Book 1 The Travelers

Chapter 1 Public violence 2 Chapter 2 Krishna the protagonist 12 Chapter 3 Kalki the alterego 33 Chapter 4 The JEE 54 Chapter 5 Maya the illusion 75 Chapter 6 The pact 100 Chapter 7 Private violence 121

Alternate Journeys

Chapter 1 Public violence

VIOLENCE has no logic, violence has its own logic; Violence has Types. Delhi University was engulfed by flames of Public Violence; in SHAME; of IDENTITIES. The Prime Minister had announced the implementation of Mandal Commission Report, increasing the affirmative action quotas in public education and employment to an absurd fifty percent. The students, frustrated by the ever-shrinking employment opportunities in the decaying edifice of socialist development, became furious. Protests erupted all over the country with its epicenter in Delhi University. The campus was a huge chaos. Anarchy descended on earth from the depths of hell. Shiva (the god of obliteration) chose Patel Chest for letting the world sample a move from his celestial Tandav (the dance of annihilation). Young men and women became his army of destroying Nagas. Major brunt of anger was targeted at vehicles of Delhi Transport Corporation, a visible symbol of the government; bus after bus gutted in fire littered the streets; the Holika of State. Few busses escaped the fate of flames; street-jacked to become agents of the marauding students. Residents of the neighborhood came out and shouted slogans in support. Encouraged, and believing it to be the beginning of a general revolution which will force the state to backtrack its decision, the haranguing students grew in exuding confidence of numbers, filled into the captured DTC busses and proceeded towards central Delhi. In confusion of shouting a plan emerged to lay siege of the capital, cripple the functioning of the government. The busses approached Central Secretariat (seat of the government of Union of India); where once upon a time sat, administrators of the Raj but now, it was a different raj, the new Raj. It was Nineteen Ninety. For India and the world, societys flirtation with socialism had yet not buckled as an unworkable marriage. Though it was taking its last gasps; the burden of crumbling pieces of a collapsed wall was felt everywhere. In India, sovereignty of state the rule of law was still the License Raj of the Middle Path, serving the impoverished equity of socialism and exploitive riches of corruption. Public Sector still held the Commanding Heights of the economy, although the apotheosis had started showing its cold bareness, like the icy deserts of high Himalayas, romantic and burning in your imagination and passion, worth fighting and dying for, barren nevertheless. At stake for the students were these desolate pinnacles. Their struggle
2

Alternate Journeys

made more desperate because the state not only sat on the commanding heights but flourished like the proverbial banyan tree, underneath which nothing grows, (spreading its tentacles, withering away and growing anew, destroying the distinction between stem and root). The new Raj had similarly lost the distinction between purpose and its instruments. The Bodhi tree, barrenness beneath, providing the context for enlightenment of Buddha, but failing miserably to provide for the material needs of unenlightened. Students in a state of desolation, their growing numbers joining the army of unemployed, hovered like a broken hive of bees demanding its sting from the state whose ability to provide livelihood to storms of young people was wilting. Mandal was a rude shock; it became symbolic of the great fight to secure what was not there. It was a vicious scheme, of promise to a large electorate of downtrodden their salvation through Raj, and to secure electoral victories on promises of a nonexistent promised land. It was a fatal blow to false dreams of deliverance for those on the greener side of the divide. It became a symbol for all that was lost in a generational flirting with socialism; a conduit for build-in frustration and exasperation on prospects of a humiliating unfruitful unemployed youth. The anger made decent boys and girls from elite institutes across the country to take to streets like lumpen-proletariats on fringes of a revolution; it made brightest of the country burn public property like opportunist rioters. Police forces in riot control gear started gathering around the city. Wireless messages started buzzing about number of busses burnt, buildings pelted with stones, rambunctious crowds moving towards the Secretariat. Messages were passed up, and again pushed farther up in hurry and panic, till it reached so much up that it was a situation report not unlike of several riots that happen around the country every year; till it lost context. Seen from the commanding heights, the students anger and violence was another regular riot report waiting for another regular suppression order. The order came, crisp and clear, repeated over phones and wireless, heard in the control rooms and control vans of Delhi Police: The students protest needs to be broken, at no cost should the protesters reach the Secretariat; the city should be placed under immediate curfew. Wheels of the state started turning. The constabulary collected on the route from University to Secretariat; water cannons, tear-gas shells, rubber bullets, and batons were out in full numbers. Heads covered by helmets, visages hardly visible from behind visors, policemen in neat street rows stood like a clone army; Clone Army of the State. Loudspeakers declared curfew and stern warnings. Collision course was set. Busses arrived and were met with brute force, something that students in their excitement and taste of raw power didnt bargain for. The
3

Alternate Journeys

busses couldnt break the multiple iron pickets and truckloads of police personnel. Crowd descended, students started throwing stones and Molotov Cocktails on rows of police standing behind the blockade. One of the boys studying for his public-service exams had not realized his talent lay elsewhere, in professional sports where ball pitching was prized. The Molotov Cocktail landed on a police vehicle parked in rear of the phalanx barricading behind the palisade. The vehicle was a Maruti Gypsy (produced by the state-run automobile company with Japanese collaboration). In no time the Gypsy was in flames, and in even-lesser time the anger of policemen and women was an inferno. The stanchion started moving slowly to side of the street, a rumble started rising, steps of heavy boots on asphalt clicked in unison. The formation in riot gear (lathis in right hands and caned shields in left) marched in step towards the stone-pelting Molotov-throwing young-elite men and women. Delhi University, not unlike uber-universities elsewhere, prized itself for its liberal and feminist culture; the Mandal protests had many women in the forefront, leading avatars of Shakti the goddess, let loose on civility of Delhi. Wireless messages had warned of multi-headed hydra of energy in frontline of the crowds; the state was prepared with the most ruthless women constabulary of the country; women of Delhi Police marched in step with men of Delhi Police. The men and women marching towards the students were of a different verity; their reality was of a different variety from women and men they were marching towards in slow small sure steps. They were the protectors of commanding heights, ignorant of bareness of its peaks. They marched in discipline derived from training; they marched in anger derived from context of burning vehicles. But little did they realize whilst they marched (the crowds in front sliding backwards in chaotic but similar slowness) what the students saw; police were employed by the state, they had a salary, security, health and retirement benefits; were they asking for anything more? Were they not preparing to write exams to get state jobs? Were they not being denied a fair chance by people in power? Power hijacked by tyranny of democracy. The place for airing and redressal of grievances, whichever side you belong, is elsewhere. Violence has its own logic; the causal linkage to issues snaps as soon as violence starts. The order came from an officer in front of the march when the distance between marchers and the crowd remained a countable yards. It started with bursting of tear gas shells and firing of water cannons; water pouring from the cloud of white fumes, forming tear droplets of unemotional pain, in burning eyes reflecting the blazing Gypsy. The officer shouted, Squad! Lathi Charge! Lathi (the magical long-form baton), discovered by English to be the
4

Alternate Journeys

most potent weapon for ruling the unruly multitudes of god-forsaken lands of South Asia; romanticism of a Lathi Charge is not unlike The Charge of The Light Brigade; but that is always in hindsight, in retrospect, in fiction; when the rows of police men and women were suddenly let loose on the crowd of students, it was violence pure and raw. Delhi Police displayed marked liberalism, feminism and socialistic equality in brutalizing the students. No one who came in the way was spared. There was no discrimination between men and women, no distinction between breaking backs and heads. The women and men constabulary got embroiled in the snarl and struck whoever was found easiest. Some students got caught in the fury in middle of several police personnel, others started running for life. Screaming shouting tear blood gore sound-tracked and colored the canvas of chaos; random cuts mixed with rain of the white cloud; tear drops of blood pouring down the faces of future. Water cannons pumped high-powered aqua-jets to disperse the crowd. A pool of water collected on the road, mixed with blood it was crimson red, painting the scene grotesque and gory with an air of death; although no bullets were used and no one died that day. Policemen beating women mercilessly were later accused of molestation; but at that moment it was indiscriminate savagery and untainted violence. Maya was at spearhead of the crowd, shouting for people not to run, shouting that their numbers were far larger, they can break the rows of police if they stuck together, but the students were not what they were dissembling to be, they ran. Suddenly the world went tipsy for Maya; she felt a spasm of shock. The lathi of a policeman, who had marked her as one of the leaders, fell with full force on her waist. She fell in the pool of water. Another strike landed on her upper right arm, she was fainting. She vaguely saw the third coming towards her head, in split second her eyes closed and her body shivered in preparation of the impact. She felt the contact, but it was not the sharp razor-edged lathi connecting to her body, but a comforting human presence dropping on her stomach and face down in an encompassing embrace before the lathi could strike its intended target. The lathi instead fell on Krishna, who in reflex had dropped on Maya and covered her to protect from the brutal blow. The gust came on Krishnas back. He shrieked in pain, covering Maya tenaciously in determination and surrender, determined to save her from the lathi and surrendered to his own fate anticipating the avalanching attacking affliction. He counted sorely, second and third on his lower and upper back; he heard the skirmish, scream and swear of a familiar voice. Trepidation took over pain as soon as he realized that Kalki had assaulted the policeman who was brutalizing him and Maya. Everyone who
5

Alternate Journeys

knew Kalki feared his choleric temper; his loyalty and faith in friendship combusted his destructive anger. Kalki, seeing Maya Krishna (friends who had anchored his life from drifting away in violent darkness) ensnared in atrocity, ran with full force breaking the single row of police personnel between him and his lying friends (Krishna clasping Maya in a protective clinch but himself unprotected). Kalkis temperament for protection from violence was not to clasp the protected bear the lathi on self; but his was to fight back. Violence begets violence; this is the only valid logic. He assaulted the policeman standing in front of his affrighted friends. Before the constable realized what happened, his lathi was gone into the hands of Kalki and a blow of such power landed on his helmet that despite protection he dropped unconscious in the crimson pool on asphalt. Kalki became violence personified, he charged like a berserk bull on the policemen standing in front in another single row. Swinging the lathi in wobbling circles he broke their line, hurting quite a few of them. Seeing the commotion and their colleagues falling like ninepins, a swarm of lathiwielding policemen gathered around the scene. The gathering crowd tasted dust one by one as blows fell on them in full ferocity of the dancing lathi. But the state like the ogre Mahisa rose from every drop of blood spilled, helmets and lathis multiplied around him, one ten hundred thousand countless, no, they were not individuals, they were one; unity of consciousness of mob of the state. Brutality elsewhere eased as the focus of violence shifted to the asymmetrical fight of Kalki and the multi-helmeted multi-lathied singleconscioused monster circling around the ballet of uni-lathied in a dancing reply of folkdance-patterned pirouette of expanding-constricting circles of death. Ceasing of general havoc and concentration of cruelty was a chance for most students to flee; some remained removing the fallen, pulling them back few paces from the plight of rampaging Kalki and swarm of policemen surrounding him. Maya Krishna were also pulled back. Krishna was shouting for Kalki to let go and run. Maya had regained her senses, she was crying, she couldnt bear to see her friend trapped in midst of the monstrous barbarity, she couldnt bear to see her friends savagery; tears came rolling as she imagined the fate of Kalki. One of the policemen finally connected a hard-hitting blow on Kalkis left shoulder. He lost balance; he floundered, still raging his lathi in no particular direction. But before he could regain steadiness another lathi connected, this time it was a strike on his upper right leg, he tumbled. Finally Kalki fell, and in split seconds specks of time the crowd of policemen pounded on him with an avalanche of cutting lathi blows, a pack of impatient hyenas attacking the prey in its last breath. In a few minutes an
6

Alternate Journeys

officer appeared and shouted for order. The beating stopped; Kalki lying in convulsions on ground in a puddle of blood and water, unconscious in an inaudible moaning of pain; blood oozing from innumerable places in his body. Violence for the day ended. Behind the police vehicles and water cannons were ambulances and rows of paramedics waiting for orders, with stretchers to rush to the sight. The officer, realizing that students have completely dispersed and the ones remaining are injured enough not to run and/or will court arrest peacefully, gave orders for the paramedics to move in. Kalki lying on a stretcher dying in the back of a wailing ambulance eyes closed in pain, head face body limbs painted red. A paramedic in desperation, oozes of cotton and bandages, coming out pristine white from a shelf above, and turning red in struggle against the bleeding wounds, hands all over pressing hard to support the battle trying hard on enforcing clots trying to resuscitate the dying. The ambulance accelerated towards the nearest hospital, time decelerated in reflection, in a futile attempt to cloak itself in meaning. Maya Krishna in audible visible perceiving pain of their own beatings sat next to Kalki aback of the ambulance, feeling his inaudible invisible imperceptible pain. Mayas eyelids closed, a dam of teardrops pooled over her retina, echoing the anguish from beyond another pair of closed eyelids of a pair of painless retina. Krishnas eyes open, within his head a swirling cocktail of pain love reflection whirlpooling around icy rocks of meaning and meaninglessness, dreaming the death of dreams, floating in the ache of lover and friend. Agony and affection made Krishna cogitate on the inutility of it all. ********* Violence is an abstruse occurrence: No, not of the type of animals killing for food or for survival (simple form of animality which does not require a billion years of extraordinaryllian mutational errors that produced humanity and the violence of identity (a perplexing phenomenon, result of circular connections, perceiving the complexity in simplicity of goodnessbadness rightness-wrongness blackness-whiteness)). Oh! The wiles of human mind! Absurdity of madness violence of identity can be so easily explained. And And Also the reverse: Lovemaking, a simple act of attraction intimacy instinct perceived as the complex undecipherable phenomenon of love with its baggage of guilt jealousy pain. Perception of context twists simple into complicated, sex becomes love, violence becomes goodness badness; sex is life violence is death.
7

Alternate Journeys

Krishna Kalki Maya, connected in love and friendship, bound by accident of time, three simultaneous births, unconnected in space, connected by destiny. COINCIDENCE! Fake tool for finding meaning! Fraudulent scheme for perceiving grandeur! Once Upon A Time in History Or in Myth, there was a Chariot of Man named after God, it spitted fire and accelerated beyond gravity to land on the Moon. And at the moment radios declared, One small step for Man, One Giant Leap for Mankind, in a faraway land, two boys and a girl were born in the ineluctable Chariot of Karma; the birth and death of Innocence. The Moon, the Chandra God, Chanda-mama (the angel who brought gifts for well-behaved children) became the riled lunar surface; Chandamamas face blistered with rills of ugliness in dark black craters; man connected to his future; Innocence died. Midwives in three different places cut the umbilicus and wiped clean the three newborn babies of the ugliness of last remaining connections of the womb; blob of ugly throbbing fetal flesh became child, biology became life; Innocence was born; deprived of incentives of gifts of good behavior, how long will it last? Krishna Kalki Maya, oblivious of each other and of simultaneity of their births with the lunar landing of Neil Armstrongs famous words, were born in three different parts of India, at half past eight in the morning of July Twenty-first Nineteen Sixty-nine. Handcuffed not to history, but chained to each other, to promised giant leaps of future, and destiny (not only of their country, but of the world!), all entwined with their lives guided by the tides created by the landing on the Moon. One in an air-conditioned labor room of a company hospital, one in the timeless darkness of mines excreting energy out from the bowels of earth, one in a naval-base dispensary of an unwomanned island in the middle of nowhere; Krishna Kalki Maya, a trinity of camaraderie friendship love, were born together when a human stepped on moon, when imagination was freed of god, when man stood up to end history with paranormal powers like the Children of a previous generation born at another simulacrum of magical moment. But theirs were not the petty magical skills created by the sleight of hand, of prestidigitations of tortuous trickery, of concoctions of discombobulating declensions of words, of prevarications of fantasies of faraway-smelling noses, killing knees and sorcerous witchery; they were born instead, with the very-real magical ability: the gift of being able to THINK-ACT-LOVE. But was there is there anything more than the glamour of coincidence, painstakingly dugout and hung as a talisman of their love and
8

Alternate Journeys

friendship, worn around their conjoined necks like an heirloom of destiny, creating an aura of self-fulfilling grandeur, pretending their relationship to be more than the regular talisman-less un-graced-by-destiny love and friendship of other young boys and girls. (Before innocence-destroying earthmoving bulldozers of bad-wide-world of women and men, trample over simple emotions, leaving wide-black-holes gasping for meaning.) Krishna sat quietly in rear of the forward-speeding ambulance, next to sitting Maya and lying Kalki, reflecting on events of the day past-days life past-lives, watching a crying lover and a dying friend. But was that it? Did not the bond of destiny of their birth make their relationship of a different profoundness? Were not they-we-I only different in bodies but cemented in soul one-soul not-two not-three? Was then, calling it Love, Incest? Whatever it may be; he knew that struggle for the day had ended; they were presented with fait accompli of an abashed unemployed world, where they will have to fight their own battles; to move on with life; to find their lives. In backseat of the ambulance amidst public violence, Krishna reflected on misery of the country, political chaos, million mutinies, going to break down, no opportunities, decides to emigrate, decides to convince Maya Kalki too; nature of existence is rootless; static is satanic, dynamic is divine. But this was before a memory was erased and replaced by the anger hate ugliness of red-hot molten metal that flows in blood. Leitmotif of his symphony was a search for meaning. Audacity of absurdity is an affectation of a deeper denotation. Audacity of ignorance naivet pride is a claim to understanding. And Audacity of Hope? Its too early in the story to tell; patience grasshopper! History is Fiction imagined by Gods, Imagination is Fiction created by Man; Myth is the Story of Gods told by the Author. ********* Progression of an individual human life is a di-layered story in parallel dimensions. One is the factual experience and sequential narrative, and other is the storing intermixing simmering of experiences in the human mind. Factual narrative exists in one point of time and space as a blip in the canvas of existence, meaningless at any other point in space and time, but for its storage in brain with its own evolutionary life and changing meaning. In a toddler, learning language and getting exposed to the wide world around, its sounds and images, is the storing and interlinking of sensory experiences to create a retrieval mechanism, not unlike of the fuzzy indexing algorithms of contemporary high-tech search-and-storage systems; mental state that starts the parallel story birth of consciousness. Bulk of this beginning and interconnections soon disappear from the realm of consciousness during the troublesome pleasant journey of growing
9

Alternate Journeys

up. Psychologists want us to believe that these incipient connections continue to influence the evolution of mental story and worldview of the individual, and in effect have a large impact on the factual narrative by means of choices made. At this juncture however, I will not elaborate on the consequences and causal connections of all that went into the minds of our characters in a period which they dont remember today. Though I cant deny that these have been instrumental in shaping the story, whether in deep and profound ways, or simply by providing the means for grasping and entangling the sequential facts of existence, into a story complete and befitting their perceived worldview. But to keep the facts straight, and to give the reader a chance to construct her own narrative of experiences of the toddler, and to set a context, I will start the story at birth of our protagonist; before perceptions were molded to create the transmogrifying transmuting versions of Alternate Journeys; wrapping-expanding-shrinking time-memories. He was born in a small industrial town of North India. He was born into a middleclass family. He was born not long ago. He was born in euphoria of the summer of Sixty-nine, when man landed on Moon making his small step and giant leap. He was born in July of that year. Contrary to all expectations he was not born on any significant day (his birthday missed the lunar landing by a day), the moon was neither full nor new, and to top it all he was born at no significant time (neither midday nor midnight), but sometime during the morning. The only event worth noting when he was born was, it was raining donkeys, but then, this time of the year in this part of the country it generally rains donkeys. Yet! His life and destiny like everyone elses entwined and enchained with the destiny of his country and times. He was born when Marx was fashionable and refrigerators were luxury. He was born when dollar was cheap but could not be bought. As a toddler he was full of joy for his world. His mother gave him bits of jaggery in his nimble mouth to nibble sweetly. She put a black spot of kajal on his buttery white face to ward off omens which were to come. She crooned him to sleep in soft lullabies, to dream the grandeur which was to be his. He was so fair and chubby that it seemed someone forgot to tell the double helix in the eternal egg which had his number that its ancestors long ago had chosen a land of heat so strong that the clouds burnt red, and by force of Karma made it a land so poor that the soul burnt brown, and with faith in lord almighty produced so many babies that the crowds burnt in rage. Whiteness of the non-white was his ticket to claim of love of all and sundry. As a toddler he was full of joy for his world. His father bounced him in the air and caught him back. He had the sensation of flying to touch the heavens, secured by the fact that he will not fall, his father always there
10

Alternate Journeys

to catch him on his way back. His father was an engineer in Botala Steel Plant. He was a priest, priest of the Temples of Modern India, member of the order of Nehru. (The god who declared like many before time for salvation has come, building plants dams factories, temples of his vision. He had his followers of all hue and color who built and ran these mega animals destined to bring deliverance to the wretched souls of humanity.) (But that was the grandeur and that was the delusion, of another generation. It was they who had the tryst at midnight and slept when the dawn broke.) He was born not so long ago. He was born when the war was still cold and world at the brink of Holocaust. Missiles with capacities to make mushrooms were on ready and alert. The big questions of ideology waited to be sorted out by push of the button (which would have clarified the world of all its isms sans the schism of survivalism). But he grew up as a toddler and for his sake the buttons were not pushed and the ideologies destroyed themselves without the oversize mushrooms. He was named after Krishna, the god of all seasons, god for everyone, god who is the aspiration of men and women, god whom you like no matter who you are. (He has something for everyone to desire, giver of Gita for the knowledgeable, great warrior for the worldly ambitious, dancer of lust for those seeking pleasure and whose Bhakti is Moksha.) Then was it a divine coincidence or divine intervention that he aspires to emulate Krishna? (He seeks knowledge, he seeks ambition, he seeks pleasure, he seeks salvation.) Was his Karma predestined for grandeur and delusion the tragic demise of meaning? Was Krishna, the Real One, smiling all along? Or is it a random result of chaotic equations? Karma or mathematics, its too early in the story to know, or rather make an attempt to know; but I promise, I will come back to this. But before that, I need to tell you a lot more, lot more about the child and adolescent Krishna, lot more about his mental journeys. And there will be others, also born not long ago, competitors to the claim for whose sake were the buttons not pushed? Myth is imagined, history real; journey is history, perception myth.

11

Alternate Journeys

Chapter 2 Krishna the protagonist

Krishnas very first memory, the start of a retroactive consciousness, is his first day in St. Xaviers School, Botala Steel City. Young boy six years old painstakingly prepared for the first day of real school not kindergarten, hair well oiled neatly parted-and-seated by a proud mother, shirt brand-new white, shorts gray with belt maroon buckle gray in shape of an S, socks gray with shoes white Keds Plimsoll; a vociferous vivacious visage; not nervous, not worried, glint of fairness, gleam of properness; twinkle of eyes ready to go; ready to be worthy of pride. Primary section of the School, a smaller two-storied building, classrooms around a quadrangle, freshly young children, hullabaloo of possibilities, new friends, new world, among them confident beaming white-non-white face of Krishna. A white-white man stands on the small dais, calls for order, form a line, height-wise, ignition of consciousness, identity of heights, small scuffles here and there, to stand behind each other, a teacher comes, a miss good-looking, arranges the kids, slotted in the identity of heights. Assembly starts. Separate line for boys and girls, boys in white and gray, and girls in maroon polka-dot frocks (backdrop of white, red ribbons in little pony-and-pigtails), boys on the left, girls on the right, shorter in front and taller in the back. The momentary pride and embarrassment of being in the back and in front disappears as everyone gets quiet, trying to follow what Father G. oSeleven is saying. Welcoming new students to the School, smiles, welcoming old students to the new year of the next standard, more smiles, something about the good work of past year and the hard work for year ahead, the sixyear-olds already stopped following. Father G. oSeleven White Australian Senior Jesuit (Society of Jesus four hundred years of history of an incomprehensible accent) spoke in English. Krishna knew the language well (a prerequisite to get into the prestigious St. Xaviers School), the language of his kindergarten, the language his mother spoke to him to prepare for the difficult and famous St. Xaviers entrance test (first of the series of difficult and famous tests that will litter the lives of the young students standing there. A whole family, for a whole year, had single mindedly prepared young Krishna for the test; Pride Honor Future was at stake.) But accents, that is a different matter. Krishna like other kids in his line found it difficult to follow. Also the Father used words from an adults vocabulary, beyond the English of primary-school test-giving, not the English of thought and general communication; the seeds of consciousness of the kids were sowed in their Mother Tongue and not the Tongue of the Queen Mother. Father G. oSeleven knew this very well, he spoke perfect Hindi in a
12

Alternate Journeys

very comprehensible accent (you should have heard his speeches on Independence Day), he was not trying to be harsh on the kids, he was just setting the stage for molding of a multilingual global elitist liberal consciousness, where you dont translate your thoughts, but think in the language and accent of the context; holmic hybridity of bilingual determines the order of preference in human relations. After the welcomes, new classes and sections were announced. The last item was Morning Prayer, before the assembly ends and the silent conjuration of six to nine year olds breaks out of its sorcerous spell into high-decibel noise and high-energy motion to find their new classrooms. Most of the children were Hindus, the School Public, run by Christian Missionary, the prayer secular, incomprehensible accent, un-understandable words. The solace: it was the last bit, before assembly ended and better part of the day started; the well-remembered penny-drop prayer was read to the trained-spelled pin-drop silence: Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action-Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. How does Krishna remember the prayer so well if none of the sixyear-olds followed a word that day? Because the prayer was repeated morning after morning throughout his life at St. Xaviers; layering of memory blurs what was understood when, what is remembered from where. What is not remembered however, what was not mentioned in the assembly, was the backdrop of time in which Krishna started his life at St. Xaviers, a time when the trains ran on time around the suspended animation of the soul of a country in hiatus from its democratic journey to live through the Emergency of Indira India Durga. The Society of Jesus was invited, supported and financed, by the management of Botala Steel Plant to open a Public School in the newlybeing-built Steel City. A new plant was being constructed and it sucked professionals from across India, engineers bureaucrats accountants doctors all came in droves (crme of the society), and the School was
13

Alternate Journeys

opened to create the next generation. The landscape of Botala was dotted with overhead cranes, earthmovers and construction equipment. Even in the School, a new larger wing for the seniors was being built. (Public School: different context on different sides of a great ocean; but in the faraway land of Botala a third meaning, a third type.) That January sunny winter day, a proud father stood in the control cabin at top of the skyward-soaring tower crane; it was a happy day for Krishnas father. His son started in the best school, his project erection of the third Blast Furnace was going well. While he stood and watched, the last feeder bell of the furnace was being lifted and placed over the dome. He glanced alternately on the spread-out blueprint in his hand and the hanging machinery at edge of the crane, and passed instructions to the crane operator sitting next to him. Tensed nerves, the bell was lowered in feeder of the furnace, a sigh of relief, the bell fit perfectly into the top slot, congratulations and exhilarations flew around; the difficult erection maneuver was successfully completed. Krishnas father looked around, his focus now away from details of the structure in front of him; from the commanding height of the tower crane he could see for miles around. The coke oven batteries, some operational and throwing out pure red blackness of baked coal, more being built. The blast furnaces, third one being completed, two already gulping in lumps of red and black rocks, and spitting out molten lava from hearth, red-hot flowing metal, pouring into the steel melting shops. Next to it, monstrous ramming of the slabbing mills and subsequent rolling of metal like a chapatti from soft dough in the hot and cold rolling mills. Beyond the plant on the eastern side was the city creeping up, buildings schools hospitals houses clubs buildings. On the northern side was the lake, Cooling Pond, water storage that cooled the temper of burning liquid metal. And farther away were the hills of Parasnath range (hills of the Jina). On the south was the dam on Botala River flanked by the hills of Botala Range providing walls for the reservoir (source of water for the cooling ponds, thermal power plants, mines, steel plant and the city). A network of canals left the reservoir; arteries of development. Beyond the hills of Botala Range, farther south, lay the jungles of Chotanagpur; wilderness of the tribal. The tower crane undoubtedly was high, but was not high enough for him to peek into the far-side shadows of the peaks, to pique him enough, to be able to see the nakedness of poverty and oppression of ignorance, of an ancient people in whose lands the modernity of Botala had descended. Once again natives, new-natives, pushed to the fringes of development; once again Civilization descended in a New World in a flood of destroying civility. And towards the west, the mines, raison dtre of the city plants
14

Alternate Journeys

dam to grow out of the rocks and jungles of Botala; he could make out the mines by their dust, red of iron ore and black of coal. Heaven on Earth; where else you find iron and coal in ditches next to each other? Red and black painting the landscape over the fading brown topsoil and peeling green vegetation; red and black, the dust of Botala, the gold of a nation, fuel for the engine of modernity; red and black dotted with yellow of the equipments, earthmovers which dug out the dust, dumpers which carried it, and a network of rails like a continuous conveyer raking iron and coal from the mines to the plant, feeding the ever-hungry ever-hot everblasting ever-ramming ever-rolling Goliath of Botala Steel Plant. Eight years ago when the first tower crane stood up and he had seen the sight from top of it, it was very different. In the hinterland of India, in the backwardness of the state of Bihar, lay the barren rocks and jungled hills of Botala. Black rocks and green jungles; chaos of topography, not an iota of flat land, indiscipline of river streams rapiding down random slopes in turbulence and violence. People hardly clothed, illiterate nomads, farremoved from civilization, living off the land, off the jungle; even poorer and backward than the infamous indigence of the Gangetic planes in rapines of North Bihar; (but what does not exist cannot have a reputation). A land untouched even by the adventurers explorers bridge-builders of the erstwhile Raj; no roads, no rails, only muddy pebbly growly tracks coming in and out of the jungle. But in the bosom of earth, beneath the rocks, lay the dust; red and black. Ingenuity of man, nature was tamed, chaos was structured; the river not caring a dime was dammed to disciplined stillness; the hills were flattened to supporting submission; the rocks and jungles blasted and dug; all for the land to reveal its emotions. Irritating erratic wilderness of boulders and stones, hills and hillocks, all tamed to flatness by the might of the DYNAMITE (Batons of nitroglycerin, Energy of Man); Roads Rails Bridges wide enough for the trailers that brought in the equipments, boilers and furnaces. And, boulder by boulder, brick by brick, building by building, plant by plant, congratulation by congratulation, exhilaration by exhilaration, a new world was created. The governments of the union and states of India still resided in the buildings of the old Raj; but this was real new, not a single penny of British India, all built by natives, new land, new colony, new English. Thinking of the changing picture, from top of the crane, Krishnas father felt proud. Pride in the choices he had made, pride in the fact that he had chosen not to immigrate to the Western world of riches. His father (Krishnas grandfather) had gone to England to earn his specialization in medicine, he had come back a choice forced by circumstance when his father (Krishnas great-grandfather) died and left him a family to be supported and sisters to be betrothed. The simplicity of forced choice is: it does not leave much room for
15

Alternate Journeys

reflection of contrition pain pride, or maneuvering of motives with passage of time. The sullenness of chosen choice is: there always exists another side, that could have been, which has grass of a different shade of green. Krishnas father had chosen not been forced not to immigrate to the prosperous countries of the West. A difficult choice as friend after friend of his left the shores in search of their dreams. He had held an admission to a prestigious college in a developed country (for a postgraduate degree in engineering) in one hand and an immigration visa on his passport in another, when he passed out of his engineering college and took a train to Botala to join the government steel company; to make the new plant. The motive, an inner call of patriotic duty aroused by speeches and visions of temples of modern India, heard and seen in person when Nehru visited his institute. He remembered, as an engineering student and an NCC cadet, he desperately wanted to be on the front when the Chinese army humiliated the Indian forces into an outrageous reality of frailty of morality sans hard power. He solemnly swore with many others in blood oath written in droplets of cut finger not to let the humiliation pass; never again will such shame descend on the nation again. His life was a fulfillment of the vow; he was building a plant which will build the steel that will build a country which no one dare scorn again. He had stood on top of the tower crane and felt the pride of a nation when the Indian Navy and Air Force stood in face of the mighty Enterprise of a Superpower Fleet, ready to fly kamikaze missions, and the Army accepted the Pakistani surrender. Winter of Seventy-one, he saw the plant coming up, he returned home to his beautiful wife and his two year old son who will do him proud, live up to his choices. Also in summer of Seventy-four, when Krishna was almost five years old, when Buddha Smiled in letting the world know of the arrival of a nation in capabilities of mass destruction; India was building steel plants, India was exploding nuclear bombs, India was winning wars. Magic of dreams being lived in reality, that was a beautiful time, before the trickery of mind influenced by the cycle of decaying degenerating dreams started restating the motivations of a choice, in a cycle of I was ill advised brown skin was second class there they had dot busters unemployment social upheaval who could have told of the socialist mockery that descended on us I was too complacent with comfort of the familiar I was afraid of the uncertainty of migration it was the right choice everything is predestined everything has a purpose what happened turned out in the end for the best none of them who left were ever at peace now they want to come back now the future is here; AND, I did it for conscience and country; D-U-T-Y. In Ouathom, another
16

Alternate Journeys

navy, enemy ships dotting the horizon, another man standing on the tower feeling the wind of pride, colors are being hoisted in a signal; English Expects But that sunny winter day was far back in time for him to think of future. He felt proud of what he had created, of course there were buts but it was not the first steel plant of the world but they still had to import a lot of technology but man had landed on moon but the world was zooming ahead at a breakneck pace. BUT what was created there in Botala was nothing less than the recreation of Mother Earth. Standing on top, he promised to himself, to bring Krishna along to head of the tower to see the site of transformation of earth into civilization, and onto the shop floors to see the transformation of dust into metal. Krishna had grown up enough to remember his first sights of what his father had achieved. He soon fulfilled his promise; It became an annual pilgrimage of Krishnas growing up to visit the plant; his most vivid and fondest memories of childhood. If there was to be an accident and a head injury that erases all his memory, one image would-could not be erased, the energy passion beauty of red-hot molten metal flowing like water. Aurora Borealis of the steel foundry, the halo of midnight lights floating in the sky; man landed on Moon, man re-created Earth, who needs a God? Krishna and Iyer overjoyed that they were in the same section left the tyranny of assembly to enter their classroom. Section One-A; number of small desks, two small chairs behind each, ruckus of kids, miss goodlooking walks in, the Brownian motion settles down, Krishna and Iyer on the front desk together. Goood mO--rniiing Miss!! in a chorus of unison, Good morning, children, Trim and Proper. The primary section of the School started at nine in the morning, after the assembly there were two periods of forty minutes apiece, then a break of twenty minutes, and another set of two periods before the school ended. For the middle and senior sections it continued after the lunch break. For standard One the four periods were: English, Hindi, Math, and Arts-&Crafts. Krishnas favorite was Math; he was born in love with numbers. Today in our first class, we will learn addition, declared the teacher, after the good-morning-miss formalities in the third period which Krishna was eagerly waiting for. OK now, who can tell me what One plus One is? First impressions matter, head starts are important. Me Me Me! and then not waiting for permission, Two. For an adult that would be aggression, for a child it was enthusiasm,
17

Alternate Journeys

encouraging further the mild-mannered lady of a teacher enraptured, And Two plus One? Three! Very good Krishna, reading the name from the tag neatly pinned with the gray batch in front of the shirt, Now who will tell me what does two plus one mean? Me Me Me! jingling again in Jesters gesticulation. This time a slight reprove, Krishna! Its improper. You should always raise your hand to answer a question, and answer only when the teacher gives you a turn. Then to make up, OK, tell me, what is addition? If I have two apples, and Iyer has one, he started the explanation, Iyer suddenly hearing his name smiled, glad for becoming part of the story, If Iyer gives me his apple then I will have one plus two, three! One adult and a whole bunch of six-year-olds are impressed. But the magic is yet not over, And miss I Also know multiply, if I put all my apples in one box then it is One Into Three!!! Very good! Well done! But today we will learn only addition, multiplication we will do in a future class. Providence of the Child? Precocious Prodigy? Destiny? Or overpreparedness by a proud mother? It did not matter. The reign of young Krishna over hearts and minds of the bunch of growing-up-together classmates was already firmly established; he knew Into before anyone else knew Plus. Last period, arts-&-crafts, random doodles in the drawing book, class ends, ThaaanK Youuu Miss!! in chorus again, small hands lift small chairs to upturn and place them on the desks, school bags hung on shoulders, water bottles held in hands, a flood of whites grays maroon-polka-dots run out of the building. The gate of St. Xavier's opened in a small square. Krishnas mother, proud and beaming, was waiting there. Standing beside her, his kid sister Goly cat eyes that took the color of light, rusty brown hair, bit of puppy fat, three years old, three years younger just started in the next-door nursery school. Also with them, their neighbor, Iyers mother; mothers gleaming in pride, children running towards them to tell all about their first day at School. Krishnas and Iyers houses were a-few-minute walk from the School; mothers and children start for their homes, mothers walking, children running. If you went straight south from the School, you will reach their homes. From the square two other roads forked out, east one led to the river, which was no longer a river, it had become a stream downwards stream of damned discipline.
18

Alternate Journeys

AND beyond the river? Bastis, adobe huts. And who lived there? Whose abode? Tribals? Muslims? Harijans? God People? Underbelly? Darkside? Lowlife? The Myriad Mahisa Does-It-Exist? And if you go farther east beyond Botala, overloaded overcrowded rattling buses with people sitting inside and spilling over on the roof, on road to Dhanbad (the town of mining mafias) with potholes so large that whenever a tire lands in it, wretch people in the emetic bus and its retch roof feel their lives coming up their throats waiting to be vomited out into the nauseating world. BUT the best-west one led to another Heaven on Earth, not of gold of red and black, but of fun and frolic of childhood, of comic-books movies games. The Club Complex four buildings in a large campus: The Botala Club: Two movies a week, one English one Hindi, the world of Jedi Sith force darkside, and Amitabh Bachchan Sholay Deewar Zanjeer (Explosion of History in Fireballs of Walls and Chains); the annual event Runa Laila charming a town with her dum-a-dum Mast Kalandar. The Sports Compound: Table Tennis ping-pong of yin-yang; Badminton shuttle swooshing to-and-fro; Tennis Court balls bouncing in bonhomie; Billiards Room children not allowed in cues of daddies and uncles; Swimming Pool the Sanctum Sanctorum of the temple of heavens. The Russian Club: A large oversized profile of a bald funny man with a funnier beard, children afraid of his imposturous presence on the gate, but once you got past him, the funniest dish and television; Televidenie Moscova via the glorious satellites of Soviet achievement, showing animated cartoons of turtles and hares. The Pustakalay: The library, illusion of Cats-in-Hats which with passage of time turned into the joys of Superman Phantom Amar-ChitraKathas Tintin Asterix Archies and then further to Enid-Blytons Hardyboys Nancy-Drews before it lay open the beauty of the world in a struggle to comprehend the Tell-Me-Whys Lands-And-Peoples Micro-MacroPedias, and the not-so-difficult dip in his favorite childrens encyclopedia the eight limbs of the Octopus entangled in the infinity of knowledge, and also the mysteries of Agatha Christy and Conan Doyle. And And Also in the movies Marlon Brando Al Pacino Robert de Niro but too-young too-naive to appreciate the silent subtle violence of the plot, also Bruce Lee the Big Boss; and the big brother Mr. Bond licensed to kill for the Queen from Russia with Love. It was in the evenings, when his father was back from the plant, that he took the family to the Club. The afternoons remained for walking back to home from school. Krishnas house, a picket fence, a hedge, a wooden gate, a small walkway bifurcating towards the garage and servant quarter, and towards the entrance of their house, the garden plants shrubs trees,
19

