They understand only love

"Why did you mention it in the Acknowledgements segment of your first novel?"
"Are you okay talking about it?"

These are just a couple of the questions my friends and readers have asked me regarding "it." No, it's not a cocaine addiction. "It" is my father's Alzheimer's condition and I do not feel the need to hide it. Frankly, I'd like to talk about everything in my life. The great and small mistakes I made, the occasions when I have been a momentous jerk etc. The only facts I still won't put out in the open are those impacting other people - people who don't want those facts known.
Anyway, back to my father's Alzheimer's. It is a rather challenging disease. For the patient. And also for the caregivers. As a secondary caregiver, I'd like to chronicle my journey so far in an attempt to record what my father, and his disease, have taught me about life.

In some ways, the outlook of my family changed the day he was diagnosed with the disease back in 2005. Our initial response was to get frustrated with my father's changing personality. Gone was the man with immense concern for his family. Gone was his ready wit and ultra-confident personality. One by one, the traits that made him an admirable man went missing. What seemed to remain were his weaknesses, now amplified by the disease.

The clouds thicken, a silver lining is born

At this juncture, my personal life crumbled around me. I felt lost, hopeless. There were moments when I resented not only my father's disease but also him. He was supposed to be my pillar of strength. Instead, he was somebody who could not even comprehend what was happening to me. I tried telling him about my pain and, in response, received a vacuous stare and sadly-twirled lips. I could barely prevent myself from howling my agony from the rooftops.
Of course, my mother was available for solace and support. But I decided that she was already dealing with too much. So I wore a mask of bravery and went about my life. My pretend-confidence rubbed off on my mother to some extent. Right there, I learnt two crucial lessons:
1) When I act like a brave person, I inspire bravery and also inch closer towards actually being brave &
2) When in a crisis, I must look within for strength. The external world can, at best, support this pursuit of strength.
The third lesson was less evident at that moment. Like any rebellious son, I had carried an array of grudges against my father. The pattern broke a couple of years before the disease struck him, when we managed to have a heart-to-heart chat about our differences. During this conversation, he acknowledged his many failings as a father and also explained the rationale behind some of his past decisions. I felt lighter at the end of that chat. Being a loving father, he did not fling counter-accusations at me. He just told me that he was proud of everything I had achieved.
And now, as the disease was claiming his brain, I felt infinitely grateful for the conversation that happened before it was too late. So my third lesson was this: the best time to bury the hatchet is NOW.

Is acceptance possible?

Meanwhile, my father's amplified weaknesses were grating against my nerves. His smoking, for instance. Doctors suggested rationing the number of cigarettes we gave him - so we began giving him a cigarette at specific times during the day. We hoped this would make him healthier and less susceptible to cardiovascular problems. The move backfired. To satisfy his cravings, my father took to picking up nearly-smoked butts off the road and deriving pleasure from the one or two puffs still left in each butt. When the local shopkeeper reported this development to us, our knee-jerk reaction was to worry about our social image. When that concern subsided, we worried about him picking up an infection. We wanted to do something about that. We removed the cigarette embargo, but that didn't curb his newly-acquired habit. So we reimposed the embargo and my mother tried to accompany him on his evening walks. Easier said than done. He still walked at a Gandhian pace, whereas my mother couldn't. 'I'll do the needful,' I told her. One evening, I accompanied him, huffing and puffing to keep up with him, feeling proud that he was still so fit. It was during this walk that my father's condition taught me my next lesson:
'How ridiculous am I being?' I thought. 'What am I trying to control here? The will of another human being? And why? Okay, let's assume the worst happens and he contracts an infection. We'll take care of him. I don't want to live within this hypothetical fear.' With that, I turned and returned home.
I didn't realize it yet, but I was beginning to accept my father for who he was, thereby acquiring the strength to accept who he will soon become. In the longer run, this translated into an acceptance of others for who they were. I'm not talking about resignation or a passive acceptance. I'm talking about proactive acceptance, one of the keys to harmonic relationships. I wonder if I'd have learnt this lesson in a less confronting context.

Again, the best time is NOW

Around this time, my mother had her own epiphany:
'The doctors say he will not be fit for travel soon. In that case, I want to have my fill of traveling right now.'
So off she went. During the next few months, she visited relatives in faraway places, attended every family function and also embarked on a pilgrimage that took her to UP, Bihar and Nepal. My father accompanied her throughout. It wasn't easy, but my mother managed those trips stoically.
Through this process, my mother learnt not to postpone cherished goals. The best time to accomplish them was NOW. Thanks to her, I too learnt the same lesson.

