate dazzling piece of  jewellery. They both decide that the wife would borrow one from her best (& more important, rich) friend. Borrows one diamond studded necklace and makes it to  the party. Manages to be the cynosure of all eyes there.  Her day made  at the party, returns home. And lo! Discovers that the necklace is lost!

Terrified at the prospect of disclosing this to the rich friend, the couple count the options. First, they ask for some time from the lender for the return of the jewel. That granted, they sit down and think and think about how to manage the hopelessly large sum that would replace the jewel. Left with no options, they decide to  sell off their house. The chastened  wife takes up employment  as a maid, husband moonshines as a cobbler and all that soul-wrenching stuff later, manage to buy an exact replica of the ornament in diamond and return the same to the rich friend. A life-time’s savings lost but what is savings before honour?

Story does not end here. Wife meets friend after 10 years. Wife is now a ragged, miserable-looking hag looking twice her age. After some small talk, wife recalls that incident. Blurts out all that happened that fateful day  and why penury has made her what she appears now. All for that lost necklace. All for that piece of honour. The friend hears her out with consternation and bewilderment. And the story ends with these words of the friend – “O my poor, dear Matilda. Why, mine were only imitation.  At the most they were worth five hundred francs!….”

The Necklace! Worth a measly 500 francs. The necklace that turned upside down the lives of a hard working man and his proud, envy-sodden  wife. The necklace that made a 1000 word riveting story. The Necklace…..

It is here, I take the story of the necklace forward myself. A kind of sequel to the original Maupassant.  In fact, I have made up two sequels, choose as you please. Let me consider two scenarios … For Indianness sake, Matilda, the wife is Mary. The rich friend is Florence and Mary’s husband is Henry . (I know this has been tried out by Archer - multiple endings for a single plot but what the hell, surely he is not going to sue me, he knows better!)

Sequel scenario I

“…….Oh, my poor Mary. Why, mine were only imitation.  At the most they were worth five hundred rupees !...”

Mary  was having a near heart-attack.

“What?”

“I told you, Mary. Mine was a little imitation.  I never keep original diamond jewellery at home. I keep them all in the bank locker. But ten years back, when you asked to borrow it, I did not have the heart to tell the truth. So I just went ahead and lent you the imitation for the party. After all you were borrowing it only for a few hours and hardly anyone would’ve noticed”

Mary was in a daze. Ten years. Ten years of blood and sweat. Ten years of washing dishes and sweeping floors. Ten years of living without your own  roof upon your head.  A decade spent in abysmal poverty. And how can she forgive herself for the destruction she brought upon her toiling husband!  Ten years….

She quickly recovered and composed herself.  Now she had to think fast. Years of hard labor had not in one bit taken away from Mary the dream to dream rich, think rich and be rich. Ten years. …How much that damn necklace cost? Ten lakh rupees? Must  have been fifteen. She didn’t keep an account and did not remember. Ten lakhs, fifteen  lakhs, all mere numbers.  Effortlessly gobbled up by the tsunami  of a ten year long wretched life. She thought for a moment. And then asked,

“ Florence, Is this true? You are not kidding? This is no time to play tomfoolery with  your dearest but poor friend of long time!”

“Why, no Mary. It was an imitation. Now I understand what you went through all these years. It was providence that made us meet today. No, you need not even ask. I would return the original diamond jewellery you replaced ten years back”

The words were  Beethoven’s fifth playing in Mary’s ears. She could not believe what was happening. Fifteen lakhs! Now she can be back to what she had always wanted. Having a house of her own with five maids, a lovely garden, a car, air-conditioning…Why she can even ask her husband to quit working…. Er…., well, she can at least consider that option.

“Florence, you are such a darling. Can I visit you tomorrow to have that ornament back?”

“By all means.  Well…., er… wait. I have to search for it. Can’t exactly remember where it is lying. You know, my husband has this sickening habit of transporting all that resembles diamonds to the bank locker. Probably, this too is sleeping safely inside the locker, my poor husband, how does he know which is fake and which is genuine? Give me a week. I am going on a short  holiday to France with my husband tomorrow. I shall return next Tuesday and trace the thing out. Wednesday, you can come and take it”.

So it has to be a week  days later. Mary sighed. Well, a seven day wait is nothing considering the stakes. They had one more round of coffee and cookies and parted, Mary promising more than once that she would come a visiting next Wednesday.

A week passed.  A week, that seemed  as long as a year for Mary. She could not sleep or eat for those seven  days. She did not even tell her husband of what happened. The poor husband simply did not have a clue. He did spot a flicker of radiance and gaiety on her wife’s face but didn’t bother to ask what it was due to. He certainly did not want to hear that she had decided to attend another party, suitably adorned and attired.

Wednesday, sharp by 10 o’clock, Mary knocked on the doors of Florence. Florence herself opened the door.

“ Mary, how nice to see you. You look beautiful”.

“Thank you Florence. Can I have the jewel now?”

“ Oh, sure. Now what a week I had in Paris, Mary, you must listen.. The sights, the sounds of France are a once-in-a lifetime experience. You must some day visit Paris.”

“ Oh really? Glad that you had a whale of a time on your Paris vacation. Now, I am really in a rush. My husband will be back from night duty any time. Can I have that jewellery please?”

“ Ah, yes, the jewellery. I am bringing it. Now Mary, Air France really offers some nice discounts if you travel in the off-season. And you know what they had on board for dinner? Fabulous gourmet and the best of wines. The tour company too was fantastic. Mary, I strongly recommend you visit France with the same company…”

Mary desperately wanted to cut her short. Her mind was transfixed on that glittering diamond jewellery she had laid her eyes on 10 years back. She could not even recollect how magnificent it looked. All she remembered was the nerve-wracking 15 minutes from the moment the ornament was packed and handed over by the jeweler to Florence’s residence 10 years back. Why she hardly remembered anything about how the piece looked, she now realized.

“…..and the Siene by night!” Florence went on and on. “ An awesome experience. But Mary, you know, the Eiffel Tower is a bit over-rated. I would any day prefer…..”

“Florence, can I have the jewellery now?”

“Yes, the jewellery. I forgot. Glory…” she called out for her maid. “Glory, in my bedroom, top drawer of the right side cabinet, there is a blue jewellery box. Will you please. bring it now”, she ordered.   “Trustworthy maids are hard to come by Mary, these days..” she went on. Mary nodded in a daze. She should know.  She did not want to interject with something inappropriate that  she herself was a maid, with a trust-worthy quotient of 65% as per self-assessment.

Presently the blue box was brought.  Opened.  A white shining ornament was carefully prised out. Florence held it between her fingers, raised it and showed it to  Mary From a distance.  And then again carefully replaced it  inside the box and shut it closed.

“This is the one, Mary?”

For all she tried, she could not remember anything.  “Yes, exactly. How  beautiful!” she blurted out. With another hundred thanks and promises to catch up later, she latched on to the blue box and rushed out. Even before she exited the door than the sweet dream of a ten maided air-conditioned house with a lovely garden played again softly in her mind. 

“Peter”, Florence called out no sooner than Mary exited.

Peter, the husband of Florence, sauntered in.

“You did exactly as I told you, Florence?” he asked.

“Yes, my dear.  But…isn’t this cheating?  How can I do this to an old friend…?”

“You are a fool, Florence.  And a naïve one at that.  Just forget about it.  Don’t ever think about it again”

“But what if she found out?” – Florence.