Alternate Journeys

green silk carpet of the lawn, flowers in buds waiting for the spring. Krishna and Goly teasing each other walk indoors, their mother follows. Mummy, do you know, our father is a Russian. An innocent statement, a laughing mother, laughter of history; Botala was the new-new world of Indians; new frontiers needed its new whites. The Planning Commission of Nehru had envisioned two large Integrated Steel Plants, and in line with his policy of Nonalignment, one was to be build by the old-new world and other by the not-so-old-new world. The Bhilai Steel Plant was already being built by the Soviets; the Botala contract was poised for granting to the Americans. American Steel, the leading choice, demanded equity profits management-rights, a whole lot of incomprehensible capitalistic complications. Soviets on the other hand had a simple proposition: gratis grub for glory of the revolution. Had not the revolution killed profit and ownership, scrooges of capitalism? Nonalignment was killed for killing equity and earnings, neutrality was sacrificed for socialism, and Soviets got the second contract too. It will be an indigenous steel plant, Russians will help, but all machinery will be molded casted fabricated in India, and along with the steel plant the plantbuilding plants came free. Russians became the new whites of the new-new world of Botala. They came in droves; they were everywhere, bus loads of them, bus after bus; buying sacks of potatoes and pork. They had a separate colony of their own (air-conditioned houses to prevent them from dying in the heat of India). Bald aged men and fat fair ladies who did not wear saris long skirts and long shirts covering their corpulence roamed the streets bazaars markets clubs of Botala, and also white-white children in the Russian Club with whom Krishna saw the cartoons of Televidenie Moscova. And And Also single young men, always around, always vigilant. But for young Krishna, they all were just Russians, all whites were Russians; there were so many of them in Botala! What Krishna had not wondered in that tender age: Why were they so many? They were just advisers. Why a separate walled colony? Cant air conditioners be put in houses worthy of an Indian to live? What Krishna didnt know at that tender age: Botala was closer to across the border across the Iron Curtain than steel mills of the motherland; so for every one of the engineers who came, came along three of the KGB to prevent defections; a colony was created and walled for the sake of air-conditioning. For Krishna and the children of Botala the Russians were fun. They haggled with potato vendors and then sang Raj Kapur Mukesh songs in their funny Hindi accent: My shoes are from Japan, Trousers from Britain;
20

Alternate Journeys

The red hat from Russia but my heart is Indian. The funniness of singing and emotions of the stanza always melted away the vendors in fabulously low-priced bargains. Most children, adults and potato vendors of Botala spoke some Russian, as most Russians in Botala spoke some Hindi. Bystryi-Bystryi! Quick-Quick! Jaldi-Jaldi! was the spirit of a city in a hurry to create the world; the spirit of Indo-Soviet friendship; davai ok theek-hai! No Beta, he is not a Russian, all white people are not Russians; he is an Australian, a proper answer. What is Australian? A prompt question; young Krishna was a questioning machine. Its another country like Russia and India. They have Kangaroos there. How far is it? Very Far. Even more far than Russia? Yes, even far from Russia. Then you will need a aeroplane to go there? Yes, you will! Young Krishnas perception of distances were simple, Very-near was Botala, Near was where you go by train to your grandparents for vacation , Far was where his father went for short out-station trips and bought simple gifts, And Very-far was Russia where you needed an airplane to go, and from where his father brought really nice gifts. OK, now, eat your lunch! Krishna and his sister ate the rice dal vegetable served. Goly, eating less, messing more, food spilled on the table and on the floor, less in the mouth, more on the face. Mummy comes and helps her, Goly, come on now! Eat your food. Look! Bhayia will come first. The magic spell, the incentive of COMPETITION, playing turns to eating, food is finished FIRST. Krishna, filled up with the excitement of his first day of real school, and anticipation of his magical train, is not hungry, leaves food unfinished and wants to leave the table. Come on now! Dont you know how many poor children do not even get food to eat? It is an insult; it is a disgrace to waste food. Food does not come FREE. Another magic spell, the call of DUTY, food is finished promptly difficultly dutifully; PATRIOTICALLY. In a country where, there always are more people than anything else, always more people hungry than eating, those who have enough to eat, those who can compete, added to their own survival they have the burden also to run eat compete come-first, for those who cannot. The idea of coming first, competing, value of every single speck of grain, was
21

Alternate Journeys

programmed in genes of the children at such an early age that it was their nature, personality, rather than choice. Choices are a luxury, very rare in a poor country. At the lunch table sat two young lives getting ready, being trained, for the competition of lives, competing with themselves, against themselves, with the world, against the world, And always knowing the value of everything, value of food, value of MONEY; value of Coming First. As soon as the lunch was over the train came out, Krishnas favorite pastime, envy of the neighborhood, the toy train which ran on tracks battery-powered Made in East Germany predecessor of things to come forerunner of the journeys, was brought by his father when he had gone for training in Russia. Iyer came over after eating his lunch; his sibling, elder sister Smita, was three years older already in the middle school and had classes even post-lunch. Krishna, Goly and Iyer started assembling the tracks of the train. Black rail tracks which when assembled made a large flat eight on the floor. Multicolored train, the engine was black, coal storage red, sleeper bogie blue, chair car yellow, luggage trolley green, and finally the guard wagon was white. As soon as Krishna placed it on the completed track and switched it on, the locomotive swirled around in eights and the children ran after it in pure ecstasy; the train was Krishnas favorite game of his childhood. (Before the inevitable of adolescence happened, and games of batons, binoculars and forbidden indulgences competed amongst each other for the top slot, and the train faded in memory.) The train was Krishnas source of life, every day he mantled and dismantled the tracks to assemble it in different patterns. There were six curves, four straights, and one cross. The eleven pieces of black plastic framework made different mosaics on the ground; but he struggled to enmesh them all in a loop which displayed the beauty of Completeness Continuity Symmetry. He could make various motifs, but it always had a piece left out, or an open end. The only mottle that met perfection was an Eight, flat horizontal Eight on the floor. Two circles, no, not complete circles, but like the last drop of water hanging out from a closed tap, an angled connection at source, and seamless curvature as you radiated out, connected to each other through the connector piece the cross in the center, source of the two drops on either sides; the train running continuously, clockwise in one half and counterclockwise in another Harmony; symmetry continuity completeness ceaseless BEAUTY of creation; children running in concurrence with the concord of infiniting eighting train. Imagination dreams reality all mixed up and ran along to foreshadow the future. The engine no longer the trickery of battery power, but boiler, coal burning in blackness of the burner, producing red energy pulling the train; water becoming steam, pistons turning SSHHoo SSHHoo sound of motion. Next to the engine, the storage, black coal in red cart. The sleeper
22

Alternate Journeys

bogie, people sleeping in bliss of blue unaware unbothered in connection with rhythm of the movement violence of the boilers, blueness of the sky meeting the sea. The chair car, people sitting and chatting, not children but adults, conversations of property-prices business-deals stock-markets politics; the color of the car, yellow of gold. The luggage wagon, as green as the notes of the bank it carried, strong metal shielding it from the bandits of Wild West galloping in parallel, with large twisted hats over greedy heads. And finally, all melting into the guard van, pristine peaceful white, the conductor standing with flags in his hands, red and green. Krishna, every few minutes, will bend down to the engine, switch it off and announce a railway station. Botala was always at the cross in the center, Get in Get out Krishna, Iyer and Goly, the train will leave from Botala. Then Patna has come, Babas hospital, all you patients get down and let those who have been cured by the magic of Baba get in and go home. And Delhi has come, driver dont get out, Indira will twist your neck, please make sure the train is on time. Bombay! Bombay! I am going to see Amitabh Bachchan, and Papa will go to the port, his machines are lying there. One circle complete, back to Botala, the cured patients come home, machines are unloaded. Get in Get out Krishna, Iyer and Goly, the train will leave from Botala. Next station Russia, Get in fatsos, white-white, come to Botala, build the plant and eat the potatoes. Australia! oSeleven McNamara Moore Horn Kangaroos Fathers all come in and come to Botala. Iyer is already protesting, How can the train go to Russia and Australia? You need to go by aeroplane. Stupid, Iyer! My train is a magic train one, when it makes the reverse circle it flies! (Too young to say anticlockwise.) Back to Botala! Get in Get out Krishna, Iyer and Goly, the train will leave from Botala. And And Also not known to the children then, Europe, And also beyond, far away beyond the oceans, The LAND OF DREAMS, where there is a big city, a very big city, they call it Bigappala, a very large square of time, there is a pyre, a huge funeral pyre, Its funny, there is no one dead, but items of ladies clothing burning, the Bonfire of the Vanities, and it is funnier that it is morning and not the evening of Botala. The buildings of the city scraping the sky, two of them are even higher than the tower cranes of Botala, two of them standing next to each other, staring at each other EGO ALTEREGO, is it possible to have such heights; or is it ILLUSION. When his father returned in the evening, the stories of first day at school and the confusion of Russians and Australians were repeated by Krishna. He liked talking. After reams of conversations, tea and snacks, the family went out to the Club; Krishna and Goly played in the kids area, sliding and swinging, their parents browsed magazines and conversed with friends. When Krishna was tired enough, all of them went to the restaurant to have dinner. His father wanted to eat out in celebration of his son
23

Alternate Journeys

commencing at school. They ordered regular North-Indian meal, Butter Chicken, Butter Nan, and the best Refreshing Coca-Cola. (The jokers of Janata had yet not thrown it out because it refused to share the secret of innocence, and it was no longer allowed to Add Life or Smile.) His childhood was a life of dreams, the dream of the faraway land of dreams, lived in Botala. That night Krishna went to bed happy about his first day of memory, and slept in the continuous dream of memories of future. ********* The Incunabulum of Krishnas growing up was a romping charm in the small-town middleclass construct of the world he was part of. He was such a perfect fit that one could speculate upon two possibilities: did he choose his birth or was it a blessing of the Real One? Years passed semester by semester. His grades were always on top; he got prizes in the neighborhood quiz competitions. Years passed vacation by vacation. These were the best time of the academic year. The vacations were of different varieties: family holidays to grandparents and touristy retreats to mountains and oceans. There was the annual pilgrimage to his grandparents houses. Patna, on the banks of the Holy Ganga, the ancient city of Patliputra; Once Upon A Time in History Or in Myth, it headed an empire stretching from the hills of Gandhara to the seas of Sri Lanka. But the new city was built by the British. The Granary Gola (Golghar), always a challenge to climb to the top through the spiraling staircase of the large dome, the modern-day Stupa which stored in its belly, food for stomachs rather than spirituality for souls, reflecting the very hungry material nature of times that had descended in the land of Buddha. The Government Buildings, majestic imposing memories of White Sahibs of the Raj already fading away in the yet-notpeeling walls. The Ghats of Ganges, stepping down to the yet-not polluted to death river, the Bridge was still being built, steamers dotted the horizon, delight of boating in oar boats, Susus (fresh-water dolphins) jumping in arcs of yet-not on the verge of extinction above the water. The University, every year proud parents pointed Patna Womens College and Patna Engineering College to carefree children, Look Goly, papas School, and Look Krishna, Mummys School, till years later, irritated pre-teenagers, I know I know, I have seen it a hundred times, and Prince of Wales Medical College, where his grandfather studied. Gullies crowded with cyclerickshaws hustling maneuvers; and Babas hospital, always crowded an ugly-looking crowd, the compounder blackmailed into parting with strips of Strepsils for not going too close to the patients. Both sets of his grandparents lived in Patna. Krishna and Goly got to spend a week in both the houses. Smart children, fast learners, playing Baba Dadi Nana Nani against each other; Baba! Nana got me this nice
24

Alternate Journeys

cycle, leaving open a challenge for a better gift, and Nani! Dadi tells better stories, forcing the sharpening of storytelling skills. Cousins, cousins, lots of them, all from all over the world, all gather for the summer vacation, all in all shapes and sizes. Complete razzle-dazzle of Children Band Party; cardboard boxes for drums, beating adults into submission of buying candy-ice; Price for Peace. And there were the touristy holidays. The sharply rising majesty of Himalayas, in the hill-station of Darjeeling, ending in snow-capped peaks; the shining gold of Kanchunjunga, smiling down on earth, sighted on a clear day from the Botala-Steel Guest House in Dhoom. The endless beaches of Puri, pure fun splashing in waves; the temple of Jaggarnath, peaceful, serene, not letting the pilgrims know of its power, when the chariot rolls the chariot of Sun carved out of the massive rocks of Konark. After vacations, next best times were the festivals. There were festivals and stories of each festival. Gods and demons, Once Upon A Time History Or Myth, and always gods and demons, the good god and bad demon, the god will kill the demon and everyone will live happily ever after. O-U-A-TH-O-M the Great King Ram, good god, killed Ravana, bad demon, with the help of Krishnas favorite the Monkey-God Hanuman, and returned in triumph to the city of Ayodhya; children celebrated Diwali with tons of firecrackers bought by loving parents. OUATHOM the good boy Prahalad was saved from the fire of diabolical demon by the half-beast-half-man god, who burned everything bad in the fire of Holika; children played holy in a rainbow of colors. In Ouathom the Goddess, the Shakti, Durga, fought for ten days, the incorrigible virulent demon Mahisa, every drop of his blood when spilled on earth produced more of him. Blood-spilling self-cloning clone-army of Mahisa, against the energy of all gods, the feminine spirit, the energy of the universe, good versus evil, a ceaseless battle, no end of blood, Shakti became Kali to drink the blood of Mahisa before it spilled on earth, and the sanguinary Mahisa was slain by the Shakti of Durga; children went to the massive Puja Pandals; fete of fun. And Also Kali Puja fearsome naked black goddess, dancing trampling Shiva after sucking the blood of self-sprouting Raktvija; And And Also Mohini, salaciously luring the self-combustive Bhasmasura to dancing ashes, to save the detracted Mahadeva. And Also the elephants of Dussehra, all painted in multicolor, fifteen minutes of fame before logging to an old age and death of useful hides and tusks. Coming from as far as Assam and Kerala, colored in red white vermillion blue, a centurial lifespan, a picturesque life, a photographic memory where nothing is forgotten. The oldies, wilting under the weight of a wrinkled hide, auctioned, waiting to die for the price of ivory and leather. The young ones, Brahmacharis, jugglers of the jungle, paraded in their celibacy, sold to a life of lumbering of Grihastha, before age catches up to
25

Alternate Journeys

be the Jumbo in vaudeville of Vanaprastha, and a Sannyasa of begging; living a proboscidean circus. But the best stories which Krishna liked were those of Krishna, the Real One. In Ouathom Krishna lived, childhood of fun and frolic, adolescence of a herder, herding charming cows and cowgirls alike, playing love tunes for his lover who was loved by another; and the adult, busy balancing good and evil of politics and power, gods and demons. And the BESTEST, is the Great war of Ouathom, The Greatest Epic of all the Languages of all the Worlds, the MAHABHARATA that which is anywhere is here and that which is not here is nowhere interminable trickery and manipulation of loyalty love treachery jealously in the Battles of Kurukshetra. And the Real One showed the inferno of self, in the field where the battle was lost and won; master conductor of symphony of carnage that ushered us into our times, the Kali Yuga, the fourth of the cycle of Yugas, illusion of Karma, Maya created by Krishna; a time when the God will come again to reclaim the world from Demons, not in the form of Krishna, but Kalki; the savior of the Times of Kali. ********* Time passed in a cycle of semesters, vacations and festivals. With every passing day week year Krishna became more inquisitive of the world around him. He had a ton of questions ready for anyone willing to listen. He dismantled stuff, and reassembled them in a childs pleasure of creation. His inquisitiveness for everything, his passion for creating and experimenting, became folklore repeated by proud parents. During his middle school, Krishna spent hours reading the childrens encyclopedias his mother bought for him, and the school library had in shelves taller than him. His father answered his questions with patience and delight, carefully constructing it to the level of his understanding, opening corridors of curiosity, leading to the next level of enquiry. It was a journey largely in the world of science. Krishna was curious about everything, but it was the questions of science that excited him most. The answers, logical and comprehensible, always ending with another WHY (very much like the title of his favorite book collection), and to his delight there would always be another answer waiting, a pleasure for him, unlike areas which were not crisp and conclusive; he didnt like the parables telling what various experts thought; what the answers ought to be. In between these readings and discussions with his father, Krishna started developing his own worldview. In a childs world the mental story is ahead of the factual narrative and is in shape of dreams. It does not have the time for analysis and rearranging of past events and spicing askance the stories with doubts. The simplicity and innocence of dreams and convictions fuelling them for an observer with literary or artistic bent is
26

Alternate Journeys

sheer unadulterated joy; before it gets sheared up by spasms of growing up. So was it with Krishna, he knew with delightful clarity, he will become a scientist, once he masters the tools of his trade he will have answers to all questions, which in school textbooks appear only as footnotes. He will build rockets which will take Indians to the Moon; long story short, as the word goes, he will become a Rocket Scientist. Also during his middle school Krishna discovered newspaper. The Times of India delivered by the overnight train from Delhi to Botala, todays NEWS already two-day old, Krishnas daily intoxicant nevertheless. He discovered the world in fascinating imagination of what lay beyond Botala and his vacations. In Ouathom there was a Cold War; the nuclear bombs, the superacronyms of power U-S-A-U-S-S-R. The cold war became hot in the jungles of solitude. People killed people in the morass and mountains of faraway and not-so-far-away lands; communist guerillas and fascist liberators dastardly killing unsuspecting civilians because they failed to kill each other; depredation by despots of juntas. And in deserts of Arabia and Persia, Oil prices skyrocketing, by the energy of hate, theology of violence, and greed of gold of the Generals, Mullahs, and Sheiks, creating a crisis and taking the world to the Brink of Crash. And nearer home; the struggle between the Jokers of Janata and Indira India Durga And in Botala, the MUTINY; a month before Krishnas tenth birthday, the Central Industrial Security Force, the paramilitary assigned for security of mines and plants, went on strike demanding better pay and work conditions. The unions had seeped into the blood of the state; a surgical cleansing was required. The strike was declared illegal; the men mutinied; Army was called in. The state has multiple hands; the stronger hand was asked to discipline the irritant hand. An almost-ten year old Krishna for the first time heard the word CURFEW. The Khakis of police and CISF was common in Botala, but for the first time in his young life Krishna saw troops, not police but the army, green uniforms, heavy guns, doing flag marches on the streets of Botala. Krishna did not see the actual fighting, (it was an overnight operation messy murderous gory), but he could feel the tension in the air, in all the adult conversations, in the unscheduled holiday in school, grounded in home, and sounds like powerful Diwali crackers. At the age of almost ten, from inside his house, Krishna heard gunshots, different types, bursts of rifles, interminable rattling of machine guns, deafening explosions of field guns. Light artillery was used by the army to break the walls of the mutinous barracks. Krishna in his childish excitement and cinema-inspirited imagination built a mental visual to fit the sounds. And elections: three elections, three world-changing results, one in the
27

Alternate Journeys

faraway land of dreams, another in the Island of the Queen, and finally in his own land of Karma. The old man of a Hollywood Actor, reminded people the importance of family, and promised back-to-greatness. The Iron Lady, pitied the downfall of a once great nation of the greatest empire, and promised back-to-greatness. The Lioness of Chickmangloor, sneered at the dirty dancing of greed and power of the jokers, and promised back-togreatness. YES THEY HAD! Once again the re-start of history, back to greatness by determined sloganeering. The decade of decadence and decay of Seventies finally turned into the promised back-to-greatness of the Eighties. Though not realized then by an eleven-year-old, the victories of Reagan Thatcher Indira was the start of wheel-turning history preparing for the looming large on horizon millennial transformations. And in the early years of the decade, along with the world, Krishnas body and psyche started towards its own millennial transformation. ********* Birthdays were always special events for the children in Botala, but Krishnas thirteenth birthday was especially special. It was a Wednesday evening, Moonlessness of the new Moon, hidden behind the clouds of Monsoon, unable to see the pride of becoming a teenager, the joy of no longer being a child. Children started gathering at Krishnas home. The drawing-room sofa was pushed to the walls to create space for the party. Gifts piled up on the center table placed in the corner, also on the table, a tape recorder, compact audio cassettes, some covered, some uncovered lying in idleness, waiting for their turn, next to the piling gifts, the cassette player playing Disco music, children of all ages, jumping and dancing. Krishna and Goly specially excited; Krishna in brand new clothes, proudly wearing long pants he had insisted to get a pair for his birthday and shining blue shirt; central attraction of the party. Iyer, a few months younger, still cant claim to be a teen, organizing the children into some kind of a game, about a dozen of them, all neighborhood kids, some Krishnas classmates but others younger and older. Music started, a wrapped box, passing the parcel, going in circles. Music stops, a chit is drawn, sing a song, parcel passes again, another chit, become a cock; after everyones turn, another game; all planned and designed by Krishna, Iyer, Goly and Smita. Specially Smita, all of three years older, all of been there done that, patronizing teenager, others following instructions. Mummy calls, children collect around the dining table, Smita is helping with laying the cake. Her wheatish complexion complimented by the light brown well-fitting top, flowing down to a matching maxi skirt; top and skirt painted in vibrant colorful lattice. Everyone circles around the table, candles blown, chorus of a ritual, parents hugging Krishna. The cake is cut and
28

Alternate Journeys

distributed, homemade chocolate and cream, baked in happiness, icing of pride. The music is switched on again, no more games, troupe of children just dancing and jumping; By the rivers of Babylon there we sat down. Everyone is a fan; everyone starts singing, children trying to sing along, older ones showing off of knowing the lyrics, younger ones never mind anyways sing along. Krishna knows the complete lyrics, dancing like John Travolta, shining blue shirt and long Pants, flaring bell-bottoms, singing along; Yeah we wept when we remembered Zion. Everyone is impressed, boys in admiration, girls in crush, clappings, huggings. Smita, all of three years older, all of grown up, all of shapely womanly breasts, hugging, an unknown feeling, an electric current, an embarrassment pushing against his chest, an invisible expression of bewilderment; hiding behind more clappings and huggings. Finally food is served, children tired from playing jumping dancing are garnered for dinner, they hog on the tasty grub fried in dollops of frolic and fun, spiced in succulents of motherly love, and garnished in slices of caring affection. Smita is helping with serving food. Krishna is eating along with his friends, hands are handling the food, mouth is eating, but eyes are surveying the server, mind is wondering of an embarrassing embrace; slurping sorbets of icy crush. Meal ends, children get their return gifts, small packs of candies. Smita is among the last to leave, helping with clearing, finally table is cleared, thank-you from Krishnas mother, she prepares to leave. Iyer wants to stay back for unwrapping gifts, but she is all of three years older, kid brother follows reluctantly. A courteous thank-you for coming from Krishna, both of them leave, clearing mind, focusing on excitement of anticipating gifts. Krishna and Goly get down to business, shouts of exclamations, grimaces of disapprovals, one by one a dozen wrappings are torn in impatience. Finally, both of them forced to bed. That night Krishna couldnt sleep easily, first day of teenage, excitement of a big boy, a journey of adventure lying ahead. His eyes closed, trying to sleep, images of Smita floating in his mind, imagination pushing against his chest, a strange feeling within. Krishna felt his hardness, his hands stroked his emotions; turning-twisting in his bed trying hard he finally slept; imagination melting into his dreams. Krishnas thirteenth birthday was not the only big event of his life in Eighty-two; the other one was television. Television happened to Botala like the rest of India in preparation of the New Delhi Asian Games. The State run Doordarshan set up a network of transmission towers across the country. Color telecast done for the first time. Botala, along with rest of the country, saw the games through the idiot box in color. Twenty Kilometer Race Walk, Chand Ram Moon God, walking a very funny walk, rules to prevent from running, enough to get the speed, bending not enough to break the rule, the rule to have a foot firmly planted
29

Alternate Journeys

to earth at all times; humorous funny fast walking, the walk of life, Chand Ram walking FASTEST-FIRSTEST; wins the gold for self and country. Krishna was so impressed by the sport that he practiced race walking for next months, till excitement of the Games weaned away from the psyche of Botala. But in those months he learned the lessons of walking at top speed; bending enough not to bend the rules of winning; curtsying contrarians. The Games were not the only thing television brought. It also brought Star Trek, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, to boldly go where no man has gone before. And Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who, after careful consideration of the chaotic rambling of evidence, finally found meaning, Elementary Dr. Watson! The television also brought the Video Rentals. You could rent a video player and cassettes for the weekend, and see the pirated versions of the latest movies, not yet screened in Botala Club. Video rentals also meant that music was no longer just tape recorders, but music videos. Through pirated rentals of VHS tapes, Michael Jackson happened in Krishnas life. Thriller was a life mission, every move, every song, needed to be learnt, practiced again and again. Moonwalk became his ace card, when played in parties he turned into the pied piper, boys following in a band of jealousy, girls under burdens of crush. Moonwalk was the glue that sealed his reign. The Kingdom of Heaven on Earth was firmly established. King Krishna Break Dancer Moonwalker Class Topper reigned in the Middle School of St. Xaviers Botala; but it was before the Fall Crash Daemons Collapse. ********* Growing up was fun, a pleasurable journey of discovery and exploration, until the inevitable happened. Krishna hit the rut of teens, adolescence kicked in; hormones started pumping havoc with his wellstructured life. He started getting uneasy with the answers adults had for his questions, he started getting impatient with fellow students. His ego, continually fed by public praise of his intelligence and talents, started bloating. He became conscious of other peoples perception of his self. Sheltered from the big ruthless world, in a peer group where he was the brightest, his self-image creepily started forming a superiority complex. His desire for constant praise, his peers looking up to him for advice, his posturing as leader of the pack academically and in other activities grew continually. His passion for exploration in science started having a secret competitor, experimentation with forbidden. He was smoking in the garage, secretly drinking beer with buddies, collecting pinups of voluptuous nude women, and ogling over the center spreads of cheap pornographic literature. To sustain his self and peers opinions, he led the more adventurous of the boys on exploratory trips of encountering the illicit sins
30

Alternate Journeys

of the adult world. Juggling the multiple possibilities of high-school life became onerous for Krishna. His grades started slipping; he started withdrawing from sports and extracurricular activities. Iyer didnt approve of Krishnas occult endeavors. He chickened out from most of them and there was peer friction between the two. Iyer became more academically inclined and embarrassing moments of his grades being better than Krishna became frequent. His visits to Krishnas home became lesser, but Krishna continued visiting him at the slightest pretexts; he got to see Smita. Krishna tried hard to win her affection, but she was already in the tenth standard and preparing for her Boards. Between Senior Boys and Boards, she had little time and interest in entertaining the overtures of his kid brothers friend. Krishnas carnal perspicacity got whet. He noticed the growing of breasts; an electrical sensation whenever he touched a girl (even accidentally) in regular course of the school day. He tried hard to not let his expressions give away imageries his brain created. Girls still giggled around him on his masterly sense of humor and use of pun and wit. He noticed the interest of people around him to be more in demeaning barbed character-piercing bawdy dark satire he targeted at unfortunate pupils who did not belong to his coterie. Some girls had a crush for him, but he characteristically condescended, and purposefully humiliated them; after all he was Krishna. The adolescent years sowed the seeds of complex adult Krishna will grow into. A prodigy perplexed with his many gifts, unable to hold the lead on growing narcissism; he started dreaming of grandeur. He started withdrawing to his imagined worlds, he started on a path of alternate lives, visible public, private secret, and where the two came together to weave a mental life of dreams. More he withdrew from the general occupations of a high-schooler, more intense his mental life became. Amidst his obfuscations, for the first time he started hearing voices in his head, voices chiding him, teasing him, mocking him. He struggled to shut up these vocalizations, to not to be bothered. He tried rinsing away the insults of the voices in ripostes of repartee. He called them his daemons; he scorned them in long solitary conversations. The perfidious daemons ridiculed him on his ignorance of various things, of tricky questions they asked, of deceitfulness of his charade of smartness amidst his credulous peers; he in turn scoffed them for their surrealism. Despite realizing the voices to be the creation of his own mind, he himself mocking his self-view, slowly the daemons started having a very real life; a life separate from Krishnas conscious-in-control existence. He would have slipped into schizophrenia of vacillating Good-boy
31

Alternate Journeys

Bad-boy but for his major discovery of adolescence, MASTURBATION. Krishnas puberty was still in an era when transformations in schools from grades of pencil to pen was in a world of leaking fountain pens; white shirts and fair skins all stained in blues of Chelpark and Camel inks. Although clumsylessness of ball-point technology, with its freedom and promiscuous openness of rolling refills, had already amassed passages of boys and girls in more developed countries of West and metros of India, into non-leaking non-staining teenages of Seventies and Eighties, but Botala was only slightly touched by such technological wonders. And not to mention, one night stands of throw-away writing instruments and instant connectivity of omnipresent electronic texting deleting devices, which were still far off in future even for the funky adventurous growing-up of America and Europe. So what can be said of Krishna, who took to masturbation in a stilllingering anachronic vestige of an erstwhile age of fountain pens? His hands connected to his BATON, violence of the shaking world, created by the molten lava in bosom of the earth, emotions of darkness, volcanic explosion of intensity, moment of transient bliss, dissipating the bubbling energy inside him, landing him back to gasping sanity. Masturbating became the anchor that provided stability to his arduous growing-up years. Masturbation was the means that allowed him to vent his growing mental energy and focus the residue back on course work, to pull him back from the dangerous edges, of uncontrolled flights of human imagination and thinking, of disastrous arguments with mental daemons, back to the sane-structured world of courses tests grades. Michael Jackson Madonna beat it dont preach staring from inside the story, detesting a judging-hounding world; and in meandering through his harrying adolescence Krishna met his Alterego.

32

Alternate Journeys

Chapter 3 Kalki the alterego

Kalki sat in silence, staring alternately at his father who was sitting next to him and Mr. Noel who was sitting across the table on his vice-principals chair. His father and Noel were completing the last formalities of Kalkis admission to St. Xaviers High School, Botala Steel City. Kalkis father, talked hesitantly, his accent betraying his rustic beginnings, but not able to hide the beaming pride. It was an important day for him, the final step of his destiny-defying transformation of life. You can take these papers to the cashier and pay the fees, the paperwork is completed, Noel said to Kalkis father, passing on the bunch of papers he just signed. Kalki, Welcome to St. Xaviers School. You can start from tomorrow. Standard Eight classrooms are on the ground floor, the corridor on the right when you get out of my office. I will let the class teacher know about you. She will introduce you to the old students. Thank you sir, Kalki replied expressionless. Noel, slightly worried about the boys lack of enthusiasm tried cheering, Dont worry, you will be perfectly fine, just walk into my room if you need any help. After more thank-you-sirs, Kalki and his father took leave of Noel. Kalkis father walked towards the cashier to pay the fees. Kalki gazed at the walls of the office wing of St. Xaviers School. The gray cross hung across, and on either sides of the cross, shelves announcing the glory of the School the shields citations history. Kalki was a painter; he looked at the world like a canvas, seeing the shades of details, critiquing the work of the creator. He turned his head in direction of the corridor which led to the classrooms. Just next to the office, at head of the hallway was the staircase, there were three floors in the high-school section, each for four classrooms of each standard, eighth, ninth and tenth, the number increasing with progressing height. In the large sprawling campus of St. Xaviers there were three different buildings. The primary school was a separate small building at one end of the compound. The Middle and High School, a large quadrangle, two winged buildings connected by the office block and passageway, all surrounding the assembly courtyard and stage. The third was the plus-two section (junior college), with its lecture halls and science labs. The size of buildings, freshly painted walls, manicured gardens with pedicured lawns, large lavish green sport fields, were all in stark contrast to his earlier school (the decrepit municipal school of Basti), ragtag of an unmaintained excuse of the states responsibility to provide education. His painter eyes large deep black were busy capturing the contrasting
33

Alternate Journeys

emotions of his new school from the older one when his father tapped him from behind. He was done with the payment; they walked out of the building, got into a white ambassador car and left for home. Kalkis father was a businessman. He had a decent business of earthwork, labor supply and transport contracts in the iron-oreandcoalmining districts in west of the city. In Basti of the mining districts, where families of working men lived, there were not many schools. Municipal schools of Basti did not have a reputation of producing future doctors, engineers, or for that matter, even lawyers. The academic atmosphere of these schools consisted of children from mineworker colonies, rural areas, and tribal hamlets spread in the jungles and hills around the mines. In contrast was St. Xaviers Botala, which served more to the officer class of the Steel Company. In Ouathom, St. Francis Xavier of the Society of Jesus (the Schoolmasters of Europe who in the name of God ironically educated the continent in acuity that finally challenged and decimated the power of the Church, and who are even today renowned for running elitist educational institutions around the world) embarked on his expedition of enlightening the heathen masses of the Oriental world, collecting folks for his herd, bringing the light of Christ to godless pagans of the Eastern Lands. (Which were bestowed by his holiness the Most Holy Father the Pope himself, to the Portuguese by decree of the holy rite the right to invent countries.) The not-yet-canonized and not-yet-mummified Francis sailed around half the world in a Portuguese Man of War, and walked obscure numbers of innumerable miles, for the love of Jesus, for sake of education. (Centuries before Macaulay minuted his speech for love of the Empire, for sake of its perseverance.) An Odyssey, an Ideal, the inspiration created hundreds of years ago that to this day continues to motivate the students of St. Xaviers Botala. The enthusiasm carefully nurtured by generations of Jesuits, blossomed in the speeches of father Moore and McNamara Irish Australian Jesuit Indian urging-equipping the students to take on the world, to compete, to come first, along with a compassion for those who could not. Roopantarikaraniyam (self-transformation), the motto of the School, was engraved below the cross, not in Latin, not even in English or Hindi, but in chaste Sanskrit. For the students of St. Xaviers in the faraway steel city of Botala, the Jesuits made sure of laying an early foundation of perception of belonging to the global elite, part of an unbroken tradition of four centuries; St. Xaviers inheritors instilling future generations of Macaulays children. But of course, there existed a darker side to the four-hundred-year history of the Society, which of course, was a different story; and of course, it was not told to the students.
34

Alternate Journeys

Kalkis father was concerned about him during his growing-up days; he had taken to bad company of the streets of Basti. Kalki started to hang out with delinquent teenage gangs, and was involved in street brawls. While his son sorted out petty disputes of boy bands with fist fights, earning a reputation for himself, the father was busy in expanding his business. But today he was happy, his son will finally grow up to become a properly accented gentleman, he will make sure that not one shadow of his past will ever fall on him again. They reached home, Kalkis father rushed into his new house to share the good news with his wife. The center of attention however, remained as unexcited as in Noels office. Kalki slowly walked into his room, ignoring the jubilation of his mother, pulled out a large sketchbook from his drawer and a box-full of different-sized charcoal lumps and pencils. He started sketching, Irritated strokes of graphite created the black walls of a large building. His parents, who were more used to Kalkis mood swings and expressionless intensity, were less worried than Noel about his unenthusiastic reactions of landing into a privileged station of life. Kalkis father was born in a peasant family in rural South Bihar. (In Ouathom it was the land of Buddha, enlightenment at Bodh Gaya, spread of knowledge through the oldest organized University of the world, Nalanda, older than the schools of Aristotle Plato Socrates.) He had spent his childhood loitering around the temples of illumination (Viharas of Buddha in the dilapidated dark ruins of the past), but he was born in a place and time where the reality of his caste preceded his identity of human. He was born a Yadav (the caste of cow herders), one among many backward castes in India; bound in chains of antiquated oppression. (Lying above the erstwhile achoots untouchables outcastes (then Harijan god-people, later schedule-cast legally-protected, and in contemporary politics Dalit oppressed-people); (problem with the stickiness of historical prejudice is such, that the nomenclature needs to be constantly reinvented to meet the needs of prevalent political correctness), and below the forward castes, in the social hierarchy of rural India. The social categorization of all sub-castes falling in this sandwiched bracket is the sweeping Other Backward Castes.) He was a promising kid trapped in the clutches of prejudice and a pitifully hopeless village school. But promise always has a way to surface in flood of odds. His luck was that his village was on the main interstate highway, and even in those days of they still have bullock carts, there was enough traffic on the Grant Trunk Road. He learned driving by lurking around trucks and jeeps on the highway dhabas and repair shops, being cleaner-for-free and odd-job-runner for the drivers. Before late, on the verge of adulthood, he was already driving the landlords Willys Jeep. And when the landlord bought the first tractor of the village (funded by the
35