Fears are teachers

By now, my father's mental health was deteriorating at an alarming pace. He was forgetting a million nouns and verbs each passing day. He still enjoyed recounting the few episodes of his past that he still remembered, but his narration was getting less coherent and more hurried.
On the plus side, he was self-censoring his walks. During the initial phase of the diagnosis, he used to travel at least 5km away from home. Each day, he would take a different route, certain of making his way back. As time passed, he reduced the distance he traveled from home. A little later, he took to walking only along the most familiar route. By mid-2008, he had decided not to venture any farther than the neighbourhood park. When we realized that he was making these adjustments himself, we felt relieved. What amazed me, however, is that he never stopped going out on walks.
Through his behaviour, he taught me to learn from my fears without succumbing to them altogether. Later, as I studied the art of counseling and better understood the role emotions play in our lives, it was easy for me to look at every emotion as a potential teacher. What were my emotions telling me about myself? What could I learn from them? Nowadays, I ask myself this question each passing day.

Inspiration was always at hand

Today, my mother inspires me. That wasn't always the case. There was a time when I thought that she was an unadventurous, timid woman; a person filled of regrets. Despite being an ace student, she was not allowed to pursue higher studies and she blamed her family for that. This tendency to blame, I felt, was a recurring aspect of her personality.
Little did I know that she was just waiting for an opportunity to expand as a human being and show the world what a glorious person she really is.
That opportunity was provided by my father's condition. Like me, she was shocked by the diagnosis. But she recovered quicker than me and began expanding her capacities. She asked me to research on the disease so that she could be mentally prepared for the future. The internet held horror stories for us, but she chose not to be horrified.
'I will not send him to a Home,' she declared with finality. I bowed down to her decision. After all, she was the primary caregiver. Therefore, I experienced only a fraction of the distress she did. If she could cope with my father's disease, so could I.
Five years after the diagnosis, she took a radical decision.
'I'm relocating to our hometown with your father. You need to rebuild your life and you can't do that if you have one eye on your father and me at all times.'
I was touched. Since I was dealing with this reality at home, I had almost ostracized myself from society. I didn't socialize too much. Didn't go out on dates. Didn't explore any future options. I was frustrated, and feeling resentful towards my father. Those resentments were eerily similar to the ones I felt as a teenager. What surprised me, however, was that my mother understood my mixed feelings without any explicit communication.
'Just find a suitable place of residence for your father in our hometown,' she said. 'I'll take care of the rest.'
Three years after this move, my mother has delivered on her promise. She rediscovered the joy of belonging to a familiar culture and setting whereas my father has taken to the semi-rural surroundings like a duck to water. As his behaviour becomes more challenging, she is rising to the challenge. I visit them as much as I can and use many tricks to determine if my mother is secretly bitter. I haven't found any trace of that yet. All I unearth is an amazingly inspiring woman who still sees a husband in my father. 'What trouble can your father give me? Look at him. Like a blessed child. I am perfectly happy.'
Without my mother's largesse and inner growth, I certainly wouldn't have achieved the breakthroughs I did in the past three years. I have used the time to explore more and come to embrace my life.
And all this happened because I was born to the most amazing woman in the world. Would I have realized this truth were it not for my father's condition?

Love is the unconquerable emotion

Last month, my cousin lost his father. He's more a brother than a cousin. His parents live a stone's throw away from mine. So when I traveled with him for the funeral, I also was being asked by circumstances to look at my father anew. How would I feel if he died?
Before getting to that question, there were practical considerations to be addressed. Right now, my father can't distinguish between a funeral and a movie premiere. He was bound to behave inappropriately and perhaps sneak out, making us chase after him. Since my mother and I were responsible for important chores, there was no option but to keep my father locked at home. Ergo, I met him late on the night I reached my hometown. Many outstation guests had come for the sombre event and some of them would be staying at our place. As is natural with an Alzheimer's patient, this development disturbed my father. Shaken out of his placid routine and unable to accept the ambiguity of the situation, he behaved like one would expect him to behave. How did I respond? I lost my temper. Although I knew that he would not understand a word of my reprimand, I reprimanded him nonetheless. Selfishly, I was expunging my own emotions, no matter what.
Here's where my father reiterated his most important lesson. I had been exposed to this lesson before, but never so powerfully.
You see, Alzheimer's patients do not remember what happened ten minutes ago. They have this enviable gift of burying the past, as if it didn't happen at all. So, two days after my reprimand, after the heat of the situation had abated, as I was taking leave of my parents, my mother hugged me tight, wept a bit, and applied vibhuti on my forehead. My father's reaction to this show of affection:
'Good! Very good!'
Pointing to the vibhuti, indicating that it wasn't prominent enough, he went to the kitchen, got some more and applied it with fervour.
'Good! Very good!' he repeated.
I hugged him with all my might. He responded to my embrace. In that precious moment, I got my father back in my life. Fully. Wholly. Not just as a notion or theory. In that moment, he was my caring father again. Was he waiting for this unadulterated embrace all these years? His face showed no resentment, no regrets. It was radiant with joy.
In that same moment, I realized two important lessons:
1) I had never lost my father in the first place &
2) Love is the only universal emotion. Because innocent children and innocent Alzheimer's victims understand only love.