“Found out what?” – Peter.

“That it is a fake?”

“So what if she found out? Is there any proof? Is there any proof that she handed you the original when she returned the jewellery 10 years back? You just handed her back what she returned then. It was all lying in a locker, unopened. If it is a fake now, it WAS a fake then. Tables turned on her”

“But Peter, some how this does not seem alright, Peter..”

“ it is alright, my dear. After all, who knows what did she return a decade back? I did not even check it out for its genuineness.”

“And, where is that damn original thing now?”

“In the locker.  As always. I hope it is an original anyway. It should be. My instinct says so. After all, we are none-the-poorer even if it is a fake. If it is an original, we profit. If it is a fake, we lose nothing.  Glad that you told me of your little unexpected meeting with Mary a week back. But how could you even blurt out to her immediately that it was an imitation you gave her for the party? You must have consulted me in the first place before telling her that."

“ I could not think along those lines, Peter”.

“Anyway, no damage done. Just relax. If we get an original from the locker, we are richer. If we don’t, we continue to remain as what we are now. Which is rich.” Peter trooped into the bedroom.

Still not convinced, Florence went back to her bedroom for some rest. She could not decide one way or the other. Mary was not a great friend, so what the hell, she thought.  And fifteen  lakhs doesn’t hurt.  Irrespective of the source of the slush. Time, perhaps, for another vacation to the Antartica…

Sequel Scenario II

  “…….Oh, my poor Mary. Why, mine were only imitation.  At the most they were worth five hundred rupees !...”

Mary’s heart stopped. Has she been found out? Is this a ploy by Mary to trap her and force her to admit what she had thought the world has forgotten?  She shivered and sweated at the same time. She hoped, for God’s sake, Florence did not find anything unusual about her ashen face.

“..Er…Florence, what are you saying? I did return a brand new, genuine, 24 karat diamond studded necklace to you that day?”

“You did, Mary, but  what I lent you was an imitation!”

Mary was flabbergasted. She did not have the nerve to admit even now,  after a decade. That, the cause  of her family’s decade-long suffering and hard labour, that damn piece of jewelery she returned to Florence  on that fateful day was, after all, not an original, but an imitation itself! Yes. Not even Henry knew about it. She has the original safely stashed away, under the neem tree of her backyard soon after she purchased the piece from the jeweler. Why, just yesterday she checked it out. Safely nestled. Under the neem tree.

On hindsight, Mary had to admit that it was a sudden flash of genius that made her switch the original with the fake at the point of returning the piece to Florence ten years back. She just banked on providence that Florence would never find out. And she was right. She never did!

Now Mary was caught in a terrible dilemma. She had two options – admit that what she originally replaced was in itself a fake or go ahead and reclaim the “original” Florence thinks she has in her possession now. The first option was no option at all, she realized. How could she admit that she cheated?  A non-option, she quickly discarded it.  And the second option?  Again nerve-wracking. How could she now NOT ask for something she is expected to ask? Damned if she asks to return now, for it would be of no worth. Damned if she doesn’t, since that would arouse the suspicion of Florence. Which sane soul would not ask for a return of something valuable pledged by mistake?

She had to think fast. And still appear normal. She tried. And then came out with this thing.

“Well, Florence, would it be too much if I ask you to return the original piece I replaced a decade back?”

Florence  appeared to hesitate. Mary’s heartbeat increased. What if Florence finds out NOW that it was all along a fake? But then,  there was nothing to prove.  It was all word of mouth, an unwritten code of loyalty between friends.  But she need not have worried.  Florence presently said   "Why, Mary, it is my duty. You had pledged your life for this damn thing.  What is friendship if honesty is absent? I would return the piece you had returned, next Wednesday, after I come back from my France vacation. Should be lying in a locker, I need to check out and retrieve it.”

Mary saw no reason to press ahead for an early release of her treasure. After all, it was a fake. Seven days does not matter. In fact, it does not matter at all, if she even forgets to redeem the prized treasure.

But then she remembered that she had to show some anxiety. So she tried this appropriate-sounding response, “Well, Florence,  I thought it would be helpful if I can redeem it tomorrow, for I am mired in debt and each day’s interest counts, but okay, what’s a week between friends? I will wait for a week”

“It is only providence that made us meet today, Mary. I will trace that piece out soon after I return from France.  It is  probably sleeping in a bank locker now. You know, my husband Peter has that nasty habit of stashing away anything that resembles a diamond into a bank locker. Now I have to go to the bank and scrounge through the contents of the locker and find that piece out. Okay, let’s then settle at Wednesday next, Mary.”

So it’s another seven days before the charade is enacted again, thought Mary. Okay, so be it. As long as the original is safely cocooned  away under that neem tree. 'Nobody is going to dig under that neem tree', Mary thought, 'not in my life time…'

On Wednesday next, Mary promptly forgot to call on Florence, until Florence herself phoned and enquired as to why Mary did not turn up yet.  Mary cursed herself on this little indiscretion and promptly  lied that she was on her way. Caught a call taxi perforce and landed on Florence’s door, all along ruminating on the fate that made her spend 300 bucks on a taxi to claim a fake diamond necklace that would probably go at 200 bucks today.

“Here is your necklace, Mary”, Florence  handed over the jewellery. Her lungs full with emotions of honesty. Equally reciprocated by a massive feeling of feigned gratitude in the lungs of the receiver.  Further pleasantaries were exchanged, coffees consumed and good byes traded. Having been thrust upon this goddamn worthless piece of fake, Mary ruefully trudged to her house. But still thankful that what she did originally ten years back was, after all, justified from the angle of poetic justice and that the fruits  of her 10 year labor is now safely buried under the neem tree.  She would dig that out soon and surprise her husband , she thought. Maybe, the husband can take an early retirement. The thought disturbed her, her husband’s early retirement and she decided that she would shelve that proposal for the time being.  If nothing, she can have that five  maided house and air conditioning and a car with that treasure she has buried deep under the neem tree. She did not dare to dig out the diamond all these ten years lest she be questioned on the source of her new-found wealth. Now is the god-sent opportunity.  An unwitting smile lit her face. She went to sleep peacefully that night, despite the Rs.300 loss during the course of the day, with that ear to ear smile intact.

Now epilogue common to both the scenarios:

In fact, the smile also never left the face of that jeweler on Big  Market street ever since he palmed off a strikingly similar looking fake of a diamond necklace to Mary ten years back. He had profited out of that deal and he still gets a feeling of ecstasy on his coup a decade ago.

An uncle and a gentleman!

Roommates come in different shapes, sizes  and natures.  Looks very much so, when you are twenty three and one of your room-mates is touching 55.  Room it was but mate?  Seems improbable from the outside but when fate throws five of you together into one tenement, every cohabitant of the room turns out to be a mate, cockroaches and lizards included.  That way, Tiwary uncle  sure was a mate for  us five.

And what a mate he turned out to be!

First the scene.

Silchar.  An overgrown village masquerading as a town those times, the early 90s.  Somewhere in south Assam.  Heard of the place?  I mean Assam?  Well, that's where we took roots, not just in the bank, but in life itself.  That's where we were first consigned to, when we joined the bank's hallowed portals.  Coming from different parts of India, all of us probably had their first baptism by fire there, all of us had a taste of what the rest of India tasted like, smelt like and felt like.  Even if the experience had to come in distant Assam, not India.