Alternate Journeys

government financing scheme, to promote the Green Revolution), the young Jeep driver was the obvious choice for promotion. Kalkis father became the first man in his village to drive a tractor. Bright sunny winds, sweet fragrance of diligence, large machine pulling iron, dug into the chest of Mother Earth, plough of the tractor scraping the fields, furrows preparing for the next cycle of crops. His destiny was decided and he was not at all piteous about the hand he was dealt. He fell in love with a pretty young peasant girl, who was charmed by the pastoral rides on the tractor in love-filled scent of the monsoon breeze. But as Karma will have it, the story was still short of lived happily ever after. The girl was a Kurmi (another OBC caste). The irony of oppression is that oppressed have as fierce identities as oppressors. Despite political lumping together as OBC, despite economic simulacrum of nothingness of being a peasant, for mores of the families and village the sinful alliance of a Yadav and Kurmi was not acceptable; it was made clear by threats of lynching supported by the landlord. Kalkis father and mother had heard stories from returning migrant workers of their village, about the miracle in concrete being built in the hills and jungles of Chotanagpur, southern part of their state. The pariah lovers eloped in silence of the overnight train to Botala, and in the temple of Basti next to the mines, married each other and got conjugated to destiny; of recreation of earth; of Botala. Within days Kalkis father had a license for operating heavy equipment. He became a dumper driver in the mines of Botala. A year later Kalki was born into the working-class family of the dumper driver. And every year later, for several years, siblings were added to the working-class family of the dumper driver. Kalkis father felt proud of his choices, he had beaten the old prejudices and created a new life; he saw the reflection of his own promises in his eldest son. Kalkis mother walked into his room, he continued with his sketching ignoring her presence, she congratulated him for getting admitted to St. Xaviers. Not even a polite thank-you, the black walls continue becoming blacker on paper. Dont worry, I know you are a smart boy, you will speak very good English, telepathy of love, a mothers grasp of unknown untold fear; encouraging her son to abandon her tongue. Mother and son hugging each other, no more conversation, wet eyes, his mother leaves the room, Kalki reassured starts sketching the garden around the wall. Botala and Basti around it were a linguistic hodgepodge, a polyglot babble. Anybody who has ever been to a high school in India knows some English, but English is the language of reading and writing, of filling forms, receiving-giving instructions, writing checks and signing contracts. English is not language of the tongue; you shouldnt be surprised even if an English
36

Alternate Journeys

teacher in schools of Basti around Botala cannot speak a comprehensible dialect of the language. The genius of Karma long ago figured out, speaking and teaching, like communicating and transacting, are different things. Due to the plethora of languages in the country Indians are forced to use English, people have learnt to speak in their local tongue to teach in English, to communicate in their own language to transact in English. The populace in mineworker colonies spoke a mixture of rustic languages, Bhojpuri and other dialects of Bihari language of migrant workers from North, and Hindustani a Creole of several North-Indian languages. The tribals had their own incomprehensible tongue. The migrants from eastern province spoke colloquial Bangla. In Seventies, the omnipresence of television and cinema had yet not standardized the spoken Hindi (the National Language). Bihari and Bangla that were spoken in Basti were also far removed from the educated sanskritized anglicized wellmannered respectable Hindi or Bhadralok Bengali that children in St. Xaviers spoke. And the language spoken in the Boardrooms of Botala Steel Company and Classrooms of St. Xaviers was English, spoken in the Queens own tongue, Accented by Pronunciation, Grammared by Nesfield and Wren&Martin; Trim and Proper. Kalkis parents spoke Bhojpuri among themselves, but conscious of importance of accents, they never spoke the language with their children. The language for parent-child communication was Hindi. Kalki, passing out of middle school now, could also speak English well; but his intonation gave away the darkness of the mines; Language is just a sound, Accent is the meaning. Kalki abhorred his tongue, not only for reasons of his accent, but also because it got him into unnecessary conversations. He did not hate his tongue because it talked, but problem with conversations was that it soon led to questions urging him to contemplate answers he didnt want to hear; he hated his tongue because he despised to think. After his mothers reassuring hug, he found solace in his sketching, trees and flowers started growing on paper, and the building started shedding its blackness to resemble the new school he had been to in the morning. Once Kalki used to paint, it had been his sustenance, but he had stopped painting after the family moved to their new house in Botala, and what was left was a sketchbook instead. He had not put a single drop of color on paper since then. Kalki remembered his dream, his worst nightmare of childhood, which he had dreamt that horrible night when men in Khaki uniforms entered his house in Basti, pulled out a visibly frightened father and took him away ignoring the pleas of a wailing mother. That night the dinner was horror and tears, siblings of all sizes, chorus of crying, but time moves on, life moves on, a no-longer-crying mother pacifying the children, he will come back soon, and then one by one
37

Alternate Journeys

carefully patiently consolingly in ascending order of size, tucked into the same bed, to dream in the ramshackle crowded sleep, each others dream. Growing up in a poor family of increasing siblings, he does not have enough money to buy paints, he cannot buy colors after the charts are bought, he wants to paint the world around him; he wants to have all the colors. BLACK of coal, echoing the mines, deep and dark, RED of blood of sweat and tears of the workers who brought it out, violence of movement of earth, BLUE of the climes, and water which reflected it, blissfully sleeping sea and sky, YELLOW of gold which coal became when it came out of the mines, and GREEN of money it fetched, and WHITE of the chart on backdrop of which the world was made. But only colors he could get were black red and white; gold of the mine was black, there was no grass for green as the earth was moved, and water when he used lost its color because howsoever hard he tried he could not catch the sky; in his darkest hours, he paints in black red and white, dust was black, blood was red, backdrop of the chart white; he could use black because sands of Botala was coal, he could use red because blood was his own, he was painting, his paintings were violence, he was a painter who did not know color, his paintings were red and black in the background of white; dust spilling, blood dripping, on the chart from brushing fingers; tears filling in a multitude of eyes in a crowded dream. Kalki was born in poverty, and painting was his solace. He burned his paintings in a pyre pile when movers of earth removed his poverty, and vowed never to paint again. On the day when he was packing to move to their new house, before lighting up the fire to engulf his past, he had held his charts in his hands and seen all he had drawn. The thirteen-year-old could see the ugliness of it all, in portrayals of Basti and mines of Botala; the parents and family busy moving home never noticed, they moved one Baggage Less. It was already evening and the siblings were trickling in, all of them in government schools or cheaper private schools. His father had a plan to shift them one by one to St. Xaviers, a well-laid-out plan which he was working on. Kalki was already entering high school; his transfer could not be delayed. Kalkis father had come out of poverty for considerable number of years, but the memories of paucity and the continual need of funds in his nascent business, had made him very cautious with money. Only in the last few years had he come in a position to send his children to an education worthy of his new status, and he had started working on his plan. Kalkis father, soon after joining the mines as a dumper operator earned a reputation of leadership, and became active in unions. The steering wheels of machinery of Botala were held by heavy equipment operators. It was a high-skill job and difficult to get people, moreover the unions made sure that they maintained their monopoly by not letting too many get
38

Alternate Journeys

trained or licensed. The Heavy Equipment Operators Union was the most militant among the mines of Botala. Dumper, although a heavy equipment, is relatively a simpler machine, more like a large truck, but it still gave him membership and access to power. He used his influence with the union to start his own small part-time work of labor supply. He needed to enhance his income to feed the growing number of children, and he had good connections with the migrant-worker community. Soon his evenings were busy in sourcing laborers from the villages of Bihar, and supplying them in the ever-growing mines of Botala. Was It Or Was It Not, that these workers existed outside the officialdom of Botala Steel Company and the contractors did not need to pay all the legal unnecessaries, and he got a cut of the necessaries saved? And also during the agitation against Indira in early Seventies, the unions were with Janata movement against the state. It brought him closer to the Janata politicians, sensing direction of the wind he helped them in agitating strikes and unrest. In those days on more than one occasion, the everhungry monster of Botala could not be fed of its dust because the dumpers refused to move it from the mines to the plant, and every time it happened, there was an augment in the stack of currency notes being secretly stashed in a discarded dumper seat lying in his bedroom. Then Indira happened to India, Durga decided that it was time for the trains as well as the dumpers to run on time. The union was broken, strikes declared illegal, and the leaders all put in Jail. Kalkis father not only lost his job but also ended behind bars. But by now his political philosophy had completely tergiversated from revolutionary zeal of the union, to obeisance to power in public and greasing it in private. He saluted the masters of state, equivocated the jokers of Janata; volunteered for a vasectomy (by now he already had enough). The surgery cleansed him, of his ability to produce more siblings for Kalki, of the last-remaining drops of idealism, and released him from incarceration. Out of job and no Union, he started on fulltime entrepreneurship. When Indira was thrown out and the new regime came, the local Janata leader (whom he had helped during the agitation) became the MP from Botala. Kalkis father used his connection with the new MP to influence decision making of the new management running the Steel Company. The Janata period saw rapid growth in his business, and when Indira came back, he had already established himself; moreover he had built good relationship with her party by properly complying with their requests during his stint in the prison. He had started as a petty labor-supply contractor but moved on to larger jobs, his capital stock soon included imported heavy earthmoving equipments. These whales were his pride and fascination of his son. Kalki would sit with the operator of one of these mammoth machines, experiencing the thrill of human power in subduing nature, reshaping the earth in movement of a lever. These symbols of mankinds undisputed rule
39

Alternate Journeys

of Mother Earth were status symbol for their owner. Imported equipments in his business signaled the necessity for Kalki to be removed from the lowly government school, to some place fit for the son of a capitalist. Status, concern for Kalkis education, and fear for his sliding into street gangs made his father decide to move residence away from Basti to the Centre of Botala. Buying property in the city was the easier part; getting Kalki to St. Xaviers was trickier. Admission to this prestigious school was based on talent, pedigree and money. Kalki did not have the required grades to merit entry into the echelons of scholars. His pedigree was still a generation away (his family had just crossed the divide in rags to riches story). But money, the third criterion, Kalkis father now had in ample. Was It Or Was It Not, that generous donations were made to the Church-run orphanage and schools in the tribal districts; and Kalkis father used his influence and money with local politicians of the mining constituency, for the church to open another center in the tribal area; and, evangelical fathers of Catholic faith (always willing to do the utmost to salvage the souls of oppressed ministrations to increase the flock) had a large influence in convincing the hardheaded Jesuits that Kalkis admission served the lords purpose? The good news was broken to all the siblings that evening. Kalki knew that his was a trial case; how it turns out will affect all their careers. He knew that his parents and siblings will be keenly watching in high-voltage expectation; the first member of their family, not only capitalist but pucca bourgeois gentleman. After congratulations and thank-yous Kalki picked up his bike and paddled towards the mines. The mines were where he always came when he wanted to be alone. He had always felt an emotional connection with the depth and darkness of coal pits in the hearth of earth. He went towards a deserted portion, entered the lift and descended down in dimness. Coming out of the lift inside the lower level of the mine, there was a small electric bulb lighting the pathway to the interior of an abandoned colliery, a few meters ahead was all pitchdark murk (you needed a lamped helmet to go in). Kalki was bare headed (a safety violation), in fact his very being there was a violation, he had no business of being there, but growing up in Botalas mines he knew well which shafts are manned which part of the day week month year, and he never failed to find an isolated mine to be with himself. In the dim bulb light he sat on the ground, his back resting against a wall, underneath a large sign, Heavy Explosives and Inflammable Gas, and below it, No Smoking, in bold, in red and in capital. Kalki pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and calmly lighted it. He had seen enough workers smoking beedis inside the mines to heed such over-precautions. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and thought about St. Xaviers High School, his
40

Alternate Journeys

paintings which he had incinerated in darkness of the mines, his old school. He felt confident, fire at end of the cigarette crept towards him. He knew he had a challenge, he knew he will face it; he knew he will win. He completed the cigarette and got up to go back, thinking, Tomorrow is another Day, Tomorrow is a New Life. He got into the lift and left the mines for the last time in his life. And Also that evening along leaving aside the Cimmerian of mines he left behind his friends from Basti municipal school, he left behind the Muslims Christians Tribals Yadavs Kurmis Goons; stories of underbelly, streets of violence. And And Also he left behind the tamped images of coal sacks clobbering over bicycles with stones stolen from tipple of the washeries, plodding in parallel on potted highways, with trucks filled with rocks extracted by excavators; skeletal existence of men pushing cycles, seeking strength from the melancholic singing of Bangla and Bhojpuri Mystics. The divide in the faraway society of Botala Steel City was between those who went to Xaviers and those who did not. Kalki started in his new school in his newly found confidence. Kalki was crossing the divide. He was also crossing the divide between childhood and adulthood. He landed into the double adolescence of physiological change and social mobility. But his personality hid the deeper complications that set in due to multiple transformations. His rejoinder to fears of not belonging was aggression and non-conformation. He became a recluse iconoclast. For him the scholars of Xaviers were nerds who cant scale a fence, run a stray bull, or last a minute in a decent brawl. His grades were never good even at his earlier school (but he had managed to pass the tests by virtue of sheer raw intelligence and last-minute whole-night slogs), but at Xaviers, the ridicule, real and imagined, that he saw in the eyes of his fellow students made him even more aloof from academics. Classroom became a pain and more often than not he was sent to detention for some or other breach of discipline. It was almost halfway in eighth standard, mid June (just after the summer vacation), when Noel called Kalki for a conversation; Discipline and Academics are always a serious matter at St. Xaviers High. ********* Krishna was summoned one afternoon to Mr. Noels office. Noel was an old-fashioned educationist, a pedagogue who did not hesitate to give a few on the knuckles when it was due. He was raised in a Jesuit boarding school attached to the monastery in Goa. It was a disciplinarian nightmare for the young students, but for Noel it was the way for his rescue from the wretched poverty of his parents. It was means to a good education and service in the path of lord. He was a promising young boy destined to join the Society of Jesus and further the cause of God. But as destiny will have it, when he was in college he fell in love and could not muster enough divine passion and worldly detachment to choose a life of abstention
41

Alternate Journeys

devoted to Christ. He instead fulfilled his debt to the Church by joining the teaching institute. He took a degree in education, married his love, and moved to faraway towns and cities, serving the Society in penitence of discarding his destined path of priesthood; and in excitement of shaping the characters of future. Noel turned out to be a dedicated and successful teacher and administrator. He rose to become the vice principal of high-school section of Xaviers Botala. Being the structured and organized man that he was, he had clearly defined missions for himself and an ardor in fulfilling them. His missions were: maintaining the highest standard of discipline and academics, ensuring each and every one of tenth-graders pass the national public high-school board exam, and personal-professional handling of problem cases; Kalki was proving to be a challenge on all counts. Good afternoon sir. May I come in? I was told that you wanted to see me. Krishna said to Noel standing at the open door of his office. (A room the students didnt dare look into, to tread in, meant nothing but trouble.) Yes Krishna, a very good afternoon to you; please come in. Noel said looking up from his chair behind a large desk. Can you shut the door please? Do sit down. Krishna sat on one of the chairs on opposite side of the Table. Noel started with some general questions about various courses, Krishna thought come to the point, you didnt call me for small talk, he was trying hard to remember which of his secrets were given away; did one of the sissies squeak about the cigarette in the garage last week? Do you know Kalki Well? Noel asked plainly. Yes! Krishna thought. He knew him well for he hated his guts. No! He did not know him for they had scarcely conversed. Right from the first weeks there was coldness between the two; Jealousy and Competition. The backbenchers who used to follow Krishna on his escapades were now sticking around Kalki; he offered the real thing; he had the connections to the other side of the divide (his buddies from his earlier school). It was rumored, that for a select few in the innermost circle of Kalki, he could even get grass. No sir, we have hardly talked. Krishna replied nonchalantly. The frostiness and resentment between Krishna Kalki was mutual. While Krishna hated Kalki for his guts to be the nonconformist iconoclast and his own dislodgement from the throne of backbenchers; for Kalki in turn, Krishna was the symbol of all he hated in Xaviers High; he despised his snobbish suaveness, his demeanor, his intelligence measured by grades, his popularity with girls and authorities. You are a very social boy, is there any special reason you have not befriended the new boy, to ease him into the new environment? Noel asked. Krishna felt a tinge of irony.
42

Alternate Journeys

Jealousy, not unlike other human emotions, is complicated and contradictory. Jealousy can only emerge from a deeper admiration; you can only be envious of what you want. The daughter of Jealousy is competition; Jealousy is emotion, competition is action. Competition is twin sisters, siblings going in different directions for purpose of equalizing the prize (subject of envy), one striving for creating a new prize to match the old one, while the other endeavoring for its very destruction; hence for both, leveling the turf; In the adolescent world of peer pecking order, jealousy is the goddess of all emotions. No sir, no special reason. Krishna wondered whether he somehow got associated with some dodgy scandal of Kalki and his coterie, he quickly scanned possibilities that could land him in trouble. He realized he was safe. Krishna wanted to let a comment sneak in that he avoided Kalki because he did not keep good company and he had heard rumors. He would have scored by destroying his rivals reputation with authority early in his life at Xaviers High. But he did not; adolescent world of boy groups has a code of silence that can give Omerta a run for its money. I am concerned about Kalki, started Noel, His grades are poor and he is having a tough time in making the transition from his older Hindimedium school. I am afraid he is getting into mischief and he may not pass his Boards. Yes he is, and no, he will not, thought Krishna. We should realize, Noel continued in solicitude, That its a difficult situation for the poor child. We need to help him. Why this special sympathy for Kalki, Krishna reflected silently, if he or any other student regular student from Xaviers High had such poor grades or was known to indulge in such forbidden mischief, will he not be labeled as a spoiled rich kid, worthy of harsh punishments, detention and cane on knuckles? If a boy from Basti is a problem, he is special; if a boy from Botala is a problem, he is pain! What would Noel say if he dropped his grades and smoked pot? I want you to make Kalki your study partner, befriend him, help him in studies, and help him in making the transition from a government school to the standards of Xaviers High, both academically and culturally. A strain of excitement rose in Krishnas belly. Kalki will be officially under his mentorship. How is that one? Cool dude! Academically he figured, but culturally he could see the irony; he was jealous of Kalkis ability to openly do things he would do in secret, to call a spade a spade, and live his young life by his rules which his peers aspire to follow; should Kalki be his mentor to muster guts to be a nonconformist, or will Krishna be Kalkis tutor in teaching him the art of public hypocrisy? Yes sir. Thats fine sir. But have you talked to Kalki? If I approach him directly he might find it imposing. He wanted the relationship to have official sanction and visible stamp of formality.
43

Alternate Journeys

Yes, I will talk to him first. He may not take the idea very well, but he will accept because of me. After that it is up to you how you handle the situation. I am proud of you. You are the smartest boy in the class, and you should be able to help a fellow student. Such selfless actions are what makes our lord happy, and gives character to our young people; best of luck to you. ********* Krishna Kalki finally met formally. Ego alterego standing opposite each other were a study in contrast. Krishna was a bit shorter. Krishna was fairer and better built. Kalki was swarthier and leaner. Krishna had wellgroomed thick hair gelled in a perfect side partition, Kalkis was slightly tousled with locks loosely tangling over his forehead; his hair didnt seem to have mass. Both wore the uniform of Xaviers, white shirts and gray trousers. Krishnas white was immaculate and well-tucked. Kalki had few lines of greasy stains running over the usual cuffs and collar the result of wiping dusty sweat picked up in heat of the streets; the shirt had got untucked at sides, its rim hung in indifferent sloppiness. In a traditional sense Krishna was better looking with a fuller face, but Kalki had a haunting sharpness of features meatless hollowness below higher-than-usual cheek bones. Kalkis deep eyes covered by dark circles were as threatening as Krishnas brightness and glow was gripping. Both pair of eyes, menacing and mesmeric, stared intently at each other. It was an afternoon; a day after Noel had his little conversation with Krishna, first pre-monsoon shower of the season had broken. The boys were in the corridor of eighth standard. Mrs. Chako (the geography teacher) passed by, Krishna gave her a pleasant smile, Good afternoon maam! She nodded back in acknowledgement. Kalki and the teacher both pretended as the other did not exist. Kalki found this to be an unwarranted interruption in an important conversation. The final session of morning classes had just ended and it was the lunch recess. Not knowing how to breach the subject Krishna said, Shall we go down to Manis for a dosa. Its raining outside. Kalki said without a sign of emotion. Manis dosa joint was a small caf, a block away from the School. It was the favorite hangout for students for their lunch and refreshments. It served lovely hot freshly-made dosas and other South-Indian snacks. Krishna realized that in confusion and haste of starting a conversation he had made a stupid proposition. It was the start of monsoon, time of the year when it does not rain but pours. The boys will have to make a fortymeter dash in the pouring rain and were sure to get drenched. But Krishna having made the proposal could not back out. Why! Are you a sissy? Will you melt away in water? he challenged petulantly.
44

Alternate Journeys

Who cares about the rain, I just mentioned. Well, if you want that, then lets run. Kalki said and dashed towards the exit gate of the school building. Krishna didnt get time to react and he ran after Kalki. Running in pouring rain during monsoons, drenched in water, is an essential childhood and teen ritual all across India; it is an unmitigated pleasure after the months of soul-breaking heat. It was less than a tensecond dash; Kalki reached the portico of Manis with Krishna a step behind, but the straining seconds were enough to drench the boys; they were laughing naturally. You are a good runner, Krishna said. You didnt do badly either, replied Kalki. The boys instantaneously realized that it wasnt a game, but setting for a showdown, and quickly upped their guards. Mani fat tall Keralite came out with a towel and passed it to Krishna who was well known. Kalki was a newcomer and less familiar. Krishna dried his hair and face, and passed the towel to Kalki. Mani, see how big fans we are of your dosa, we run in rain to get it! You should treat us for such good advertisement. Krishna was talking to Mani who had gone behind the counter to service other students in the caf. This is Kalki, a friend; he is new to Xaviers. Kalki didnt know what to think of his introduction as a friend, was it some kind of a hint or a general term for the convenience of Mani, for the lack of a better word. Kalki thought best not to bother, and wait to see how rest of the recess goes. The boys dried themselves well and settled down on a corner table. Krishna ordered for two masala dosas. Do you know why I wanted to talk to you? Krishna started. Yes, Kalki replied in monosyllabic. Mr. Noel wants me to make you my study partner. Yes. He wants me to help you prepare for the Boards. A mirthless expression of anger and detest appeared on Kalkis face; I dont need anyones help for preparing for the Boards. Krishna stepped the gear of aggression one notch and said ostensibly, Mr. Noel does not think so. Your grades do not suggest so. Anyways, if you dont want this Ill be more than happy, but you will have to convince Mr. Noel. I have flunked the class tests because I didnt study. I can do pretty well if I want. What makes you think that I will not study for the Boards? Thats false confidence and a lame excuse; you cannot just slog in last few days and do well in an exam that judges you on the courses of three full years. I thought you were a smart guy, who knew that these exams are for average students, smart guys can crack them in few weeks of prep. Kalki
45

Alternate Journeys

deigned. Well! What makes you think you are smarter than average. Seeing your grades, I would rather think you to be far below. Krishna treaded the fine edge separating affront and insult. Kalkis anger rose in tempo, his tone became louder; he returned the antagonism, look, I dont need to get shit from a smart ass like you. I will pretend for the world and Noel that I am your study partner. You leave me alone with my life and I will pass well in the Boards. You can take credit for the shit. Once you officially become my study partner, your performance is tied to my reputation. Neither of us can run away from it. I cant leave you alone on your word of doing well in the Boards. The Boys were having a Man to Man talk. I will pass the Boards pretty well. Not because I give a shit for it, nor do I care for you or Noel or this facade of false pretense of Xaviers. Kalki was getting uncomfortable, a mix of disgust anger indifference aggression, he said sodden in gall, But I will pass. I need to get an admission in University to run away from this shithole of Botala to Delhi. I will pass because my family makes sacrifices for me. My dad will be heartbroken if I flunk. I dont give a shit to his pretense of class, but I cant relegate the family honor. And you think that other than the logistical convenience of getting you to a big-city college where you can indulge in your mischief more freely, and a question of family honor, education has no worth by itself? What education are you talking about? I dont need your shitload of stupid books, I get my education on my own, on the streets, and I will continue it in the streets of Delhi. But I dont need to argue anything with you, what we need is to make a deal as I proposed earlier. Krishnas aggression was changing to curiosity after hearing Kalkis outlandish motive for doing well in the Boards. Ok, you have a point. We dont need to argue on the merit of the Boards, till we are on the same page of you passing well. Krishna said sounding a reconciliatory tone. But if we pretend to be study partners for the convenience of Mr. Noel, I tie my name with you doing well in the Boards, and I cant let you away, unless I am satisfied that you will not tarnish my reputation. What if I prove to your satisfaction that I can crack it pretty well? How can you prove that? You select chapters from whichever courses you want, whether covered in the class or not, doesnt matter, I havent listened to a word of shit they speak. Then you give me a week. Sunday evening you test me on the selected chapters. If I do well, we have a deal, and as I want, you leave me alone. If I flunk, I will be your academic slave. Kalki said in a most
46

Alternate Journeys

matter of fact tone. There was suddenly an eerie silence. Krishna was dumbfounded by the preposterous proposition. His arrogance doused, he was cornered and had to reply. He got a few minutes of thought as Mani suddenly appeared with steaming masala dosas. Dosa served, brought down the tension on the table, bile softened. Krishna ignored the conversation and dawdled, gnawing a bite. Kalki was eager for an answer but didnt push; he also put a morsel in his mouth; delicious hot dosas in the rainy afternoon balmed the boys emotions. Krishna realizing the silliness of Kalkis offer, thought of choosing the most difficult parts of the syllabus; there will be no way Kalki can master the topics enough in a week to solve the trickiest questions; he didnt need to think much about his choice of chapters. Ok, you have a ludicrous suggestion, but I concede its fair enough. I dont know from where you get this exaggerated notion of yourself and low opinion of the Boards, but I will accept the deal. Krishna took another bite of dosa and spoke slowly, while he continued to eat. The Boards test you on a variety of subjects, so I will make a varied selection: World War Two history, Triangles and Parallelograms Math, Ohms law Physics, Krishna paused the Guru making profound pronouncements and then completed his list: Volcano Geography, Rashmi Rathi Hindi; and I will give you an easy part for English because you are from a Hindi-medium background: Macbeth Act One. His selection had both, covered and yet to be covered areas of the syllabus. The assortment echoed his likings for the best and most challenging parts of the high-school curriculum. It included areas which required: memory for learning facts, application of logic, and insightfully accurate understanding of concepts. There has to be some step where Kalki will trip and his ego will finally falter; he will be master of the universe of Xaviers High again. Ok, we meet Sunday evening at your house, was the only reply that Krishna got from Kalki in response to his prophetic selection. Silence fell once again and the boys ate their dosas; the rain slowed down to a drizzle and the close of recess arrived. ********* Soon it was Sunday afternoon. The boys didnt have any contact through the week either among themselves or with the outer world. The contest was set, it was graver than the fight of ideology being enraged in the faraway worlds of formidable foes; the warriors of the cold war had less fervor than what Kalki Krishna took to in their extended study hours every day of that week. Two angry boys in the small town of Botala immersed their obsessions in their high-school textbooks. At about three o clock in the afternoon, Krishnas mother announced that a friend of his is at the door. Krishna came out of his room and received Kalki. He introduced him to his parents who were preparing for
47

Alternate Journeys

the Sunday soap operas of Doordarshan (the government-owned singlechannel Television). Kalki wished good afternoon to Krishnas parents upon his introduction. He had the most pleasant smile. Krishna told his mother that they will be doing joint studies and test taking and not to disturb them. Studies on a Sunday afternoon while the famous DD soaps and comedy shows were being broadcast was weird for Krishnas mother, but your ability to get surprised is greatly reduced if you are the parent of a teenager; she let the boys have their way. Krishna Kalki packed off to Krishnas room. It was neat and tidy with a single bed, a study desk, a chair and a cupboard. In the corner lay some old unused sports goods; there was a tape recorder and a collection of cassettes in a small cabinet with glass panel by the bed. Kalki got eager to check out the tapes, but he resisted. They were still not friends, and his purpose of visit was the challenge at hand. Krishna had collected questions from past board exams related to the topics; he had planned to write the test along with Kalki to have a fair benchmark for evaluation. Krishna gave out the sheet with questions, Kalki took out a notebook from his bag, glanced at the paper passed over by Krishna, read the first question and started writing. Krishna was perturbed by his mechanical reaction and emotionless expression. The clock started ticking; the test was designed for two hours. Krishna too pulled out his notebook from the desk and started writing. It was more real than the real boards. The heads were down in complete non-acknowledgement of the world around. The pens were moving fast, and every now and then the only sound was flipping of paper breaking the icy silence. Seconds passed, minutes passed, and then hours passed. At the end of two hours Krishna announced end of the test. Kalki handed over his notebook to Krishna. The evaluations began, textbooks were opened, published answers from previous exam papers were referred. The boys were engrossed in evaluating their work; they went question by question, first Krishnas and then Kalkis. They had minor disagreement at few places, when more books were opened to settle the matter. Krishna obviously had done very well, but that wasnt the point. Kalkis performance was a big surprise. It was not what Krishna had expected. He did well in History section, the Second World War was still not covered in the class (history being taught in chronological order, modern world history was the last area to be taught, generally during the winter of tenth grade). He must be reading this part before, it is not possible to remember so much in a weeks time, Krishna thought. Geometry, Kalki did better than average, the topics were from eighth grade, but the concepts of Euclid need serious thought and grasp. (So he does
48

Alternate Journeys

remember some stuff from his earlier school.) Macbeth questions were from the act recently taught in the class, and Kalki did well in that too. (So he does listen in the class although he pretends otherwise.) Krishna had thought Shakespeare will be difficult for a Hindi-medium background, but he hadnt realized that the test was written and not spoken. The most difficult section was physics, (Ohms law is a tricky area for even tenthgraders and it was still years away). Krishna had a passion for physics; driven by his deep scientific curiosity, he was generally ahead of the class in the subject. He was sure this would be where Kalki will finally fall; he had felt a bit like hitting below the belt. But to his great surprise, Kalki did manage to not-flunk in this section too. In Geography Kalki had described correctly the geology of volcano formation and the Fold Mountains of Himalayas. In Hindi, the last section, selection of Rashmi Rathi Dinkar's poetry, Kalki did exceptionally well. It was over. Kalki had won the challenge, he just had to prove that he can pass in better-than-average grade bracket; he did that, loud and clear. As Krishna kept evaluating the papers and Kalki helped with his occasional comments and scanning of books, something underwent a change in minds of the boys. The competition and jealousy started ebbing, and slowly the seed of admiration that was sowed in the moments of drenching in the rain dashing for Manis started germinating. You did pretty well dude! I am impressed. Krishna said finally folding the notebooks and textbooks. He was genuinely overwhelmed. He smiled at Kalki, stretched his arm towards him with an open palm offered for handshake. Friends? Kalki hid his excitement, hesitated, and then smiled, I passed your test; you need to pass mine before we shake. The tension immediately returned, Krishna pulled back his hand, And what is that? Come with me. Kalki kept his notebook in the small backpack he was carrying, got up and animatedly walked out of the room. Krishna slipped on his sandals in haste and followed. They walked out of the house, Krishna remarked to his mother that he is going down to the City Centre and will be out for few hours. It was past six in the evening, the downpour was taking a respite, the dusk was clean and fresh from a whole afternoon of raining. It was that time of the evening when the streetlights are on but there is still enough natural light left. Slowly the dusk of natural light made its passage to the night of artificial lights. The boys had pulled out their bikes and were biking furiously down the avenue that led to the City Centre, Kalki was leading. To Krishnas surprise Kalki turned towards the School rather than the Centre. He followed matching the pace. Kalki didnt stop at the School but took another turn in a by-lane that went down to a deserted water tank. Krishna was getting curious, he started having a
49

Alternate Journeys

bad feeling about the whole affair; he feared he was being led to some dark world; Kalki kept cycling till they reached the tank. It suddenly dawned on Krishna that night had fallen; it was dark, other than underneath the streetlights and water-tank light. Between the water tank and the street was about twenty meters of bush and grass, which had some diffused illumination in the otherwise invisible shrubs. It was cloudy and there wasnt much of moonlight. Kalki parked his bike resting on the lamppost and walked towards the bush. Krishna knew that this was the moment to call it off; he knew that he should turn back from the satanic intensions of Kalki. He knew if he took one single step towards the bush, there will be no turning back from the uncertain hell he was being led to. Krishna walked, calmly following Kalkis steps, no one mentioned a word. Kalki found a small clearing behind the bushes. He squatted down not sitting to avoid his pants touching the grass still wet from the days rain. Krishna stood in front of him waiting; the silence was deafening; Kalkis smile intimidating. Finally, not able to hold back, Krishna spoke, So, whats the plan? Kalki took a deep breath, We will smoke grass here, get stoned, walk around the School building towards the back boundary, scale the fence into the back yard and break all the windows of eighth standard classrooms. Krishna was dumbstruck, voices inside him were screaming to run away, he stared at Kalki who calmly opened the backpack and got a cigarette out from one of its zip pocket, along with a small plastic pouch that had stuff resembling crushed leaves. Krishna had never seen marijuana before, sight of the drug made him more nonplussed. He had his own adventures in garages with cigarettes and beers, but this was not the garage of a familiar home, this was not within the security of any fence. Kalki continued making the joint, he was clumsy and nervous. Despite his dissemblance of being knowledgeable in such fields, it was just once he had smoked grass before; he had just tried a few drags in a hangout with his buddies from the mine school. He had seen the guy rolling a joint, but doing it himself was first time for him. Adrenalin was pumping in veins of both the boys. Seeing Kalki mishandling the joint, brought back Krishnas confidence, he stretched his arm and said, Give it to me. Let me try rolling it. Kalki was surprised by the insolent offer; he was hurt for being exposed as a tyro. He passed on the half-emptied cigarette and the pouch to Krishna. It was Krishnas test, Kalki had passed his an hour ago; he didnt need to prove anything more. Krishna was now in the zone, as Kalki was when he wrote the test in Krishnas room. When a calf just out of the womb, stands up and finds the breast of the cow and starts suckling the life-giving milk, the bystanders wonder on
50

Alternate Journeys

the miracles of nature, what made the calf learn to feed, they have no evidence of mimicry learning; its a marvel, pure and simple. No one needed to teach Krishna to roll a joint, his hands moved like the prodigious baby Mozart first time on a piano. His fear was gone; he was not proving anything; he was not thinking anything; his actions in autopilot controlled by forces larger than his comprehension. Do you have a light? asked Krishna ready with a perfectly rolled marijuana joint. Kalki was impressed, he took out a matchbox from the backpack and struck a match, Krishna put the joint between his lips, bended to the lit matchstick, inhaled as soon as the far tip of the cigarette touched the fire; sparks glowed at the burning end. Kalki put off the match and looked in awe. Krishna took another deep drag; his lungs filled with smoke; he held his breath while he passed the lit cigarette to Kalki. Kalki started his drag, while Krishna slowly let his breath out through his nostrils. He felt like smoke going to his head instead of lungs, he wondered about the human anatomy and possibility of a duct between lungs and head; the funny thought made him laugh and cough. Kalki laughed along and coughed. The germinating seed of friendship became a growing plant; the boys passed on the joint taking chances at puffing on; the rite of passage from jealousy to an unbreakable bond of friendship and loyalty. After a few drags more, Kalki butted out the joint, they got up and started walking towards the back yard of the School; the rite of passage from innocence to violence. It was a two-hundred-meter walk; the drug started kicking in while the boys strolled. The School never used to be so far from here! Krishnas laughter was piercing the silence of the bush. They were floating in dimensions of space and time unanchored. At one moment the distance covered was till far faraway land and the time elapsed was eternity, and at the next they covered just a few meters and time reverted back to where it started. Their steps wavered while they meandered through the wet shrubs and grass. It was dark, they had covered some distance from the streetlights and water tank, one of them stumbled on stone and fell on foliage, both laughed, the other helped him up from the tussock; they dusted the tuft and walked. After what seemed like perpetuity, they finally saw the school fence; a light was on inside the building and had made the backyard lawn dimly lit in the diffused rays filtering through the window glass; the sighting had an unknown passion. In Ouathom the watch at Santa Maria sights land. Anchor of iron was dropped from the ship floating in Atlantic. The Explorer steps down to the boat to make the Landfall; he had started for India, he found the world. They sighted their new world. The laughter and floating soon gave way
51

Alternate Journeys

to seriousness, the time of landing and claiming the empire arrived, it was time for action. The boys with difficulty and resolve shed away their disorientation. Anchor of will was dropped from the vessel sailing in spacetime. The boys took to the fence. The boys had started for supremacy of the adolescent universe of Xaviers High; they found friendship. Kalki scaled the fence first, Krishna passed on the backpack which had decentsized stones which they collected during their meandering stroll. Krishna scaled the fence with a little discomfort, he wasnt used to it. Multiple struggles were going on in their heads, the will trying to enforce controlled actions, the drug pulling the consciousness back in floatation; the basic violent animal inside the human psyche pushing on, the voice of reason crushed, begging for a last-minute flash of wisdom; Jealousy and admiration, enmity and friendship. But mental struggles are imagined fiction of the author, what is real is the physical world of stones and glass panels. There was a loud noise that pierced the silence of the back yard as the first set of stones landed on their target. In no time the next set followed. The gunshot-like noises were heard by the watchman at the front gate. Shrill sound of whistle and shouts of the watchman piled over the shrieking sounds of breaking glass. The adrenalin changed from fight to flight mode. The boys were over the fence like darts, the watchman was running towards them, he could not make out their faces in the dark, the boys ran full speed, away from the fence on the other side. Surprisingly there steps were very sure and firm, their line very straight; the meandering walk few minutes ago seemed like an exaggerated pretense. The watchman was a heavy middle-aged man, scaling fences and chasing fast teenagers was not his jig. The boys in no time were back to their secret location in the bush in front of the water tank. They lied down on the wet grass, their heads turning; the world whirling with it; they stared at the overcast sky as once in a while the moon popped out from behind the clouds; they could not stop laughing. Then suddenly Krishna started puking. Till now his hormones were controlling him, but as soon as security of the bush settled in his mind, the drug took control. The world started spinning in all directions; he was thrown on a superfast merry-go-round cum giant-wheel. He could not feel his body. He was sure he will die. In blips, faces of his parents appeared in his imagination. He imagined the scandal, boy dead after doping in the bush; he imagined the shame of his family. He regained a bit of sense and prayed, he wanted to live; he wanted to save his family from the shame. He started throwing out again. He moved away from the pool of mucky vomit on the ground, closed his eyes and laid still. Kalki was getting nervous, he also felt the drug hitting his head; he sat and took the head of Krishna on his lap. After twenty minutes of lying still, when the joint-induced giddiness
52

Alternate Journeys

subsided, Krishna stood up with much effort. Kalki stood up after him. Both the boys walked towards the water tank, underneath which was a tap. They washed their heads and faces, splashed water in their eyes. Krishna expectorated his remaining dizziness, regaining more strength they walked towards their bikes. They paddled randomly around the city in leisurely pace for some time, wondering about excuses to make for getting home late. When they felt comfortable that their state was sober enough, not to give away their secret, they biked back towards their respective houses.