A small thought

Sometimes, a thought hits me like a massive meteor strike. I have to wait for the explosion to abate to find out if it has created fertile soil.
Right now, a thought has struck me. And I have decided to report it while it is red hot, without waiting for it to be forensically analyzed. Here it is:

Failure might often be undeserved, but success is always well-deserved.

Your thought on my thought?

Takes one to feel complete

It takes two to Tango. Just one to feel complete.

Having thrown this idea into the ring, let's see if it can punch above its weight. Consider the following statements that we've heard in popular culture, literature and/or the streets we live in:

You complete me!
Without you, my life has no meaning.
If you leave, I will simply die.

This family of statements has a million members. We've all heard them. We've all used them. And under the intoxicating influence of our deepest emotions, we use these statements to create our absolute realities. We believe that such heartfelt words deserve our utmost respect, for they transcend our individual selves. That's just one perspective. Let's try another.

When you say that another person must exist - in a particular way, playing a particular role etc - in order to complete you, you are also saying: "A vacuum exists within me which you are obligated to fill." Unfortunately, even the most complying vacuum-filler - in other words, a person who "loves you to death" - cannot possibly fill 100% of this vacuum. Sooner or later, the remnant vacuum will increase in volume and demand to be refilled - by the same person or another person. The vacuum-filler could even be a non-human entity such as toy/money/knowledge/health/fame etc. The result remains the same.

This is a dead-end approach because it tries to cancel a negative instead of fostering a positive. Even the generosity of the incomplete person in the relationship (be it with a human or non-human entity) will be based on this negative. How fulfilling can such a relationship be for either parties?

On the other hand, if we feel complete all by ourselves, then our every pursuit can be derived from a positive.

"I am complete by myself, and I will enrich my life further by adding you/this thing/that thing to it."

As always, this is easier said than done. How does one feel complete by oneself? Perhaps the true saints know how. The rest of us will have to figure it out. I, for one, stumble along, experience intense breakdowns, gather myself again and stumble along some more. It helps to realize that Life isn't a designer garment - meant to come in a particular shape, colour, size, form and texture.
I am a Work In Progress. And in those moments when I operate out of awareness, I will discover that I am a complete person. I will make a habit of feeling complete till one day - perhaps - I will no longer recall the trauma of incompleteness.
This re-adjustment of mental reality seems artificial doesn't it? However, we practice a similar re-adjustment to our physical reality as a matter of course. Don't we adjust to different surfaces while walking? Don't we maneuver our bodies such that they serve us in every gait and situation? For some reason, we seldom have trouble with the fact that our centre of gravity keeps shifting. Perhaps the same suppleness is possible in the realm of thoughts and emotions...

What do you think?

That first big break

Friends,

As most of you know, it took ten years for me to find a mainstream publisher for my debut novel. It's been a challenging decade. I've tried to describe it in brief on this blog post for AuthorTV. Please do take the time to read.

Blog piece - That first big break

AuthorTV also interviewed me on the sidelines of the Bangalore Literature Festival. The interview is finally online. You can find it here.

Interview - Author TV

Please forgive the ugly mug on the screen. But do let me know if that ugly mug made sense.

Cheers,

Eshwar

Behind the silicon mask: chapter 1

Please find below the first chapter of my novel Behind the silicon mask, to be launched in a matter of weeks. Hope you like it.

The serial killer kept the passenger window ajar so that he would hear the approach of his next victim. But outside his Chevy Bravada, Campus Drive remained quiet and subdued by the bone-crushing chill and early hour, not showing signs of life even when a rare car whizzed past.

He checked his watch. 3:04. Half an hour since the last cop car had driven past him. An hour since it had stopped snowing. Almost two hours since he’d switched off his engine and let winter into his car. He shivered and contemplated rolling up the window. Better still, he could switch on the engine and the heater. Just for five minutes. He mentally cursed himself. This was no time to be weak.

He shook off his woollen gloves and rubbed his palms together. Unsatisfied, his hands instinctively reached into his jeans and held his crotch. A shock of dry heat greeted his hands. He closed his eyes and began playing with his penis. Before he knew it, it wanted more room. He unzipped and

admired its ability to kiss the dashboard from where he sat. Leaning back, he let his left hand do the work. He pictured Jennifer Lopez, Cameron Diaz and Pamela Anderson in quick succession, as if this in itself would make him normal. None of them did it for him. So he thought of Susan Sarandon. She

was better, and it felt like she would go the distance with him tonight. But no. He lost her when he was too deep in the act to withdraw. He sighed, succumbed, and thought of his wife. Ex. The woman he could no longer access. He thrust his helpless present into his rich past and felt her welcome him,

hold him tight. It didn’t take long after that. The first squirt of semen hit the bottom of the car’s windshield. The second, he aimed at the brake—because he was better off getting his foot

stuck on the brake than the accelerator.