To cut a long story short, four of us somehow contrived to meet up with one another after joining the bank , became kind of adjusted to one another and thought of taking up a house in Ambicapatty, that locality of Silchar, the Poes Garden equivalent of Chennai.

That was when fate or providence, whatever you would call a mash up of unexpected events, brought us into contact with Tiwary uncle.

He was already leading a cozy life in his company leased house in Ambicapatty.  Company? Leased? In Silchar? yes, quite possible, even in those days.  Know what? Assam is a place that floats on oil and natural gas, which still find a large number of takers in India.  Indian Companies will do anything to dig out oil from that place and bring it to India by truckloads. Being always a fair trade partner, India gives something in return for the booty smuggled out.  It gives pavilions for free in the India Habitat Centre Trade fair every year  for each of the North Eastern states.  It plies trains that takes 50 hours to reach there.  It has even allowed private airlines to ferry passengers there.  (But why am I digressing?  Should take care of this dirty habit of meandering away and finding good in every bad).  The Indian companies employed an army of labour, mostly from Bihar,  to dig out the gas.   The labourers  used to (and still do) dig, dig and dig.   Why,  the British started it you know, when the entire geography which goes by the name North East now, was under their colony! "Dig boy, Dig.  Dig Boy, Dig"  they used to exhort the labourers till oil gushed out and the diggers passed out.  The story is that probably that's how another quaint oil rich town in Assam got that name Digboi.  (That it is Indian Oil's first and one of biggest refineries is another  irrelevant story).

Silchar in Assam too  has loads of gas underneath its lush paddy fields.  I mean, natural gas, not the obnoxious & hydrogen-sulphide contaminated variety or the politicians' public speeches we normally associate the term with..  So India's biggest oil exploring public sector Navaratna has huge operations there. Such operations in a big scale required labour in large numbers.  Such large number of labour required a personnel department.  Such a large personnel department needed a manager.  Ha, here comes our link, Tiwary Saab, that famous personnel manager in ONGC. No prizes for guessing, even to blondes and Indians, that ONGC can afford company leased accommodation to its managers, even in Silchar.  So now you are able to place Silchar and its famous denizen Tiwary in their respective proper perspectives.

Now the Act

Tiwary had already taken up quarters in that palatial kind of house in Ambicapatty, Silchar but singly.  Now single is a status Tiwary uncle  frowns upon except when it is malt.  He wants company.  In plenty.  Of any variety and of any gender.  For the statistics, he had a family of  (only) one wife, and a daughter safely stashed away in Dehradun.  He had a son too, employed somewhere in North India, i.e. some place north of Karnataka extending up to the Himalayas. (Just as anything below the Vindhyas is South India for my Amit friends).  His work had brought him to Assam and after a brief sojourn in Jorhat, he now found himself in Silchar.  Accommodation was procured, furniture was procured and basic comforts procured but what about company?  So he always wanted to take in others, he had decided, when he moved to Silchar.  In fact, he was proceeding on the right track even before he came into contact with us.  He had procured a domestic help for his cooking and  cleaning ( the house) needs.  So his company already had two members in his household.

That was when we five bakras fell into his fold to enlarge his company.  A private company became a public company.  We were looking for a decent house, he was looking for company and the twain met. Two became seven.  From here, the story should pick up.

You would have by now guessed what mould our Tiwary uncle fit into.  He had some very fine gentlemanly  attributes.  Listed below are only two samples.

1  Disregard for age

He was 55 alright but he is fine with a company that is 5 year old, not to speak of us, all of 23/24 years each.  All he needs is someone who can talk in Hindi and atleast four among us qualified in this test.  The fifth one is still trying when last heard.

2  High regard for booze

He strongly believed that for any man to speak and live sanely, booze is required.  Just as food, clothing and shelter.  Every evening of his was an evening of fun and frolic and mirth and booze. Here, I need to elaborate but don't ask why a sub para no. 2 became this long.  This sub-para could as well have become another blog in itself.

Booze, Tiwary uncle adored and consumed but mostly it came free for him.  Every evening, he boozed.  Mosquito free nights are possible in Silchar but a booze-free Tiwary uncle  is inconceivable.  And the sharab was rarely bought by him.  You know how these sarkari Indian companies functioned.  For the uninitiated, it functioned the same way thirty years back as it does now.  Grease appropriate palms and the wheels moved. Quench appropriate thirsts and postings got fixed.  Every evening, some supplicant or the other would be (forcefully) invited to Tiwary uncle's home to get his things done.  Invariably, the things got done after uncle's thirst was quenched.  Great man, Tiwary uncle, he never did make any fuss on any particular brand.  One day it would be whisky, the next brandy and the third whatever.  I run out of varieties, since my general knowledge on booze is weak.

Some say that booze brings out the best from a man. It certainly did for Mirza Ghalib and Kannadasan.    It certainly did for the supplicants-cum-daily evening delivery boys but it even did wonders for the hero of this tale.  During the course of each Daru session, our Tiwary uncle  would spew forth the following gems. The same gems every evening but one never got bored hearing the same thing evening after evening.  They were: 

That he had three philosophies or credos or whatever funda, in life:

a)  "Head office mein ghar hain , kya  L _ _ _ _ ka dar hai?"

     Like a treatise on Bhagvad Gita, I have to explain this.  Tiwary used to emphasize more than once during the course of his evening discourses that he hails from Dehradun.  The place where ONGC is headquartered. He is a Head Office man.  Meaning, some ulta pulta happens means, he can throw his weight around in Dehradun, his home town itself, beware!  "I come from Dehradun, ONGC comes from Dehradun, and so 'aham ONGC asmi'.  That's his credo.  Here what L _ _ _ _ means, you can conjecture.  I will give only two hints.  The last letter is A and the entire word is commonly referred to as a crass Hindi Gali.

b)  " kaun si aisi chokri jo mujse na takri"?

  Even after thirty years, I am still unable to fathom why he used to dish out this theorem or sloka or whatever, but he did all the same, after each evening's booze session.  We saw only one chokri there in the household and that is the dear 50 year old Mashi, the domestic help.    Other than that chokri, why our Tiwary uncle even used to think about any other intimidating chokri we never knew and we never will. That's an unsolved riddle I will carry to my tomb.

Here I should warn readers that I absolutely have no idea of whether the 55  year old Tiwary uncle had any takkar with any 50 year old chokri in ambicapatty.  I am not suggesting anything, but again that might just provide content for another blog, nay, full length novel, if further dug up.

c)  "chad gaya seedi pe, uthar gaya beedi pe"

This gem, though we all know to be an inextricable part of life, the very essence of every mortal's life, assumed huge proportions when it emanated from the great man's mouth.  In fact, Tiwary uncle was no less than Einstein.  Einstein (was that him or Kalam or some other science nazi?) had said something to the effect that every action should have an equal and opposite reaction and he bloody became famous for this simple quote.  Our Tiwary's Beedi philosophy was no less profound.  It encompasses Einstein and much more.  Whoever climbs up must come down.  Heads high, with all confidence, you ascend the seedi but a time will come, a moment will arrive when you all have to descend, that too with a Beedi in the mouth.  Tiwary's oceanic knowledge suggests that the ascent was with a 555 cigarette but the descent has to be necessarily with a lowly beedi.  What deep wisdom!