53

Alternate Journeys

Chapter 4 The JEE

That night Krishna could not sleep properly; there was a strain of guilt and a flood of fear in his mind. He knew that Noel will crank, which he always did when such things happened major breach of discipline, there was no way to tell how he will react; what he will do to find out the perpetrators of such hideous act. What if the watchman identified them? What if Noel suspends the whole class in a collective punishment? What if someone else had seen them? Krishna would have had lain awoken whole night in nightmares of expulsion, but for the residue of drug in his blood which finally soothed him to sleep. Next morning it was a tensed assembly. Krishna Kalki were standing separately. It was a big scandal; no one dared smile at Noels announcement execrating the discovery of broken windows, in a very-gravely-serious derision for gutter culture denouncing the grievous act, and hoping in a very-threat-inducing hope, that none of you boys are involved. The watchman had identified the boys as being from Basti. Medicos will tell you: it is practically impossible, from anatomical outlines of two running boys in groping darkness of the night even their clothes not visible to tell the location of homes of the featured specimens. But Science lacks the cumulated societal wisdom of centuries, residing in eyes of the watchman, painfully gained by experiencing life day-by-day, knowing the value of convenience and best-for-all; and anyways, boys of the Does-itExist Basti across the river were known to be occasionally involved in petty thefts, other punishable wrongdoings and breaking windowpanes in Botala. The assembly ended; Krishna was relieved. His worst fears of Noel having fits of craziness didnt materialize. He walked towards Kalki, eyes exchanged a glance of respite, and the two boys together walked into the eighth grade classroom; the windowpanes still broken. (They will be replaced in the evening after the classes are over.) Boys and girls stared at the shattered crystals of the broken windowpanes in admiration abhorrence anxiety. The classes start, period after period teachers ignoring the looming large in the background holes in the glass. The first recess morning break, first time since their escapade Krishna Kalki have a private moment together; they walk down to an isolated corner in the garden. Crazy! Man!! Good that the old hog did not recognize us, otherwise Noel would have fucked our souls out, Krishna started the conversation, Expelled from the School! Yes! You are right. It was bloody damn risky!! But I loved it. Its over. Lets not talk about it. Yes, I know; if Noel comes to know, we will be thrown out of the
54

Alternate Journeys

School. We better not let even our best friends know. A vow of secrecy was taken of the shared mutual secret. Changing the topic Krishna said, Hey! Next month is my birthday; I will have a small party. Why dont you come over? When is your birthday? The flow of events of the last week had already made them friends, but they never got time to fulfill the small formalities of teenage friendship, so he duly asked the most important question about birthdays; a lifelong invitation to birthdays is the most formal seal of adolescent camaraderie. Twenty first July, as soon as Kalki burped it out, Krishna broke into an uncontrollable laughter. Mine too! What coincidence! You too are a loser; missed the lunar landing by a day! Coincidence of the shared birthday, and what could have been if only it was a day before, made Kalki laugh with Krishna. The sound of laughter turned into the ringing bell announcing end of the break. The boys walked back into the classroom. Mrs. Chako (the geography teacher) follows them, she is slightly surprised seeing Krishna Kalki sitting together, its a classroom of grownup boys and girls, no-longer kids, no longer chorus of unison of goodmorning-miss, but stray voices from front benches wishing the teacher; Mrs. Chako ignoring the strayness, replying to the whole class, Good Morning students, today we will cover longitudes and latitudes. She had brought a large globe along with her. Mrs. Chako started drawing on the board, earth diagrams, hollow with lines running across, forming angles; equator and then latitudes running North-and-South, both ways to the Poles; the longitudes, running East-andWest, from home of the Queen. Sun is added to the diagram, there is day on one side, and shadow of self night on another, the diagrams on the board are difficult to comprehend, a third dimension needs to be added to explain the truth of the world; now she is explaining it on the globe, longitudes going all the way around and meeting in isolation of a peaceful ocean the twisted meeting of meridians to avoid the sundry islands; meeting of time, meeting of opposites, meeting of East and West; time explodes by the energy of twisted unnatural union; there is a time contrivance; day changes in discreteness; quantum leap of continuous time; back and forth by twenty-four hours across the International Date Line. The students are staring at the diagrams, the globe and Mrs. Chako; the concept is always difficult for first-time learners, but not for Krishna Kalki, they are looking at each other, conversing in silence in language of the eyes; they have followed the lesson and wondering: has the trickery of time deprived them of their destiny? Was it possible? There are questions being asked by the bemused students, Mrs. Chako repeats the explanation, more pupils have understood it now, few still looked lost, Mrs. Chako is writing on the board and saying, We will do
55

Alternate Journeys

some problems, it will make it clear. Numerical of time being done in the class, magic of calculations of time zones, For example, if it is five-thirty in the morning today, Twentieth June, and then spinning the globe slightly, Across the International Date Line it would be afternoon of Sunday, Nineteenth June, and then going around, It is midnight in UK and the day has just changed to Twentieth. More numericals are being done on the board, but two of the students are getting impatient now, they are getting jittery; they need to know. As soon as the class ends Krishna Kalki dash out to the library; they bunk the next class lunch break is after the next period; Encyclopedias are taken out of the shelf; exact moment of landing of Neil Armstrong: Twentieth July, Eleven PM, Eastern Daylight Time; noted. Section on time zones: Eastern Time is the time of U.S East Coast; and daylight time? Its funny; they shift time by an hour back and forth in winters and summers. Why the hell they do it? No time to ponder, its just an irrelevant fact that needs to go in the calculations. Yes, it was Twenty-first July in the television-less two-day-old-news newspaper world of Botala, and yes, The Times of India had said to Botala on dateline Twenty-second July (byline Reuters) that man had landed on Moon on Twentieth July; and what about the radio (the Akashwani voice of the sky)? Yes, why did everyone ignore the obvious when on Twenty-first the All India Radio announced the news of Yesterday? No time to ask questions, what had been done has been done, but more important more information required; its the lunch break, the boys dont eat food, but cycle like crazy to their houses; surprised mothers, NoNo-No, morning will not do, tell me the exact time! Hospital file taken out from the cupboard; Yes! It was Eight-thirty in the morning; lightning strikes Krishna. Life finds a meaning, a retrospective meaning, anger for destiny denied, crescendo of delusion, of grandeur, repackaged, approved and sealed, by TIME itself. YES at the very exact time, ONE SMALL STEP for MAN, ONE GIANT LEAP for MANKIND; Memory Reloaded, Configuration of Coincidence, Accident of Birth makes incidents remembered as Destiny. An excited Krishna looked at Kalki when they met again after the lunch break. A flat answer to the excited look, Yes it was eight thirty in the morning, what was not told, what was held secret between soon-to-be best friends already comrades in crime, destined together by birth was told to Kalki by an overburdened mother; countless children coming one after another, year after year, all born in homes or shanty clinics; no records of exact times kept; Yes, I remember it was during the day and not night, maybe in the morning, my first birth; but how can I tell you the exact time. That day along with Krishna Kalki also created his destiny by imagining his
56

Alternate Journeys

time of birth. The simultaneity of their births with the lunar landing sealed forever the bond that was forged by breaking of windows. ********* Krishna Kalki best friends now and very aware of time zones every evening that week got together in either of their houses and till late night watched the cricket matches played during the day; Kingdom of the Queen. That June saw upsets after upsets; the underdog India reached the semifinals of the Prudential World Cup; telecast live and in color over Doordarshan. Finally the finals, a full moon shining, watching down at the gamechanging game, being played in a sunny afternoon, purity of whites, moistness of daytime English summer, not the techno-color day-night, but Red balls and white screens, the taste of leather kissing willow, sweet sound of a gentlemans life, a colonial usurpation, browns versus blacks, all in whites, and whites themselves sitting on the stalls, appreciating the manners of the natives, of countries all invented by them, all Indias, of West and East; Kapildev the god, Gavaskar also the god but of an earlier five-day era, and our very own Kirti Azad, freedom of fame, works for Botala Steel Company, everyone has his autograph, Roberts Marshal Garner Holding, battery of giants, Indian batting unable to take the battering pace of the West Indian bowling, tail-enders are able to set a respectable score, freedom of fame is a disappointment, then the bowling, surprise come back, Greenidge Haynes Richards Lloyd, batting battery of the mighty fell under the onslaught of underdogs, and then, Mohinder Amarnath ever-livinggod never-say-die comeback-kid and old man Man of the Match; in a spell of magic India won the World Cup. Middle of the night, instant Diwali on the streets, a country arrives, a friendship blossoms. That night India glowed in confidence, it was a peek in future, a peak in the still-distant future. Iyer, Smita, Goly, Krishna Kalki, and all his siblings, had a great party along with all other children and adults of Botala Steel City. It was an occasion when people from Basti jauntily danced with people of the City; aftertaste of excitement of the win lasted for some time. Weeks passed and the euphoria finally subsided, and despite their deal over the hot-steaming masala dosa of Manis, Krishna Kalki became study partners. They mostly studied at Krishnas house. Kalki was irregular and erratic. Krishna pushed him to envelop the topics; sometimes Kalki gave in, while at other times he just walked out. His interest was in everything that would not be tested in the Boards; Krishna did all efforts to rein him. Their bond of secret and birth flowered during the conversations of joint study and imaginary worlds. Krishna Kalki took to each others interests; Krishnas passion was physics, and Kalkis was politics. They discussed fantastic science-fiction worlds; Krishna would
57

Alternate Journeys

construct the physical foundations of the imagined universe: time machine, speed-of-light travel, space colonization. And Kalki would construct the government and society: perfect elite, space troopers, evil empires. Imaginary science and politics would then create the mega Intergalaxial wars. These wars of the elite core and lumpen peripheries were fought not by bullets and guns but by bending lasers and space-time jumping fightercrafts. While violence in this fantastic world of light-years and light-sabers continued defying causation and logic like the real world, it did not scar the emotions of the boys, it did not require interment in impregnable internments of memory; rather it constituted materiel for the scaffolding of their ever-strengthening friendship. When not in chimerical galaxial trips, they talked about the real world. They had tussles about time travel as an impassable fancy created by surrealist fantasizing or a theoretical possibility waiting for technical breakthrough. They wrangled on the merits of communism and capitalism. Who was the real superpower, the U.S of A or Soviet Union? Was Indira good or bad? Was she the Durga of Seventy-one? Or was she the villain of Seventy-five? Interestingly, the positions the boys took were all mixed up; one day Krishna would argue for a proposition, the next day it would be Kalkis. The ideations presented were a collage of pastiche of tidbits picked up from adults conversations, newspapers and Doordarshan; stuck together by the flowing glue of Imagination and Exaggeration. The ability of the nuclear bombs climbed up every day, destroying city state country; The World. ********* Staying in a faraway land, living the life of a simple man, claiming seclusion from history, spinning your own life story, is a dissimulation of illusion, for events, anywhere, everywhere, are interconnected, and weave together to provide the drapery of times; inescapable; the wheels of Maya; Karma. The jubilance of Eighty-three soon gave way to the fateful events of Eighty-four. In Ouathom, it was imagined because it could not be imagined any further in future, Nineteen Eighty-four, in the year of Big Brother present-day Botala lies in Eastasia; Death-worshippers Self-obliterators. And In the land of dreams, technologies are being weaved, Ma Bell is broken to let open the world to the explosion of multiple clones of Magical Routers, and In a Big Brawling Super Bowl Game, the Big Brother is disowned by the Apple of Adam, which flew the Roger Jack in its face; and a Mouse is no longer a Mouse, but Mac. Schumpeters Apple held the hand of Adam to challenge the big brother, but still not known, the hand will be hijacked by Bill, and Mac and Apple will be swallowed by Windows of the Bigger Brother Gates (who cloned the big brother) while the paranoia of Moore will double the power
58

Alternate Journeys

of its chips in every passing year. Moon-walking Michael Jackson becomes the global culture, and Indias own, Rakesh Sharma, in space in a Soviet Shuttle, reported on time in correct date over Doordarshan, from heavens the Mother of all Clichs, in a conversation with Indira Mother India: Of all the worlds, India is the best, in chaste Urdu heard on television; this time in Real Time. Despite the shuttles and propaganda, the Soviet Communist Party is in disarray, one after another near-death experience of desperate attempts holding to a revolution; Gorbachev the Glasnost , not moored by orthodoxy, is ascending towards the grand descend. And violence, mindless shameless logicless violence; in the mountains created by collision of tectonic plates politics counter-politics and game great-game; the Biggest Brother is funding a Jihad; to shame the Soviets, to avenge Vietnam; to sow the seeds of self-destruction; violence perpetuates violence. In Wiowin, the name Osama heard for the first time, in praise in Circles of Espionage; a Useful Man. And in the mountains even higher, icy deserts of high Himalayas, Operation Meghdoot, cloud messenger of love, launched in frozen assault to capture the Siachen Glacier; the worlds highest battlefield ever; claimed to be strategic, no, not for logistics or tactics, because its a complete waste, (inhospitable unreachable, choppers start having trouble because of the rarified air, guns some time refuse to fire in frozen metal of recoiling spring, people prepared to die of bullet in course of duty, all die of cold and frostbites), but of Emotions, (height of heights, crown of the Himalayas, sitting over Kashmir, looks good on the map and feels Great in the heart); hundreds of soldiers, one-week trek to the Glacier, already acclimatized in Antarctica and elsewhere, trained prepared, attack the barrenness, a thousand square kilometers of land, no, ice, is captured; a large timeless square overseeing the Valley; Heaven on Earth; the glory of victory held by troops stationed there; boil the earth to drink water, exhale and snowflakes settle on your beard; Gentleman officers and other ranks, even the nonSikhs, for the first time allowed so much of facial hair. And what about the Sikhs themselves, the Sardars, the Martial Race of the armies of the Raj, raised to fight in Ouathom, in a vow of Ks, five of them, by the Guru born in Patna, many of them, armed, not in Kripans but with Kalashnikovs, unarmed in propriety, have taken over the holiest-ofthe-holy shrine, in Amritsar, a pretension of Guru, Bhindranwale, popped up and created by a pretension of Durga, Indira, sowing the seed of selfdestruction, violence perpetuates violence, Guru and Goddess have their generals, colleagues who fought together in the marshes of Bangla, Kuldip Singh Brar versus Shabeg Singh, both Gentleman officers, both leaders of men, both Sardars, Militants versus Indian Army, both well-trained, both heavily armed, both ready to die, Bhindranwale versus Indira, both
59

Alternate Journeys

politicians, both well-versed, both ready to kill, Operation Blue Star, mayhem bloodbath, tanks in the temple complex, general rebellion, rumorous blacked-out media, Indian Army in control, the challenge to the State is crushed with an iron hand, bloodied blasphemous iron hand, but it is still not over, Mutiny, a word not heard since the days of the Raj, no not the Queens Raj, even earlier, Company Bahadurs Raj, the crown created the army of loyal Martial Races to ensure a mutiny-free Queens Raj, in an ugly circularity of history, once again mutiny in the cantonment, emotion passion religion makes even the loyalest-of-the-loyal to burn in rage and anger, on the borders in the deserts of Rajasthan, And Also, not so far from Botala, hardly fifty kilometers, Ramgarh, Sikh Regimental Centre, a brigadier is killed, second time in his life Krishna sees troops on the streets of Botala, once again the stronger hand of state is sent to discipline the irritant hand, once again fighting, a battalion of Rajput Regiment called out of their cant., another Martial Race, to crush the mutiny, the irritant Sardars are all killed or captured; finally peace; life-joltingly seriouslycontemplating peace of historical significance in the Indian Army. ********* Causes are pretentious excuses for violence; the real reason is that there is no reason. Krishna Kalki solemnly archived their private moment of violence against windowpanes of eighth standard in secret attic of their memory. The unresolved suspense of broken panes faded from regretful reminiscence of the School. The windows had fresh new glasses the very next day. All efforts by Noel to find out the perpetrators lead to dead ends. There was no murmur, there was no rumor. While the panes receded from the remembrance of Xaviers High, the images of Amritsar and Blue Star took a new life in the imagination of newly deputed Delhi-Police Sikh Bodyguards of the Prime Minister. Violence has no logic. It has types: Bhindrenwalla was Non-State Violence, Blue Star was State Violence, windowpanes were Private Violence; anger that makes you betray the highest office of trust is also a private violence, but what ensued, the assassination and aftermath, was brutal violent Public Violence. The bodyguards shot dead the Prime Minister on a fine October morning, a week after Diwali (the festival of lights). The country plunged into darkness, lunacy took over public sanity, emotions flared around continuous repeats of endless funeral of Indira (television was already a reality in India), mass hypnotization by state media; serene scenes of a funeral fueling the rage of madness. Violence has its own logic. Hundreds of Sikhs were brutally murdered in the cities across North India in communal riots that followed the assassination. Botala was also in flames. Crowds with handmade fire torches, iron rods, kitchen knives, spears, and whatever else instrument of
60

Alternate Journeys

violence they could lay hands on, were in the City Centre. Sikhs are an industrious community and own businesses around India and the world. Visible success of a minority migrant community creates hatred in the host society. The industriousness and ingenuity brought in from outside that helps the host community to grow is reversed in the imagination of deprivation and jealousy, making the migrant usurper of what was rightly of the locals. Botala was a migrant city: the real locals were tribals who were displaced from their ancestral land. The rioters were not tribals, they were the usual lumpen of North-Indian cities; hatred for the usurpers of imaginary homelands has a twisted logic. Assassination of Indira (who was India, who was Durga, who like her father before, promised salvation to another generation), was the trigger. And the fact that Sikhs are easily identified because of the faith they wear on their head, was convenience. And loot, yes the loot, refrigerator television furniture everything else was collateral. And rape, yes the rape, was the climax of orgy of murder and mayhem; the divide once again was us and them, majority and minority, migrants and locals, guilty and wronged. The Sikh riots of Nineteen Eighty-four were neither the first nor the last of public violence based on fickle foundations of politics of religion and revenge. But for Krishna Kalki it was a defining moment: they were biking down the central avenue, getting back from School. The news had broken a few hours earlier and crowds had started collecting in the street corners. Stories and rumors of riots in Delhi and elsewhere spread like wildfire; the fact that people were killed in other cities legitimized the violence; Botala was not to be left behind in the moment of great revenge. Swarm in front of the cycling boys turned towards a garment shop owned by a Sikh, they stopped to watch. Krishna was appalled as the garment shop went up in flames, the prostrate owner was dragged out with his turban fallen on ground and his long hair spread out like a dark cloud of death. Some people were tying him to a pole, while others generally struck him with rods and hockey sticks. The Sikh was shouting wailing panting in pain, he was pleading, he was weeping; he was begging for the life of his daughter. Few people dragged out a young girl. Just past twenty (had finished school and was studying in a college in Chandigarh), it was the festival vacation and she was visiting her parents. During these visits she generally helped her dad in the shop. She was otherwise a pretty Punjabi girl tall fair sharp features, long black tress, but in the action of being dragged out, her dupatta dropped, her salwar torn, she was a horrendous site. She was crying, begging for her fathers life, begging for hers, in an inanimate voice pleading: she did not have anything to do with Indira Gandhi. She was
61

Alternate Journeys

hauled away from the flames in the shop which were growing to become an inferno. The heat from raging fire of the burning clothes spread around. Temperature rose to what on a general day would have made people move away several paces, but the crowd was in delirium, people stood near the blaze, heat drowning the howling. Krishna didnt know whether to look at the emblazing flames, its majestic destruction, or fate of the daughter and father at mercy of the thronging madness. Somebody then grabbed the clothes of the daughter and tore it apart; a dirty-looking bearded goon, his teeth tarred by chewing tobacco, his mouth frothed with betel spittle, his clothes greasy and stained, his hair long and scruffy; his eyes Krishna noticed redder than the blood that flowed from the Sikhs wounds. The girl was stripped, she lay naked; there was a furor in the crowd. The father and daughter were no longer pleading, they were no longer shouting; they just sobbed in an intonation of beggared belief, surrender and prayer. The daughter was gang-raped in front of her father whose eyes were closed. The father was torched alive in front of his daughter whose eyes were closed. After the rape, someone took out a machete and slashed her breasts; depriving the burden of nourishing life; the crazy crowd with opened eyes, did not see. So it was: gruesome violence and rape which was not seen by close eyes and not seen by open eyes. But the eyes of the boys were neither open nor close, like the crowd and its victims. They saw rape, they saw murder, and they saw arson. Krishna was crying; he was trembling with fear and disgust. He was ashamed of his existence; he was furious at the crowd. His head had become a furnace of chemicals capturing the imprint of sensory signals being relayed. While Krishna horridly felt the reflection of mayhem, image of breast slashing sticking in his psyche, like a cancerous cyst in his head, he did not see his own expression, he could not see his own eyes; what he saw instead was Kalkis face. He saw his hollow blank look, he saw him watching an intensive macabre movie. He didnt have an expression; he was neither afraid nor repulsed. He was neither exasperated nor sympathetic; never in his short life had Krishna seen an expression so undecipherable, so cold and detached; it was like a camera, which captures the moment but leaves the emotions for viewers of the pictures. Seeing Kalkis blank face Krishna panicked further. He pushed him back to awareness and said they should go; Kalki did not answer; he just glanced at scared Krishna to acknowledge his presence, and then went back into his intense stare of the final scene of the play of public violence in front of their eyes. The Sikh gentleman died screaming, burnt alive, the daughter lay unconscious dying raped beaten brutalized breast-less. The drama ended, the crowd moved on in search of another target; the boys could hardly muster enough strength to bike back home after their
62

Alternate Journeys

embittering experience. ********* The local police was unable to control the rioting; by next morning troops of Assam Rifles moved into the city. Third time in his short life, soldiers marched on the streets of Botala. A twenty-four hour curfew was declared curfew no longer a new word. St. Xaviers School was taken over by the troops as their base camp and as a refugee camp for the Sikhs. Semblance of sanity started returning in a couple of days; but the scars on the society of Botala and the psyche of Krishna Kalki were fresh and vivid. The School was closed for a month. After the first few days the curfew was relaxed during the mornings and evenings; social life slowly started returning to normal. During these unscheduled holidays, Kalki Krishna spent a lot of time with each other. Due to the long hours of curfew they could not be out loitering in the city and much of their time was spent in each others house in conversations; watching television and reading newspapers. News of the Momentous times continued. Rajiv the Lotus grandchild of destiny, child of midnight, son of Indira India Durga was sworn in as the next Prime Minister by Gyani the President Granthi to the Bhakti of Nanak, devoted to the dynasty of destiny; Pranab the Contender kicked out in punishment; the Goddess is dead, long live the Prince. He is a novice, almost foolish, makes mordant remarks about shaking earths and falling trees, and much later, Foreign Hands, their Godfathers, will make them remember their Grandmothers. But he is also a gentleman not fit for politics but trapped by destiny Suave Sophisticate, HOPE and SYMPATHY of millions fast-becoming billion is with him; he will lead us all into the next century, next millennium; an election and an unprecedented landslide of sympathy and hope; to be led to millennial greatness; and a beautiful Italian wife; sobbing silently in future dread. And the Dark Side, Was It Or Was It Not, that there was a conspiracy of Indiras own out-of-control dark forces to kill her, W-I-O-W-I-N, that there was a pogrom, WIOWIN, that the clones of Congress were out on the streets leading the crowds; in Wiowin the police reacted slowly and troops were called in late? In Ouathom, Drona the Guru, killed by the lie of the trusted truth, in revenge a furious son killed pregnant mothers with innocent fetuses; to live the life of IMMORTALITY of SHAME. And in Bhopal; WHAT? WHERE?? There is an industrial accident: no assassination, no riots, no mutinies, no wars, no weapons of mass destruction; just a simple accident of gross negligence; poison leaks in the air of incomprehension of logic of Karma; thousands died and thousands continue dying.
63

Alternate Journeys

Finally peace and normalcy returned to Botala. The curfews ended, the troops went back to their barracks; the Sikhs in Xaviers camp went back to build their gutted life and to heal their scars. Troops and refugees in Xaviers had completely defaced the building; it required a thorough cleaning and complete repainting, before it opened up after the dilatory holidays to continue with the delayed session. Winter vacation that year was cut short to make up for lost time. It was the last month of classes of ninth standard, before Krishna Kalki and Iyer were in tenth; grade of the Boards. ********* Life returned to as usual, both in the School and city. Smita completed her plus-two and left Botala for the University, and so did Krishnas crush for her. There were other girls, there was still the electric sensation during dances of class parties, but Krishna was no longer his old self of the central social animal, there were others who could also moonwalk; but he did not mind, he had his secret world, his fantasies, masturbation, and friendship of Kalki. Krishna still did well in academics but was no longer at the top, that mantle passed to Iyer; he did not feel much jealousy, the initial embarrassment of the two in the reversal of fortunes was past. Kalki improved in academics significantly, helped on by Krishna. Constant speaking, and the Hollywood movies in Botala club, improved his accent of spoken English; he was shedding fast all influences of tongues of past. And Goly also grew up, another teenager now, and as another pair of breasts took shape, she started having her own separate secret world; the brother and sister grew out of pillow fighting running behind the toy train relationship to a mature sibling bonding of opposite sex. Krishnas father had another trip to Soviet Union, but this time he came back significantly less impressed. Botala Steel Company was evaluating vendors for a major modernization of the plant. Teams of engineers were sent to supplier locations. The technology of Russian plants, once cutting edge (when the Botala plant was first conceived), had not changed much, while the world of steel making moved on. The contracts this time went to the Germans and Americans, and a new set of whites, not in hordes, but small group of specialists, descended on Botala. Krishnas father although completely unimpressed by the notpossible not-thought-of queues in bakeries to get bread in mother Russia (the proletariat utopia of the Soviet Union), still brought gifts for Krishna and Goly; mink-fur coat for Goly and a pair of binoculars for Krishna, once again Made in East Germany. The binoculars had an adjustable knob, rotating which you could change your vision of far and near. Standing on the roof of their houses, terrace of the School, water tanks, hilltops; Krishna Kalki were everywhere with their elixir; Surveying the world in details of large and small.
64

Alternate Journeys

The binoculars became an additional ocular limb of Krishna, dangling by his side, hung over his shoulder, preface of lives to be, carried everywhere: family picnics, class trips; the sights of jungles, hills and the Dam of Botala. From the rooftop: the minutiae of the rickshaw-wallah, straining his muscles, paddling uphill, lightening the yoke of corpulent ladies, sweat shining in scorching sun in droplets over the soot black brow. From the hilltop: the opened gates of Botala Dam, filled up by monsoon rains, water gushing out, energy of the fall released from the reservoir, foamy white stream rushing to freedom, the downstream no longer wadeable, but a transitory reflection of its pre-damn rapiding pride; the hutments on the bank not in fear of fury of the river; in assurance that the gates will be closed before she can express her anger. And in optical reversion: the details of Kalkis face, no longer a face, but pushed far back to become a body, and farther back to fizzle into the surroundings, and then disappear in the haze of growing distances; walls of the house melt into land and sky of the horizon. It was Krishnas Magical binoculars; ability to see the past and future; far comes near and reversing the lens near becomes far; insidious transformations foretelling premonitions. ********* The partnership of Krishna Kalki became the stuff of teenage urban legends of the small town of faraway Botala. They partook together in Aarti competition of the Bong Bharati Puja Pandal. Burning camphor in Aarti vessel, earthen lamps with handles, and fire, and the drummers, ancestral drummers, more than a thousand years of drumming in the family, specially requisitioned for the competition, expensive, always in very high demand during the Pujas, the Pujor Dhaks of Durga Puja, beating in forwarding retreating beats, Krishna Kalki dancing with fire in their hands, felicitating the Goddess, leonine Durga, The Shakti, the Energy of the Universe, the Feminine Spirit of all Gods, standing over a dying bleeding Mahisa, and Kali drinking blood, the drums are now beating in increasing tempo, the movements of steps of dance of worship becoming faster with the drums, the sound, the fire, the crowd around, all mixing up to create a hysteria, the drums beating faster and faster, Krishna Kalki Ego Alterego, dancing in crisscrossing steps, their hands flying in crisscrossing flight, fire in the hands in motion, lamp swinging in rhythm, leaving a hallucinating trail of flame, followed by smoke, the crowd caught in euphoria, religious frenzy of deep devotion, chorus in unison, rhythm of the drums, singing praises of the Goddess, the lamps are moving fast enough for the fire to defy gravity, the lamps go in circle, horizontal and vertical, fast very fast, the fire does not fall, but burns in increasing trail, a comet zooming around the dancing boys, Drums of Dussehra beating, DUM DUM DUM DUMDUMADUM,
65

Alternate Journeys

repeating, again and again, Dhakis, for more than a thousand years, same beat, same frenzy, generation after generation, and the climax of crescendo, dm dm dm dm dm d d d d d d dm dm DM DM DUM DUM DUM DUMDUMADUM DUMDUMADUM DDMM DDMM, boys drenched in sweat, crowds clapping, adulation of ovation, the drummers and the boys bow, accept the clapping in grace; Krishna Kalki One Soul Two Bodies, is the winner of this years competition; a compeering Illusion compering the competition. And Elocutions, Krishna wanted to do English poetry but Kalki prevailed on him. Poem after poem, competition after competition section class high school and finally interschool they showered a monsoon of Hindi poetry on the fellow students and faculty of Botala schools. Serenity of Bachchans intoxication, Man is in confusion, longing for life, people advise him of different directions; I tell him to take a road, take any path and keep walking, you will find your illusion. Shadow of Niralas poetry, of pain of the dark side, I feel like dancing naked on the streets ; I feel like catching the ocean in my palms to drink all the water in it. And Passion of Dinkars Charioteer of the Sun; there is a podium and an audience, Krishna is playing Krishna Kalki is playing Karna. Krishna shows Duryodhana the obvious, the future assemblage after the carnage, The earth is invisible under a canopy of carcass; Look! Look! Duryodhana, find out which one is your corpse. And Karna is challenging Krishna; If you are God my Lord, then why this Trickery? Why this Deception? WHY WHY WHY? Audience clap, boys bow; Krishna Kalki One Soul Two Bodies, is the winner of this years competition; a compeering Illusion compering the competition. The cycle went through the tenth grade till winter months, and then everyone was back to serious studies; pre-boards were in January and finally the Boards in early March. The first public exam in life of the students was a major event; preparation, anxiety, excitement and fear toped on long-hour studies, like movements of a large orchestra playing a sentimental symphony. The exams lasted for two weeks, and then the release came like an acme; the extended summer vacation; the last Vacation of Innocence. ********* Although, the standard-tenth board was a significant milestone in life of the students, the culmination of school, a rite of passage into the world of adults, a passage from innocence to maturity; in reality it was start rather than end of the passage. It was beginning of the two-year passage, variously called as senior-high, higher-secondary, junior-college, plus-two, intermediate, etc., the passage to a world of competitive education that decided the adult pecking order of social mobility and status. The board results came in June; Krishna did extremely well, Kalki was not in the top bracket but he scored above average. St. Xaviers Botala had a junior college
66

Alternate Journeys

and the students could choose to continue in the School for another two years or go to a university straight. Xaviers plus-two had a reputation of producing a number of successful IIT-entrants every year and admissions in other premium colleges. Most students who were offered admissions generally opted to stay with Xaviers; the families too felt that nineteen is a better age for letting the children loose in the world, than seventeen. Kalki Krishna continued in Xaviers. Their education came to a stage when choices needed to be made, about streams to pursue. Xaviers offered three streams: humanities, commerce and science. The science stream was further divided into: biology (which prepared for medicine) and mathematics (which prepared for engineering). Students had the option of continuing further in pure sciences after both these sub-streams, but the aspirations of the science class of Xaviers were the professional schools. The Humanities and Commerce students normally continued in a university college preparing for a career in law, public service, accounting etc. The hierarchy was clear; in the industrial town of Botala the elite was defined by engineering or medical school they went to; the best students took up science. Doing otherwise was sacrilegious, it was signaling to the world that you either did not have the required score, or you are not up to the academic rigor that lay ahead. For the young minds thriving in middleclass morality of Botala, not studying science simply meant a life of self-shame forever; not being an engineer or a doctor was equivalent of not being human. Krishna took up science with the sub-stream of math. Kalki defied the social logic and peer pressure by opting for humanities, though he had scored enough to get admitted to the science stream. Everyone tried convincing him otherwise; it was a family shame in Botala for the child not to study science. He had heated arguments with his parents; his father felt humiliated of his son studying humanities and his mother felt sad. Krishna too tried persuading him; but he did not relent. The different streams broke the study group of Kalki Krishna; their area of overlap no longer classroom and courses. Their interactions reduced after the sessions started. Krishna focused on preparing for the JEE, and Kalki continued in his desultory drift. Krishna was no longer his anchor to rein him in. His studies became erratic and he became secluded; he didnt have many other friends in Xaviers. Sometimes they met during evenings or weekends, and continued their imaginary trips of fantastic worlds and deliberations of real world. The discussions started shedding its innocence, the glue of imagination and exaggeration of their montage was slowly being replaced by the staples of reality of facts and opinions. The nuclear bombs could no longer destroy countries, but damages would be measurable; second strike capabilities will survive. *********
67

Alternate Journeys

The competition was fierce and the pasture limited. The entrance to salvation for a generation of small-towners was through the exacting examination of nerves, the so-aptly-called Indian Institute of Technology Joint Entrance Exam (IIT JEE). Krishna prepared for it. The tables had thick guidebooks with solutions of complex integrals and Newtonian mechanics that could tease Newton himself. The presentation and context was a test of skill rather than an inspired pursuit of truth; perfection and speed by practice of a craft; plumbery inhumanized; devoid of appreciating the underlying Beauty. A Spartan elegance, practitioners laboring at their art, creating a generation of white-collar warriors; he was among them. But did he belong? Did he not long for the world beyond? His appetite whetted by enquiry of his own, through the sporadic books that he got hold of, through the chapters which were not supposed to be touched; at rough edges of the boundary he got a glimpses of the magnificence that lay ahead. Quanta of mass-energy floating in space-time, forces exchanged in fields through particles, the building blocks of nature, the final frontier, the final solution, lying out there, luring waiting, to be solved, the unsolved problem of modern physics, synthesis of relativistic and quantum mechanics, combining the gravity of infinitely large with the momentum of infinitesimally small; In midst of the textbooks, amidst the test preparations, in challenging conversations with his daemons, Krishna dreamed of solving the unsolved; he imagined himself formulating the synthesis; The THEORY OF EVERYTHING. But then he could not see the dangers, the real demons dwelled far ahead and beyond the pale, not visible through the hedges. While he gazed in amazement; his fellow pupils were more practical, more on the current job, more concerned about worldly salvation; and travelled on the route offered. In the Eden of Botala, in the Orchard of Xaviers, Krishna tasted the forbidden fruit. This was desecration committed, gods in heavens displeasured; he ventured into terrains marked for not trespassing. He left the road for the jungle path and this was for him, forever. This will be his curse, his path, his destiny, his life; FOREVER. The woods are lovely, dark and deep; the senses enthralled. But sometimes when the darkness falls, comes the longing for roads lights inns clansmen; fear of waste, tormentation of being lost, promise of miles, sense of directionlessness. The only true direction here is the arrowhead of time; which ticks while tear rides on its tide. But its not completely uninhabited, scattered around are precious gems that get spill over. Road makers in quest of moving earth have robbed these indiscernible jewels of their rightful places; underneath the highways hoarded, buried deep inside macadam, is the treasure trove tamed by
68

Alternate Journeys

tarmac. What is life of men and women on the whole, but a quest to find meaning, and do we not in this search continue to find more and more meaninglessness, creating in this pursuit, elaborate patterns and weavings of apparent meaning and hidden meaninglessness of deeper meanings. De-layering great works of accumulated societal wisdom, paring of onions creating tears, dew drops in the dawn of first light spreading the ecstasy of radiance; finally triumphing over darkness of the night. And then light becomes the day from dawn, evaporating the dew, drying the tears and leaving behind the world in a stare, where its not known the source of such emotions; a state where once again the pealing terrene of surviving competing getting-ahead becomes the meaning; until the night comes again. He wondered (rather dreamed) of big things, of genius glory wealth power. In middle of the night he stood up, walked around, sat down in corner of the bed. In the darkness he had always let his thoughts run wild. What was he at such times? In absolute loneliness he was mathematician the rationalist, artist the romantic; but alone and longing for a drop of tear floating over the tide of time. He saw the insignificance, he saw the beauty, appreciation and knowing, what is, but what cant be; the cultivated flair, flashes of insights into thought, chaotic collection of emotions; existence of an alternate world; the world of an Artist. The intense concentration of mental energy in a forced direction by reining in the chaos, catalyzed Krishnas splitting of real and imagined worlds. While his consciousness focused on being on course to the JEE, he subconsciously was building the grand mental schema of figuring out reality. The seeds were sown years ago in his explorations of quest for answers. The conversations with Kalki about politics and history added the worldly aspects into his thirst for knowing. His psychic self was split between the discipline of preparation and flights of imagination. His physical energy was channeled to sustain continuous hours and late nights. Often he would be sitting on his desk solving calculus or dreaming of victories in great wars, when dawn broke outside; shrill sound of chirping birds, the first rays of sunlight. His conversations with his family became monosyllabic. His parents were the cheerleaders supporting his preparations. His mother prepared tea at odd hours, his father ensured silence in the house. Krishna lost track of sleep and waking time, his dreams and thoughts were one large landscape with sky, water and land melting into each other. Once in a while, he dreamed (or imagined), versions of private violence, he saw versions of public violence; he saw girls, he saw them nude; he felt their bodies against his, he felt his hardness; he felt his release. Sex imagined and real, violence remembered and dreamt, added to the
69

