Speaking with the Enemy and Subramania Bharati

Pic credit: Wikipedia

பகைவனுக்கருள்வாய்-நன்னெஞ்சே! பகைவனுக்கருள்வாய்!

புகை நடுவினில் தீயிருப்பதைப் பூமியிற் கண்டோமே-

நன்னெஞ்சே! பூமியிற் கண்டோமே.

பகைநடுவினில் அன்புரு வானநம் பரமன் வாழ்கின்றான்-

நன்னெஞ்சே! பரமன் வாழ்கின்றான்.

சிப்பியிலே நல்ல முத்து விளைந்திடுஞ் செய்தியறியாயோ?-

நன்னெஞ்சே!

குப்பையிலேமலர் கொஞ்சுங் குரக்கத்திக் கொடி வளராதோ?-நன்னெஞ்சே! 

 

Be gracious to the enemy, my good heart!

Have we not seen flames amidst dense smoke?

Do we not know that God lives amidst all this enmity?

Do you not know that pearl grows in oysters?

Don’t you know that flowers grow amidst a garbage dump?

-         - Subramanya Bharati, the Tamil Poet.

 

The best line in the 2008 U.S. presidential election campaign came from John McCain. In one of his political rallies, a woman had a “question”. She remarked that she did not trust Barack Obama because “he was an Arab”.  If she indeed had a question, she never got to it.  McCain, taking the microphone back from her, shook his head vigorously, and said, “No Ma’m. He is an American, a decent family man, whom I happen to have political disagreements with”.

Jagmeet Singh did something similar in his first Canadian federal election campaign. A woman heckled him at a political rally and accused him wanting to impose Sharia law in Canada. While the others tried to escort the woman away or correct her, Singh encouraged the audience to listen to her. He would later explain that he did not want to clarify to the woman that he was not a Muslim and hence did not believe in Sharia. Doing so would have implied that heckling would have been acceptable if a Muslim had stood in his place.

Going farther back, Narasimha Rao, the Indian Prime Minister sent A B Vajpayee, the leader of opposition to represent India in the World Economic Forum in Geneva.

There may have been some showmanship involved, but these episodes come to mind when I think of tolerance in political context. 

Did I say ‘tolerance’? It does not seem appropriate. It implies that you don’t really like the person, and put up with him or her, just to act civil. The words 'Empathy’ and 'non-partisan' are a little closer to what we want to convey. Americans use the word 'bipartisan'. I think it is a horrible word, but I digress. 

Polarized political views seem to be both the cause and effect of the noise we see on social media. More media outlets seem to be siding with one political camp or another. It takes a special mind to stand apart from the mob psychology in your camp, and sense why your opponent says something or behave in a certain way; to learn to see things from the other's point of view; even accept a valid point that the opponent raises.

My own lightbulb moment came from an interaction I had long ago with a writer I disagreed with. Varsha Bhosle (daughter of the famous Asha Bhosle) was a writer with right-wing views. She was known not to mince her words. She had a scornful, confrontational style. She would coin nicknames for the people she disagreed with.

The episode started with an article she wrote about the murder of someone that she didn’t see eye to eye with. The article listed the many flaws of the departed man and implied that he had asked for it. Further, the title of the article seemed to suggest that she was even rejoicing at his death.

I thought the piece was in poor taste. I wrote to the editor, pointing out that Bhosle was entitled to her opinion, but by publishing the article, the publication was participating in her celebration of someone’s unfortunate demise. I may have also said something to the effect that the publication risked skewing its reader base given the pattern in Bhosle's last few articles. Instead of giving me the stock response about the opinions not representing the publication, the editor copied Bhosle in his e-mail, and encouraged us to directly talk to each other.

Having been outed thus, I sent a more elaborate critique of the piece to Bhosle. She thanked me for my comments and asked if I would still be upset at her if she had written the article, but not the title. I realized that I didn’t like the article, but what had sent me over the edge had been the title, which was something like ‘Another one bites the dust!’. On hearing this, she revealed the original title that she had given the article that was significantly more civilized. Someone in the editorial board had changed it. I sent her a concluding note, thanking her for indulging an unknown reader. A much younger reader too, but she did not need to know that!

Having read a few of her pieces before, I knew that she was reasonably famous, not just as a writer but also as a singer. Her family was the equivalent of royalty when it came to music. I was impressed by how much effort she had spent in talking to an (initially) unfriendly and persistent reader.