‘Gooey glue,’ he told the windshield, trying to sound like his elder brother. ‘Gooey glue,’ his brother had said that evening all those years ago, moments after the live demo. The best lesson an eleven-year-old could ask for. The words had stuck; they had been gooey glued to his brain.

He zipped up. Studied the white, sinister night. Drummed the steering wheel. Wished he could have a smoke. Checked his watch again. 3:21.

‘The night’s wasted,’ he thought, and was surprised to feel relief rather than disappointment. He wondered if it was time to quit. Maybe it was. He could simply get rid of the cleaver. And just drive away. Become an enigma, a phenomenon that Milwaukee cops would forever talk about during the graveyard shift. Their tone would be reverential.

‘Wonder what happened to the bastard. Farley was this close to nailing him.’

‘Yeah. Farley would have caught him all right.’

Fuck! That was anything but reverential. And Farley couldn’t nail him even if he gooey glued himself on the revolving door of the police HQ. Who the hell was Farley? The smartest cop in Milwaukee, according to the local media. That didn’t make him Agent Scully, did it? Nah.

‘Farley has a fuck-face,’ he thought, reaching for the ignition. But before he could turn it on, he heard a car—an Accord by the sound of it—screech to a halt. A door opened. A woman’s voice cut into the still air:

‘Didn’t you hear me? Get out.’

‘We talk it out, lah,’ a guy replied. ‘I li you very much. I know you li me also very good. True anot?’

‘Out!’

‘Cannoh anihow go liddat. We talk. Li good frens.’ He paused. ‘Can? Oright. Doan push. I go oready.’

A rotund, spectacled man got out of the Accord. Through his rear view mirror, the serial killer saw him shut the door softly and peer inside with hope. The car, however, sped away. The serial killer waited for it to turn the curve and then got out, cleaver in hand. He no longer felt cold or afraid or

sleepy. He scanned the surroundings as he approached the man, and then scanned the man himself: he was young, perhaps in his early twenties, although you could never be sure with Chinese faces. And this man’s face was especially confounding. It was a fat boy’s face on a fat man’s body. Only

the eyes didn’t look fat. They were forlorn, weak, glazed with recent loss.

Eventually, the man sensed his presence and looked at him.

‘Hi there,’ the serial killer said. ‘You from Singapore?’

The man nodded vacantly.

‘Been there myself. Are you here on a scholarship?’

‘Yeeaaah?’ the Singaporean said, waking up to the situation and finding himself puzzled.

‘A full scholarship?’

‘Dat’s right. Hey listen . . .’

‘No time for that,’ the serial killer said. He scanned the surroundings again, unsheathed his cleaver from its leather pack, saw the Singaporean’s eyes come alive with the fear of death, steeled his voice and continued: ‘You don’t have universities down there, huh?’

‘I study American history,’ the Singaporean said quickly, hoping that this piece of information would save him. ‘Civil Woh and all dat.’

‘And you be what, lah? Professor in Yay University, lor?’ the serial killer asked, bringing down his cleaver swiftly in one straight, uninterrupted line from the man’s throat to his stomach. A cold wind pinched the leafless pine trees, as if to ask, ‘Did you see what I just saw?’ The trees jittered.

It began to snow again.

*

Detective Farley was sleeping on his office bed when his phone rang. He rose briskly without appearing to be in a hurry, noticed the flurry of snowfall outside his window and answered the phone.

‘Farley.’

‘We have a homicide on Campus Drive,’ Larry Oates, his assistant, said. ‘Chinese student. Five feet seven. Cleaved from throat to stomach. He was found hoisted on top of a Nissan Sentra.’

‘Chinese or Chinese-looking?’ Farley asked.

‘Er, Chinese-looking.’

‘How far is Campus Drive from the campus?’

‘It’s right there.’

‘Really?’ Farley asked, which Oates knew translated to: ‘Be more precise, you moron.’

‘I don’t know the exact distance.’

‘Go there. Find out.’

‘Aren’t you coming to the spot?’ Oates asked, unable to hide his incredulity.

‘It’s snowing,’ Farley replied.

‘Yeah.’

‘Find the guy’s friends. Ask them two questions. One: did he speak in a marked foreign accent? Two: was he on a full scholarship? You got that?’

‘It’s the immigrant thing, isn’t it?’

‘It’s the immigrant thing,’ Farley agreed and hung up. He then dialled Josh Eiken—his other assistant, the one who, like him, preferred working indoors and insisted on going home to sleep.

‘Yeah?’ a scratchy voice answered.

‘You better have the entire list of immigrants for me,’ Farley said.

‘We were doing air passenger lists and car rentals yesterday,’ Eiken said, taking advantage of the hour to sound grumpy. ‘You asked me to put the immigrant list on the backburner.’

‘Bring it to the front. I need separate lists from the INS and Social Security.’