Alternate Journeys

landscape of science known and unknown; the world imperfect waiting for the savior, waiting for Krishna. In his deepest moments he longed for a panacea to be released from the shackles of binding space-time; to release his mind to the free flow of truth. Thoughts Thoughts Thoughts, zillions of them all over the place, so many of them that it is not possible for the brain cavity in the human skeleton to hold all of them; the treasure gatherer collecting the jewels and racing against the rock closing on the treasure cove; closing to condemn him to death of extreme riches; to figure out a way to eat the herded metal and stone. Still they kept coming, in flashes of random blips. Still they kept coming, like the growing lights of the dawn and the fading lights of the dusk, creating a collage of extreme wide variation in detail and depth. He just wanted to talk, express the intricate layers of thoughts bogging him down in a web of mystifying imagery. He wanted to bounce these reflections to an understanding and empathetic audience; if not for clearing the mist, then at least for some solace. His emotional surges were like feelings that in another context could be described as love, but he did not know what he was longing for. Love has a face that channels desire and passion, its non-realization is the subject of pain and agony. He longed for love, for him love was conversation, a conversation where he didnt struggle to articulate his inexplicable feelings, the conversation of resonance, of admiration, of basest human emotions and its highest intellectual manifestations. It was not about women or men; it was about a person, any person willing able, to share the compassion of conversation. But alas! He was cursed for loneliness, a lifelong longing of unattainable love, at a loss of finding even one such companion. Avowed silence, speechless conversation with self, complete neglect of existential reality by soliloquizing solitude; emancipation of thoughts; aesthetics is the meaning; else everything else is an animal existence; poverty and pollution; despondency and wretched self-complacency. Pain and agony he did feel, but it was pain and agony of a different kind. Krishna appeared for the JEE mock, another half year was left for the plus-two boards and the exam season to start. It was the first mock in the series of three he had signed up with a coaching institute. Krishna took the test with other students in the institutes testing center. He knew his mental journeys had made him exhausted, he was not too well prepared, but he was still confident of doing well; after all he was Krishna. To the shock and horror of vanity, when the results of the mock came out, he had failed the test miserably. Thunderbolt struck; it was Public Shame. It was the first moment in his life when reality of failure encountered him. The prospect of not getting into the IIT became not only
70

Alternate Journeys

existent but very real and was staring into his face. He was the smartest of them all, he was the winning horse of Xaviers to get the ranks in the JEE, and there he stood far below the regular chums of the science class. The fall from grace was complete. His fellow students sympathized with him; for them it was an aberration. But for Krishna it was his lifedefining moment; he had to make his choice, he had to make his decision, he had to make his resolve. He could not let his family in shame. He could not let down his throne of the adolescent universe of Xaviers High. Moreover he could not imagine a path in life that did not go through the IIT. He stood face to face with the prospect of a life of cursed mediocrity. Krishna did not speak for the whole day, his parents tried consoling and encouraging him; it was just a mock, they told him. Krishna was not listening, he was cursing his daemons; he was banishing them from his mind. He thought through his experience of last few months; he realized that his head was getting messed up. He made cold logical calculations; he needed to get rid of his mental flights into the world of thought and imagination. He can get them back after he is in the IIT and structure them to enlighten the world with fundamental truths; but for now they needed to be banished. They need to be banned completely; he needs to discipline his mind on the exam and nothing outside. He remembered what father Mac had said, being upfront not too worried about the underlying principles or metaphysical consequences of formulas he wrote on the board. Physics is like driving, you need to learn to drive first, ignition gear break clutch accelerator steering rather than Faradays laws of electromagnetic induction and equations of thermodynamics. The idea once planted will live its own free life, blossom in its own sweet time, and if after mastering driving, enough inquisitiveness is still left; you will be able to really appreciate the underlying beauty of the formulae that run a car. He ignored the advice of father Moore who in another context had said the reverse, in the context of poetry. He had said in the class when he was teaching Wordsworth, Dont worry too much of the rules of grammar rhythm rhyme form diction meter, if you are able to connect with the poet in appreciation of the beauty of his expression; the rules of aesthetics will fall in place automatically. What is more important? What comes first? Rules or beauty, beauty of rules, rules of beauty? What about Words? What about spellings elucidating the beauty of Etymological World? What about Math? What about postulates of Euclid elucidating the beauty of Platonic World? Parallels dont meet; Rule is the beauty; He wondered whether the two advices oppose each other; and Numbers? Counting Perceiving. Krishna jerked himself out of his confusions; he knew that it was not the time to ponder on such questions. If the examination required the
71

Alternate Journeys

brutally efficient application of roted formulas, reproduction of familial patterns embedded in memory after repeated practice of solving numericals mundane applied numericals then so be it; his mental plan was clear, he needed to do whatever was required to be done to crack the JEE; Period. And Krishna began his journey of change, one by one the thoughts were crushed, he subdued his soul bit by bit in the ensuing months. He joined the mainstream with vengeance. He turned himself into a clone warrior; he started in coaching classes to keep his studies structured and bring in the external discipline. Step in step he marched with the fellow clones. His march was steady, his stride large, and he did very well in the next mocks. For the world it just was the original Krishna back; his Rightful Position. Krishna in his march, steady with long strides, at head of the column of clone soldiers, marching towards the trenches of Joint Entrance Exam, did not wait to reflect on the irony of it all. To be the original Krishna, he was a completely changed man; the Man into whom Krishna metamorphosed from the boy Krishna to remain Krishna. ********* While Krishna marched, Kalki was also marching. While Krishna banished imagination from his mind, Kalki was banishing his own complications. While Krishna the boy became Krishna the man, Kalki was also becoming the Man. While Krishna marched with his fellow clones to the salvation of Promised Land of the echelon of elite, Kalki marched with a different kind of clone army to the Promised Land of Glorious Past which will be the Future. He wore a pair of baggy khaki shorts, spotless white shirt, and an oldfashioned khaki cap. While Krishna disciplined his senses by cracking calculus, Kalki disciplined his body by breaking the sandbag practice dummies by his lathi. His dexterity, fervor and power with the lathi became a legend in the Rashtriya Swaymsevak Sangh (RSS) Shakha of Botala Steel City. Kalki was introduced to RSS during their recruitment drive. Kalki in his drifting state of mind, struggling to shape his self-identity, hung between his past and present, trying to figure out a way towards future of an undefined political ambition, his desire to impact change, to cleanse the system of rot, Krishna busy with himself, and not many friends, he decided to give RSS a try. He liked their simplicity, their dedication, patriotism and loyalty, not too much of unnecessary discussion, simple prayers, bodily exercises, physical and mental discipline, social work, simple answers to simple questions, simple solutions to simple problems, no unnecessary complications. They were not like the regular politicians ideology-less unscrupulous greedy bunch. Kalki did not like to think much, he was a man of action; the daily
72

Alternate Journeys

shakhas of RSS provided him the vent for his urge for organization, for action, for a neatly sorted out world where he is not bothered to find his place, where life is not a multiplicity of quotidian mental conflicts, where he did not see ridicule in the eyes of his fellowmen; but pride of belonging, pride in identity. Kalki became a dedicated member, a staunch adherent and daily attendee, a ready volunteer for all activities; he started earning a reputation for himself; mention of his name trickled upwards in the organization. Krishna Kalki nowadays met infrequently; they didnt need to meet more, their friendship was already a fully grown evergreen tree whose roots were deep enough to suck ground water; it no longer needed external watering. As our boys transitioned to men, a Prime Minister was trying hard to transition a nation. White boxes with black screens appeared in the School. Seeds were sown all around the country, of a yet-another clone army and a yet-another march. These clones will be different, their march will be different. The clones will march with white boxes with black screens. They will march to the Promised Land of Future Century. Their march was yet to begin, although the seeds were sprouting; sown by the Dakota-flying pilot Prime Minister and his Cartier-wearing colleagues. The sprouts were being watered by the rock-star-haired friend who dreamed of routers which can bear the heat of land of his ancestors without air-conditioners. Settlers in this land had learnt the trick to utilize its heat to multiply in multitudes; the routers too were learning; to multiply fast enough to make up for the lost time. While Krishna Kalki realized becoming men meant choosing sides of divides, and they chose their sides of old divides, us and them, elite and masses, nationalists and liberals, logic and imagination, clones and clones. White boxes with black screens and routers which could now bear the heat sprang all over the land to foresee new divides, us and them, elite and masses, digital and analog, global and local, clones and clones. And the clone armies marched towards the promised lands of salvation. And And did the Real One smile all along? The JEE came after the plus-two boards; as expected Krishna did very well in both. He got calls from all the IITs (his rank was in the top hundred), he could choose the stream and the institute of his choice; he chose Computer Science. Iyers rank in the JEE was also in the top hundred; he chose Pure Physics. Both of them opted for IIT Delhi. Kalki did well but not extraordinary in his Boards, but he got admitted to the prestigious Hindu College of Delhi University. In Wiowin, his grades were not really what Hindu required. His admission, in no small measure, was influenced by the RSS head of Eastern India who had met Kalki in one of the shakhas and was impressed by his
73

Alternate Journeys

deftness with the lathi, passion in elocution, dedication and loyalty. Shri Ram Dayal Singh Ji, in addition to his role in RSS was a prominent politician of the BJP. He was one of the pillars of the Parivar. The Parivar had deep roots in many educational institutions in the country. The Parivar was also the leading political force in Delhi. The long hands of influence easily convinced the system to make an exception for Kalkis slightly lesser than required grades. Shri Ram Dayal Singh Ji had said to his colleague, the secretary of Delhi Pradesh BJP, Mark my words Khurana Sahib; this boy will make us proud. We need to prepare the new generation for leadership. This was enough for the wheels of persuasion to start turning. The counting of flock, fueled by money, had got Kalki to Xaviers. To prepare the flock for the Glorious Past which will be the Future got Kalki to Hindu; it was a minor aberration that the flocks were of different kinds, from different sides of the divide. The Men, no longer Boys, were soon on the Neelachal (Come to the Seas) Express going to Delhi. Suitcases and hold-alls painstakingly packed for the new beginning. Lying on the berths of three-tier-sleeper class, in resonance with sound and movement of the train, Krishna Kalki dreamed of Delhi; anticipating their new life, full of excitement. They were impatiently waiting to land in the megalopolis of dreams. In one of the bags Krishna carried the individualized captioned memento (a flying horse), that standard eleventh students gave him as per School tradition during the farewell party; the inscription read: When he speaks you feel he is the local king; Great glory his wings of ambition will bring. People in small towns of India call the cities of Bombay and Delhi Maya Nagari (the Abode of Illusion).

74

Alternate Journeys

Chapter 5 Maya the illusion

Maya walked in to the party. She was wearing a sapphire blue cocktail dress, perfectly fitting, narrowed, highlighting the contour of her waist, and then flowing down, slowly spreading, the shine of silk and shadow of pleats, swaying a play of light like wind creating waves in the sea, ending in blue stilettos walking in perfect poise. Moving up from the waist, the waves converting into passions of the bosom, held by a low bateau neck silhouette, slightly curving up to frame the shoulder, a sail ship of an explorer, floating effortlessly in vastness of the brine to find new worlds. Her emotions, that of the crew, excited of the adventure and afraid of the brim at end of the world, smile of confidence ending at edges in twitch of anxiety. The twinkle of her eyes, conviction of the captain who knows the deep, who has studied the charts, and has seen the destructive power that lay hidden in the salty sweetness of wind and water. Her hair down to her shoulders, the motion of sails against the draft, meticulously prepared and perfectly angled, to capture the assurance of direction and the thrill of speed. Mountainous feelings rising from floor of the ocean; peaks hidden by water; exposed as isolated islands only at the ebb of really low tides. The gathering applauded, Maya carried her eminent grace to center of the hall. It was ballroom of the Taj Palace Hotel in New Delhi. In the backdrop of plush carpets, extravagant chandeliers and liveried waiters were the guests, the mighty of the land, perfectly dressed for the occasion suits saris cocktail-dresses dinner-jackets in the pageantry of illusion. When the debutante came in, the charm of competing dresses faded away as the attention befittingly shifted to her. It was Mayas eighteenth birthday, and the Vice Admiral wanted to celebrate it in style no stone left unturned. Her father in a dinner jacket came towards her and kissed her, and a hug, not the bear-hug of a veteran sea-dog, but the slight fragile loving proud hug of a father and her young daughter. He looked at her; Gods conspire to create her in perfection. Her beauty was the break of dawn. Her will was the freedom of soaring bird. Her elegance was the bright moon using an occasional cover of clouds to tease the mortals. And her zest for life was the fountain of youth. A gentlemans emotion were seen, trying not to flow in his eyes, as flashes of her life, her growing up, passed in his mind. A tiny airbase, small airfield, an office building and hangars, few Sea Hawks, World-War-Twovintage fighter planes, and a bit far off from the airstrip, couple of more buildings, family quarters for the officers, and barracks for the men, the mess and next to it a small dispensary, few beds inside. Its an aviation base of the Indian Navy in an isolated islet of Andaman Archipelago, some kilometers away from the main-island town of
75

Alternate Journeys

Port Blair. The morning is already in full bloom, uniformed young men are moving around the buildings. There is double excitement on the base this morning. They have been chosen because of their special position in middle of the ocean in the middle of nowhere as one of the several official listening stations sprinkled around the globe for the Apollo Eleven mission; a rare honor to be part of history. And a child would be born on the base; they will be blessed by the gift of life in this deserted place. One of their colleagues wife has gone in labor, it came suddenly, a few days before expected, but the paramedic on base confirms everything is all right, no point in taking the boat to Port Blair; she is lying in the dispensary, her pain steadily growing; no midwives, no women nurses, no other woman. The base had family accommodations for officers but rarely did families stay there because of its seclusion. The only time wives saw the base was when they were newly married, still childless, no nursery, no school, no elaborate shopping, no emergency services required. For young couples it was an extended honeymoon amidst serenity of seas. But once the families enlarged in size, the officers moved to Port Blair, a more convenient place to raise children, and commuted by Navys ferry service to the base. Mayas mother was pushing on encouragement of the lonely paramedic playing midwife, nervous, their complete plan was upturned by sudden impatience of the child; she was supposed to shift to confinement of Port Blair Naval Hospital well in advance of the delivery date, and later shift residence to Port Blair Naval colony. But the child had a different idea. Alone in a mans world, on a tiny island, without even a proper doctor, she felt nervous in giving birth. Her husband, a young officer, an ace aviator, handsome, confident and assuring, stood next to her and slightly squeezed her hands. She felt supported in bearing the pain and smiled. Suddenly the couple and the helping paramedic heard loudspeakers being switched on; hazy conversation droning on mixed with moaning of labor; difficult to make out the dialogue, but for the broken small sentences and time lapse between alternate sides of the sound. It was the idea of a young radio-officer cadet to celebrate the twin event by connecting the radio receiver to a loudspeaker, and a mike in the dispensary; everyone at the tiny base will have a moment to remember; and Yes! They did! The creators of Eagle Module (the lunar landing craft) working separately from the spacesuit team ended up creating a landing hatch narrower than the backpack of the spacesuit. Eagle berthed, Neil Armstrong used all his strengths to push through; to Landfall in the New World; in pleasure of birth palpable heartbeats of NASA monitors hit against the roof; groans and grunts of pain was heard on radios of the
76

Alternate Journeys

Mission Control. In the tiny island base, exactly at the moment when everyone heard ONE STEP FOR A MAN the loud speaker wailed a shrilling GIANT CRY OF A WOMAN; a Girl Child was born; YES! At that very moment, Maya was born in a Mans world, of pride of uniforms, of flying contraptions capable of firing death; in middle of an ocean, in the middle of nowhere. Reality became more mythical than imagination; a large tidal wave of emotion rose in the distant oceans to welcome the illusion. Maya mother, in a shining elegant silk sari, graceful beautiful, no one can say she is mother of the birthday girl, kisses and hugs her next, wishes her a very happy birthday; sense of exhilaration of an artist viewing her creation, perfect after years of punctiliously detailed labor. Yes! There was no other way Maya could have turned out to be; not even if the dreaded dreams of that winter night had come true. Winter of Seventy-one, the Country is at War, men are at sea, ladies gathered in the naval-base mess in Port Blair; the savory cocktail of pride, mixed with bitter of anxiety and fear. Her husband is already a war hero, a war-rank promotion, his planes are all over the News, flown from INS Vikrant, created a Diwali over Cox Bazaar, and a Holika at Chittagong port; the seas are secured in tight blockade of East Pakistan; sorties from the ship are helping the ground operations; but there are rumors; a brew of mess talk and media news. The pakies have send Ghazi East to sink Vikrant, the long-distance killer submarine, The chinkies are mobilizing across the mountains, Pakistan desperately appealing to China, India China Pakistan remember the humiliation of Sixty-two, The yanks are sending a big taskforce of ships to intervene, Pakistan and U.S.A are official allies, CENTO bloc, The Soviet nuclear submarines are trailing the American taskforce, Indira has recently signed a friendship treaty with Soviet Union, This is not going to end like this, it will get the whole fucking world sucked in, the World War Three. And The ground operations are going well; soon Sam will be in Dhaka, and Ha! They thought that the Western Front will give them respite. Indira should order us to do the same with them in West what we are doing in East. And Also The taskforce has Enterprise; man! This bloody Nixon fellow is serious, and We are preparing for suicide missions. Mayas mother had a hard time making her two-year-old go to sleep, and then be able to sleep herself, and when she finally did, the nightmares; a Single Mother, a Small Child, a difficult cruel world. She looked at Mayas father, love and nostalgia of all the years spent together, she thanked god for hearing her prayers in those winter nights, thanked him for returning her husband a hero rather than not returning at all. Maya, in glance of her eyes, saw her parents hugging each other, while responding with smiles to wishes of the guests lining to congratulate her
77

Alternate Journeys

arrival to adulthood. Mayas father thought about his family, but did he think about them in the briefing room abroad INS Vikrant that evening, when the Captain had asked him to stay back for a private conversation? The Rear Admiral (Commanding Officer of the Eastern Fleet flying his colors on INS Vikrant) had called for a briefing of all officers aboard ship except those on emergency stations. INS Vikrant was flagship of the Eastern Fleet, and led a taskforce comprising of a group of vessels enforcing the naval blockade of East Pakistan. Officers from nearby ships were also brought to Vikrant by its choppers; this indicated to everyone that it was a serious affair. Mayas father, the young Lieutenant Commander elevated to the wartime rank of Commander, headed the bunch of planes and pilots abroad Vikrant. The officers gathered in a large briefing room; large map on the wall and rows of chairs facing the map wall. They understood the reasons and gravity of such all-hands briefing in middle of the War. A yet to be disgraced President and a yet to be graced Secretary had got too berated by the Bitch and her Bastards making a mockery of their Pets in South Asia and decided she needs to be taught a lesson. The Rear Admiral, the Flag Captain and their adjutants sat in the front row; rest of the officers settled down in eager attention. Gentlemen, we have some news for you. An adjutant started the proceedings. The ship had received information and instructions from Naval Headquarters in Delhi, a direct communication from The Chief of Naval Staff. The adjutant started reading the transcript of Admirals message. I apprised Madam today of our estimates about the Taskforce 74 (Flagship USS Enterprise, Nuclear-powered, largest Aircraft Carrier in the world, More than seventy aircrafts abroad). The adjutant continued the headquarters assessment of the U.S Ships coming to threaten them Destroyers Frigates Amphibious Attack Vessels; an intimidating array. The Taskforce is moving slowly, at this speed they will be in striking distance of Bangladesh Coast in seventy-two hours, but if they make up speed, they can arrive as soon as thirty-six hours. A pause, people in the room trying to sink in the message in silence; the Big E herself, Gods curse on the Bitchs Bastards. The stated objective of the Taskforce is to rescue Americans trapped in Dhaka, and help in evacuation of Pakistani forces. Another pause, it can be read as tantamount to full-fledged intrusion. Madam assured me that all diplomatic efforts are being made directly and through offices of friendly countries, to prevent any third-party intervention in the War. She has assured safety of all Americans and other Foreign Nationals in Dhaka. However, she has made it amply clear that if any fire is directed
78

Alternate Journeys

towards any of our vessels, or if any ship enters, or a sortie flown, over Indian or Bangladeshi land or territorial waters unauthorized, then all U.S ships should be treated as enemy vessels. She has authorized the Naval Headquarters to take all actions required, including firing in anger at U.S Ships if they breach peace. Madam has also authorized the Naval Headquarters to order Kamikaze missions if we assess it to be the proper tactic. Instruction for the Eastern Fleet and INS Vikrant is to continue the blockade of Bangladeshi ports. Stop sorties to support ground operations. Air Force will take care of that from land bases. Conserve aircrafts and ammunition, and prepare for a possible clash with the U.S Taskforce. The Command is authorized to take appropriate actions based on the situation at sea. Finally the word was spoken, not in rumors, but in official communiqu. The officers heard and watched in silence. A navigation officer started speaking next, marking estimated positions of all known Pakistani, American and Soviet ships and submarines in the region and its periphery, on the large map. He then marked positions of all Indian Navy vessels. The Flag Captain of Vikrant spoke next. Gentlemen, you heard what was said; I expect all of you to be prepared and ready for all eventualities. I know I can trust you to stand up boldly in face of any adversary; and when the time will come, none of us will fail our test. The briefing was dismissed. The Captain asked Mayas father to stay back. What do you think of it Commander? He asked when the room emptied. Kamikaze missions (suicide bombings of ships by airplanes), was first adopted by the Japanese in World War Two. Every student of war, every officer in military, knows that these operations were not very successful against the U.S ships; they were able to do very limited damage to the mighty U.S Navy. Both, the Captain and the Commander being questioned, knew that the aircrafts abroad Vikrant were similar to the WW2 Japanese planes; Vikrant herself was a WW2 Royal Navy vintage; while the U.S ships in the Taskforce 74 were much enhanced and of a more modern generation; it will be an uneven match. I think Sir! To make the strike most effective we should fly a group of planes together and fall on the Ship one after another in quick succession. It will increase our chance of kill. We risk our crafts being lost, but its a risk worth taking. Sir! I propose to lead the first batch of planes myself, if it comes to that. The Captain smiled, I like your spirit, and dismissed the young officer. More than sixteen years later, the parents felt happy seeing their young daughter graciously thanking the guests. Mayas father (recently promoted
79

Alternate Journeys

to the rank of Vice Admiral), host of the party, had two causes to celebrate: the coming of age of his lovely daughter and his own meteoric rise in the naval hierarchy. He had become part of the ruling establishment. It was also his own arriving in the echelons of power party. The guest list included the Who is Who of Delhi society, and prominent personalities celebrities and industrialists had flown in from Bombay. The Chief of Naval Staff, Admiral and his wife congratulated the proud parents after wishing a happy birthday to Maya. The naval couples made small talk about how time flies so fast. It was almost six years ago when Mayas parents had come to Delhi; as a newly promoted Rear Admiral her father was posted to the Naval Headquarters, and then on deputation to the Ministry of Defense and subsequently to the Prime Ministers Office. But Mayas initial years of growing up were in coastal towns of India; wherever Navy had a base. She was fascinated by the sea, which since her childhood told her stories, stories of her life to be. She had seen in the waves striking the shores, the beauty she will create for the world. The waves had told her she will grow up to reconcile the struggle of sea and shore. The shore had told her she will know its strength of being your own when the mighty seas are pushing you back. The ocean had promised her to ride the winds to faraway exotic lands of exceptional exquisiteness and elegance. She grew up jumping from school to school, making every few years a new set of friends, seeing a new setting of the world, becoming independent and adventurous, but also longing for permanence, the sadness of leaving the friendships so carefully built, behind. Mayas best friend was Sunday, spirit of the sea, the child cherub who talked to her in her imagination and dreams, who grew up with her to become her guardian angel. She wrote letters to Sunday, sharing all her secrets, all her joys and sorrows, all her complaints. But Sunday was a secret; none of her friends knew; she didnt even tell her parents about him. The only time he was mentioned was her diary in which she wrote letters to him. The diary was gifted to her by her father when she was nine years old, her leather-bound journal, velum cover with gold-thread embroidery on borders, and her name embossed on the front face. It was her most precious gift, used only for her letters to Sunday. It was during middle school that she started writing to him, because earlier she could talk to him directly; they had played together on the beaches till slowly growing up out of innocence made him more of a mental construct, an imagined pen pal, rather than her real friend of whom she has fond memories of splashing in waves and building castles in sand. Having done with the elders, Maya is free to be with her own friends; teenagers, high-schoolers and just-in-college boys and girls. They have gathered at a corner of the massive ballroom. The youngsters are equally
80

Alternate Journeys

impressed, they wish her happy birthday. They mostly are her classmates from Modern School, just started in twelfth grade; but also among them are elder and younger bunch, neighbors, family friends and children of her parents social circle: sons and daughters of the mighty; the heirs, the next generation. Maya is talking to Sejal, her closest friend (a classmate from Modern). Sejal is telling her about all the boys continually looking at her, she is making comments to her in whispers, proper only between two eighteenyear-old girl friends, not for anyone elses consumption. They are giggling, full of their teen. But the boys, sensing the topic of whispering conversation find it hard to sustain their smiles, they are feeling week in their knees. Maya goes around, hugs and kisses, praises and wishes, giggles and smiles; she is enjoying being the center of attention. Also enjoying the occasional twinge of jealousy in some of the eyes, Boys for her talking with other boys, girls for boys talking to her. There are cocktail waiters going around, drinks and snacks being served, many of Mayas friends would like to have more than colas and juices, but there are elders, parents, they will soon get their chance when the party breaks into different groups after the cake is cut and dinner served. The guests are still walking in, timed in the pecking order of social hierarchy. Coming late is a status in Delhi, lets the world know you are important and busy; among the really big shots, only the admiral has come; others are trickling in. Delhi is a city of power; the top of civiler of glitterati consists of ministers, politicians, powerbrokers, dealmakers and bureaucrats. In the next bracket are lordships and lawyers of the Supreme Court, editors, generals, air marshals, admirals, and the Czars of public enterprises. And after that are the celebrities of art and glamour, artists, literary personalities, fashion designers this group doesnt have real power (the only currency that works in Delhi), the Show Business is for Bombay, but they are still spotted in most of the parties; they have an ornamental value for the host. Also seen in the parties are Bombay industrialists who fly down for attendance in the durbar of mighty. Delhi does not have large business families. Capitalism is for Bombay at best a necessary evil but cannot be allowed to pollute purity of the city. It is the city of fabulous parties, of great wealth of socialism; blood sucked out of promises from the wretched masses of the hinterland flow in the form of graceful drapery of dresses and saris of ladies of Delhi society. The jewelries were designer, handbags from Louis Vuitton, but the socialism was still from Marx; irony was imagined, but the beauty real. Clothes were what Maya loved about these parties. She saw the reflection of her childhood seas in designs and patterns. She saw movement of waves in swing of the skirt. She had a natural sense of style. Girls in her
81

Alternate Journeys

school rushed to be her clones; to march in her steps; the march of salvation by beauty and fashion. A European looking woman, Mediterranean features, walks towards Mayas parents, everyone around suddenly become self-conscious and stiff, she congratulates the proud parents, they are honored, she addresses Mayas father but is talking to both of them, Admiral Sahib, what a show you have put, what will both of you do for her wedding! The Vice Admiral is charmed by the compliment, he replies with a wide smile, Maam! You will have to wait for that. There is a few minutes of small talk and pleasantries, and then he asks hesitatingly, Will the Prime Minister be coming, Maam! He told me he will, but he will be late. You know the last few weeks have been hectic. Replied Sonia Gandhi; The children didnt want to wait. Rahul and Priyanka moved towards the younger group. Maya rushed towards them. She was happy that they came it was always a big fuss for them to go out. She noticed the safari-clad Special Protection Group (SPG) officers moving silently among the guests. Priyanka exclaimed seeing Maya, You are looking so pretty! They hugged and exchanged pecks on cheek. Rahul shook hands with her, Happy birthday! Maya hugged him slightly. Rahul smiled, he remembered the first time he had met Maya as a twelveyear-old. Maya, a year older, was thirteen. He had seen her growing, turning into a young woman, while he himself grew up. (Getting out of school for home education; having a group of men and sniffer dogs surrounding him every time he left home; living in the artifice of hollowness in the core of absolute power.) That day when the world shook, grandmother was shot, everything was topsy-turvy, he and his sister were crying silently in Priyankas bedroom, away from the crowd that had gathered all over the house. Priyanka bedroom was the only place which was not invaded, and Maya was the only one allowed to be with them. When Mayas parents had shifted to Delhi five years ago, it was a difficult transition for her; Delhi was an exile from her world of seas and shores, waves and sands. Delhi was an entry into the world of clothes and men, and world of the Dynasty of Destiny. Indira was very fond of the Rear Admiral (heavily decorated officer, war hero of Cox Bazaar and Chittagong); she liked everyone and everything that made her Durga. Indira introduced Mayas family to her Sons family. Both set of the no-longer-young parents, with growing-up on the verge of teenage children, became fond of each other. It was recently that the First Children were removed from their schools for home schooling (the threat to their lives too grave for them to remain normal school-going kids). The Family, knowing the awkwardness of the situation, wanted to do their best for them. Maya was a young girl, new in Delhi, her set of friends from Navy
82

Alternate Journeys

towns left behind. Rahul, Priyanka, and Maya effortlessly became good friends; this drew the parents even closer. (And of course, everyone likes to be friends with a war hero or the son of a Prime Minister.) Over the years, though Maya occasionally visited the Gandhi children, she slowly drifted away having her own gang of hang-out friends from her new school. Going to the Prime Ministers House and being indoors was not her idea of fun. Maya once again moved towards the elder crowd, fresh guests had arrived and another round of formalities of hello happy birthday you are looking so pretty thank-you was waiting to be performed. The dinner was being laid out in a buffet on a series of tables adjacent to a sidewall of the ballroom; the cocktails were continually being served. Hello, Sonia Aunty, Maya greeted Sonia Gandhi. After an exchange of birthday greeting and thank-you, they chatted about her dress. Suddenly there was another hubbub, Amitabh Bachchan walked in. Young people at other corner of the hall thronged him. Amitabh that day was not his normal self, he looked visibly vexed, there had been trouble with financial scandals and he had offered to resign from the Parliament a few days ago. He maintained his cool with the crowd, chatted with them for a while and moved towards center of the hall where Maya was standing. He wished Maya. He then greeted Sonia; there recently had been embarrassing media stories about both families; Maya felt a wall of formality growing between them. (Walls that have capabilities of separating generations of fondness, walls that cover in their shadow: the memories of a wedding, a homecoming, praying with each other next to hospital beds, solacing each other in front of funeral pyres; flowing recitation in poetry of life; and memories even from before the days of tryst and destiny.) Stepping in to ease the conversation, Maya asked, Why didnt you bring Shweta and Abhishek Along, and Jaya Aunty? You know, their schools are open, they are in Bombay. He said in his famous voice, in an unconvincing tenor, and despite its fame the voice could not hide the lingering awkwardness. Amitabh moved on, other guests tried to say hello; everyone dissimulating the past week didnt exist. Maya was approached by a foreign gentleman, his fathers friend, a good-humored nice gentleman, Adnan. Look at my beautiful lady, you will make the world turn, very happy birthday. Adnan said passing her the gift, a small gift-wrapped box; Maya wondered what would be in it. Adnan was always the one who brought her the most expensive gifts; she had fond memories of staying with his family on their European vacation; a raconteur, who made everyone around him feel at ease, and there was always an air of joy that he carried. Adnan was part-owner of the upcoming Fashion House of Paris, creations, which owned the Jean-Pierre
83

Alternate Journeys

brand of clothes and accessories. Guests started having food, lavishly spread out in a buffet, choice of continental and Indian, prepared by the best chefs in the city. They broke out in small groups around the hall, eating, drinking, and chatting small talks about large matters. Finally the Prime Minister arrived. There was another horde of SPG officers who got into the foyer, commandos surrounded the hotel, the air became tense, the split-up crowd congregated around him. Rajiv the Lotus was in visible vexation that day tensed-up angered tired a very different man from the images of few years ago; his smile, his innocence, trampled by bulldozers of politics; his friends cousins close-associates abandoning him like falling ninepins. He had retaliated in fury; he had realized the nature of his destiny; every generation needed to do Her cleansing. Mayas birthday fell in the very week of climax of political crisis of Rajivs government. He had just fired his Defense Minister along with the rebelling group. He did not know who was a friend and who was a foe. But as soon as he saw Maya, for a moment he had a smile on his face, he was the gentleman again; a smile, a very genuine smile, not that of a politician, neither that of the Prime Minister, but that of also a father; he tapped Maya on her back, So young girl! All set to become an Adult. With laughter he added, Never forget to vote Congress. The crowd laughed along in relief; it was the moment of Maya. The crowd once again split in smaller groups, the general audience was over, and it was time for the personal audiences. There were smaller rooms adjacent to the main ballroom, plushly furnished with luxurious sofas and antique tables. Rajiv moved to one such room with his entourage. People were rushed in and rushed out across the sharp gaze of SPG commandoes standing on the door. There were a lot of matters to be addressed; it was a messy week and there were pressing needs that could not wait. Moreover the occasion had given the cover for most people to come together, everyone being at one place at one time with the convenient excuse of attending a birthday party; keeping the hounding dogs of media at bay. The Vice Admiral knew of the opportunity and the guest list was prepared after several consultations. In Ouathom, In Wiowin, in the side room where Rajiv the lotus sat, there were several conversations. Irritated accusations, mutual betrayals, angry discussions, timorous officials and panicking dealmakers. Moving monies between hills and seas, scuttling trails of illusion, lists drawn for further cleansing, old men left in lurch by the Cartier-wearing boys returning to do Her bidding. Deals, revenue cases, petrol refineries, mentions of names, circles of espionage, arms, oil, funds in faraway and nearby lands; the Great Game of Money and Power; and Rajiv the Lotus let everyone see his transformation to being the worthy son of Indira India
84

Alternate Journeys

Durga. Soon it was late night and the party started breaking out, guests started leaving, the young crowd left for the club in the hotel, the elderly went home, and finally the commandos moved again when the First Family of India said their goodbyes. That night the Vice Admiral found it difficult to sleep, he was in thoughts of his daughter, choices he had made, the lurking scandal. His wife tired of the evening hosting switched off the light and slipped into the bed beside a waking husband. She knew not to ask questions and went to sleep. He remembered the days when life was simple, choices were straight forward; he didnt take blink of an eye that day to make his proposition aboard Vikrant, he wouldnt have taken a split second to carry out the action if time had come. Oh! The beauty of black-and-white world before it got crowded by gray. He had wanted a boy, fate decided that his wife could not bear any more child; but he always had his Maya; she would stand on the bridge every time he took her aboard a ship, and make his world come alive by her, AY AY Skipper!, he had felt dismal that she will never stand on watch aboard a Navy ship guarding the Pride of the Nation; he had wished she was a boy. With Mayas growing up his fancy faded and his daughter became the joy of his life. He wanted to make sure that she will always be the beautiful fragile child. He will create a world for her where she will never know agonies of life, the ways of men. He thought about the conversations in the side room of Rajiv the Lotus; he thought about Maya walking into the party; he felt thankful that she was a girl, she will not be touched by dirty dealings of men; she will bring beauty and joy to the world. He tried sleeping, slowly struggling, haunted by the specter of firing guns and sinking submarines, muttering in his sleep; Its a Bloody Bad Business. That night Maya went to her room happy of events of the evening. She looked in the mirror for a few minutes and changed. In her bed she took out her childhood diary and started writing: Dear Sunday, You should have been here today. It was a great party. I got sooo many compliments. My dress was fabulous. You would have loved seeing the way the guys went crazy. Ha, ha! I could see it in their eyes. I love the importance they give me, but to tell you the truth, I really dont like any one of them much. They are all so full of themselves and their dads, all plastic. I miss the seas, Delhi sometimes is so artificial. I know I had promised to you long back not to crib about Delhi, but I am not cribbing, only that todays party made me remember you, our beaches and waves. What I really like about Delhi and its parties are clothes, you should have seen all the dresses and saris today, they were all so lovely. You know the
85

Alternate Journeys

only boy I care for is Rahul. He is so shy, he does not have any airs, does not speak much. But I know he likes me, he will not even mention it, never accept it, but I know, I can feel it. One can always feel these things. I like him too, he is a nice guy, but I dont love him. I cant imagine myself being trapped like him. You know sometimes I feel sorry for Rahul and Priyanka, it must be a difficult life, not to be able to be normal children, normal teenagers. Not to be able to build castles in the sand. But I know both of them are great guys, they will be all right. I wish they had more freedom. It was really good for the whole family to come. Everyone in the school will talk about it tomorrow. Even Amitabh Bachchan came. I can never forget my eighteenth birthday. Adnan again brought me a very nice gift, he is so nice, and I really dont believe all the bad things they write about him in the newspapers these days. I dont want to believe. Sunday, sometimes I feel afraid of becoming an adult, feel fearful to find out how really the world of adults work. You should have seen Rajiv uncle today, he was so serious, everybody was afraid, but he was very nice to me. Do you think all these things they write about him these days are true? I dont want to know, I dont even want to read the newspaper. He has got too many enemies. They are all evil. I am waiting for the year to get over when I get into college. I want to be in a hostel, live separately, alone, so that I dont need to think about all these. I will be free. I can visit mom and dad once in a while. They had such good collection of Champagne and Wines today, but I really could not drink much, just the toast. They really thought it was my first time! I will be free once I am on my own, no more pretensions. I hope the months pass by fast. Maya slept continuing the conversation in her dream. ********* The colleges of Delhi start their sessions in autumn. The Indian Institute of Technology (IIT), Lady Shri Ram College (LSR) and Hindu College were all filled up with excited freshmen from all over the country. For the freshers the first few months of the college life was like a child exploring a new world. There were joys, there were shocks, there were revelries and there was alcohol. The seniors threw welcome parties; bashes for breaking ice and booze for crushing it. Aside of the parties and alcohol, the three colleges were very different. At the IIT Krishna realized that the JEE was the beginning of the march, just the mobilization, he now stood with the grand clone army, a legionary marching in ruthless steps of grade points and quizzes. His transition was complete from the explorer of Botala to the marcher of Hauz Khas (well of the elite), where once was the aquatic retreat of the Royal Family, where now stood the IIT campus. He had banished his daemons, left them in Botala to haunt other susceptible minds.
86