(But why such profound philosophy was shared only after 7 p.m. every night don't ask.  There has to be an apt time for everything.  Just read that even Osho attained enlightenment after a particularly commonplace event)

So here ends the story.  I know, you are asking 'but when did it begin?' but that's the beauty of Tiwary uncle's life.  His entire life can be beautifully summed up by what he used to do during those two hours of evening booze.  Naturally, when the brew hits him and he falls flat on his bed, the story should end. As MKG said "my life is my message", Tiwary uncle's three gospel messages (see (a), (b), (c) above) were his life.     In fact, there is neither a beginning nor an end to the tales of great men.  

So this is the tale of how one great soul by name Tiwary uncle came across our lives for a brief spell of about 1 year in our early impressionable career lives.  I remember each and every word of his wisdom as would my friends Tshering, Phurba, Deepak and Pradeep, wherever there are.

To be frank, on restropection, after 30 years, he can very well be called a scum, a womaniser, a boozer, an opportunist now.  But who is not?  At least I am one, not necessarily with the above mentioned four virtues but with qualities equally scum-like.  I can't say about the other four guys but every one has some s_ _ _  in him.  The point is, I still remember him after 30 years for nothing.  He did not turn my life around, he remained my room mate only for a few months, he is of the same category as a traveller companion you come across during long train journeys.  ( I still remember one gentleman from Ambassa, Tripura, with whom I shared 70 glorious hours of my life in Guwahati express, never to see him again, never to even remember his name but remembering word by word the conversation).  Co-travellers, yes,  but who add spice to the long, tiring journey called  life.  Helps me in prioritising life's priorities.

His three mantras of life, I would never forget, even though only one of them really holds any relevance to me.   Chokri had never held any fascination for me and it never will.  My ghar will never be in My Head office.The Beedi analogy probably applies to every one.  Me too.  The analogy as well as the Beedi.  

Tiwary uncle, you must be about 85 now.  And still reminiscing about or missing  those Silchar evenings. Do your gharwale still allow you those small luxuries of Ambicapatty which you enjoyed and initiated us into? Godspeed to you, my friend.  And to my four  other fellow- bakras.  And to the mashi for all reasons, disclosable and undisclosable.

Murder, most foul....

The decision has been made.  A tough one, at that. ‘ No going back at this last moment’  he told himself, ‘ it has to be executed at any cost’….  It still gave him the shivers, the very thought of what he would be embarking on.   ‘It’s all a mental thing’, he reminded himself.  ‘Tough men don’t back out, however tough the task be’.  At this final hour, there’s no going back too.  Too late.  All plans have been made.  Just a matter of few hours.  The set hour can’t be postponed.    It has to be done, however tough the job at hand is.

Carefully, he opened the box he just purchased and spread out the wares over the table.  Gingerly picked up the knife and examined it.  It shone brightly under the reading lamp.  The edges appeared pretty sharp enough.  Enough to slice through effortlessly, even  through stone.  Enough to inflict a deep wound and snub out life, if need be.   ‘Enough to complete the task’, he thought.  Placed the knife on the reading table and now picked up the scissors.  He could not say if the implement would be up to the task at hand.  After all, he has not done this before.  And he fervently hoped he need not repeat it, in case the first attempt failed.  Ha, and then the plastic gloves.  ‘So that nothing sticks to the hand’.   He had taken special care to ensure there will be no trace of blood on his hands after the work is done.  And his handlers have already made arrangements to dispose off the body safely.  No one would notice and no one would care.  It would just rot inside some filthy dump and evaporate into the elements.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…..

‘And there would be people around’, he reminded himself.  But of course, that should be no problem.  Everyone would be busy with his chore.  And with some luck, what he does will not even  be noticed.

Visualising the task at hand, he almost puked.  ‘Why should God choose to soak me in this blood and gore?’ he asked himself.  Brought up in an orthodox Tambrahm family, he had not even killed an ant. Immediately he realized, he had no choice.  He should have thought   when he said yes, two years back, when he actually had a choice.  To take that momentous decision that would bring him to this now.  But now he has had enough.  Enough,  with this daily torture of waiting for the inevitable.    Enough,  with procrastination.  Better be done with it.  Hopefully there will be no need for an encore.  How long can one keep postponing?  He wished the moment would never arrive but like taxes, with sure certainty, the moment has indeed arrived.  Thinking of taxes, his mind veered towards death, another sure certainty.  He almost smiled.  And then admonished   himself.  Thinking of death and daring to smile? 

Thinking of death!  But what else he can think of?  THIS IS DEATH AND THIS IS MURDER.  Think of the times spent together with her?  That moment when she gently came from behind and sat on your lap like a bee perched itself  on the flower?  Think of the days when she even partook your food from the same plate?  Or the numerous days when she would hide in each nook and corner and play hide and seek with you when you go after her with a purpose?  Or even dare to enter the bathroom to be close with you when you took a shower?  Ever close but never letting you to lay your hands on?   Always elusive?

But he realized that despite the closeness, despite the daily contacts and fooling around, chasing each other and all, deep inside, he loathed her.  He actually wanted to get rid of her and all her tribe.  Sadly, inspite of having at times made obvious his feelings that he despised her, the poor thing just could not understand.  She kept chasing him.  The farther he ran from her, the closer she pursued him.   Now he has no love lost for her.  He just wanted to get rid of her.  After all, he has to move ahead in life, and this is just a little inconvenience he has to brush aside.

His mind was suddenly yanked violently towards the consequences of his planned action.  What if he failed?  What if someone found out?  Won’t they ridicule him?  What face will you show your neighbours if you fail and get noticed?  After all, the failure will bring forth attention and questions will be asked.  People, undesirable people, will come calling to your home.  At odd hours.     But more important, how would you remove the stains from your hand and clothes if they stuck?  He shuddered to think of the consequences.  He tried to calm himself and went over all the mental preparations he had made over the last few weeks.  ‘I didn’t ask for this’,  he consoled himself, ‘It’s all fate’.  ‘Mine and her, intertwined’.  Just one thought seemed to console him slightly.  That she would never feel the pain.  After all these years together, despite his hatred for her, he could not bear himself to watch her writhing in pain.  He knew she would be sufficiently drugged before he could lay his hands on her.  He was told that she would be,  no doubt about that.  And that gave him some comfort.

With that comforting thought, he retired to his bed, hoping to get some sleep.  To sleep and wake up to tomorrow, Monday, the D-day.  The day his task will be accomplished .   By noon, the next day his XII standard zoology practicals would be over.  Dissection of periplanata americana – the cockroach- would be over.  Failure in the practicals is not an option.  Just not.  He has to get a full 50 if he ever fancies a chance at becoming a doctor….

TMS - Farewell to a musical odyssey!

One does not reminisce about a great musical journey of 91 years with feelings of pathos and melancholy.  No, such emotions would sully the mood  here.  It was, after all,  a beautifully lived,  fully lived life.  As you leaf through the  pages of his life, strains of mellifluous music waft all around. The air is pervaded by the dulcet tunes of a hundred variety.   A duet here, a devotional there, a rap here, a rhapsody there…. And it makes you sit up and wonder.  Who is this man?  And how did the world miss him when he was around?  Why is it invariably that it takes a death to  remind the world about the greatness of one whose life just withered away? 

Who is this TMS?  How could he produce what he did during his lifetime?  How did he manage the effortless ease of a  muthukkulikka vareegala and a muthaitharupathi thirunagai? Or a yaaranda nilavu and a yennadi rakkamma rendered with equal felicity?