Farley hung up, visualized Oates and Eiken shouting F-this-Farley, F-that-Farley, chuckled for five seconds, and then lay carefully on his bed. He fell asleep as he was counting the seventh sheep.

*

As her cameraman drove their OB van to the crime scene, Stephanie Zachary saw a weak sun pop into the passenger-side rear view mirror. Ahead of her, an unmarked car pulled up from the University side of the road. Larry Oates got out of the car before it came to a complete halt.

‘Your man Oates is here,’ the cameraman said, winking. ‘Can you call the studio and give them a heads up? We should be ready in ten minutes.’ Alighting from the van, she said: ‘Make that fifteen. We’ll make a nice interlude to Breakfast News.’ She ran towards Oates, shouting: ‘You’ve had

a busy morning.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Oates replied, smiling broadly.

‘But your boss is nowhere to be seen.’

‘He’s doing his bit,’ Oates said, lighting a cigarette.

‘I hear he’s put a queen-size bed in his office.’ Oates’ smile weakened. Stephanie continued: ‘Is it true that he sleeps even while driving? I mean, he sees a one-mile stretch on the freeway and’—she snapped her fingers—‘he’s dozed off, just like that.’

‘If it’s true,’ Oates said, ‘he must be waking up before the next curve.’Coz he wasn’t dead as of an hour ago.’

‘A real puzzle, that. So what can you give me?’

Oates gave her so much input that, a little later, Stephanie stood before the camera, ready to break the biggest story of her career. She shivered from the cold and excitement; she decided not to brush off the flecks of snow latching on to her hair—they would accentuate the new auburn hair-dye she’d

used.

‘Gimme a byte, sugar,’ a male voice said from the studio.

‘Hear you loud and clear, Ned,’ Stephanie replied.

‘Sounding good. Looking good. All right, you’re set.’

‘By when?’

‘Two minutes nine seconds.’

‘Good.’

Stephanie used the time to fantasize.

She’s in Times Square, sharing the studio with Peter Jennings. Variations of this fantasy features Dan Rather, but today, Jennings sits next to her. He’s mesmerized by her presence. He blushes. The blush spreads even to the usually colourless half-moons under his eyes. Without warning, the title music

for News at 9 begins playing. The side camera does an arc and zooms into her face. She’s wearing crimson to make her debut grander, more memorable. The prompter flashes text. She doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Good evening. I’m Stephanie Zachary.’ ‘And I’m, ah, Peter Jennings.’ The next moment, she’s with Regis Philbin, co-hosting Good Morning America. ‘Look at her. Isn’t she gorgeous?’ Regis asks the camera.

From half-closed eyes, she noticed her cameraman motioning to her. She gave herself a vigorous shake and smiled at the camera.

*

In apartment B-506 in the Downtown Crescent condominium, Partho Sen awoke feeling tired and restless, as if he hadn’t really slept at all. He had dreamt of arguing with Rashmi and quarrelling with Varun, and the two fights had kept his brain on high alert the whole night. On waking up, he felt relief. It was just a dream. Then he remembered. He had quarrelled with Varun more than a week ago. And he had fought with Rashmi just the other day. So the two people in Milwaukee he could talk to, really talk to, weren’t on talking terms with him anymore.

‘So I now argue with them in my dreams, is that it?’ he asked himself, clenching his teeth. He looked to his left, at Varun’s bed. It was neatly made, as always. Clearly, it hadn’t been slept in.

‘Another night-out,’ Partho thought, shaking his head.

He rose from the bed and felt indecisive, so he went to the living room, plonked on the couch and switched on the TV. It was tuned to a local news station.

‘So let’s go right away to Stephanie Zachary,’ the anchor said. ‘Stephanie, what do you have for us?’

‘Linda, I’m here on Campus Drive, where the serial killer claimed his fourth victim last night, a Singaporean student named Charlie Wang. Charlie was studying American History at the UWM, his friends describe him as a warm and emotional person, quite popular in his class, and this news has shaken them hard, as you can expect, now Linda, we also know that Charlie was an only son and we can only imagine what a loss this will be to his parents who, as we speak, are being contacted by the police.’

‘Any idea how this happened?’

‘Linda, as you can see behind me, the police are still collecting evidence, and the constant snowfall is making their job doubly difficult, but it’s possible that the serial killer was driving either a Chevy Bravada or a Honda Accord because they found tyre tracks of both makes leaving the spot in a great

hurry. Again, we can’t be sure as of now. Of course, we still don’t know what Charlie was doing at this spot at around 3:30 in the morning, which is when the incident possibly happened. All we know is that Charlie had a date with his girlfriend of three months, an American, a Milwaukeean in fact, whose name we can’t give out. But the cops are contacting her as well and she might hold a clue for us.’

‘Stephanie, are we sure that this is the serial killer’s handiwork?’