Alternate Journeys

The only thing he carried across the bridge from his boyhood to manhood was his secret of control. He had perfected the use of masturbation, like blinkers around a horses vision, as means of rejecting any thought not central to his march. Kalki found politics in Universitys student organizations. He joined Akhil Bhartiya Vidyarthi Parishad (ABVP), the student wing of the Parivar. He joined the RSS Shakha nearest to North Campus of the University (where Hindu college is). As a first-year student he was a lowly foot soldier in ABVP, but he did not complain, he arduously took to the tasks assigned to him (mostly pamphlet distribution), with utmost sincerity. Maya saw a world full of clothes at LSR (a girls-only college), the most prestigious of the womens colleges in the University. LSR is not among the colleges in the university campus but it has a separate campus in Lajpat Nagar. Maya joined the fashion and design club. She was still not in the hostel (her parents were completely against the idea of Maya staying on her own while they are in Delhi). Maya knew that it was not an easy battle for her; but in time she will win it. Even without shifting residence, college was a lot more freedom for her. She was enjoying being out of school, out of fixed-periods uniforms restrictions. As soon as the first-year students of fifty-odd colleges in Delhi settled in their new life, the season of festivals began. Festivals of the colleges are a grand affair; the whole university becomes one large continuing party for weeks before the winter break. Each college tries to outdo the other in putting up the best gala. Rock concerts, fashion shows, dance floors, mixes with theater, art exhibitions, debates and elocutions. Tarang, the festival of LSR was one of the best. The women put up a real grand show. The firstyear ladies did most of the preparation and legwork; Maya was the lead in organizing the famous LSR fashion show. It was a grand event, real designers and fashion houses of Delhi were involved. It was a platform for them to hunt for talent and display their latest designs to the trend-setting youth of the city. Maya was the center of this universe; she was liasioning with the fashion houses and designers; she was conducting the auditions, organizing the rehearsals, arranging the setup of catwalk, lights, music, floors, and backrooms. She was not able to sleep in anxiety; she was obsessed for perfection. ********* Krishna Kalki met infrequently during the first months in Delhi; IIT and Hindu are at opposite ends of the city. The festivals were a good time to catch up and hang out. They had much to talk and share about their new lives. Kalki dropped by to Hauz Khas and they took a Delhi Transport Corporation (DTC) bus to Lajpat Nagar to visit the LSR festival. Out of the IIT (an acute shortage of women in the clone army) into LSR festival (the most beautiful young women of Delhi) was a complete
87

Alternate Journeys

disorientation for Krishna. His eyes were a continual sparkle, and neck a spring which nodded in full drooling circles while he checked out the chicks. He wasnt able to make up his mind on who were the prettiest. Skirts and jeans, T-shirts and tank tops, low cuts and long cuts, midriffs and neck lines, sleeveless and with-sleeves; a riot of colors on the canvas of gaiety. Dance music was playing through the high-decibel speakers; there was a wooden floor where some students were shaking hips in tune of the beats. Everyone was trying to impress everyone else. It was the place to see and be seen; world of the young and hip of Delhi. There was a public announcement stating start of the SHOW. Kalki Krishna moved with the crowd towards atrium of the main building where the fashion show was being held. A carpeted makeshift stage and ramp was erected with pallets. Ladies, gingerly selected for their beauty grace presence style, dressed in most fashionable attire, wearing stylish accessories and confident attitudes, started walking down the catwalk. The crowd roared in appreciation. Streams of swank student models rolled in one after another, women watched in awe, men ogled. The music was captivating soul. The beats touched the heart while the show enchanted the senses. It was an enthralling forty minute which flew like moments. The final speeches commenced, Maya came up on the podium and read the general thank-you list, the designers and models were acknowledged, a grand ovation followed accompanied by shrieks whistles sounds, all cumulating in a roar of approval. Maya was pleased; she accepted the ovation and along with the participants, smilingly bowed to the crowd. Krishna was enamored of the organizer, who he thought was prettier than the models. He had a lurking image of the radiant presenter when he walked out of the atrium towards the food stalls. He tried hassling his way into the crowd at the soft-drink counter. He wanted to have a beer, but only soft drinks were sold openly during the festivals. Annoyed by the un-orderly horde he waited in patience. Destiny conspired with cupid to reward his forbearance; he saw Maya in the crowd. His patience was gone. He was excited, hundreds of possible opening lines flashed in his mind dramatic humorous literary foolish; he moved towards her. Hi! Krishna burped with half a glance towards her and half towards the soft-drink stall, You had a great show. Maya turned towards the sudden impingement in pursuit of her welldeserved drink. Hi, thank you. The crowd at this stall is not that great though. Krishna mustered confidence and continued the mutter. Why dont you hang outside? I will get you a drink. Maya could not resist her smile, Thats very chivalrous. I dont mind being relieved of the hassle. I will have a Pepsi; thank you.
88

Alternate Journeys

Krishna finding himself on more solid ground smiled back, You are welcome, and he let his eyes connect to hers; the eyes exchanged smiles. Krishna came out of the crowd with two bottles of the recently launched Lehar Pepsi. He passed one to Maya, not knowing what to say he said The show was really great. I thought we were already past that one. She replied with a smile which was slightly flirtatious and majorly mischievous; I am Maya, she offered her hand. I repeated the compliment because I really meant it, I am Krishna. Krishna said as he shook her hand. When young strangers of opposite sex meet, the first introduction is physical impression. Maya with her stilettos stood as tall as Krishnas fiveeight. She was wearing a semi-formal pant-suit as the master of ceremonies, black stylish fit, complimenting her curvaceous figure. Her shoulder length hair was let down in waves. Her dusky skin declared its suppleness without a touch. Her eyes were large and deep. Her light brown eyeballs flickered from smile to mischief to mystery in an intoxicating sequence. Her thick lips wore a light lipstick and hosted her infectious smile. Krishna, deprived of womens company in IIT, was already heart-throbbingly attracted. Krishna himself was fairly good looking. He was in blue jeans and black T-shirt. Handsome guy, Maya thought, a few inches more of height and he would have been a real hunk. When handsome strangers of opposite sex find each other attractive, the rites of introduction start; the ritual at the university festivals was presentation of arms and badges. Which college? Maya asked. The divide among the young women of Delhi University was those who liked the IIT types and those who thought they were nerds (who did not know who Michael Jackson was). IIT, replied Krishna; silently and wishfully praying for her to be on the right side of the divide. Wow! A rocket scientist bought me a Pepsi. Well! outwardly embarrassed and internally elated, Krishna replied, Not exactly; a budding computer scientist though, creating the aura of an elite alien intelligence he asked, What about you? LSR, first year, Psychology honors. They were getting along well. The chemistry started kicking in. She studied how humans think; he studied how to make machines think. Her passion was crafting of clothes, his was the craft of nature. They sipped on their Pepsis and chatted about the festivals, the ones that were over and the ones that were lined up. Krishna was relaxed, the initial tension of
89

Alternate Journeys

acceptance passed. He was telling Maya about the plans for the festival at IIT (Rendezvous), when Kalki walked in. With smile of the victor, coveted trophy in hand, Krishna introduced Maya Kalki. Kalki recognized Maya from the presentation, Hi, nice show. Thanks. Maya replied as their eyes met in stare. Two sets of deep eyes met trying to fathom each other. While the lips exchanged polite smiles, the eyes could not see it, they remained locked in each others mystery. It was an awkward moment, the world was still and time stopped for that fraction of a second, then suddenly simultaneously impulsively both moved their eyes away in sideways glance. One thing they both instantly knew, the introduction was over, there would be no rituals of badge presentations, there will be no rites of mutual compliments; but just be an un-crossable void, with two people banished to the opposite sides. Maya was relieved when some of her girlfriends came by. Where have you been? We are looking for you, we have an impromptu backstage celebration party for the participants and the organizers of the show, come on. Maya didnt know whether the invitation was a thorny distraction from her conversation with Krishna or a relief from the unnerving presence of Kalki. It was Mayas turn to show off the trophy. One moment, I will be with you, meet my friend Krishna. He is from IIT. The friendship, few sentences old, was presented as a battle won; she heard the murmur of the coming weeks; her friend from IIT. The girls all said hi, shook hands and wowed; the currency of IIT, a shining medal proudly worn by Maya. The girls left and Maya prepared to leave. Krishna was agitated by the turn of events, he wanted the time to stop; he wanted to keep watching Maya smile while they rambled on trivia forever. He felt the panting of parting and faltered, Can I call you sometime, he finally said. Oh sure, I would love that. Maya gave him her phone number, they said bye to each other and she left. She glanced towards Kalki on her way back; from the corner of her eye she saw him staring at her. Krishna could not sleep that night. He lay awake with images of Maya floating in his imagination and the conversation of the evening repeating in his brain. He had never felt like this before. This was very different from his youthful crushes of schooldays. His body was burning in desire, his emotions filled up with love, his mind trying to rein in his thoughts, cautioning him that he had just met her, she might end up not liking him, it might not work out. Krishna was no stranger to his emotions and thoughts running in multiple directions, these were his pet daemons which he had learnt to control by calming his senses and dissipating his energies by
90

Alternate Journeys

masturbating. But that night he felt a different hardness, that night he could not masturbate. His time-tested leash of taming his thoughts was failing him. Krishna could think of nothing but Maya, he could see nothing but Maya. He lay awake the whole night dreaming of the encounters he will have with her, lines he will speak, things he will do; finally she would be impressed and in love, finally she would be his. He could not wait to call her, he decided not to rush. He tried sleeping, but got up and lighted a cigarette. The intensity of attraction created the opening for the daemons of past to seep in. Krishna once again was not in control of flights of his mind. The exhilaration of love led to speculation of rejection. Then love came back and rejection followed. Krishna finally tired and exhausted by his flight of fancy slept while the dawn was breaking outside; Dawn that has the beauty of Maya. Maya returned home that night excited and tired, the day was climax of weeks of anxious preparations. The show was a success and she was praised by everyone for her wonderful work. It was her day of glory. She shared the story of triumph with her parents before she hit the bed. She lay on her bed drifting towards sleep, half dreaming and half imagining events of the day. She saw the applause, she saw the chivalrous IITian who was not a rocket scientist but a budding computer scientist, who bought her a Pepsi. She saw the smiling face calling her, she saw her own smile. Kalki went back to his dorm. He did not acknowledge his mates when they waved to him. He took out a small packet from his drawer, rolled a joint and got stoned. He did not know when he slept, and he did not remember what he dreamed. ********* Krishna finally called after three days. It was Wednesday evening. Her mother picked up the phone, he asked for Maya, the phone clicked, the receiver was put down, another click and another receiver was lifted. He heard the voice; the sweet voice of Maya. Remember me, Krishna from IIT; we met at the LSR fest. Yes Mr. Rocket scientist, I thought you will never call. They say in my college that IIT types are more interested in machines than girls. She said laughing. Krishna imagined the face behind the laughter, I dont know what an IIT type is like, but what I know is that at this moment my only interest is to ask you out. Hmmm, proposition for a date. What do you want to do? Lets watch a movie. Which one?
91

Alternate Journeys

Die hard. What do you boys have with violent movies? Well it was just a suggestion, which one do you want to see. Krishna thought of chick flicks currently showing, cursing himself for being not prepared. I dont want to see a movie, came the reply, We hardly know each other. I would rather hang out and talk, than sit through a movie. Acting pricey! So she wants to interview me to check whether I fit the bill, Krishna thought. Suits me fine, lets just hang out at Connaught Place and eat dinner. How about Friday evening? He asked. Ok, pick me up at five. Where do you stay? Maya started laughing, she gave him the address. They chitchatted for few more minutes, said bye and hung the phone. Friday was to be the Mayaday for Krishna. Thursday he could not focus on the lecture; he was indifferent to his classmates. He passed the day in suspended animation, going through his routine like a robot. In the night, when he was alone in the bed, his mental flight began. He underwent the chore of struggling with his thoughts and sleep, and finally slept. He overslept and missed the classes next morning, but by afternoon he was in his prime again. He was in the shower for more than forty minutes. He wore a pair of blue jeans, and a white slim-fit half-sleeve shirt. He did not take the public transport to Mayas house. He was feeling special and hailed an auto-rickshaw for all the way from Hauz Khas to Central Delhi where Maya lived with her admiral father and socialite mother. Seeing Krishna engrossed in his own world, the auto-wallah attempted the most common con trick, he drove through a circumvent route for the meter to climb. Krishna had a lot of time, he didnt mind, he was enjoying the fresh autumn wind wafting in the sites of Delhi; his imagination lost in anticipation of the evening. The rick arced around India Gate and took the Raj Path, it was a pleasant site on a lovely day, the central avenue of grandeur and power, flashes of the Republic-Day parade seen on T.V came to his mind. The waters of boat club, small rowboats with tourists, and colorful clothes, all added to his excitement. The roads, lined at both sides by canopy of trees, radiating in and out from large roundabouts with green lawns and artistic sculptures in metal. He passed by the government buildings, abode of the Raj, sovereignty of the state, the corridors inside bustling with destiny creation of masses who can never peep in. The Presidents House, outdoing even palace of the Queen; the Jewel in her Crown; the Secretariats, North and South Block, and the Parliament; the Greek Columns of Karma. Central Delhi is the dwelling of authority, lavish and green with large
92

Alternate Journeys

bungalows. As the rickshaw raced towards Jahangir Road, Krishna felt the majesty of the area; neat clean peaceful roads not the general chaos and filth of outer city freshly painted zebra crossings and road signs. (The freshness of paint on stripes of New-Delhi roads marks the frequency of routes which VIP motorcades pass.) The sign plates of familiar names, police pickets in front of the gates. Military guards in ceremonial dress marked the houses of generals and admirals. Mayas parents lived in one such house. He reached the address. He was stopped at the gate by a six-foot jawan. He introduced himself. An orderly went in to announce the guest. Maya came out to receive him; she was wearing a pair of loose shorts and a loose-hanging T-shirt. He walked through the walkway of perfectly maintained garden. The lawn was lush green, the trees were flawlessly trimmed. The flower plants manicured and the walkways pedicured. Krishna was led into a lavish drawing room connected to a large hallway which led to the bedrooms of the singlestoried British-style bungalow. Her parents were not at home. She ordered for tea promptly brought by a dressed butler. Krishna realized he had come earlier than agreed; he sipped tea while Maya went inside to change. Maya came out in a long Rajasthani costume. Rust-colored long skirt ornamented in black and red, a motif of mirror-work at the rim, a matching blouse with similar patterns. She was still brushing her hair. She wore long earrings of thin metallic wire rounded in concentric circles. Krishna complimented her dress and jewelry. Noticing her earrings, he thought of the proverbial twisted Jalebi; layers of personality in concentric circles; he wondered till how deep in the labyrinth will he be allowed to go today; he thought of his own mental maze. Why are you smiling? She asked. Your beautiful ensemble is making me happy, he flirtatiously replied. They took an auto-rickshaw to Connaught Place. It was a pleasant autumn evening. The colors of Delhi were on wide display. C.P was filled with young couples hanging out, holding hands, walking in no particular direction, sitting on the corner benches, eating ice creams and chats. Krishna bought ice-cream cones and they walked along the main pathway. She told him about her love of clothes, commented on the dresses of women around. He told her about his childhood dream of discovering the grand unifying theory of physics and his maturing in to studying the more practical computer science. When is your birthday? Maya asked, Krishna was glad for the question, he knew it was for knowing the zodiac pet theme with girls but it was his chance to tell her his claim to fame, much greater than any zodiacs influence on man. I was born at the moment when man first landed on Moon.
93

Alternate Journeys

Maya was dumbstruck, she did not know how to react, What kind of joke is this, have you been snooping on me? Krishna didnt understand, Why will I snoop on you, and its not a joke, my birthday is on Twenty-first July, and if you know your G.K right, moon-landing was on Twentieth July Nineteen Sixty-nine, during the night in U.S, which was the morning of Twenty-first in India. Maya very well knew her general knowledge right, she wasnt able to comprehend the information; she wasnt sure whether he somehow came to know about her birth and is playing a trick. She thought about it for few moments, she will of course find out, and if it turns out to be a joke, this whole thing will end, there will be no heartbreak as nothing has started, but for now she will let it go. Krishna got uncomfortable by her silence; he didnt know what happened to her suddenly. What was so wrong to be born on a special moment? Not knowing what to say he asked, And yours? Maya smiled, she had decided to give him the benefit of doubt, heart in her heart she wanted to believe that it was not a joke, I was born at the exact moment of the moon-landing too. Krishna suddenly got the context of her comment and silence. It was eerie, it was impossible; what will she say if she knows that she is the third person now, in an exclusive club which is already getting overcrowded. I dont believe you; its too much of a coincidence. If you think I was joking and that is why you are making this up, you are welcome to check my birth certificate. He pretended to be irritated, And by the way, do you remember Kalki, the guy whom you said hello at the fest, he too is the same time of moon-landing. It cant be three times possible; same moment. Maya wondered about Kalki, yes she remembered weird eyes; is this some kind of hallucination, joke or connection of destiny; she did not know; three people born at the same time suddenly meet. Weird isnt it? Maya Krishna said simultaneously. Simultaneity of the comment suddenly released the weirdness of simultaneity of births; both of them started laughing. Maya told him the story of her birth, repeated to her several times by her mom and dad; the moment when Neil Armstrong spoke his famous words over a loudspeaker to an island full of men and two women; mother and daughter. Krishna Maya, even before the conversation and realization of joint birthdays, had started liking each other; the sparkle of historical coincidence accelerated the process. Krishna was surprised how comfortable they became. He hadnt thought of sharing anything close and personal on the first day. He was glad they didnt go to a movie but stuck to a talking date. He appreciated her intelligence and decision. She told him about the
94

Alternate Journeys

schools she went. He told her about the giant plant in the steel city of Botala and the school run by Jesuits. They bared the chronology of their lives with only the most intensely private moments remaining hidden. They had hit it pretty well; the chemistry was perfect. Time flew past, fast in supersonic motion. It was only when it got dark to force the realization of passing time that they broke out of their blissful conversations, random walks, and multiple icecreams. They dined with alacrity at a Tibetan stall momos and noodles. Krishna dropped Maya to her house. On his way back he bought a crate of beer and few packets of cigarette, it was one of the happiest days of his life and his mates at the IIT were going to get a treat. It was Friday night; the boys in the dorm had a blast. It is not often that an IITian dates an LSRite. The beer soon gave way to rum and the boys took chances to tease Krishna, poke out more details about Maya from him. Krishna was enjoying it. Life had suddenly blossomed. It was as good as it can get; admission to IIT, beautiful girlfriend, loyal mates, and icing of parties with alcohol. What else can anyone ask for? His illusion, the Maya, was complete; he was in LOVE. That night Maya wrote to Sunday about the sweet guy she liked and about the weird coincidence. She did not know what to make of it; was it a profound sign or a trivial fluke. And to top it, there was a third person, whom she did not like from the very first instance she saw his eyes. Maya hoped that Sunday was real; he could have explained the meaning of all this to her. ********* Krishna Maya met often, they started going to movies together, they hung out in the most fashionable places of Delhi Connaught Place Chanakya Puri Vasant Vihar. They eagerly waited for weekends when they could spend the whole day together, and go to clubs in the evenings. There werent many avenues of clubbing open to young people in Delhi of Eighty-eight, the few general nightclubs and discotheques were in five-star hotels. There were private members-only clubs which once in a while hosted a disco evening. Maya had membership of defense clubs, and she easily managed to get passes for the five-star-hotel nightclubs. Krishna saw the visible advantages of having a Vice-Admirals daughter as your girlfriend. He got a glimpse of Delhi high society in these evenings. They enjoyed their clubbing, Maya introduced Krishna to her friends, boys who had pursued her earlier, and emphasized in the introduction that he was from IIT; IIT was a prize even in the circles of power and money. Love blossomed as their mutual attraction grew like free birds soaring in romance. It was one Friday night in a club when they were dancing, the DJ put on a number from Thriller. Krishna was in his mettle; Maya couldnt
95

Alternate Journeys

believe her eyes when he defied gravity to slide across the floor in groovy moonwalk steps surprising everyone. Where did you learn to do that? Maya asked in disbelief. Oh! Its nothing, I am a big fan, used to practice in school. Krishna replied with an air of boasting modesty. Well! Who will believe an IITian does this. She said in appreciation of various talents of her many-faceted boyfriend, making sure other people in the vicinity equally impressed by the move heard it. The stamp of IIT made the step even more fantastic. How many IITians do you know? Krishna asked. Not many, but everyone knows they are nerds. Maya replied jokingly. Well, you should come over some day and meet the nerds; check for yourself. The music changed again, they focused on dancing and the conversation faded. A slower number, they held hands while they danced, their bodies brushing with each other, both felt the sensation and wanted it closer. They were soon dancing in a slow rhythm holding each other in a hug. Krishna was looking into her eyes, she was smiling. Maya thought of her friends who would be watching; Shall I, Shall I Not. Those days in Delhi a kiss was enough for setting the gossip machines on fire. She didnt care and let her face closer to Krishna, he responded with coming closer himself, their lips brushed, next moment it was locked in a kiss, a short sweet kiss. Maya quickly browsed around while they continued dancing. It seemed fine; the world continued rotating like normal. The boldness of normalcy made them kiss a second time, longer deeper, it was pure bliss. For rest of the evening they continued dancing but did not kiss again; too much public display of love was sure to cause a scandal. ********* The kissing in the club was smell of blood to hungry predators. They could not wait for another chance when they could kiss again. Open display of affection was not very acceptable in the public places of Delhi. He asked her one Saturday morning, whether she would like to visit the IIT. She would be thrilled to be in the world of rocket scientists, she said. The story was IIT but anticipation was the kiss. They took a rick from Lajpat Nagar to Hauz Khas. On the way he told her about his mates at IIT, the crazy world of projects and quizzes. He talked about weird projects, he told her about white boxes with black screens, the white boxes which were dumb but the black screens which would beat the smart shit out of rocket scientists in a straight game of poker. She was hardly following, and he hardly knew what he was speaking, because the story was about white boxes
96

Alternate Journeys

with black screens, but anticipation was the kiss. The white boxes were black as she did not follow what he spoke, and the black screen was white as he spoke only to cover his excitement. He was like a young prince taking his new princes to his kingdom. Boxes black and white, screens white and black, kingdoms real and imagined, projects weird and not so weird, anticipation and excitement, all jumbled up as they started laughing together while the rick raced to Hauz Khas. IIT campus was grand; the institute buildings student hostels, teachers quarters, academic blocks, administrative wing, and labs of all variability in vicinity of each other. They got down at the main gate, and walked around holding hands. Krishna introduced her to his classmates who they crossed. He showed her the academic block, he took her to the labs. Machines, wires, chemicals, and boxes white and screens black, lay all around. It was a whole new world for Maya, very different from her world of clothes. But she sensed a similar passion like hers for clothes in the students loitering around, working with equipments, jockeying and merry. Some noticed Krishna Maya, while others labored at their ardor in oblivion. Krishna introduced her to few more of his friends. She was in midst of the IITians, and completely contrary to her expectations, it was not a clone army. The colors of their clothes were all different, the styles different. There were shirts full sleeves and half. There were T-shirts round neck and polo. There were jeans fresh and torn. And there were shorts and trousers. The divides that we create, the divides which make us clones, are divides which we imagine. Maya found that IITians were not aliens, she thought she should have guessed; after all she knew Krishna for some time now. He was the sweetest little human, her human; her man with whom she anticipated the kiss. They walked to the dormitory and climbed up a flight of stairs to Krishnas room on the first floor. As soon as the door was shut, the lips were locked and the eyes closed. It was peace, it was spiritual, it was sensual, it was arousing. Time stopped as they stood there, Maya leaning to the closed door, Krishna hugging her, their lips moving in a joint rhythm, their hand caressing each others back. Tongues met, taste melted into imagination. They parted for breath, and kissed again. The second kiss was shorter and worldlier. Maya walked up to the chair next to the desk with a desktop computer, and sat. Krishna sat on the bed. They again chatted about various things. Krishna stood up and walked up to the table. He started the computer and turned Maya towards the screen. He showed off the wonderful games he had programmed; the graphics, the movement. He promised he would write a program for her to create patterns for clothes. Maya was mesmerized; their bodies touched, graphics flew on the screen, current flowed in their flesh. Krishna was standing behind Maya, his
97

Alternate Journeys

hands around her to reach the keyboard while she sat on the chair. His hands moving on the keyboard rubbed against her full breasts, her breath became deeper, her chest pushed against his arms; passion climbed the trellis. He pulled her out from the chair, they started kissing again, sliding slowly on the bed. He started caressing her breasts. Love blossomed in vernal bosoms. Her hands opened the buttons of his shirt to feel the burning body; bodies burning in fire, heads spinning in desire, souls tangoing in tandem. It was the first experience for both Krishna Maya, so close to making love. Anxiety started kicking in. Maya had a flash of virginity guilt, red and bloody. Her hands removed Krishnas shirt. Krishna removed her top while they kissed again. The world moved in overdrive, fears and passions from deep within the secret depths of consciousness bubbled up to the surface. Maya tried remembering when her last period was; was today a safe time. She thought, no one ever got pregnant by caressing breasts, kissing lips and hugging skins. She reminded herself to draw the line at the right time. Krishna unhooked her bra. Her breasts, nimble and supple, full and round, firm and erect suddenly lay bare. Krishna saw for the first time unclothed breasts; he looked with eyes full of desire; memory from deep flashed in his mind, reminding him that it wasnt the first time. The rape of the Sikh girl in October of Eighty-four, which he had witnessed in horror and cried, flashed in his memory and disappeared; in the flash he saw the breasts exposed by tearing away of clothes by madness, he couldnt remember the face, haze of the trick his brain was playing on him descried the face was Maya. Mayas bloody virginity guilt and fear of pregnancy were taking their own toll in her thoughts. They were two heads on seminude bodies in cuddle, connected in their own vibes, the subconscious playing tricks with their minds. They broke out of embrace, Krishna had a perplexed look, Maya not knowing what was going on in his head thought he was upset because she resisted. She made a cold statement, I think I am not ready. Lets give it some more time. I am not on pills. Krishna, realizing his secret was safe and Maya didnt think of him as a last-minute loser, smiled. He made it seem like he stopped because she resisted. He nodded that they should give it more time and let it happen naturally. Maya hooked her bra back. Krishna, bare-bodied, lighted a cigarette. Maya asked him to pass the fag as she finished putting her top back. Krishna passed on the cigarette, I love you. I love you too. Maya replied as she took deep puffs to let the nicotine calm her anxiety.
98

Alternate Journeys

Krishna did the same. Soon they were back to being normal loving humans; fear and passion, guilt and violence, were buried back in their rightful archives.

99

Alternate Journeys

Chapter 6 The pact

Krishna had thought that he had vanquished his daemons during his crisis and struggle of JEE-preparation days. He had thought IIT made him enter a world of sanity. He had thought Delhi was not Botala. Botala was where the windowpanes were broken. Botala was where the long hair of the father, which was as long as his daughters, was burnt; where breasts were no longer breasts. He had thought Delhi was another world. Delhi was where the labs were. Delhi was where Maya was; after the incident of aborted lovemaking, Delhi became where illusion was; where daemons were. Krishna knew he will have to make a final pitched battle to kill his daemons for good. He feared he would become a psychological wreck if his mental flights into the dark world do not stop forever. He wondered why it was him to have the paranoia. After all, there were many boys who had similarly difficult adolescence. After all, he was not the only one who had smoked pot and done mischief during his teens. And there were others around the world who had seen things at a tender age, things which should not be seen. His vain genius told him all was vanity; the wounded vanity told him it was the curse of genius. Doubt made him imagine more things seen and unseen, from worlds past which were not remembered. He wondered whether he should seek professional help, whether his fixation for masturbation was a symptom. He shivered as the dreams of grandeur turned into imagery of mental asylum. He didnt want to go crazy, he was not mad, he will not become mad; madness is violence, witness is accident. He wondered of his obsession with grand unifying theory. He reasoned, there had been many physicists fixated to finding the Holy Grail of all sciences; no one found it but none went mad. He wondered about his childhood fantasies of ruling the world. He reasoned, do not, most boys of a certain age imagine themselves as generals at the head of marching armies, marching in conquest of the world, and do not, some of them never grow out of their imagined uniform? No one ruled the world, but none went mad trying it. He reckoned that his experiences and thoughts were not uniquely his; he wondered whether he was becoming a clinical narcissist. Krishna was getting more befuddled as he tried to think of ways to control his daemons. Common sense was pushing him to seek help. Pride honor shame and imagined divides were pushing him for a private fight. The divide was us and them, normal men and women and women and men with mental disorders. The divide was imagined but a visit to the shrink will be real. What will the world say, what would his parents think, and Maya who was majoring in psychology, will visualize all kinds of twisted tales. He
100

Alternate Journeys

can keep his counseling secret. But how can he hide it from himself, how can he dissimulate a double life. The conversations will be imagined but the visits real; what if his secret leaks? Krishnas strength came back, he knew he had beaten the daemons once, he knew he can kill them, once and for all. No cobbler is going to shrink me ever, he thought bitterly; after all he was Krishna; he will conjure the daemons, he will conjure reason; he will have a conversation; he will fight and he will win; once and forever. For next few weeks Krishna lived a double life, during the days he would attend classes and labs, during the evenings he would hang out with his mates or go out with Maya. But when he was alone in his bed in the night, when lights were switched off, he had his conversations blanketed in silence; dialectic with daemons in the drapery of darkness. A severe crossroad, an endless abyss, all facts of existence losing relevance, memory and thought, a fraud played to deceive, social programming, hard wiring ethos, motivation of life, everyday victories in regular battles; grand conquests of imagined wars. He struggled to make sense, and then he saw the face, an old man with gray hair in backdrop of a science-textbook picture, a dense gray moustache, the image, result of imagery built of perception, but relaying a meaning never before perceived, the flitting face of divine, neither blue of Vishnu or Shiva, nor white of Brahma, face of the eccentric professor. That moment he knew he can never lose; destiny is not the purpose, but path; a never-ending path to infinite; purpose is the travel, not destination. And slowly the conversations started turning to conclusions. He concluded the fallacy of absoluteness: absolute power, absolute knowledge, absolute love. Perfection is not absolute; it is a state of evolution. Thoughts are imagined, actions real. Destination is a myth and destiny is the present. Dialectic is circular; conclusions are imagined; Rules are Real. Soon Krishna was prescribing RULES. His thought patterns started metamorphosing into well-crystallized canon, the fundamental principles by which he will live his life; the fountainhead which will be his rock anchor source. He will not let anybody know what he thinks when he expresses himself; he will not let anybody see what he feels when he touches himself. Life was no longer a mystery; it was a Joint Entrance Exam that needed to be cracked. Krishna had aced the JEE to come to IIT, he will face life to go nowhere; Journey is the destination. He is the warrior whose credo is to fight, not to ask to be or not to be not to mourn defeats and not to celebrate victories; but move from battle to battle. Krishna constructed meaning from the meaningless nights, lying on
101

Alternate Journeys

his bed staring in the dark. Then he had the final revelation. His daemons were his. His life was theirs and theirs was his. He cannot kill them if he lived. His mind was their playground and their fights were his mugs game. Civilization created sports to be civilized; the passion is frenzy from inside the Colosseum; the violence is an amusement from outside it. So the daemons nor killed neither vanquished were cursed and blessed to be the gladiators. Krishna made his pact with the daemons. He would let them live and fight in the playground of his mind, but the world outside will be proscribed, they will not tamper the rules he wrote. From inside the head, violence will be real; but from outside, dialectic will be entertainment; Krishna drew his Line of Control. ********* Meanwhile Maya was having her own sleeping troubles. She continued going out with Krishna, the rendezvous however were in public places, and with difficulty they stole out opportunities of aloofness to indulge in a kiss. But the kisses were becoming unsatisfying, her body and soul was begging for more. Whenever she met Krishna her night was disturbed. Her body burned imagining the next steps from the incident at the IIT dorm, her head held out. She challenged the kernel of her womanhood, the concept of love, notion of virginity; it was her gift to be born a woman, to feel the beauty of the world and to complement it with her own. Religion and taboos of sex are myths created by patriarchal society; but her gift to bear child, create life is sacred. It is also her gift to have the vitality of life to talk to the waves of her childhood shores. It is promise of the waves that she will be the wonder of her world; an instrument of her freewill; her life a work of art; she tried reconciling her gifts and promises; her desires and fears. Marriage is a ritual; love is real; real is chemical. Does she know what love is? Does Krishna know what love is? Do they love each other? Love is imagined, lovemaking real. She remembered her first period, her anxiety, her mothers assuring presence. Would she be betraying that assurance, if she slept with Krishna? Her father, the foundation, on strength of which her will soared free like a bird. Would she be betraying that strength, if she slept with Krishna? Will Krishna be marrying her? Can future be known? She was not even twenty. Will she be marrying Krishna? But does she need to think about marriage? Did she not love Krishna? But her periods were real, the blood real, virginity real. The gift of being a woman comes with its burden. Was she living in the past? Was not the revolution of women real? Confused she prayed to the waves to show her the way and slept. She dreamed of Krishnas lips kissing her, his body over hers, they had become one as t heir skins melted into each other. She felt wet as she dreamed Krishna inside her. The waves told her: her gift was to be free, free from herself and free
102

Alternate Journeys

from the world to soar like a bird; to be the beauty of the world. Maya woke up next morning feeling free of conflicts. She called Sejal, who had joined a medical school in Delhi (Maulana Azad), to fix a time to meet. They met during the evening at Sejals place. How is your college going? Maya asked. Oh! You should have seen the scene at first day of dissection. They had a dead body with parts cut in different fashions. It was so eerie that few girls puked. You cant imagine how I controlled myself. How is yours? How was the fashion show you were preparing for? It was great; I had so much praise from everyone. So whats the scene with you, any boys? No yaar! Its terrible. Only books, bloody boulder-like books! I curse the day I thought of doing medicine. No! Medicine is great. Tell me, have you already covered something about the pill. Maya said abruptly. In Ouathom, the pill was the revolution that burned the pyre of Bigappala. Hmmm! Sweetheart, we know each other for five years, why do you have to go in circles? Tell me what is cooking. Sejal smiled cunningly. There is this guy, nothing much, but in case, you know, it is good to be informed. May was irresolute. Sejal could not control her laughter. This is so not Maya, since when did you bother about correctness of things to be so discreet. Anyways, I will do a bit of reading and do counseling for you. Is the day after tomorrow fine with you? Maya waited impatiently for the days to pass before she met Sejal again. Sejal had referred all related stuff in her medical textbooks. She introduced Maya to the latest version of the pill along with a complementary list of dos and donts. That afternoon Maya was at the pharmacy; she made her pact with the pill; she will live life on her own terms, she will be free of guilt, she will be free of loss, she will do what her heart desires; Maya crossed her Line of Control. ********* Krishna Maya were outwardly the same but profoundly changed personalities after they made their private pacts with the daemons and the pill. The energy of their relationship was intense and their lovemaking natural. They no longer needed the confines of public places and freedom of aloof spots. Most of the weekends Maya was at the IIT during the days; she became a part of Krishnas life and friends at IIT. Krishna introduced her to Iyer, who told her stories of the school at Botala. Iyer had become a typical IIT type and Maya finally met an IITian
103

Alternate Journeys

of her perception. Iyer was always busy in labs; he brought all the stuff he made and showed them to Maya. Iyer walked in with a weird-looking object in his hand, a few feet of metal and plastic, in shape of a half-cut egg, with the flat broader part having wheels covered by plastic strips, like metal over wheels of dozers and tanks, let me introduce you to R3D3, Iyer said putting the machine down with its top tapering up like narrow end of the egg, This is Maya, our charming princess, and this is R3D3, the prince of Space, and suddenly R3D3 started moving, Iyer had a smaller box-like device in his hand with a long aerial coming out. R3D3 went all over the corridor, Iyers fingers administered instructions on the remote control, Say good morning to Maya. Good Morning, R3D3 followed in a mimicking voice; everyone laughed at Iyers latest creation. Maya enjoyed the world of IIT, very different from her world of Delhi parties; Iyers Robots, color-changing liquids, deliquescent solids, chessplaying computers; she loved the energy and enthusiasm with which Krishnas friend showed her their lab projects; for the boys it was rare that a beautiful girl showed interest in what they did. Mayas enthusiasm and zest was infectious; she became popular and much-loved among Krishnas IIT friends. Maya also liked IIT because it gave her the private moments with Krishna. The privacy of Krishnas dorm room was the playground of clutching passion and an intimate amorous living space for two individuals. Sometimes they weaved snugly patterns deciphering hieroglyphics of love on Krishnas computer, at other times both will just be on their own, engrossed in their books catching up on lessons of the class, and at times there was spontaneity and they made love, natural passionate love, one soul two bodies. It was sex of love. Love was their beauty; love was their reason; love was their passion. ********* It was Mayas turn to introduce Krishna to her friend, I feel like an inferior creature with two of you, doctor and engineer. Maya said jokingly after she introduced Sejal to Krishna. Sejal liked Krishna, he made sure to humor her; the three of them saw a movie together. Hmm! So, he is the reason why you wanted to know about the pill. Sejal teased Maya when Krishna left. What do you think? You are a lucky girl. Maya Krishna were progressing from being in love to being madly in love. They started liking each others likes, and disliking each others
104