Reams have just been written about the man and his bottomless repertoire.  Adjectives could no more adequately 'adjectivise' his greatness.  I shall not attempt to add to the eulogy.  But one thing I wish to attempt – with trepidation.  To pick the top 10 from his output.  The task is nearly impossible of performance, I am aware, but yet venture into.  There actually is no such thing as the best 10, since hundreds of his songs could qualify to be  among the top.  Let me see…

1 Ennirenduppadhinaru vayadhu has always been my personal favourite – till yesterday the reason was Sivaji Ganesan but now, leafing through the life-time greatest songs of TMS, it dawns on me that the singer too was all along reason enough for that classic melody to bear the stamp of class which it does!  Difficult to tell if Sivaji added glitz to TMS’s voice by some excellent acting and lip-syncing or if TMS added that gloss to the song-setting by his golden voice.  8 x 2 = 16 vayadhu comes right on top.

 2 How  do you describe a string of white pearls embedded on a strip of red coral?  To Vaali, it would look like the seductive smile of the heroine.  TMS brought real life to the imagery through his Pavalakkodiyile muthukkal poothal….song.    A heady cocktail of some lilting music, grand orchestration, great but simple lyrics, all embellished by the soothing TMS voice

3  Chinnanchiriya Vannapparavai brings forth a different facet of TMS.  That deep baritone voice rendering a Carnatic classical type song.  Contrasting with the soft, velvety voice of Janaki, yet beautifully complementing it.  What a song!  TMS’s rendition of the stanza beginning with Vaasal ondrirukkum…. is a real treat to the ears.  Easily one of TMS’s best . 

4 And who said his masculine, resonant voice was not cut out  for songs addressing  children?  Three pieces readily come to my mind – Sirithu vazhavendum… was good, but   Idho endhan deivam munnale….was real vintage TMS.  Again, such gems were but heady mixes of Ganesan, MSV &  Kannadasan but imagine anyone else singing the song and the efforts of the first three would have gone to waste.  As Kannadasan says in this song, God is to be seen in the aroma of a flower- strewn garden, in the lilt of the honey voice of the koel, in the black cloud bursting to quench the thirst of all and in the sweetness of the tender fruits in the orchard.  He could as well have added ‘in the tantalizing voice of TMS…’

5  The mother of today’s Kuthupattu  should be ‘Ennadi Rakkamma…’  The pulsating beat, the youthful effervescence of TMS, the folksy lyrics of KD produce an unbeatable winner.  Picture TMS’s photo in your mind and picture such a pious face covered with vibhuti and kumkum belting out ‘en kannu, en mookku , en pallu…’! Such was his variety and versatility…. And after this song, immediately go to …

6 ….Vandha naal mudhal, indha naal varai….A perfect study in contrast.  Was this the same Rakkamma singer?  Unbelievable.  The voice seamlessly merging with the whistling in the background and melting away into the sunset yonder, along with the cycling Ganesan…TMS proves that his caliber is much above the modern day charlatans masquerading as singers.  Perfect acting, beautiful music soft on the ears (hardly one detects more that 2 or 3 instruments in this piece) and to cap it all, the golden voice of TMS again.  When will we ever come across such masterpieces?

7 Talking of childrens’ songs, again my personal favourite is ‘Chellakkiligalam palliyile…’I find myself groping for words to differentiate between one TMS song and another.  My very mediocre writing skills are a hindrance to amply describe the mood, the setting and the metre of this great song.  Sivaji is the caretaker of several orphaned children, he is the beloved mama for them all.  It is night time. Time to get the kids  to bed.  A little one asks why she can’t see God.  Sivaji tries to explain what is God.  Suddenly TMS breaks into  a ‘la la la la la la la laa….chellakkiligalam pallilyile…’ Needless to say, Ganesan then takes over in perfectly emoting Kannadasan’s lyrics.  This song is sure to seek out that soft nerve inside the steeliest of men and touch a chord.  TMS’s "urugum varthai amma amma" in this piece is the forerunner of all the amma (mother) oriented songs of later years in Tamil film world.  

8  'Our sweetest songs are those that tell of the saddest thoughts', said Shelley. Especially true, if told  by TMS.  ‘Netrupparitha Roja…’ is a case in point.  It proves that man finds solace and peace more in sad songs than in happy ones.  Irony,  but probably because one sad man readily reads the emotional outburst of another sad soul and if that bursts out in the form of a song, to the accompaniment of melodious music, nothing like it.  Not many would have heard this song, except the avid Vividh bharathi Madras listeners of those golden  sixties and seventies. 

9  ‘Oru naalile….’ from Sivantha Mann is a real class act.  TMS begins with ‘Oru naalile…’.  Suseela can’t wait for him to finish and interjects with a sexy ‘ennavam?’ (she sure knows 'ennavam'!!) TMS replies in a mono-syllable 'uravanathe’…and the mirth of point/counter-point continues. On screen, Sivaji and Kanchana, mirroring the same lustful emotions.   It is unbelievable to imagine such a romantic, sometimes raunchy, love duet was composed some forty years back.  Even today’s younger bunch of singers could not have done justice to the gaiety and frolic TMS brought forth in his voice in this song.  Would find a place in any top 10 list of TMS.

10 And so here I am, who went for a stroll down memory lane in search of the cool sea breeze and returned satisfied with a sonnet in my hand.  Yes, Kaatru vangapponen, Oru kavithai vangi vanthen…” No surprise here.  Any one who goes for a walk down the TMS lane is sure to return with a heady, satisfied feeling of bliss and a heartful of melodies.    The rich texture of TMS’ voice, exploring scores of nuances at different pitches, scintillating tune and the boyish energy of a ever-youthful love-struck MGR is the perfect setting for this song. 

One can go on and on.  The futility of picking 10 among thousands hits me hard now.  Even though the above 10 is not strictly in the order of my liking or their relative merit,  I wonder why I omitted ‘Muthaitharu pathithirunagai (the precursor of later day rap songs - try this tongue twister  [non-Tamils need not bother] “korputrezhanatpattroudarai vettippaliyittukkulakiri kuthuppadavothupporavala perumale…") or “Pattum naane bhavamum naane" (a super duper Carnatic hit of those times, and TMS effortlessly breezes through the difficult sangathis)  “Buddhan, Yesu, Gandhi pirandhadhu…” ( the typical MGR song but without his usual histrionics, hands firmly in place, sung in a soothing voice).

It is true that most of TMS’s  best were sung on the screen by that legend Sivaji Ganesan.  It becomes difficult to imagine as to who actually sings the song – Ganesan or TMS.  As I said earlier, it was possible only for TMS to sing in different voices for different on-screen heroes.  Just close your eyes, and switch on the transistor (yes, transistor or the Murphy radio, if you like, I am talking of the seventies) and listen to any TMS number.  Nine out of 10 times you can predict if it was Sivaji or MGR or some other hero who sang it on screen.  A God-given but perfectly tuned gift, no other play back singer in India has managed to anywhere come close to acquire. 

No futile arguments on who is the greatest playback singer of Indian cinema and such stuff.  Any argument would even be pointless, what with half of India not even having heard of a legend which went by the name TMS.  Not even heard of that colossus who straddled three decades of Tamil cinema and produced a mind boggling 10,000 songs, not counting his hundreds of devotional songs, outside films.  Not even realizing that the world is bigger than the Rafis, Mukeshs and Kishores.  Not to belittle these gentlemen but a TMS or a PBS or a Ghantasala was much bigger in scope and canvas than what Hindi filmworld could ever throw at us.