‘There are no doubts about that, Linda, because the cleaver was used, and I’m told that it was a clean and brutal strike, as if he or she wanted to finish the job and scoot, and Linda, there’s another reason why we know this is the serial killer’s, er, handiwork, as you put it. Now, this is as yet unofficial, and

we’re expecting a statement from Town Hall later this morning, but I have it from reliable sources that the serial killer is targeting immigrants. And that’s the big development, Linda.’

Linda took a while to respond.

‘Stephanie, that is indeed a huge development, but how does Gerry Maier fit into all this?’

‘Good question, Linda. Gerry Maier, as our viewers will remember, was the second victim and he was killed exactly a week ago, and his killing threw the cops off the track. Linda, remember that no identification was found on Gerry. In fact, he wasn’t identified till his colleagues saw him on TV and they knew next to nothing about him except that he was a gifted software programmer, a shy true-blue geek, if you will. They, the colleagues, had heard him mention that he was from Michigan, but we now know that he was actually from Saskatchewan in Canada. The police discovered this late last night, after which it was quite easy to spot the pattern. The first victim was Alonso Vasquez, the Mexican janitor, rather, a janitor from Mexico who had become a naturalized American citizen. Gerry Maier came next, after which came the Iranian preschool teacher . . . I forget her name. And last night, it was Charlie Wang. Four clinical kills in eleven days. Linda?’

‘Wonder who would do such a thing,’ Linda said, with a clear intent to move on to the next story.

‘Linda,’ Stephanie said, interrupting her, ‘it seems to me that this must be the work of a totally deranged man, someone who studies his victims for days, maybe weeks, before striking. How else could he have known that Gerry Maier was Canadian? Even those close to him hadn’t discovered that. But this pattern is also a good thing because the immigrants in Milwaukee needn’t fear an abrupt strike. You don’t have to worry unless a stranger has tried to befriend you of late or unless you have a feeling that you’re being tailed. And stay indoors over the weekend, which, in this weather, is a good

idea anyway.’

‘Thanks, Stephanie. That’s sound advice. And I see you’re bundled up,’ Linda said, turning to another camera, ‘which is how you should be if you’re heading out today and over the weekend because our friendly neighbourhood weatherman John Galt has the other big story for you. John?’

Partho picked up the phone, punched numbers and heard the phone in Apartment B-909 ring. A sleepy voice answered on the seventh ring.

‘Vish,’ Partho said, ‘can you call Varun and see if he’s all right?’

‘You have to wake me up so much early for that?’ Vishnu Reddy asked.

‘What time is it? Oh, sorry. I thought it must be seven already.’

‘It’s not seven. Asshole.’

‘The serial killer is targeting immigrants.’

‘What?’

‘I knew that would wake you up,’ Partho said, laughing.‘Will you call Varun?’

‘Behaving like school kids, you two. And why I should go between?’

‘Call me back and let me know if he’s unreachable.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Listen, you were joking about serial killer, right?’

‘No. It’s on the news. He’s planning to kill all immigrants and return the land to the Native Americans.’ He remembered Rashmi. ‘Yeah. He’ll reserve the last bullet for himself.’

‘Hold on. I’ll switch on TV.’ Vish paused. ‘They’re talking about weather. Look at that. The whole map is covered in white.’

Watching the snowstorm swirl on the screen reminded Partho of Kolkata during the rains. Of rain water forming swirling eddies in overflowing gutters. Of returning from school with his mother and kid brother, with the rain pounding on yellow cabs, caterpillar-like trams, potato-laden pushcarts,

his mother’s rainbow-coloured umbrella, his cheap plastic raincoat, the even cheaper canvas schoolbag. Rain in Kolkata could be deafening. Why didn’t the world melt under its onslaught, he had asked his mother when he was seven. A couple of years later, he informed her that, in cold countries, rain was solid and white. People could use the rain to make ice creams. That kind of rain, his mother added enthusiastically, would make washing clothes so much easier. And, and, he interjected, wanting to make his point, that kind of rain wouldn’t slip through his fingers. No, it wouldn’t. It would stick firmly to his palm.

Seventeen years later, he was still seeking something that stuck. An idea he could devote his whole life to. Or perhaps a complete family, with a father and all. Or a job that excited him. But was he doing anything to get closer to those desires? Of course not. Instead, he was burning his bridges—how else could he explain the fact that he was sabotaging Rashmi’s love and Varun’s friendship?

He gazed vacantly around. His eyes came to rest on photographs he had taken, photographs that presented the eternal conflict between light and darkness. Photographs, to be precise, of shadows thrown by objects.

‘Trust you to be interested in shadow photography, Partho,’ Rashmi had told him about a month after they first met. ‘It’s as if you can’t look at things directly. You’re only interested in what they do to the world around them.’

The persistent sound of a dead telephone line brought him back to the present. He realized that he was still clinging to the cordless phone. He flung it down on the carpet and focused on the TV.