Alternate Journeys

dislikes; except for two exceptions. One such exception was movies. Krishna liked the imagined fantasies of science fiction and war movies from swashbuckling Hollywood. Maya was a romantic, and she liked the songs and dances of make-believe world of dreamy Bollywood. Earlier Krishna had concealed his contempt for contemporary Hindi movies to woo his girl, but they were now declared boyfriend girlfriend; he no longer felt pressured for deception. How snobbish, I dont like Hindi movies. Maya teased him. I used to, but I just stopped watching them after Amitabh Bachchan joined politics; nowadays even he cant make a decent flick. Oh-O! Do you know Amitabh Bachchan came to my Birthday party? Oh yes, I do, and also Rahul and also Priyanka and also the Prime Minister. You dont need to be rude just because they never came to your party. No, I am not being rude, just that it reminds me of my father, every time we will pass his college look Krishna papas school, at some point I got irritated. Both of them started laughing. OK! Well! You know, in Botala club we used to have an English and a Hindi movie every week. Krishna continued, getting back to the topic of cinemas. Lets do a deal, we will watch an English movie and a Hindi Movie on alternate weekends; middle ground. Maya briskly proposed. Fine, suits me. Krishna readily agreed. They went to see Top Gun next weekend, new Hollywood star everybody is talking about. Maya really liked it. Well I must admit that they do sometimes make good movies. Tom Cruise is so cute; I will buy his poster. Good you are learning to appreciate quality. Next weekend they went to watch Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak. New Bollywood star everyone is talking about. Krishna remembered his JEE preparation, when the Papa Kehte Hai song came up right in the beginning; he connected, there was unsulliedness about the movie, he liked it. So, you were sobbing! Maya challenged wiping her own tears, when they came out. No, I was not. Krishna said stubbornly. Oh come on, be a man, own up! she coaxed laughingly. Ok, I admit that once in a while they do make a good flick in Hindi; Amir and Juhi looked so fresh. He fathomed succulently.
105

Alternate Journeys

Do you love me the way Amir loved Juhi? Yes I do, more than that, never try me out. I know! I will not! After the discovery of their mutual ground of movie likings, there was only one exception left. The second exception was Kalki. He was Krishnas best friend, but Maya did not like him. She could not tell it to Krishna because she herself did not know why. His eyes do something to me was too vague. Hidden from her and Krishna, Kalki had the same feeling. But Krishna not knowing the mutual dislike wanted his girlfriend and his best friend to know each other. He invited Kalki when they went out for movies or concerts. Kalki first tried avoiding the invitations, but he soon ran out of excuses. We met at the LSR fest, Krishna talks a lot about you. Maya said when one weekend Kalki finally joined them. I hope he is not sharing secrets. Kalki smiled looking at her; there was awkwardness as soon as there was eye contact. What secrets do you have? Maya said glancing towards Krishna, away from Kalkis eyes. Nothing, he is just joking, Krishna said. They continued their conversation normally. Maya Kalki soon realized that if they dont see into the eyes of each other they were not that repulsive, and can talk like normal humans without the unnatural tension. Krishna told me that you are with ABVP. Will you run for the students council? No I wont, I am not really into elections myself. I am more on the organizing side. Ok, I am not into politics, not my cup of tea I suppose. I am part of the fashion and design club at LSR. Oh yes! I remember the fantastic fashion show you hosted in LSR fest. Maya liked the compliment, You remember? Of course I do, it wasnt ages back. That evening they saw a movie at Chanakya, and had dinner afterwards. Kalki Maya talked about themselves with each other; Krishna liked it, they connected well; there was no longer an exception left. ********* Weeks became months and months became year. Vacations came and went, terms started and ended. Winter became spring and spring became summer. While the seasons changed and illusion blossomed, Maya befriended Kalki. Often the three of them met together. There was love
106

Alternate Journeys

and friendship in all its youthful glory. Knowing the secret of avoiding eye contact, Kalki Maya avoided their ambivalence and gelled pretty well. But the instance their eyes met even accidentally, they got discomfited and in split the eyes turned; freezing the moment in flames of mystery. They both had deep eyes and their stare had a fierce glare. As soon as their eyes connected they had a life of their own, different from their owners. The eyes became two wild animals in adjacent cages roaring in furious confrontation and violence to break out of the confine. The moment passed thawed in coldness of fury; their owners suddenly pulled the leash and heads turned away. Maya Kalki were uncomfortable at first, but soon learned to live with the aberration. They developed their own secret tricks to avoid eye contact while otherwise being completely normal and friendly humans. Nobody noticed the awkwardness. With practice Kalki Maya became confident of their friendship and control of their eyes; Krishna was happy that two of them became good friends. Summer turned to autumn and our lovers and friends became seniors. A new crop of boys and girls came out of schools from over the country to seek admissions in the university to become women and men. The year jumped but the routines were the same. The seniors hosted welcome parties where alcohol flowed; bashes to break the ice and booze to crush it. Krishna mentored freshmen at IIT in easing them into the world of high science. Maya showed the beauty of haute couture to new members of the fashion club at LSR. Kalki canvassed for recruits for ABVP. The new students settled in their life of academics, fashion and politics topped with parties and alcohol. Autumn turned to winter. The time of festivals came again. Maya wanted to hook up Sejal with Kalki or Iyer. Why dont you come along? You may like one of them. She invited. Sejal, Maya Krishna Kalki and Iyer went college hopping together during the festival season. The novelty of courtship celebrated its anniversary and the expense of ricks was no longer necessary. The five of them crisscrossed Delhi in DTC buses. (North Campus, South Campus, IIT, DCE, AIIMS, MAMC, Law-fac, Osmania, JNU nothing was untouched.) They hung out in various colleges, they were in movies during days, they were in parties during evenings. It was a great time, best days of their lives, no restrictions like school, freedom of university, still not final year when the burden of a career and worldly matters need to be addressed; only thing required is to pass into the next year; rest is all fun. So what do you say? Maya asked Sejal. Sejal liked the two guys, but she wasnt attracted to them. Your boyfriend has specimen friends, one is a rocket scientist, and another is a political activist. Doesnt he have friends like himself? She joked. *********
107

Alternate Journeys

After the festivals, once in a while they still hung out in full group, but these became rare as Iyer and Sejal (more academic oriented), started dropping out as the exams neared. It was mostly Maya Krishna, but sometimes Kalki came along. The familiarity of friendship tempted Maya to tease Kalki. She would let her eyes look at him and wait for his eyes to connect. She would notice the invisible twitch in his facial muscles as he would immediately turn his glance, he would notice the invisible smile on her lips as she would let her eyes linger. Every time Maya teased him with her eyes, Kalki got disoriented for few seconds; he felt the humiliation of the tease. Maya enjoyed the game. Whenever their eyes met, even she felt the intensity and the urge to turn, but Kalki was always the first to shift his glance. She enjoyed her victories and thrill of the secret forbidden tease. Her eyes smiled mockingly at Kalki; both hid their game from Krishna. The days passed; excitement of the game accentuated. Kalki mustered courage from humiliation to let his eyes be still for the moment. Maya immediately turned her head away; she was shocked into horrifying gaze. The game went on becoming better as the players grew their skill by practice. Soon Kalki Maya were letting their eyes connect for seconds, before one of them impulsively blinked away. Their eyes and the rest of their being became different. While they continued being normal friend and lover for Krishna in oblivion, their eyes played a different tune. They themselves did not realize the duplicity of their being. On days when the game was pushed to the edge, Krishna went home and slept happily in his dorm, Maya slept while her eyes lay awake haunted by another, and Kalki went back, rolled a joint and got stoned; he would not know when he slept and he did not want to know what he dreamed. It was one such day. They saw the evening show at one of the CP Cinemas, and went for dinner at a restaurant nearby. Maya really enjoyed the movie and was completely pepped up. She was at her best in the game when they lighted up their cigarettes outside the restaurant, after dinner. It was night and they stood by the street light at the corner, smoking. Maya positioned herself in a way that her shadow blinded Krishnas view of the eyes; hoodwinking the oblivion referee Maya heightened the tempo. Kalki could not bear the stare, for a few seconds he held, but soon blinked and moved out of the shadow and took a deep puff. He was stiff, eager to complete the cigarettes and call it a day. Maya turned towards Krishna, getting back into the conversation which was not interrupted by the mystery of the eyes; Kalki saw the invisible smile on her lips. They finished their fags and left for their respective homes. It was already late. The bus Kalki took towards North Campus was almost empty. Few passengers, who were there, got down at intermediate stops and almost none came in. Kalki sat in the back row, his eyes haunted
108

Alternate Journeys

by another and his body preparing in anticipation of the drug. He saw a girl in salwar kurta sitting in one of the front seats. She didnt get down in any of the en-route halts; she must be from the university Kalki figured; he wouldnt be the only passenger remaining till the end. But that was not how it went. At ITO, the last-remaining passengers got down and he remained alone with the girl and the elderly driver. As soon as the bus started moving, a bunch of young men jumped in. They were laughing and talking loudly, they were five of them. It was apparent that they were returning to the University from a drunkards brawl in town. They started abusing the bus driver, the girl got nervous. The driver continued indifferently. Kalki sat at the back as if he did not exist; waiting to get to his room; waiting to open his drawer. It soon became clear to Kalki that the men were not students and not going to the University. They started passing lewd comments on the girl in front and chortled clamorously. They were the usual eve-teasers; lumpen hooligans; goons of the streets of Delhi. Kalkis senses became alert as two of them stood up and moved towards the girl. Their salacious steps drunk and abusive voices loud. She sat silently looking the other way. The driver pretended an empty bus. Others, now encouraged joined the two. The girl became a nervous wreck, five drunken ruffians with bloodshot lecherous eyes surrounding her; the bus moved at a constant pace. Suddenly one of the men pinched the breast of the girl. Till now the harassment was oral; the hand on the breast was the first physical contact; shameful streets of Delhis darkness; notoriety of nonexistent. Kalkis eyes saw the hand on the breast, his mind flashed in the image of burnt-alive father and gang-raped daughter. His body demanded the drug. His vision and perceptiveness, mental and physical, were cemented by the haunting humiliating smiling eyes of Maya. Kalki became a maniacal wild animal. There were five of them, he was alone; they were drunk, he was berserk. The moments passed in scanty flashes, continuity of time was broken. There was a scraggy aluminum strip in the window, an end hanging out detached. The sinewy aluminum strip was no longer there, it was snatched by brute force. There was a scrawny aluminum strip in Kalkis hands, with iron screws that connected it to the windowpane hanging out. Kalki was standing behind the men, Kalki stood in front of the men; shrieks louder than laughter echoed in the bus; vision and images, humiliation and anger, incite violence, but causation breaks as soon as it starts; violence has no logic, basic barbaric being, violence has its own logic. The ferocity and frequency with which the scrappy aluminum strip with screws hanging at its impudent edges scurried bludgeoning the bones and skin of men teasing the woman was unseen before; the victims of
109

Alternate Journeys

tormentation by metal were no longer the cause of fear for audience of the girl and driver witnessing the unfolding madness; they shivered to imagine that such power, such anger, such a man was possible. The driver stopped the bus in panic. The road was relatively empty and the bus stood on one side. The driver jumped out and ran in fear. The hooligans ran out; they were hurt and bleeding badly. The girl walked out crying; tears of fear and shame; she moved towards the nearest bus stop to find humanity. Kalki was a robot; he came out last, and like a machine, impassible and cold, started walking towards his college; he did not know whether he was hurt, he did not want to remember what happened; violence was his high. ********* The term-end exams came closer, rendezvous of the group stopped, even Maya Krishna met far less, travelling itself was a severe time-killer, and as usual, in the last weeks approaching exams, time was always in short supply. The guys in second-year IIT were busy in the labs; it was the time for demos of their projects. Students from different faculties were scheduled to present over a week. Krishna was in the laboratory because it was the turn of Iyers team to present. IIT had its own gods; they were not from the Family or from the Parivar. They were the alumni who went to the land of dreams, and their myths were the Rockets they build to fly to the imagination of space and the Routers that connected the emotions of earth. One such god was Sam the Telecom, he had returned to build the Routers that can bear the heat of Karma, and connect the rage of Souls. Sam the Telecom was invited as the special guest and judge for the projects, the final ones selected for public demonstration. The students looked at Sam in awe long rock-star hair talking to the Dean. Sam was a friend of Rajiv the Lotus; he was spearheading his dream of flying chariots that take you to future. He had left a successful business to work for the Government of India. In IIT it was not only his hair, but he himself who was the Rock Star; students presenting were nervous of the presence of god. Iyer unlike Krishna, had not selected an applied stream of engineering like computers, but had stuck to more general science. He was majoring in pure physics. The pure science guys were among the exceptions in IIT, they were the nerds of nerds. Iyers group was presenting a claimed breakthrough in optimizing the heat engine. Students laughed as he spoke and Sam and the Dean smiled. Everyone knew he was crazy, and here he was proving it by being a second-year student claiming a breakthrough discovery in thermodynamics. It is the law that the energy is conserved and the entropy of the
110

Alternate Journeys

system always increases, Iyer started, I dont challenge that, but what is important is the rate of increase. He then wrote equations on the board which everyone knew, the thermodynamic cycle of internal combustion engine: fuel getting converted to heat, heat getting converted to motion, energy getting converted to energy, randomness of the system increasing, world losing meaning with increasing entropy, perception of increase in order being created by bounding the universe into multiple systems, even as work gets done and order created in one view of the world, in a larger view it results in increased agitation, outside the narrow world of order. All of you are familiar with what was just said as an introduction, Iyer turned to the audience after completing the equations on the board, Our proposition now is that, It is possible to tweak the system enough to reduce the rate of increase in the overall entropy. Needless to say that such a situation will increase conversion of heat into work substantially, and reduce the loss of energy available for work. We propose to build a set of such equations and demonstrate by an example a Heat Engine more efficient and optimal than what we have today, there was slight murmur disbelief fun anticipation. Iyer wrote the second set of equations on which his proposed engine will work. And then the finale: he brought a small improvised engine and put it on the lab table. The engine was made of aluminum, size of the cylinder was small (about a foot long), but the peripheries (sparkplugs, carburetor etc.) were dismantled from an old motorbike and were all life size. The tweakings in the equations on the board translated into tweakings in the current flow in the sparkplug, and oil and air flow in the carburetor. Iyers group had prepared several ingenuous tricks to achieve this; it was the core of their project. The other end of the piston was attached to a small motor that showed RPM readings. First we will run the engine with normal fuel injection and sparking, and take the readings, after that we will connect this device to the sparkplug and carburetor. He held a complicated maze of metal and wire in his hand, some of the wires connected to a lead-acid automobile battery lying on the ground, and others hanging with variety of ends clips insertions bolts. With this we propose to run the fuel and current injection as demonstrated in the second set of equations. The first run of engine went smoothly. The RPM readings were duly announced and recorded on a flipchart for everyone to see. Iyer started connecting his quaint funny device to the engine, all eyes watched in struck silence of anticipation; has Iyer the genius really cracked the code of the world? The engine started once again, the cranking sonorous reading amplified as the piston started stroking in acceleration, it crossed the earlier
111

Alternate Journeys

number; well he has a point everyone thought; but he has claimed triple the speed in his equations a long way to go; the reading is climbing steadily already one-and-a-half times of the earlier speed. Iyer is soaring, Iyer the genius, Iyer the god. He torques his head in excitement, he moves towards the audience away from the table; the students are clapping, their traction encouraging the readings to climb steadily; Iyer is now among the students; his group mates are hugging each other; at least it works for one-and-a-half times, and the speed is still increasing; Congratulations; then a blinding light, a deafening sound; an Explosion. The table is on fire, the engine parts are all over the place, there are minor injuries, some students struck by falling parts, the lab attendant rushing with a red cylinder, more fire extinguishers appear on the scene, commotion, a first aid box is brought, white foam from red cylinders over red fires douse the flames, blackness of metal muttering on the table; ENTROPY finds a way to show itself. The upheaval soon dies down, the fire is controlled within seconds, no major injury has happened, the relief dawns, a murmur of laughter emerges, it grows, and then engulfs the whole lab in a hilarious ovation, Iyer stands there, a blackened lab coat, and smiles. The God speaks. Despite the accident I was very impressed. Starts Sam the Telecom, There are a few points I will like to make. First of all I must congratulate the young gentleman and his group for their bold attempt; this is the stuff that makes civilization happen. Secondly, I want to reflect on the whole concept of science, its methods and philosophy, which was so aptly displayed by this team here. Core of science is evidence, however much beauty and perfection a set of equations have, they continue to be mathematics till the time their validity is empirically established or experimentally proven. As vey rightly put by Sir Karl Popper, it should withstand the test of falsifiability. That is to say: an experiment hypothetical or real can be designed in which one of its possible outcomes will prove the theory wrong. I dont want to argue the merit or demerit of the proposition here, but mention it to show that the normal way of progress of science and technology is by bold steps taken today. Thirdly, I feel the boys are on the right track, they should work in this direction and push the frontier further. Everyone else should take this incident as an inspiration. And finally, the explosion, by proving the fallibility has shown two things: one: the proposition made here was scientific, to the extent that it could be tested in an experiment; and second: the proposition, Entropy of a system can be controlled, though scientific proved to be False. After rearrangements done by the lab assistants during Sams little speech, the next group was called for demonstrating. But the day was already hijacked by Iyer, people listened with reduced interest.
112

Alternate Journeys

Iyer was not the only one with a disheveled coat and perturbed look that day; when Krishna returned to his dorm that evening, he found Kalki waiting there haggard and ruffled up. What the hell happened to you? Krishna asked in shock; he guessed it was another fight Kalki got into. Let's get into the room first, I will tell you the whole story. Kalki took a shower and borrowed a fresh set of clothes from Krishnas wardrobe. It was a ruckus man! Kalki started once they settled down. There is this NSUI jerk, his girlfriend had been flirting behind his back, with one of the Hans Raj guys, incidentally a buddy of mine. Krishna thought, Always a Girl! This bloke paid some Jats, regular ruffians, to teach my buddy a lesson. They caught him in Kamla Nagar and thrashed him; he ran back to the hostel and donged the bell; The BELL man! Kalki excitedly narrated the story. And how the hell you got involved? Krishna probed. I happened to be hanging at Hans Raj at that moment. It was the Bell man! Kalki exclaimed at the obvious stupidity of Krishnas interrogation. Krishna very well knew what the Bell meant (a call for the whole dorm to get out with sticks and rods), solidarity of pure violence, a call of noquestion-asked violence; Band of Brothers; Loyalty of the Dorm. OK, and then? he asked. Wow! It was a ruckus after that. The Jats got wind of the Bell, they sounded their own in their dorm. Jats and Biharis, whole fucking loads of them, rods, hockey sticks, broken bottles, everything man. You should have looked at Kamla Nagar Nirulas, not a single glass left, no single furniture not broken; it was pure stuff, absolute beauty, what a riot. I really dont like you getting into this bloody silly Jat versus Bihari business. Krishna chided him. You can say such things sitting in IIT, this is a good place, serious students, no violence, but back there in the University you wont survive a day if you dont fight. Kalki replied imperturbably. Krishna didnt buy the logic but he didnt want to argue. So whats the scene now? he asked. Messy, Kalki replied. Cops came, the boys all ran away, but the Jats want to get even with me; they made a complaint. Shyam Mohan suggested I disappear till things cool down; he will hush the matter. Kalki matter-offactly explained. I think I will hang out with you for a couple of days, IIT fresh air will do me well. Kalki laughed and opened a bottle of beer and lighted a cigarette. Krishna did not like the way things were turning for Kalki. He was very disturbed and concerned about him. He thought to have a serious
113

Alternate Journeys

conversation with him later; he knew it will not be of much use, it will not be the first time he has talked about these things. Krishna reflected on the days events; can entropy be really controlled? ********* Kalkis stories of violent encounters and drugs in the drawer spread. He was feared by friends and foes alike in the student-union politics of Delhi University. Delhi University Students Union (DUSU) is legendry for producing some of the most luminary politicians of India. Ambitious young students saw DUSU as a sure ticket to larger stations in Indian political life. Kalki became both an asset and a liability for ABVP. He was useful in intimidating rivals but his notoriety was a hindrance in the secret-ballot system of democracy. His organizing skills and efficacious executions made people in the mother party notice him; his murky connections with known drug dealers put him in the watch list of the authorities. When Sri Ram Dayal Singh Ji visited Delhi for leadership meet of the Parivar, he also had a number of other agendas to take care of. On the list was meeting Kalki and follow up on the progress of his protge. Sri Ram Dayal Ji received a complete report from the ABVP Delhi chapter leader, Shyam Mohan (who had been in the university from before anybody knew). Shyam was currently enrolled in a PhD course somewhere to keep his status as a university student. The leadership of ABVP was a source of influence; he was planning his moves from student politics to real electoral politics of the country. He knew how to keep bosses of the Parivar in good humor; he knew the influence of Sri Ram Dayal Singh Ji, (or RDS as he was lovingly and respectfully called, in circles of the Parivar). He obliged RDS when he was asked to keep an eye on Kalki and mentor him in ABVP. RDS was saddened in solicitude seeing Shyams report of Kalki. He couldnt believe that his protge was openly flirting with drugs and violence. RDS was staying in Delhi for several weeks. Kalki was summoned to stay with him during the visit as his receiver. Kalki temporarily moved to the apartment of RDS. It was a Spartan two-bedroom flat in the political district of Delhi (provided to RDS by the Parivar for his stay during his frequent and long trips to the capital). Kalki moved in the guest bedroom, RDS was in the larger master bedroom. There was another member of the household (cook cum caretaker) who normally slept in the guest bedroom, but after its usurpation by Kalki, the lackey set up his bed in the lobby next to the kitchen. Their conversation started with general discussions about university life and national politics. It slowly took on the intimacy of a mentor and mentored, of a godfather and godson. RDS told Kalki in tidbits of the spread-out tte--ttes about his family and his own life journeys. Every Hindu name has a meaning; the naming process itself is well defined. The name reflects the Karma of the child. Life is an endeavor to
114

Alternate Journeys

live up to the standards of ones name. My name means the grace of Lord Rama, and I have strived all my life to be worthy of his grace. (Rama was the Maryada Purushottam the Foremost in Propriety and RDS had made a mission of his life to live and propagate the ancient Samskara that had gone missing in the ascending Kali Yuga the Samskara-less Age.) Samskara is a combination of Tradition Heritage Culture Education Upbringing Dharma. It needs to be learnt and inculcated by a daily life of practice and discipline over a long period of time, before a man is worthy of his Purushartha. Kalkis name symbolized his duty of cleansing the times of its sins; he should endeavor to live up to it and not waste the precious gift. It is only by the good Karma of multiple cycles of rebirths, that the soul has got a chance of human life. There is a purpose, there is a scheme, and ignoring it will only mean falling back to lowly life, rather than ascending towards the unity with Brahman the Supreme Spirit. Dharma clearly demarcates right and wrong, and a life of proper Samskara demands that for the sake of Dharma one is willing to bear any sacrifice. (Proper Dharma is the Line of Control that keeps the divide of GOOD and EVIL in its rightful places. In Ouathom, Rama to keep up to his fame of the Foremost in Propriety banished his wife in shame. And the Real One led cousins to kill cousins for defending the Dharma.) RDS belonged to a clan of Bhumihars (landowning forward caste in Bihar), an offshoot of the Brahmins. The Bhumihars claim descent from the great Parshuram, who had gone around the world Twenty-two times with his fierce Pharsa (he was literally the god with an axe), to cleanse it of its corrupt rulers, sacrificing the blood of the decadent Kshatriyas of the time. (In Ouathom, Parshuram the Axe God the guru of the great-guru Drona, guru of the greatest-warrior Karna in his anger of Karna imagining his identity, had cursed him to forget his essence in the time of reckoning to give in to the enchantments of Maya.) Kalki knew about the Bhumihars from his own memory of childhood stories told by his parents. Kalkis father had once driven the first tractor of his village, owned by the Bhumihar landlord. There are times of such sin (Adharma) like the Kaliyuga that even the Brahmins need to heed the call of arms for protection of Dharma. In the slightly modified version of the story of Bhumihars, remembered by Kalki, It also included the tyranny of feudal lords unleashed on peasants, and fierce protection of caste prejudices. It was with blessings of the landlord that his parents were threatened with lynching if they married out of the caste boundaries which had encouraged eloping of the lovers in silence of the night. It was the landlord, Kalki thought who made my life in Botala and my crossing the divide possible; he was the bastard
115

Alternate Journeys

son of propriety. (Similarity, in the two versions of the story of a caste, was mention of the state of Tekari. The village landlord and RDS both belonged to offshoot families of the Tekari Maharaja a princely state.) Those few weeks with RDS made a big impression on Kalki. He felt proud to be the undeclared godson of the great man; to have the legendry RDS himself as his personal and political mentor. Kalki was mesmerized by the discipline and energy of RDSs daily life. He woke up before the break of dawn, was out of shower by the first light and started his Puja. Kalki was forced to wake up by the apartments timings, and get ready by daybreak. First few days were difficult, but he soon got used to it. Kalki sat quietly through the Puja. (Although a part of the Parivar organizations, he was not very religious.) A session of Yoga followed. Kalki had been doing asanas in the shakhas and he enthusiastically joined RDS, doing the more difficult ones which RDS avoided due to age. After the yoga an hour of conversation followed. This was the most important part of the day for Kalki. His dialogues with RDS werent dialectic, but a didactic discourse which had a profoundly edifying impact on his psyche. Although RDSs family was originally from Bihar, his father had settled in the undivided Bengal; he was a professor in the University of Dhaka. RDS had fond memories of his childhood in the university campus before Partition forced the family to flee to Calcutta. Partition was the greatest tragedy of India; it was a mockery of Gandhis Nonviolence, and shame of Nehrus lust for power. Nehru cared more for sophistication of English of his speeches, than rape and murder that happened on the streets of Dhaka and Lahore. Hindus were burnt alive in thousands. Kalki replaced the religion of the long-haired father and daughter of Botala, pushed back Eighty-four to Forty-eight, shifted the location to Dhaka, and imagined the horror. RDS continued, Patel was always a better choice, but Gandhi was fooled by Nehru like rest of the world by his tongue-twistry of language. It needed the disgrace of Sixty-two for the country to realize the weakness hidden inside the hide of moral pretension. RDS had studied in Calcutta University to take a double Masters in Arts (History and Philosophy) before he became a fulltime Pracharak with the Sangh and gained a self-learned maverick expertise in Theology and Politics. It was in Calcutta University that I saw from close quarters, the hollowness and hypocrisy of the communists, blindly following the fake gods of Marx and Lenin. And After a long thorough process of contemplation and study, I came to the thoughtful conclusion that the best way forward for our nation is path of the Sangh. We need to draw energy from our Glorious Past, create our own world of Future Glory, and not
116

Alternate Journeys

mimic the inferior ways of West, whether liberals or revolutionaries. What is missing is Pride in our own Culture, Civilization of Five Thousand Years, older than Greece, older than Mesopotamia and Egypt, and still surviving with its Essence intact, despite thousands of years of Persecution. We need not run to Western Books, all that is there was always here, we need to relive our Ancient Greatness. RDS talked about life religion culture tradition discipline nationalism loyalty power hatred violence. After the hour they had a simple healthy breakfast and went out for the dauras. They visited the shakhas in and around vicinity of Delhi. Where ever RDS went, he was revered by members of the Sangh. He surveyed their skills with the Lathi and March (the DRILL). He talked to them about their organizational and social work. He asked about demography of the district, (how many Hindus? of what caste? how many Muslims? are there Christian missionaries? what is the occupational break down? what is the socio-economic hierarchy?). The pracharaks were always ready with the details. Finally he gave an inspirational speech; praising and thanking the pracharaks for their selfless service, evoking the Glorious Past and motivating the audience to continue their work for creating a glorious future. Before noon, they would be back in Delhi BJP office, where they had a community lunch along with the party workers in the canteen. The afternoon went in meetings with leaders of the various Parivar organizations. Kalki was not invited to most of these meetings, only in rare cases was he allowed as a note taker. During the day, while RDS was busy with the leadership, Kalki hung out with the rows of other sidekicks, acolytes, and party workers. Air was rife about the major movement to be launched to revive the fortunes of the party. Grapevine said that the big plan was to start a nationwide agitation for the Ram Janam Bhoomi Temple. Kalki listened with interest but never ventured his own comments or opinions. From late afternoon till late evening, it was time for the Public Darshan and meetings at his office in the BJP headquarters. Kalki sat next to him making notes, jotting instructions and memos to be passed. He was methodological and efficient in fulfilling his role. They returned home late, and had a simple vegetarian meal. After dinner, they sat for an hour to review and compile the days work, and planned the next day. They talked of politics; RDS shared his comments, observations and insights from the day. Kalki asked more about RDSs political life during the days of Indira. She was a mixed bag. RDS started, She did good to throw away the Syndicate of Corruption, but then she fell into the lust of power, and was worse than anyone previous to her. She made a mockery of the system, of the law and courts. And her draconian schemes of nationalization and
117

Alternate Journeys

populism. It is only the ingenuity of our people that the entrepreneurial spirit survives despite such brutal repression. But one must praise where it is due, she did hell of a good job in Seventy-one to show the world the artificiality of Partition, artificiality of Pakistan, and she stood in face of that pervert Nixon. And Emergency? Kalki was trying to get the Juice, Did you go to Jail, Sir? My father did. Oh! Yes, the Emergency. A lugubrious expression appeared on RDSs face. That was worst of Indira. I was lucky to avoid imprisonment, went underground the first day, lived in disguise wandering from village to village. RDS explained and added, She did a good job of cleansing the Naxals though. And Rajiv? He started well. He did a bold thing by opening the Ram Temple. He was liberalizing and modernizing the industry, but then fell into the same depraved rut of Congress culture; never before a government has been so corrupt. His biggest shame is becoming the stooge of mullahs by reversing the Shah Bano decision. Kalki was always impressed. One day during the post-dinner conversation he asked about the Parivars strategy for the upcoming election, particularly the Ram Mandir. He wanted to know from the horses mouth what was cooking. RDS smiled and said, You will know when the time is appropriate for you. One day you will be making the strategies, but now is the time for you to train, and get your personal life on track. They retired to their beds after a long day. Kalki slept in anticipation of the most interesting part of the day, the morning conversation. Hinduism is not a religion, foreigners have force fitted the concept of Abrahamic Religions over Hinduism. Most of us fail to see the artificiality because that is what our schools teach our children. Hinduism is a much wider philosophical and cultural heritage with both secular and spiritual aspects. Vivekananda rightly pointed out that Hinduism is like a sea which has enough space to accommodate other religions and alternate point of views. Culturally we are not opposed to Buddhism, Jainism or Sikhism. These religions do have tenets which are opposed to orthodox Hinduism. Our opposition is to the divided loyalty, to disowning our heritage in favor of foreign cultures, to subjugation by idolatry of the book forced by sword on us. It was the putrefaction of Hindu society that let this happen. We have to reverse the rot, go back to our original ideals. Cultural Nationalism with which every section of our society identifies is the nucleolus of Hindutva. Kalki listened spellbound. RDS continued the trenchant impugnation, The main problem with
118

Alternate Journeys

our pseudo-secular system and intellectuals is that we dont understand, that we cannot superimpose the subservience of imported ideals on Five Thousand Years of Intellectual Tradition, and hope it will work. This is the reason for the decay in the society today. The insurgencies are everywhere. The state is helpless in controlling terrorism. Khalistanis, Kashmiris, Northeast, Naxals, they are everywhere. The state is so blinded by the rampant corruption that it has become an anemic leper. Kickbacks and bribery go up to the very highest levels. Bofors is for everyone to see. Kalki realized, during their morning conversations, that RDS had been given a detailed brief about his activities in the university. RDS didnt make direct mentions, but his examples and references were pointed. This made Kalki even more engrossed with the discourse. Atma and Parmatma, the soul and the supreme, are one. The cycle of Karma and Maya creates the distinction between the supreme and the soul. Man is trapped in Kama, drenched in Ahankar, which makes him crazy for Artha, neglecting his Dharma and Ignoring Moksha, to be bound in the world of pain forever. Addictions make a man frail, gods had soma but they were not weak, because Indra controlled the soma, soma did not control the gods. Experiment soon leads to enjoyment, which leads to addiction, drugs are a moral weakness as they control their taker, man is not Indra, nor Shiva, who could control soma. Emotions, good or bad are a source of action. Hate is more powerful than love, as it leads to violence, but Dharma does not sanction the violence of hate. Unsanctioned violence is a sin and moral frailty. Its against Dharma. Purushartha is abstention from Tamas, control of aggression, and Meditation like Shiva, and when Dharma Demands Action, you act like Shiva in Tandav with his Third Eye open, destroying the world. But uncontrolled aggression, petty fights and addiction to drugs, drains out the Purushartha, and man is found wanting when the real moment comes. Kalki got the message. He imbibed the message. He absorbed it to the core; he was thankful to his mentor and benefactor for the guidance and light. Kalki cried in front of RDS, he confessed his worst moments. Realization is the first step, repentance is the second, motivation and action comes after that. Kalki was already motivated; he promised himself and RDS that he will act. No more joints, no more quarrels. Only when the time comes for violence sanctioned by Dharma, will he lift his hand to hurt; but he also promised, when that time comes, it would be like the Tandav of Shiva with his third eye open. He espoused the route of Dharma and promised that he will be a dedicated Pracharak of the Sangh and will never betray his oath of loyalty to the cause. In Wiowin, in Dhaka, in Nineteen Forty-seven, a young boy was weeping as they were preparing for the funeral of his elder sister. They had
119

Alternate Journeys

told him that she was killed in the riots when she was returning from her college. His professor father, the only one around not in hysteria, had asked him to go to his room and pray in silence, to go away from the madness; but he witnessed everything in virulence, his bewailing mother, furious mob shouting for revenge, and the conversation of the gentleman (in Baggy Khaki Shorts, White Shirt, and Current-fashioned Khaki Cap) with his father; the gentleman said to the professor, She was also our daughter and we will avenge her. His father was crying, not responding, and Young Ram Dayal heard the word mentioned, Rape. He sensed the strident shame, he imagined the obtrusive anger, he felt the vindictive longing; of violence, of revenge; of Shame. And Also in Wiowin, in the districts of West Bengal, during the years of Internal Emergency, there were RSS pracharaks who had infiltrated the village communities in disguise on instructions of their area leader, to evade arrests. Their leader had asked them to find out the identities of Naxal sympathizers in the villages, which they did and passed it on to him. The leader was in hiding from the state, but there was an agent of the state who had frequent rendezvous with the leader, when the lists were further passed. There were several encounters, and there were several deaths; there was a particular religious community that had a disproportional representation on these lists; the leader Ram Dayal continued evading incarceration. While Krishna made his pact with the daemons, and Maya made hers with the pill, Kalki made his pact with Karma to defend the LoC of Dharma. Shyam Mohans report had not seen the games of not-gazing stares and unseen smiles. While Krishnas Mayas pacts were sparked by the incident of aborted lovemaking, Kalkis was to soothe him from the stare and smile of invisible eyes. Kalki was happy with his pact, though he did not know, when is Violence Sanctioned by Dharma, and he did not want to know whether it was the discourse of RDS or the eyes of Maya which made him make his pact.