Yes, we all know the inevitability of death.  But some deaths leave you with a real sense of void.  A sickening feeling of the unfairness of it all.  Akin to someone snatching away that prized toy from a kid’s hands.  Like how you felt when Ganesan left this world.  Like when PBS breathed his last.  Like when TMS bid adieu!

Rest in peace,  TM Soundararajan.  You are not even a pachai tamizhan but your service to Tamil film music will remain unmatched.

Ganesan - The God who donned the grease paint!

A non-descript boy with poor means from an equally non-descript, dusty hamlet some 160 kms south of Madras does not always make a plot for a great tale.   Limitations are aplenty.  For starters, there are millions of such specimens.  Each one has a tale in him, each one's life is an epic in itself but the sheer numbers daunt one from picking a sample. A sample who would have, providence permitting, managed to inch his way 160 kms up north to Madrasapattinam  and got noticed.  As for the hero of this tale,  notice the world did and for good measure, stood up and stared in awe too.  It still does.

Because Villupuram Chinnaiah Pillai Ganesan was no ordinary specimen.  Everything about his childhood and teen years was bordering on the predictable and mundane, except for his unstoppable passion for acting.  He could have chosen no other profession, since he was probably good at nothing else. But he was good at that one thing.  With empty pockets and tons of talent, this non-descript lad descended on Kodambakkam in the fifties, lorded over it for well over 5 decades and evolved as the best in the business.  'Villupuram' and 'Chinniah Pillai' evaporated from his name in course of time and presently Sivaji came to replace them. And Sivaji Ganesan was born!

Tamil Nadu's history has, for as long as one could remember, been intertwined with the history of cinema. We Tamil folks, (Ayyayyo!)  are crazy about this form of art.  We lived and breathed cinema, we continue to - only the milieu has changed from tent kottais and tharai tickets  to surround-sounds and scotch whiskeys.  We Tamils unabashedly love this medium and do not, for a moment, try to hide our faces and slink under our seats while caught amidst frenzied throngs doing Palabhishekam on our heroes’ cut-outs, throwing chillarai onto the screen and lighting camphor and doing arathi first day, first show.  Right from the humble rickshaw- puller to the corporate honcho.  And we have a history of display of such unbridled adulation for our silver-screen idols starting much before the rest of the world woke up to the power, the film medium is.  Why, our MKT, Chinnappa and KB Sundarambal commanded astronomical salaries some 70 years back which sums, inflation-indexed today, would put today's mega-stars, super-stars and power-stars to shame, Bolly, Holly and all other woods included! Our film stars of yore first got noticed, then became popular, then became demi-gods and then rode to political power.  We Tamils are the pioneers in making Chief Ministers of our film stars and the rest of the world just followed suit. Across the atlantic, the medium even made a President out of a film star, emulating a phenomenon in our back yard  who went by the name Marudhur Gopalan Ramachandran.  And our star-turned-politicians have not fared any worse than the scoundrel-turned-politicians, as history would show.

Oh, yes, V.C.Ganesan I was talking about, pardon the digression.  He rode like a colossus over Tamil Cinema from the mid-fifties till the end of the century.  Well, so many others too have, so what am I crowing about?  Puratchi Thalaivar, for one. Then what makes this VC Ganesan special? Why am I here groping for words to write about the greatest of actors this universe has seen?  What possible facet of acting  of this Ganesan can I hope to highlight which has not been already written about?

I bother with this chore precisely because he is the greatest actor the earth has ever seen but not ever willing to acknowledge so.  I consider it my duty to add one more post to the cyber-world to register my indignation at that.  This post may hardly be read by one trillionth of the world's population but I don't care.  One vote does not elect a Prime Minister but that one vote counts. One drop does not make a ocean but without such single drops an ocean ceases to be.  Being the five crore, forty eight lakhs sixty five thousand, one hundred twenty sixth guy to write about the greatness of Sivaji Ganesan does not make or unmake a legend.  But I have registered my 'like' here and that is what counts for me.

Judging film acting, specially in India is so subjective,  that it is next to impossible to precisely define what constitutes good acting. At one end of the spectrum, you have this arty- films where the protagonist utters not a word for three hours (busy immersed in cattle-herding, beedi- smoking or playing chess ) and gets away with being branded the best actor on earth. At the other end  are these ultimate and penultimate  stars,  who blast your ear drum with one-liners, two-liners, hundred liners and punch dialogues even while busy  cuddling up with cuties half their age or bashing up the baddies. (Some multi-tasking that).   It's either the Mount Everest or the Mariana trench for our actors.  There is no in-between.  This is where my VC Ganesan comes into the picture.  What an amazing repertoire he could boast of! He can play with equal aplomb and felicity the pinnacle of Everest or the nadir of a bottomless pit.  And  anything in- between.  He can play Kattabomman, the king, as effortlessly as Babu, the beggar.  He can play the Justice as well as the lawyer. In one scene he is the Rajapart and the next, the Kallapart.  He can play the senile old man longing for  love in the evening of his years as well as a sadist womaniser. He can play the lecher and  the leper, he can play the seer and the stupid, he can play the playboy and the priest, why my man can play God even.  And when he does, even God descends to take a lesson or two on how to play the part!  There is no role on earth he has not played and if there is any, it just does not exist!  One just has to witness any two of his films one after the other and I would bet my right hand that the uninitiated would hardly realise both the roles were played by the same person!

Quite a few adjectives and invectives have been heaped on the thespian by self-appointed judges of cinema over the years.  The oft-repeated being his ‘loud’ and ‘dramatic’ portrayal.  Forgetting for a moment that our society itself loves being  loud and  dramatic.  Are not our weddings loud and garish?  Are not our funerals melodramatic?  Are we not a nation of hysterics?  And Ganesan was only mirroring you and me while playing the parts.  But he knew when to be loud and when to be silent.  The ignorant   say he is loud.  I say he knew when to tone up and tone down.  They say he is histrionic - I say he knew when to be one, when the role would demand one to be so.  They say he is ‘dramatic’ – I say a drama needs to be dramatic. They say he would not fit into the ‘class’ of art-house type performers – I say darn you, cattle-grazing class,  Ganesan knows what to give, how much to give and when.  They say he overacts – well, I now bow my head.  I take it as a compliment.  At least the carping critics now acknowledge that Ganesan can act!  There can be no overdose unless there is a dose in the first place.  No one can over- eat unless he starts eating.  And no one can over act unless he knows a thing or two about acting. And remember, Ganesan is the yardstick to determine how much is under-acting and how much is over.  Yardsticks are not judged, they are just considered as reference points upon which the commonplace is judged.

One can easily cite examples of hundreds of different roles he has played, to counter each of the above inane arguments, but that is not the point.  Even trying to defend the criticism would be beneath the dignity VC Ganesan deserves.  (But I can’t resist the temptation; anyone access to the internet and you-tube can try downloading the songs (i) ‘ennirandu padhinaru vayadhu’  (ii) chinnanchiriya vannapparavai… (iii) olimayamana edhirkalam …. (iv) pasumai niraindha ninaivugale…. No need to be conversant with the language.  Just observe Ganesan emoting [and not emoting where  not required] without any prejudice or preconceived notion of what is method-acting and what is not.  I am positive no one on earth could have done better.  But of course, that was the heady combination of the sixties, the golden era of Tamil Cinema, Ganesan, TMS, Kannadasan and Viswanathan-Ramamoorthy.  One cannot hope fore the luxury of an encore of such golden times, twice in one’s short life-span). 