‘So John,’ Linda was saying, ‘Super Susan might, just might, miss Milwaukee and hit Sheboygan instead?’

‘Linda, the depression building up further east of Super Susan makes it difficult to predict where she will strike. Mind you, even if she’s centred on Sheboygan, we’ll still see plenty of action, but not as much as Sheboygan would.’

‘I know you are a betting man, John. So where’s your money?’

‘I’m a weatherman, Linda. I have no option but to be a betting man,’ John laughed. ‘So I’ll stick my neck out and say there’s an eighty per cent probability that Susan will blow down on us, here at Milwaukee. The good people of Sheboygan won’t have it so bad. So in effect, I’d follow Stephanie’s advice and stay indoors the whole weekend, whether you’re an immigrant or not.’

Partho lit a cigarette, picked up his cordless phone and called his mother.

‘Ma,’ he said when she picked up, ‘I’ve started smoking again. Is it raining in Kolkata?’

*

Varun felt a hand softly waking him up. His subconscious mind decided that it was his sister.

‘Inondu nimisha,’ he said in Kannada. ‘Just a minute more.’

‘Vahrun, wake up.’

‘Onde nimisha, kane!’ he said, before realizing that his sister wouldn’t speak to him in English. He felt wood on his forehead, raised his head and found himself in his office. He stood up in a hurry, causing his chair to wheel back.

‘Becky!’ he said, embarrassed, reaching for his spectacles. ‘Sorry. So sorry. I was . . . I don’t know how. You’ve come early.’

‘Big day today,’ Becky Dalton, his client and project manager, replied. ‘Here. I got you some coffee.’

He took the Styrofoam cup, decided not to tell her that he hated coffee, and took a sip.

‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling with pursed lips, acutely aware that he hadn’t brushed his teeth.

‘I finally have proof that you’re human,’ Becky said. ‘You sleep!’ Varun smiled again and studied the floor, as he always did in the face of a compliment. Becky continued: ‘The last six months have been rough on you, yeah?’

‘Same as you. At least, I don’t have to go home and take care of two kids,’ Varun replied. He considered asking her about them. ‘Becky, why don’t your kids look like you or each other? Do they have different fathers? Or do they take after grandparents whom you don’t resemble?’ But of course he didn’t. You’re supposed to admire cubicle photographs, not conduct a code walkthrough on them. So he stuck to safe words: ‘Really, you’ve worked hard.’

‘Coming from you,’ Becky said.

‘It’s different for us,’ Varun said, not bothering to explain that ‘us’ meant employees of CIKS—CIKSons.

 ‘You mean I work hard for an American?’

‘No, no, I didn’t mean that,’ Varun said. What he meant had nothing to do with nationality. It just so happened that Indian software professionals were amongst the best academic performers in the country. They were survivors of a ruthless education system that had taught them, above all else, the

virtue of slogging for its own sake. Many Americans did exactly the same thing. But unless those Americans were based in the Silicon Valley, they usually didn’t work in IT. They practised law, managed PR, studied the economy or the universe, created new corporates, etc. Very few of them became techies. So, clearly, if one pitted all the Indian software professionals in a duel against their American counterparts, there could only be one clear winner. ‘No, I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know what you meant. You don’t fool me,’ Becky said, laughing. She paused. ‘This is nice, isn’t it, talking about something other than the project? We haven’t been able to do that, what with the meetings and deadlines and all. Know what? We should go out for a drink. The whole team. This evening, after we go live.’ She saw a shadow flit across Varun’s face. ‘What’s the matter? Something I should know about?’

‘Huh? No. Nothing,’ Varun said, running a couple of fingers over the bristly ends of his moustache.

‘So the drink is on?’

‘I go out after one peg.’

‘Go out where? Oh, you mean you conk off.’

‘Conk off,’ Varun agreed, rolling his eyes. ‘But not tonight. The implementation will begin only at midnight.’

‘Why?’

‘We have to let the nightly batch jobs run before we push in our new code.’

‘In that case,’ Becky said, standing up, ‘I suggest that you go home and sleep for a bit. I’ll meet the business users and get the formal signoff.’

‘Actually, I was thinking . . .’

‘That’s an order, kiddo,’ Becky said, trying to sound like a GI and failing. In a softer tone, she added: ‘I spoke to the users. They’re thrilled. They don’t even want to test the system today. We’re there. Just go home. Come back fresh.’

‘Okay,’ Varun said. ‘I’ll return by noon. Will that be fine?’

‘Take your time,’ Becky said, leaving for her cubicle.

Varun donned his jacket and fished in his drawer for his monkey cap. His phone rang.

‘Are you alive, asshole number two?’ Vishnu asked.

‘So far. Why?’

‘Asshole number one wanted to know.’