120

Alternate Journeys

Chapter 7 Private violence

As promised to RDS, himself and the eyes with invisible smiles, Kalki got down to action after his pact. He threw away the packets in his drawer refrained from refrain joints and forsook his spasmodic drug taking. He normally smoked grass when the game of eyes was played, and he didnt want to know what he dreamed. Fortunately these games were not frequent enough, to breach his physiological level of tolerance, to tug him into the terrain of addiction. Kalki started on regular regimen of meditation to control his anger and passion. His practice of Lathi (the long-form magical baton) on the grounds of Shakha became his means of dissipating energy. He had flirted with Lathi earlier in shakhas of Botala and Delhi, and was well known for his prowess. But post-pact, the Lathi became his order in a world of chaos, the post which held him stable in the storm of turbulence. In the long form he discovered his sheet anchor as Krishna had done in the short form. The strength of Lathi made him nonchalant with Maya; he no longer was the one blinking first in their little secret games. Kalki just let his eyes linger in intense stare whenever Maya tried making a connection. He learned to control his eyes, and made them behave on his instructions; his eyes stopped having a mind of their own. Maya was perturbed; it was her turn to feel humiliated. She did not realize what was happening, she started becoming uncomfortable each time she glanced away first. She managed to keep her expression of ease. Krishna, always present with them, was unaware of the turn of fortune in the game of eyes played in secret. The invisible emotions of the invisible eyes were swapped. Kalkis were smiling and Mayas humiliated. Although Kalki enjoyed his new-found mastery of the game, it was always Maya who started it. Feeling desperate to make even, she was always on the lookout for a chance which was invisible to Krishnas eyes. She will glance at him in a renewed resolve, and after seconds glance away in disgust and frustration. His piercing stare, and her inability to hold contact, created emotions in her she had never known before, she couldnt find a word or explain to herself what was happening. On days of the game when they parted, Krishna went back and slept happily in his dorm. Kalki no longer rushed to open his drawers, but went to the Shakha Gym and practiced the Lathi, he was not furious, his movements not displaying violence, but he practiced with the grace of a Shaolin warrior. His hands, legs, his whole body, moved in rhythm with the Lathi like a sweet tropical breeze, sunshine in pristine white sands, and froth of gentle wave of crystal-clear water, all fusing together in a lush green paradise. Maya would go home and sleep. The sea of her dream would have violent monsoon waves hitting the shore in an
121

Alternate Journeys

unflinching resolve to remove the earth. Kalkis change was a surprise for everyone. Krishna noticed that he dropped out of college brawls and most of the ABVP activities. Its good that you have gotten back on track, he said to him. Yes, I took your advice, was his not-very-illuminating reply. Shyam Mohan was perturbed by Kalkis absence in most organizational activities. (Granted he was a pain sometimes when he got out of control, but Shyam could surely use his skills, now that the elections were nearing.) What happened to you man, didnt see you in the meeting the other day? He asked. Nothing, just focusing on studies and Shakha these days; actually I had missed a lot of classes. Shyam was not convinced. Maya tried hard to figure out what has changed, how he could suddenly become so different, but she dared not ask. RDS was glad when Shyam Mohan asked him to urge Kalki to be more involved, after he told him of his change. No, let him be himself; it is fine, was his blas response. ********* The old promise was withering and new promises sprouting. The promise of ride to dreams of future century on chariot of boxes white and screens black, harnessed by routers which could bear the heat and multiplied fast, was blasted by howitzers of Father of the Dynamite. Bofors became a cancerous albatross around the governments neck. While Rajiv the lotus withered under the pallid strains of piloting and politicking, other lotuses bloomed. It bloomed in the tropical-isle forgery of St. Kitts, and it bloomed on the flags saffron-and-green, and along with the bloom of multiple lotuses, bloomed the Raja of Manda sprouting the promise of propriety. Raja of the center made his pact with the Parivar of the right sprouting the promise of Mandir, and with the Socialists of the left sprouting the promise of Equity. The blasting howitzers and sprouting promises led the combined opposition to an electoral victory in the General Election of Eighty-nine; Destiny became Children of the Dynamite. Krishna Kalki Maya had made their private pacts; the center right left of Indian politics made the public pact with greed and power. (Social liberation in the West had realized: marriage was an institution imagined by religion and living-in was a convenience created by human.) The second grand Janata experiment of India did not undergo the ritual of collective governance but took to the convenience of outside support. (Concept created by amalgamation of politics of Westminster and genius of Karma: power is mine responsibility yours.)
122

Alternate Journeys

********* But even more drastic than the changing governments was the change in Kalki. What do you mean, you wont have Beer? Everyone was astounded. It was their Twenty-first birthday. Eighteen was adult but there were still stuff for which you needed to be Twenty-one. It was full adult. Eighteen was adult of fun, Twenty-one was supposed to be adult of responsibility. But that was still some distance away when the group of friends gathered at a restaurant in Connaught Place for their dinner to celebrate the triple birthday. I mean, I quit alcohol a while ago. You make me afraid my dear. Is everything all right? Krishna Maya and Iyer ordered a beer for themselves; Sejal and Kalki ordered for soft drinks. The three birthdays were celebrated in respective colleges in the afternoon, but they wanted the evening to be special and private; ironically, there were fewer guests than the three birthday boys-andgirl. How is your new apartment and flat-mates? Sejal asked Maya. Mayas father was transferred out of Naval Headquarters. He was seen to be too close to the previous government. There were investigations going on which pointed needles of suspicion fairly broad. With the election of Janata regime, the Vice Admiral had seen his dreams of becoming the Chief of Staff evaporate. His concern now was more to keep himself out of any scandal. With her parents moving out of Delhi Maya finally got her wish of living separately, but in a way she didnt want. Be careful of what you wish for, she had thought when the news of her fathers transfer came. Its good; I am putting up in Amar Colony; a three-bedroom flat; there are two more girls, both from LSR. Suits me; I can walk to the college. Maya replied. Kalki was not the only person who changed in last months. Mayas fathers transfer had a perception-changing effect on her. She remembered every anniversary of the Seventy-one surrender when journalists lined their house to repeat the same questions, to get the same answers. She listened to it proudly, waiting for the next day when she showed off the pictures in the newspapers of her father with shining medals, and a daughter sitting beside him. The same journalists were now hounding him; an already-passed judgment of guilt; she couldnt bear to read the accusations made in the newspapers. She was reexamining her life, the artificiality of Delhi society, her freedom on the shores. At least her parents were now away from the revulsion-filled accusations, to the shores once more; she felt sad for the way things turned out for them. How is your fashion club going? Kalki asked her. A good byproduct of her contemplations had been that she was no
123

Alternate Journeys

more perplexed by Kalkis eyes. Kalki had already controlled his, and Maya reined hers. Once free from the tormenting repulsion of unruly eyes, their friendship became deeper. A no-questions-asked understanding of the profound changes each of them was undergoing, had changed their rapport to a deep platonic connection, which without the unnecessary yokes of a romantic relationship, brought together two free-separate individuals in a bond of pure friendship. Its good; most of the work gets done by the first-year girls. I dont spend much time with the club these days. She replied, and then smilingly added, More like a boss, I just review their work. Kalki smiled back, they looked into each others eyes; there was no awkwardness, no repulsion, no memory of past games of smiles and humiliations; just an acknowledgment of blissful friendship. Both of them felt happy; they had finally overcome the stupidity of the eyes. Are you ready to order maam, sir! The captain asked. It was a plush sophisticated high-end restaurant, not like what you expect twentyone-year-olds to be celebrating their birthday in. No loud music, no disco dancing, but soft Gazal playing; guests at the tables conversing in soft voices that do not creep out into the air to disturb the serenity of poetry of the song. They ordered their food, and asked for a repeat of the drinks. Gulam Alis voice in haunting melody asked, Why this fuss, did not steal, did not kill, just had a drink. Everyone at the table looked at Kalki and started laughing; it was spontaneous. Kalki, normally reaction-less emotionless, in a rare display of wit replied, The fools think it is about alcohol, the poet means drinking on life. Seeing that others were pretending to be impressed, he added, If you ever get high on life, you know how big a fuss it is. Krishna started laughing, What is it now? Sejal asked. I just remembered school. Krishna explained, Kalki and I were elocution partners, we really loved Madhushala. One day our Hindi teacher, conservative type, was taking all the pains to explain how the poet uses imagery of wine for various things, life god etc. After the class, our friend here had said, Why the fuck complicate things, ask the old man to have a beer and he will realize that its nothing else but alcohol which the poet means. No, I did not! Kalki demurred amidst the laughter. A mild brawly argument broke out between the two, to establish who had said what in critique of the poet and teacher. OK, OK! Now, be grownups and stop fighting. Lets not bother whether it is alcohol or life. Maya mediated. Kalki Krishna smiled at each other, simultaneous thoughts, memories from secret of time, windows of eighth grade flashed in their mind, an unsaid communication, is it life, is it
124

Alternate Journeys

alcohol, is it Oblivious of the groups attempt to probe the poets mind, Gulam Ali continued his evocative singing. A waiter repeated the drinks. The restaurant was Krishnas choice. He did not want the regular drinkingdancing party, he thought twenty-one was a good time to sit peacefully with your closest friends and reflect on life, remember childhood and think about future. We all have changed so much in the last two years from what we were in school. He broached the topic. University is the physical passage; Graduation is the mental passage; boys girls becoming Men Women. The first year starts with freedom, no fear of getting home drunk to angry parents, and then there is the longing for home when the headache of hangover breaks in the morning, food sucks, the room is in a mess, you miss your mother, you long for the vacations to get back home. After that, comes the shock of first-year grades, the flying colors of school become the reality of grays. The essay which you thought was great is graded C, you want to run away. But you dont run, you party, and before you know, between classes, grades, and festivals, time fast-forwards enough for you to be able to see the end; and then the reality of a career, a life, sets in. Yes, imagine how fast two years went by, in fact almost three now. Sejal added to Krishnas comment. I shiver to pass out in such times. Man! No jobs, nothing, you cant do anything but emigrate. Iyer said with a sad expression. I am preparing for my GRE. Imagine! They humiliated and kicked out Sam. People like them, failure of a generation, wasted opportunities, corrupt cancerous system, squandered hope, decaying of dreams dreamed at the time of tryst; prophecies of doom, artificiality of a nation, multitudes rotting in acrid filth and fatal hunger, one large Malthusian Mire waiting to perish at the miasmal pyre of poverty. Most likely I will get in academia and research. Iyer continued, You guys should know this! My love for science owes a lot to Krishna. The way he interpreted difficult concepts for us, was what got me hooked to Physics. Krishna was my idol. He was supposed to crack the final puzzle, the Theory of Everything. Its unfortunate that he grew out of his fascination. Iyer offered more-than-required story of the School. Krishna interrupted in embarrassment, wanting to get the ball out of Iyers court. What about you folks? What do you want to do? He asked to no one in particular. I dont even want to think about this now. When I got into medical school I thought it was all set. But the reality is that you are nothing if you dont specialize. Getting admitted to a post-grad is like a grand lottery. It is easier to get admission abroad for specialization. Iyer is right, but I have not
125

Alternate Journeys

made up my mind. Sejal explained the view from the world of medicine. Seeing the way things are I am not so sure. I think I will do a PG course in fashion merchandising, maybe NIFT or may be abroad. Paris would be nice. Maya let her dream of high fashion known to the group. What about you Mr. No Beer? Maya asked Kalki. I will continue with Masters in Politics and then appear for Civil Services. Krishna burped as soon as Kalki completed. Now what? Kalki asked. Am I hallucinating? You! Civil Services? What about the studies? What about the System Sucks!? Studies, you very well know, if I get down to it, its not a problem. Kalki started as Krishna smiled in acknowledgement of a memory, a competition. And as far as the system goes, I have been thinking about these things recently, a better way is to change from within; revolution is no solution. Yes entropy cannot be controlled, it can only be harnessed within its bounds; otherwise you have an explosion. Iyer reflected on Kalkis comments. And what was that? Maya asked on behalf of everyone non-engineer on the table. Krishna explained in all its gloriously funny details, the accident in IIT lab. A shy embarrassed proud Iyer listened with few minor protests on exaggerations, but he let go; aggrandizements are essential components of the art of storytelling, condiments that spice the story. The waiters served dinner amidst the laughter of explosion; Iyer bowing in acceptance of ovation. The conversation interrupted for a while as the food was served, hotsteaming Butter Nan and creamy Mutton Rogenjosh. Krishna asked for a repeat of beer, others still had their drinks unfinished in the glasses. As the table settled again and they had their first bites, Kalki said, Iyer has a point, even in the larger context, political context, you cant control entropy. Just see what is happening in the world. The communists thought they could force a Utopia. It caused the explosion of the Wall in Germany, and in Soviet Union, and in China. China was horrible. Sejal added, Did you see the guy in front of the tank? Unbelievable! I will rather have our jokers run the government than die trampled under a tank. Everyone nodded in agreement. Krishna, always eager to take the conversation forward, gave an alternate view, Maybe it is not that simple. He said in a silent serious pose that gave away the fact that he was ahead of others on the count of Beers, It is easy if the choice is between living and dying, another pause, another
126

Alternate Journeys

sip, But what if the choice is between dying and dying, a choice not very unreal, dying of hunger or dying under a tank. Krishna the Genius, Krishna the Preacher, Iyer was teasing him. Thats what we called him in school. He explained to the girls on the table. Ok, Mr. Genius, now stop preaching. Its your turn to tell what you plan to do. Maya asked. Completing his glass Krishna started, Actually I dont know. He raised his hands to signal for a refill. May be, I will become a Drifter. The waiter brought another glass. Maya challenged, What the hell do you mean by that? Krishna drinking his fresh glass of beer, inebriated, twinkle in his eyes, already bit tipsy, everyone enjoying the conversation, I mean, when Christopher Columbus left the shores of Europe, he had a dream to go to India, he drifted into a new world instead. Thats what I mean; I will drift into a New World. Iyer was laughing. Yes and we will all come and settle there. I will build the perfect infrastructure, Kalki will build a utopian administration, Sejal will ensure that we live forever, Maya will drape our world in beauty, and Krishna will be the emperor. Laughter all around, slightly embarrassing as few heads from the adjacent tables turn towards them, the volume again muted, and the Gazal once again gets the center stage. Ok, I get the point, but Columbus at least had India in mind before he drifted, what is your India? The haunting melody singing from Galibs selection, A thousand wishes such that you die for each one of them. Yes, there is an India, but before that let me tell you, He is slightly high, invisible slurring, I am a big fan of Galib Mirza, but need to confess that he got this one wrong. The Gazal, the emotions, the drinks, are making everyone high and happy, I need to tell the Mirza that there is only one wish that makes you die a thousand times. Everyone is appreciating the poetry; the single wish; the Drift; in search of India. And pray, what that wish might be? It is to attain the illusion of Maya. She felt loved. Others at the table felt loved. It was an elite restaurant, the crme of the society, everyone felt loved. Gulam Ali Galib sang about impossible wishes, and he sang about the banishment of Adam from the Garden of Eden, the temptation of Eve, and to be careful of what you wish. In that solemn moment, everyone felt loved and eating their simpatico meal failed to notice the silent cries of the million mutinies that
127

Alternate Journeys

quietly raged in the backdrop of time. ********* In the abode of power, every Thursday the Raja was tormented on lunch by his live-in partners of left right, attended by: H.K. Surjeet whose god was Marx but his turban was Sikh; L.K. Advani whose god was Rama and his scalp was bald. And every day he was tormented by his Deputy Prime Minister Choudhary Devi Lal whose god was Jat also his head was Jat. While right protested on the streets for the Mandir and left protested on the streets against the liberal policies of the government, the Choudhary called a rally in Delhi. Torment of the Raja became a panic as the numbers in the crowd swelled to more than he could count. Vishwanath Pratap Singh, (the Prime Minister of India, the Paper Tiger created by the Hindu of India Express and Today, who was thrown out of the government of Rajiv because he conducted revenue raids in the houses of the rich and powerful, and found graft in defense deals, who single handedly created a popular movement and defeated the Congress party into opposition from the pinnacle of Four-Twenty seats in the parliament, who was also the Raja of Manda), was cornered by the strange pact of left-right-center. Like a beast cornered by hunters, having no option but to attack back in violent breakout, V.P.Singh opened the Pandoras Box in face of his tormentors. The Prime Minister of India announced the implementation of Mandal Commission Report on reservations for the Other Backward Castes in government jobs and educational institutions. The politics of reservation, born in the Constitution of India, was always a contentious issue; it made passions soar on all sides of the argument. In one brilliant political move V.P. Singh catapulted himself out of the corner. While he flew from icon of middle class to messiah of downtrodden, his flight removed the ground beneath the feet of his tormentors of left-right-center; leaving them hanging in lurch, to the great fall of political periphery. The right panicked as their divide us and them, Hindu and secular was broken by the conservative of backward castes who celebrated their rightful due, and the liberals of forward castes whose angers soared as they imagined the death of dreams. The left panicked, as their divide us and them, proletariat and bourgeois was broken by the rich of backward caste who celebrated their rightful due and the poor of forward castes whose anger soared as they imagined the death of dreams. The Family of Congress in the center panicked as they could not find an issue to panic. And students of the University, who came from all sides of all divides, did not panic, but they were furious because their divide us
128

Alternate Journeys

and them, meritorious and mediocre was ridiculed. It can be argued, that to right a historic wrong the best way is to overreverse the previous wrong. It can also be argued that poison cures poison, iron cuts iron, so to right a wrong an antidotal wrong requires to be done. It was a fact of the matter that conditions of certain castes were below the acceptable civilized standards of society; it was also a fact of the matter that the reparations of affirmative-action programs in India had been a spectacular failure in uplifting the intended beneficiaries. (Not because, the programs are well-intentioned or not, well-designed or not, but for the simple fact, that the Government of India, howsoever large, is too small, too ineffective, too corrupt, to educate or to employ the multitudes railing in indigence and oppression.) It can be argued that the whole business was a faulty thinking of a dying ideology. It can also be argued that it had nothing to do with upliftment or ideology, but was plain simple dirty electoral politics. Whatever may be the correct position of all these arguments, what cannot be argued was: at least the middleclass urban India at turn of the decade was fast forgetting its identity of caste. Possessing wealth was more important than being a Vaishya, being educated was more important than being a Brahmin, having and yielding power was more important than being a Kshatriya. What also cannot be argued was: if the question of caste was asked to this rapidly forgetting their caste middleclass India and compiled statistically, a correlation of coincidence pointing to historical wrongs would have emerged. But fact of the matter was: the caste was not asked. Also the fact of matter, pure and simple: an increasingly bigger proportion of students in the schools and colleges of Delhi didnt bother to know their caste till a marriageable age, i.e. if you havent found a mate in the roulette of university matchmaking and needed your parents to find you a partner. But that was till the time the contemporary caustic dagger of Manda, after more than forty years of pledge and tryst, landed to correct the ancient acrimonious dagger of Manu, in the heart of India to bleed the soul of its rapidly growing out of history urban middle class. And suddenly neighbors in barefaced display of identity asked the question; What is your Caste? Delhi University had a good population of Jats and Biharis those who precociously knew their castes before they knew how to talk but for many other students the question came as a shock. Phones rang in anxious anticipation in the homes of parents to find out the castes of their children; the Parents reflected on their generational failure and divulged the answer to the till now not asked Question. It was a coincidence of pun of class and caste that every time the question was answered, there was a relief accompanied by shame or anger. (In most cases: relief of a higher birth and anger of disenfranchisement
129

Alternate Journeys

from due-full fruit of labor; in other cases; relief of an augmented chance of state-led salvation and shame of a previously unknown identity of stigmal state patronization.) The silver lining (compared to other brutal forms of discrimination like race and gender) of caste discrimination is that biology does not make you wear your caste on your skin color or carry it in your curves. This had been the slow-but-sure realization of a section of India, and slowly-butsurely it was Trickling Down with the Economy at a Hindu Rate of Growth. And then V.P. Singh defied evolution, and colored the skin and blew the curves of caste; past ghosts of imagined identities were conjured, and for the first time in their lives, friends felt obliged to ask their friends, What is your Caste? In dormitories of the University, students gathered in anger and the question was asked of everyone. Some were Rajputs (Kshatriya the Aristocrat), some were Brahmins (Twice-born the clergy), but most were Lalas (Vaishya the trader), (loose combined colloquial for the third grouping of traders, agriculturists and scribes). Doubtlessly the disproportional number of Lalas was also because, those who had a relief of shame didnt want to share the answer given by their parents, and joined the ranks of middle-tier caste. (The schedule castes and tribes (the fifth category, the outcastes, untouchables of the Hindu system of Manus dagger) were not a part of the questioning; their skins already colored by the constitution.) (And incidentally, no one bothered to notice the strange coincidence of missing Fourth Estate, the Backward Caste Hindus reason for the upheaval.) After the first level of identity, came the details Jati Gotra Family Lineage. Yes! Mandal did create a healthy interest of unearthing imagination. Connections known unknown real imagined from historiography and mythology were established; the University buzzed with amateur genealogists in search of roots. We are Rajputs of Chandra Vanshi clan, descendents of Moon God. Maya said repeating for the first time ever, what she had heard about her caste but never bothered to care. We are Brahmins, descendents of Rishi Bharadwaj. Krishna declared. We are Bhumihars, descendents of Lord Parshuram, part of the Royal family of Tekari. Kalki did not bat an eyelid in telling about his Caste, he imagined a lineage for himself with the same ease he had created the time of his birth, one afternoon in Botala. In Ouathom, in five millennia of struggle for power, of politics of
130

Alternate Journeys

violence, of violence of identity, us vs. them, the primary fissure was geography local vs. foreigner, and religion my god vs. your god. But often, when men did not find outsiders to fight, they fought among themselves. From the faraway Europe to the nearby land of Karma, and everywhere in between, there were two classes of people who ruled the destiny of civilization, the brahmins and kshatriyas, philosophers and kings, clergies and aristocrats, they together ruled the middle classes and peasants, bourgeoisie and proletariats, vaishyas and shudras. First the battle was between the first two. They struggled to become philosopher-kings or King-philosophers, the Pope ordered Crusade to usurp power from the Monarchs, the Monarchs Protested to usurp religion. The Kshatriyas became enlightened to hijack Dharma from the Brahmins by creating their own; Brahmins became warriors to reclaim the Earth from Kshatriyas. Then the battle began between the lower and upper two; trade, technology and industry shifted the power to the bourgeoisie; revolutions happened around the world. After that came Marx who attempted to explain this all in the dialecticing materialism, urged the proletariats to rebel, and the battle continued between the haves and have-nots. But as the Class Wars died in bane, men created new identities and conjured old ones to fight again. Nations were created and Religions were revived; race caste language color everything was welcome as a genuine cause for in-genuine violence. Men create identities and fight; basic human nature. Violence has no reason, no cause. Violence has its own rationale. Then is it imperative to blame the Raja of Manda for what happened after he created the Pandora of Mandal. ********* The divides are imagined but the violence is real. At first the protests that broke out were sporadic around major universities of the country. It was spontaneous expression of collective anger in form of sloganeering and stone pelting within bounds of the campuses. It was not very different from expression of anger against a lost cricket match or a martinet administrator. The only difference, that it was simultaneous across various universities. (All college teams dont lose matches together and all colleges dont have disciplinarian deans at the same time.) In Wiowin, It was the genius and insight of RDS who recognized the patterns and devised the scheme of climbing out from the ditch of periphery to the throne of power. Experienced in the logic of violence which has no logic, and well versed in the game of politics of religion and caste, he reflected calmly on his plan. In the emergency meeting of leaders of the Parivar he said, We have been deceived by the immoral greed of VP
131

Alternate Journeys

and cronies, but all is not lost. There is public anger in the forward castes, but they are few to serve our electoral purpose. We will utilize the fury to mobilize the students against the government. This will be lead by the invisible hand of the Parivar, so as not to damage our core in the backward castes. The visible face of the Parivar will mobilize the core, encompassing the backward castes, for a pan-national agitation for Ram Janambhoomi Mandir. I suggest: Advani Ji undertakes a nationwide Rath Yatra for Karseva. The Students and Karsevaks will break the immoral combination of Mandal and Masjid. On the pretext of public violence we will get outside of the outside support and force an election. Hindus of all castes will be united again in the one-eternal Sanatana Dharma. We will sweep the election. We will make a grand Mandir at Ayodhya and create the Rama Raj. There will be no schedule caste, there will be no backward caste, and all will merge into the meritorious caste. Dharma will triumph. He had an expression of absolute peace of an imperturbable Buddha on his face. The sporadic student protests against Mandal continued for the coming weeks, but Kalki was nowhere to be found. He was ominous by his absence. His friends urged him to come along; they poked him and taunted him, to drag him out of his faint-hearted oblivion. Why are you behaving like a backward? What happened to your Bhumihar Blood? Despite goads of presumptuous assumptions of the taunts, Kalki remained calm in meditative peace. He heard reports of broken windows, throttled sloganeering, dispersed mobs, and smiled in return. The administration had posted a squad of police officers permanently on the campus. Wherever a crowd gathered, the squad moved in and stood in ordered rows. Just the site of discipline uniforms helmets crowd shields lathis were enough deterrent for the students to disperse. Occasionally some rowdy pelted stones at a bus or building, most of the time the stone flew and landed without meeting its target; sometimes there were broken windowpanes. The protests soon started dying; discontent was put on the anvil. Melancholic realization of authority of the state, and logic of electoral politics, started the metamorphosis of anger for shattering of imagined dreams into despair for tyranny of democracy. The plan of RDS was refusing to take off. But Shyam Mohan was not among those who would let his political ambitions fizzle by the dispersion of fickle-minded crowds. He would not let his political masters down; he started organizing with a renewed resolve. The messenger escorted Kalki back to Shyams apartment, a few minutes walk from Kalkis dorm. Shyam had sent message for a meeting for an important matter. He and few others were waiting when Kalki walked in. Shyam had a serious tenor. He explained to Kalki how important it was to protest against injustice and murder of merit.
132

Alternate Journeys

Kalki remained surprisingly unenthused as he nodded. The men in the room chatted for a while. Shyam made a call from the phone on the side stool in corner of the room; his greetings and tenor suggested he was talking to someone senior. Shyam suddenly called for Kalki, as Kalki looked up Shyam said, RDS will talk to you. Kalki walked to the corner and took the receiver, Pranam sir. Be full of Purushartha, blessed RDS from the other side of the phone, speaking from Wiowin. After the exchange of pleasantries and praising Kalki for his good feedback, RDSs sound became serious. His expression, that of the Real One revealing the true Dharma to Arjuna in the Battle Field. Atma is Immortal, Soul is Supreme; Death is a Fiction of Changing Clothes. The expression travelled from RDSs face across cities through the routers that could bear the heat heat of the expression and message. Time comes when for Protection of Dharma the Righteous need to take up arms. The words spoken by Krishna who was not Krishna, travelled through the routers and stood at the receiver in the hands of Kalki. Violence is my Karma and the Violent just a Means. Kalki saw flying Routers which multiplied with the heat flying around him. The Dharma is in danger by Immoral Greed of Power and Politics, which wants to divide our society on lines of Artificial Divides. The Routers grew testicle-like wires and started connecting parts of Kalki to parts of Kalki. It is a Conspiracy by the Communists and Muslims to weaken the Hindu society, so they can suppress the Righteous desire of Millions. Conscious subconscious connected by the testicles of magical routers; Time has come for you my son, to serve the cause of your Dharma. Kalki had made a pact of self-control and violence in the service of Dharma; when the time comes, the third eye of Shiva will see his Tandav; he did not break his pact. In Ouathom, the message was from Krishna; the message was for Arjuna who killed Karna. Karna was the only one mightier than Arjuna. He was a Kshatriya who was the Shudra, who became the Kshatriya. He refused to fight under Bhishma to keep his pledge of humiliation, he fought for Duryodhana who made him the king to fight; he fought against Arjuna who was his brother; he was tricked by Maya created by Krishna. Shyam Mohan, guided by the genius of telephone receiver, realized the problem of the agitation: it was sporadic and spread out. Soon messengers real, and messages through the multi-headed routers, started flying around Delhi. The wireless of Delhi Police was still of the old Raj and were not connected to the routers of the new Raj. The messages left and messages reached, and they left again and reached again, they continued to spread like
133

Alternate Journeys

invisible smiles which no one could see. The plan was for the coming Sunday. It was the surprise of the invisible messages that in the days approaching the weekend, the protests completely died down. It was the shock of the invisible messages that on Sunday by late morning, at North Campus the numbers of the gathering crowd swelled to more than what the police squad posted there could count. Shiva broke his meditation on Kailash and descended onto Delhi University. Natraja winked at the irony with his two eyes and opened the third to witness the waltz. The Mayhem started. Kalki torched the first DTC bus. Maya Krishna and many others saw in horror as the bus blazed in flames. The students did not realize what was happening; but soon the inferno started to create the consciousness of the mob. Kalki torched another bus; few other students started helping him. In the fire, the consciousness of individuals burnt, the heat cemented the souls of the participants, cheerleaders and bystanders. The mob has no logic; the mob has its own logic. And the mob became violent; there was no participant, no cheerleader and no bystander. There was just the mob which became violent; violence which has no logic, violence which has its own logic. The students street-jacked a DTC bus and moved towards Central Secretariat. The madness of public violence was met en route by the brutality of state violence. As soon as the police lathi-charged with its full might, the continuity of time broke, it moved in discrete flashes of magical realism of surreal violence. Maya Krishna got caught in the avalanche of lathi blows, next moment they saw Kalki pounding the policemen. Time stopped, it was difficult to say what happened, how many policemen ended with broken heads and how many with broken bones. But the multitudes of the monster of state finally prevailed and Kalki lay bleeding in a pool of blood; ending the willful suspension of disbelief. The mob became a crowd, and the crowd became individuals again by Charge of the Lathi. Paramedics moved in and Kalki was put in an Ambulance with Krishna Maya by his side. The ambulance rushed forward to the nearest hospital. ********* They were in Kalkis room in Hindus dormitory. Maya sat on the bed besides lying-down Kalki, both looking in the direction of Krishna, who was sitting on a chair next to the bed facing them. Kalki had gained enough strength during the last few days to be able to do his chores. He was on strong painkilling medication, which induced sedating meditating sleep. He slept most of the time. His drug-induced sleep was deep and peaceful, and he would wake up with a feeling of staid void. The violence was over and he did not want to remember anything. The drugs were helping him forget.
134

Alternate Journeys

He still had a limp, and he tired quickly if he did any physical activity. He preferred lying. He was counting moments and waiting to become fully alright; for all trace of the craziness to be pruned from his vicinity. Kalki was in the hospital for several days before being released. The doctor had said when he left, it will be several weeks before he becomes completely normal again. The university was peaceful and returning to normalcy fast. The normality was a facade. Underneath it was a depressive sadness of helplessness. It was the craziest weeks in the young lives of the students. There was some talk of suicide in the air. Krishna Maya Kalki avoided any reference to the events of the past week. Although there was a melancholic tenor to their quiet conversation, it was about happier things. Krishna Maya wanted to ask Kalki how could he become so crazy, but instead they remembered the good times they had. They planned their joint rendezvous for the upcoming vacation. Krishna wanted to go to the mountains, trekking in the high Himalayas; Maya wanted to visit the shore, the sun and surf of Goa; Kalki was disinterested. While the three of them, friends, lovers and erstwhile players of the game of eyes, continued to chat, in a nearby room, a young freshman sat on his bed alone with a forlorn expression undecipherable, and a pair of eyes saying nothing. It was the expression that Maya had on the hospital bench outside the emergency room when Kalki was inside and doctors were trying hard to revive him. She had been crying on Krishnas shoulder, who sat beside her with a similar expression. Krishna got up every few minutes and paced up and down the corridor, it was calming for him. Maya sat staring the tardy to-and-fro teeter-totter of Krishna; pendulum swinging in its own inertia, sucking energy out of gravity, spitting it out in motion. As the night progressed, the tiredness of the crazy day, pain of her own lathi blows and sedation of painkillers, carried her in a hanging world between sleep and awareness. She could still feel Krishnas slow pace in the corridor, and could see the doctors and nurses bending over a man, busy with several stuff, and several monitors around the bed with lines and numbers moving on screens. She was in a boat, a sailboat, Sunday was pulling on the ropes, it had started raining, became a nasty storm, but she is confident, Sunday is an adroit sailor, he is steering, she is standing at the deck, the boat is tilting to very high angles, Sunday shouts from behind the wheel, Get away from the hazardous edges, it is dangerous, she looks towards him, he is irritated by her uncouth cranky childishness, by not respecting the power of nature, Look Out, he yells, a very large loutish wave, the boat tilts high, and then drops in a split of freefall, the heel is in the water, as it starts going up again the wave breaks on board, she loses balance, she can feel herself enveloped
135

Alternate Journeys

by the froth, she is being pulled out, sucked into nothingness by the flailing might of perilously retreating breaker. She comes back to the state of fully awake, Krishna is tapping her, The doctor just came out; he is out of danger, but badly hurt. It will take some time for him to be completely fit again. He has broken a few ribs. He is sleeping now; we can meet him only in the morning. In the next room, the freshman had the expression of Maya, but he was neither waiting for the doctors to come out, nor was he dreaming. He was Rajiv the lotus, but he was not the grandchild of destiny, neither the child of midnight, nor the son of Indira India Durga. His father was poor, but Rajiv was a Brahmin. His father sent him to a municipal school, but Rajiv ended in the best college of the country. His father had four children, but Rajiv had three younger sisters. His father toiled at feeding the family but Rajiv was expected to provide for the sisters marriages. His father saw the curse of poverty, but Rajiv saw the salvation of public service. His father had been happy that his son was a wunderkind, but Rajiv was sad because the slots for his salvation were sliced smaller by his brahminical birthmark. In Ouathom there was Drona, his father was poor but Drona was a Brahmin. His father could not educate him but Drona ended up learning from Parshuram. For the sake of his son (who he loved more than his life) Drona the Poor Brahmin became Dronacharya the Guru, swearing an allegiance of death for protecting the order of Dharma. Against affirmative action of any kind he demanded the punishment of price from Eklavya the Nishad (whose father was a Bheel but he was a warrior), the prodigy who shot shut the mouth of the dog barking loud; who hewed his thumb in the gift of shame. Kalki had been indisposed for some time and there was work to be done, from the mundane of running errands and buying grocery to the important stuff of submitting examination form and cooking. Krishna volunteered to go to the university office (about forty-minutes back-andforth by public transport) and submit the form, on the way back he would pick up some grocery. Maya volunteered to do some cleaning and cooking and pep Kalki up. Krishna left, shutting the door behind him. There was a sudden realization that in all these years it was the first time they were alone, there was never two of them, it was always three; Maya Kalki had not been together before without Krishna being present. A discomfited silence gripped the room; suddenly memories and images of games of the eyes came back. They had thought it was done and over, both of them having tamed their eyes, but awkwardness of the unnatural repulsive ferocity of their eyes rose like a phoenix of emotions inside them. They did not look at each other. Maya got up and started arranging the
136

Alternate Journeys

desk, facing towards the table which was sideways from the bed. Kalki was lying on the bed. She noticed from the corner of her eye that he was staring at her. The phantasm of their buried games started scuffling; she continued setting unsetting of the desk. Stuff on the desk pens notebooks books wallet watch cigarette-packet lighter clothes were in a chaos that reflected her thoughts. Kalki continued to watch her, the sleeps of void had cleared his head of the violence, what remained were the eyes. Kalki Maya with eyes not in contact saw eyes of the other. Neither knew what the eyes said, they had never allowed the conversation of the eyes to finish. It was always aborted before the eyes knew what it meant. Maya put the clothes in the cupboard, pushed the pen, wallet, watch and the cigarette packet and lighter in the drawer, and neatly arranged the books and notebooks in two different piles. The alignment of atoms in iron makes it a magnet. With order restored in chaos of the desk, her thoughts were aligning to find meaning of the eyes. She again checked Kalki by a corner glance; he was still staring at her. The sleeps of void had perforated his line of control that divided what he knew and what he did not want to know. Mayas thoughts aligned to find meaning, knowing and not knowing mixed in Kalkis head across the perforation to create meaning. Both struggled with meaning but there was still meaninglessness; the eyes were never allowed to complete their conversation. Maya wanted to complete the conversation, she wanted a close; she was tired of seeing eyes whenever her eyes were closed. Kalki wanted to complete the conversation; he could then safely place its content in the part of his knowing and seal the perforation on things he did not want to know. Maya turned around and came to the bed and sat beside Kalki, who was now sitting with his back rested against the wall and legs stretched on the bed. There was still silence but it was serene. Maya smiled slightly and faced Kalki, their eyes made contact, instinctively both wanted to turn, but they let their gazes linger. The moments passed, the feelings of their game sparkled, today they were alone, the game was open; they did not need to timeout to protect their secret from Krishna. The stare turned into a genteel glare. The emotions of fear humiliation competition jubilation of the game settled and faded. The eyes continued to talk as Maya came closer to Kalki. The last bits of meaning started to connect as the eyes started probing each others depth. The eyes dipped into the deep, the eyes opened into the hearts. Maya finally saw the meaning and she panicked. She suddenly wanted to turn, she wanted to run. She wanted to immediately banish what she saw from her heart and mind. Maya had made a pact, she will be free, she will do what her heart desires. She did not turn, she did not run, she did not control her
137

Alternate Journeys

heart; she did not break her pact. There was still silence but it was passion. Maya bent her face towards Kalkis, their eyes still in contact, their noses touched and lips brushed. Kalki finally knew the meaning and he panicked. He wanted to turn his face, he wanted to push her back, he wanted to banish what he knew to the other side of the perforation and seal it now forever. He did not turn, he did not run, he did not push her back, he let his lips rub against her, their eyes still in contact. The divide between what he knew and what he did not want to know disappeared. Meaning was created out of meaninglessness as their brushing lips parted and connected again to be locked in the connection of the eyes. Just the kiss I know he will hold back, he cant betray his ego; just the kiss I know she will hold back she cant betray her love. We will stop and say sorry and it would be forgotten in pretense forever; eyes will get their peace. But there was no stopping, there was no sorry, there was no betrayal. The power of eyes locked the lips into a passionate kiss, the tongues met. There was still silence but it was energy. Maya Kalki in the next instance became furious lovers. Their vigor was violent, in an instant they snatched off their clothes, there were bites, there was movement, rhythm and energy, they were wild and passionate; sheets became a mess, clothes flew around, order in the room created by Maya departed. It was lovemaking of chaos. It was sex of the instant, of union of the eyes. The concerto of triple movement, it was animal it was human it was divine. The sea and the sky merged with the hungry souls feeding into the submission of the union; it was passion; madness of the moment. There was still silence but it was bliss. Together in orgasm of embrace, eyes still opened and connected, souls becoming one. They broke out of their coitus, the conversation of the eyes concluded. They turned, laid flat on the bed panting for breath facing the ceiling. They stared at the pristine white blankness climaxing in paroxysms of pleasure and guilt. Enervating philistine black fan excoriating the prissiness; the door knob turned, the door opened, Krishna walked in; there was still silence but it was violence. Three pairs of eyes connected in the triangular logic of eye contact, Maya Kalki, nude on the bed, Krishna standing at the door dressed. The room with sheets and clothes all around, reflected the chaos and violence of the eyes. The emotions of guilt shame loss connected with the emotions of anger humiliation hate which connected with emotions which the eyes did not want to know in the triangular incongruence of eye contempt. Krishnas head was the Colosseum of daemons. The uproar of the circus was heard by his ears outside. The bond of friendship sealed over broken windowpanes, and the bond of love sealed over patterns weaved on screen, and the bond of the eyes sealed over their concluded conversation,
138

Alternate Journeys

all broke in the triangulating contempt of eye contact. Kalki Krishna, Advaita, non-dual, were split by the illusion of Maya. Krishna struggled to say something but his lips were sealed and shaking. He could not imagine the intensity of hate his mind body soul was generating; he wanted to kill. He wanted to kill, he wanted to die, he wanted to scream. Krishna had made a pact, his daemons will play in his head but he will not let them affect what goes outside. He did not flinch, he did not shout, he did not fight. He did not break his pact. In his most intense moment of nonviolent private violence he broke the silence, I didnt know two of you had a sideshow going, and smiled wincing. Every moment the gulf between the three became wider and deeper, a sadness of realization descended after Krishna broke the silence, the three of them became strangers forever. A sadness of loss engulfed the room as they realized it will be the last time they saw each other. Droplets of tear rode the tide of time and reached Mayas eyes from the seas of her childhood; she got up wrapping the sheet around her, picked up her clothes and moved to the bathroom. Krishna picked up his bag and slowly walked out of the room. Kalki closed his eyes not to see what he did not want to see. A lacerating shout suddenly infringed the bereavement of their final parting. People were running in craziness in the corridor. Rajiv the lotus had gone to the common area of the dorms; poured the anguish of gasoline over himself and kissed the lit lighter. In his own moment of private violence which was not nonviolent, he self-immolated; human flesh burnt into screaming black blobs of ugliness. Krishna Kalki Maya, a memory wiped clean, and what is left instead is a dark hole, a gasping Black Hole, which sucks in even the light and nothing ever escapes, the only thing that flows is the anger hate ugliness of redhot molten metal flowing like blood inside.

139