Marlon Brando would have been proud to be talked of as the Sivaji of Hollywood.  So would a  Dilip Kumar and a Sanjeev Kumar.. Having said that, it is only fair and expected that the legend of Villupuram Chinnaiah Pillai Ganesan was never ever nominated for the best actor award at the national level, let alone an Oscar.  The similarity here between Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi never winning a peace Nobel is striking.  Awards do not matter though they do provide some nourishment to souls like me, the unabashed Sivaji admirers.  They did deign to endow him with a Dada Saheb Phalke award but just as an after thought. Long after several international awards came his way.  Perhaps out of a guilty feeling, perhaps as a  repentance. …

Just read Bharadwaj Rangan in The Hindu yesterday (the idea behind this post is that article) – quote- ‘….. V then said that she could not get (how) Tamil audiences rated Sivaji Ganesan a great actor. “ How can someone so loud and theatrical…?”  And I (Rangan) said, “watch Uyarndha Manidhan and Motor Sundaram Pillai, and let’s continue this conversation”….’-unquote.

Here rests my defence, milord!  Watch Ganesan without blinkers and then let’s continue this conversation….

The Sunday midday reveries of Adhirshtam Ramanathan

"Cut!"  came the scream. The camera stopped rolling.

"What is this, Rams Sir?", the director wiped the sweat off his forehead and approached Ramanathan. "You are a veteran and do I need to teach you?  That was the sixth take. What happened?"

The thespian cringed.  This has never happened to him earlier.  Even the most difficult shots were child's play for him thus far.  Of course, this has never happened before because this is his first film. But certainly this is not the first time he is in front of the camera!

"What happened Rams sir - are you unwell or something?"

'Yes, what happened?'  he wondered.  'It is perhaps the migraine caused by that 5th drink of yesternight'.   He usually stops with three, but yesterday was different.   He wracked his brains to remember what was different.  The migraine only seemed to worsen and so he left it at that.  'Or is it because of the single Brahmin he encountered while leaving the house the morning?  Probably the latter'.    'No, no,' now he remembered - it had something to do with Lakshmi....

" Sorry, Sir."  "Just one more take. I promise I will do fine this time".

The director let out a sigh of frustration.  "Look sir, this is a small-budget film and the schedule is just for 20 days.  I just can't afford wasting any more celluloid.  But why does not your hand come down with more force?  Even a child artiste can do better.  Remember you are beating the wife, not patting her back for her fluffy idlis. Just imagine the lady is your wife and you are fed up of her and want to get rid of her.  Just for a moment imagine that she again starts her bitching and you've had enough and you can't control yourself any more. Just imagine this is your real-life scenario....."

...Ah, yes, real-life scenario. Exactly why the shot has to be retaken the sixth time.  How many times I have done this effortlessly in real-life!  Did I need any rehearsal in real life for wife-beating?  Did I need a stranger to direct me on how to thrash the wife?  Ah, yes, the real life.  Which is much easier.  The reel-life before a camera is much clumsier.  Why?  That wretched thing called conscience.  You are much more comfortable in the dark. Before the lights, you need to act, you need to simulate and the comfort is gone. What comes by nature is comfortable, what does not is a chore, a grind. The miserable conscience rears its ugly head.  And sneers at me and asks -' is this not what you do every day?  Why not do it for profit now?'

The shot was canned with great difficulty.  The director's countenance told that it was not 100% okay but he had to make do with whatever wife-beating Parameswaran had to offer.  Too late to change the cast now.  The producer had clarified in no uncertain terms that 25 lacs is the budget and for that sum there is only so much wife- beating one can create on the screen....

Ramanathan exited the bungalow and started looking for an auto.  And then changed his mind. Home is not very far away.  Why not walk?  That will at least soothe the nerves, apart from saving a hundred bucks.  He started walking.  The evening sea-breeze of Injambakkam was conspicuous by its absence.  The air was sultry and a strip of lightning illuminated the eastern horizon.

'How many times I have done this to Lakshmi?   Then why did I falter today? Why even yesterday she had it from me.  For the tasteless sambar she proferred for dinner.  Will any dog touch that Sambar?  No salt, no spice, no nothing.  She asked for it and she got it.

'Why does she not learn ever?  It has become a habit for her, I guess.  Unless she gets her daily quota of bashing, she can't sleep.  What a bitch!  Does she expect me to beat her up every time, every day, even for trifles?  Don't I have anything else to do?   I am a busy man, what with assignments in three TV  serials, all shooting at the same time, and with a cinema chance now to boot. A new character actor for the film world.   What does she think she is?'

The train of thoughts was interrupted by a flash of lightning and thunder.  Ramanathan hastened his steps.  Rain started immediately and in a moment, he was drenched.  Umbrellas suddenly sprang up all over the road from nowhere.  He did not have one.  He sprinted across the street and took shelter in a small provision shop.  There was a three feet awning protruding at the front and already eleven people stood crammed underneath.  The owner was not pleased with his shop completely blocked from view.  He thought for a second that he should ask everyone to scoot, then looked at the heavy downpour, realised the futility of his plan and grudgingly chose to keep silent

Ramanathan resumed his ruminating.

'Not that I do not love Lakshmi.  But for her, where would I go?  Most important, where would I eat, the tasteless Sambar notwithstanding?  I can't even make a cup of tea on my own.  It is not my fault that I beat her up daily.  Even after 25 years of marriage,  she remains the same idiot that she was when I wed her.  You can shout, bark and spit on her face but not a single word would come out of her mouth.  You can as well shout at a wall made of stone.  She can be bloody stubborn like hell when she wishes.  I fling with full force a volley of abuse at her, it will hit her, and just dissipate, as if dissolving upon impact!  Nothing would rebound from the stone statue!

'But doing the act before a rolling camera is quite a task.  For one, the part who played my wife is not my real wife (what if he gives her a taste of his long hand and she hits  back with a longer one?), in the scene, she reacts to all my shouting and even argues back! The gall! Quite unlike Lakshmi.  A bitch of another variety!

There was also a mild prick of conscience somewhere on the chest.  A conscience which tells that wife-beating is well, not acceptable, never mind the tasteless Sambar.  It was this slight jab Ramanathan began ruminating on.  He has not felt any such thing in the past.  Then why should it today?  'May be I am growing older.  It's may be because of the reel-world Lakshmi I had to beat before the cameras today'.  What a difference? The asli Lakshmi does not retaliate and is placidity personified.  The screen-wali Lakshmi  is a screaming, scheming shrew.  Ah, this is it.  Now Ramanathan realised the truth - he was constantly whipping a hapless, voiceless soul.  Shame on him.  So this is your idea of manliness? This is your cowardly bravery, directed at a helpless victim?

Ramanathan made up his mind.  Okay, he would not openly apologise, say sorry or take home some Malligaippoo (jasmine)  and Halwa for his better half (not such cinematic stuff for him, his age keeps him reminding).  But atleast he will stop clobbering her around.  Even if his bloated ego can't allow him to mouth endearing nothings, at least no abuse would emanate from him. He would learn to respect his wife more, learn to love his wife more and in short, learn to be a better husband. The tasteless Sambar notwithstanding.

 The lightning strikes were more frequent now. Thunder deafened him momentarily.  The rain was pouring in torrents now.  He found himself all drenched.  His wet shirt stuck to his body. Suddenly it was very hot and humid despite the rain. It was getting increasingly uncomfortable. At that precise moment,  he woke up from his dream.....