‘Oh,’ Varun said, not knowing what else to say. He wished he hadn’t fought with Partho, especially now—he could have used his help to solve the goddamn bug that was threatening his project. ‘Yeah. I’m alive. Bye, Vish.’

‘Wait. Party tonight at our place. Seven.’

‘OCHRE’s going live tonight. Can’t make it.’

‘Damn. Bye.’

Varun checked his watch. 6:55. Big Boss Laks Deshpande would be riding the elevator any moment now. It was time to get a directive from the top.

Dew drops and Kabir

So far, I've tried to be a responsible blogger - I like to think that all my posts are relevant to somebody somewhere. Today, I'm breaking this practice. This post is only for me - for me to enjoy years from now, when the memory of this evening becomes hazy.
When my friend Susheel invited me for a satsang at his restaurant Vriksh and he told me that a renowned Kabir panth will be singing his doheys, I knew I was in for a treat. What I didn't expect was a soul-altering experience.
Shabnam Virmani, along with Vipul, mesmerized her small audience, reducing a good number of us to tears on more than one occasion. Each time she hit a high octave, I found my body tremble with ecstasy and the atoms therein rearranging themselves into a newfound harmony. Adding dimensions of power to her voice were her 4-stringed tanpura, a linear cymbal-like instrument and, of course, the contemplative poetry of the great mystic. During the brief moments when I was able to slip out of my trance, I marveled at the magic Kabir created by mentioning impermanence and un-truths. It was equally amazing to discover his ability to use Ram as a motif to speak about a universal divinity, including the spark within ourselves.
I think I better stop here. Trying to intellectualize this experience will only dilute it. Besides, years from now, when I want to recollect this evening, the relocated atoms in my body will refresh my memory.

The mythical mantra of success

In addition to less flattering instincts, we humans are born with the desire to make sense of our lives. Thereby, we spend a lot of time introspecting on our thoughts, feelings and actions. The rigidity of the past and the uncertainty of the future rankle us. We need answers. Now! And in this search, we might often reach a dead-end question:
how can I make perfect decisions when I don't even know why I am here?

What I've noticed amongst very many successful people is the exact opposite. They don't seem to be plagued by doubt. On the contrary, they seem to feed their lives with a diet of certainties. Per se, this is inspiring. The less fortunate amongst us can look up to these souls to derive solace and confidence. Yet, there is one questionable attitude in some of these successful people. And it is a result of the following linear reasoning:
1) My life has been a series of challenges which I countered with courage, stamina and a lucid perspective.
2) As a result, my life is a great success story.
3) Therefore, I must have stumbled upon the secret of the universe.
4) And it follows logically that if others follow my path, they too will find success and fulfillment.

To be fair, this linear reasoning isn't confined to the un-doubting successful people of our world. We've all done this at some point in time. Some of us indulge in it more than others, especially when we talk about domains that we appear to have "conquered." And the issue here is point #4. So long as our reasoning is restricted to points 1 to 3, we might just develop arrogance, an inability to empathize etc. But point #4 turns us into preachers.

Let me explore this phenomenon by alluding to a person who told us about the importance of perspective. She said that no matter what challenge we are facing in our lives, we can "switch" - like a light bulb - into a new paradigm of thinking, thereby allowing us to feel empowered and act accordingly. It's a beautiful concept.
If you think your life is difficult, your feelings will dishearten you and your actions will be laboured and ineffective. But if you change your thinking and say: "Life is beautiful!" then you will feel elated and your actions will deliver magical results. In other words, how a situation "occurs" to us determines our behaviour therein. Simple enough.
But can this be taught?
The speaker can say it and the listener can intellectually understand it. But can he accept it? Shouldn't he have to experience the "truth" of this statement? And what about those people who try it out and reject it as unworkable? Does it mean that the idea is untenable?
The issue here is not the idea but its dissemination. Life's lessons are better left open-ended. The most a teacher can say is: "Hey, here's an idea. It's worked well for me. See if it fits you. If not, another idea will come along."



The humblest amongst us might decide that self-awareness is a never-ending process. No matter how much we achieve and where we reach, we can continue to approach every situation with curiosity and wonderment. Such people will not see the situation as something "known." Instead, they will see it as something "new," an opportunity to learn and develop. And in this space, they will no longer feel the desire to extrapolate and "help" others with their findings.

P.S: The very fact that I wrote this essay means that I'm a long way away from attaining this ideal. :).

A paean to curd rice

I am an Indian from the south
And when I want a treat for my mouth
I bring together curd and rice
A dish simple, elegant and nice

The rice could be fluffy and hot
Or refrigerated, lumpy and taut
The curd might make my teeth chatter
Or be creamy like the moon's lather


The two ingredients do not matter
The resultant dish I will not barter
You might see a beauty and a beast
All I experience is an irresistible feast

So whether I've finished a seven-course meal
Or it's a deep pang of hunger I feel
I reach out for rice and curd
In comparison, anything else is turd!