End of the dream

.......At that precise moment,  he woke up from his dream.  He could not for a moment visualise where he was.  The electricity had gone.  He was perspiring.  His sweaty vest clung to his body. Workers were operating a pile-foundation machine in the plot next to his house.  Each thud of the boring machine sounded like thunder.  So that explains the thunder. It was 2 p.m. on a Sunday.  With a start, he remembered his schedule for the TV shoot slated for 3 p.m. He panicked, got up and rushed to wash his face.  Lakshmi, his wife, proferred a cup of coffee.  With an uncontrollable rage, Ramanathan flung it with all his might onto the wall.  The coffee stainless steel tumbler crashed to the floor making a loud, ringing  noise. The brew lay splattered all over the white wall. His fury not subsiding, for good measure, Ramanathan slapped Lakshmi with full force.

" Idiot, did not I tell you that I have a  3 p.m. shoot? And I have to go to Anna nagar all the way.  It's already two.  You fool, why did not you wake me up?"

Lakshmi showed no emotion, neither pain.  25 years of cohabiting with this animal has inured her to everything it could throw at her. "but I thought I should not disturb...," she ventured feebly.  Ramanathan raised his hand for another slap but then realised he was now hard-pressed for time.The second slap can wait till the night.  For now, he has to rush to the TV shoot.  Hurriedly he dressed and stormed off.

In the auto, Parameswaran recalled the strange dream.  Strange and impossible dream. Strange, because he was actually dreaming of being kind and considerate to Lakshmi after returning home.  'With this dunce, it is impossible to even think about being kind and considerate.  Look at what she did today.  Not waking me up on time and here I am, rushing like mad.  If I miss today's call-sheet, the director would definitely throw me out. So many character-artistes are around now.  Competition is stiff. There will be atleast a score who will don the grease paint and play the Appa part for a pittance.  All because of Lakshmi, the idiot.  I will surely teach her a lesson after returning at night'  The dream was also impossible because he was shooting for a film in it. Well, his cinematic ambition will forever remain a dream and would be buried with him when he dies. He started off his film career as an assistant director at the age of 25 and remained so for another 10 years. Then he tried his hands at script writing.  Did not see much success there too.  Remained assisting the real script writers (whose names appeared in the film credits) for another 10 years.  That was when he got a role from an old acquaintance for playing a father in a tear-jerker TV soap.  That role met with some moderate success and it ran for 104 weeks.  The mega-serial was titled Adhirshtam (luck/providence) and he changed his name to Adhirshtam Ramanathan.  The luck stuck only to his name but steered clear of anywhere close to  his life.  He barely managed to get roles in TV serials nowadays, all father roles, but somehow managed to eke out a living out of that.  He has not many mouths to feed, except for that limpet Lakshmi and his own.  He also had no vices, atleast none money-guzzling, save for the occasional swig of whiskey.  He had a son who, at the age of 20, ran away from the house.  Nothing heard from him since then.  Some gave the news that he was seen wandering as a monk in Tiruvannamalai.  Some said he is now a rich businessman in distant Mumbai.  Ramanathan did not care. He was not particularly fond of his son till he was twenty and his running away made not much of a difference to his fondness-quotient.

The auto was wading through traffic, still heavy for a Sunday afternoon.  He frequently kept glancing at his watch with nervousness.  The blistering sun outside did not help matters.  Hot air blowed as if in a desert and scalded his face constantly. He again glanced at his watch.  Only ten minutes to three and here he was, caught in a jam.  He cursed under his breath and implored the driver to hurry up.  The driver was beginning to lose his patience with this madcap.  Minutes were rushing by.  The driver somehow managed to overtake from the left a bus and finding an opening, revved up the throttle.  The auto vroomed ahead.  All of a sudden, the car in front braked and to avoid a collision, the driver swerved to the left.  He lost his balance and the auto turned turtle.  Ramanathan screamed and fell to his left with a thud, out of the vehicle. All went black for a moment.  And then he woke up from his dream and opened his eyes.

End of the dream, again

And then he woke up from his dream and opened his eyes.  Ramanathan's head spinned and he momentarily lost his orientation.  'Where am I?'  Just then he realised that he had fallen off his cot.  The bedroom door led to an open terrace, from where hot air was blowing in. Ramanathan remembered where he was and  now tried to valiantly recollect the day and time.  It slowly came to him.  It should be a Sunday.  'But why is it very hot outside?' Again with some effort, it came to him. Ah, yes, he went to sleep at midnight last day, after returning from the TV shoot.  He entered with a spare key, as he did not want to disturb Lakshmi....

And then reality struck him. And with that, horror.  He was supposed to take her to her mother's house this morning.  He completely forgot about it.  In any case, he was too tired and thus overslept.  But now terror completely engulfed him.  'What excuse can he give Lakshmi now...' He was mulling various options, which seemed not too many.  Sure enough, he started hearing the footsteps and Lakshmi's bulky figure entered the room.  How Ramanathan wished the earth would break and gobble him up !  But for that he had to wait for another dream.  Now reality sunk in and it sunk in in the form of a full- palmed slap on his right cheek.

"So Dorai is too tired?  What time is it now, you realise, you fool?"

Ramanathan looked blankly at the wall. Lakshmi came near and he involuntarily cowered  and covered his face in a foetal position.  But Lakshmi had other plans.  She picked up a particularly weighty book from the shelf and flung at him. Even as he was crouched covering his face, the tome struck him right on his balding head.  The room started spinning.  It took a while for Lakshmi to be done with. As she finished for now, after 15 minutes, the end result was a swollen eye, a lump on the head and a torn banian for Ramanathan. Even while at work, Lakshmi, as always, frequently kept reminding him about how entirely worthless Ramanathan is, how utterly incompetent to bring home even ten thousand bucks a month, how it is because of her family's help she is running the household, how worthless he is as a person, impotent (powerless, she meant) as a husband, how others have managed to grab film roles and he has remained a small time TV actor for all these 25 years etc. etc.

Ramanathan waited for the storm to subside, at least temporarily.  He knew it would restart at night.  But that was 10 hours away and 10 hours seemed eons away.  He badly needed to recoup and recharge for the onslaught at night.  For the present, he was content to wash the clothes, do the dishes and cut the vegetables for dinner.  He always took care to stay as far away from his wife as possible and it was a god-send for him when she announced that she is off to her parents' house now and would be back by 9 p.m. and he better clean up the house and prepare the dinner by then.  Ramanathan nodded and escorted her up to the door.  It almost seemed like a dream, this respite of 4 hours in a house sans Lakshmi.

He briefly thought about his dreams or rather the dream within a dream. Doubt suddenly overtook him and he pinched himself.  It hurt.  As did the lump on the head and the swollen eye.  He was hugely relieved.  'Thank God, now this is not a dream. 7 hours without Lakshmi is a reality. Waking up from the first dream, he had lost his cine-fame. Waking up from the second, he had gained bliss!  He chuckled and slowly went about the task of preparing dinner.He knew what was lying in store  7 hours hence, after Lakshmi would taste the Sambar.  All hell will break loose and he would probably have a bath in Sambar late night.

Nevertheless, it was bliss for Adhirshtam Ramanathan, the tasteless bland Sambar he would concoct and dare to serve Lakshmi notwithstanding.  We will leave him with his day dreaming now for the next 7 hours and let's disturb him no more.