A couple of years later, she wrote a piece on her Diwali memories from childhood, giving the readers a vivid account of an excited child in a traditional Maharashtrian household. This time, I was impressed by the article, and had sent a backhanded compliment to the editor, to the effect that that Bhosle was clearly capable of writing well but had managed to conceal it most of the times. I had not copied the author.

The next day, I had a note from Bhosle that just said, ‘Hey, thanks. That was a pleasant surprise. I thought you believed I should be gagged!’.

I responded with something equally light and forgot all about the episode. I recalled these exchanges a decade or so later with a heavy heart when I read that Bhosle had ended her life. Here was a human being that was capable of connecting with a person halfway across the world, despite the political differences. 

Watching the news, political debates, and my twitter feed, I am wondering if we have permanently lost the ability to talk to, reason with, or even put up with people with opposing points of view.  Is it not possible to support a political party, stand up for your religion, assert your rights, or take a stand on an issue without attacking people in the other camp? If you knew everything you know now, but were born in a household belonging to the 'other' side, would you still act the way you do now? Would you still coin those insulting phrases? When you condemn an act in the opposite camp, can you not do that without saying or implying ‘they are all alike!?’

 

Appeal for Restraint

 

We are witnessing a disaster in India, but the predominant theme in my social media feed is not empathy, but political sniping.  All that people seem to think of is to score political points, and/or stop the other side from scoring those points.

There are a few people use their connections to help people find hospitals, oxygen or ventilators. God bless them! For every such person, there are several who share messages assigning  or deflecting blame.

Guys, there will be a time for postmortem, recriminations or even celebrations, but this is not it. The next few weeks may be even tougher than the last one. It does not matter if the fault was with the central government, state government or the evil cat next door. If you participate in repeating or rebutting messages of blame, you are putting your leaders in a position where they have to waste their time defending against the charge.  Our best hope now is that the current governments - state, central and local - succeed in what they do over the next weeks and months. They have to succeed, regardless of who got us into this mess. This is like the time Cersei Lannister and Denarys Targarian had to fight together against the Night King, the bigger enemy. Political differences can wait.

I am no fan of the politicians here where I live - John Tory, the Mayor of Toronto, Doug Ford, the Premier of Ontario and Justin Trudeau the prime minister of Canada. They all have plenty to be modest about, their own acts of commission and omission, and their political differences. However, it is hard not to notice they read from the same script. They mention each other by name in public messages. They acknowledge talking to each other. There has been some back and forth on resource allocation, but they spend way more time talking about addressing the situation. They will be at each other's throat in the near future, but there is a truce for now, while they battle a common enemy. Ford, my least favorite politician, even apologized to the public over the missteps. It is hard not develop a grudging liking for the man.

It is perhaps too much to expect that from the Indian leaders, but the least we can do is to not vitiate the environment. Suspend the blame games a bit. Read and listen and remember how you feel. You can expend your energies when you vote next.

Meanwhile, no need to remind the rest of us of your political leanings 500 times a day. Lead, help, or stand out of the way without amplifying the noise! Thank you!

Share the message as appropriate. Paraphrase as needed. Thanks!

 

 

Episode 02: The Confidante

  

Continued from Episode 1

Suresh, 1985

I spoke to Vani today.

I'd had a strong crush on her years ago. I still feel flutters when she is around. In my head, I had been rehearing what I would say when we met. In that imaginary world, I had been funny and charming. The real conversation did not go so well - I sounded nervous and guilty all through.

She had never spoken directly to me before. She would just nod at me when we came across each other in the Economics hallway at the University. On the rare occasions, she might have smiled, although I had never been sure if was just my imagination.

I learnt later that our mothers met regularly at the Riverside temple on Friday evenings. Vani had been in the earshot, and picked up a few things from those conversations, and took it upon herself to find me when she got to the University to tell me how my mother missed me.

I had been walking towards the hostel after borrowing a book from the Economics library when I heard footsteps of someone running up behind me. I turned, wondering if it was the library assistant. Did I forget to sign the book out? It was a pleasant surprise that it was her.

“Suresh, can we speak for a few minutes?”. She sounded a bit nervous.

“What? Sure, Vani. Of course, yes.”.

“You know I am a day-scholar, right?”

I said, “Yes”, at a loss as to why that came up.

“I see your mother often in the Riverside Ganesh temple. You may think this is really none of my business, but as a well-wisher….”. She paused, appearing to lose her confidence a bit.

“Go on”, I said, despite my dislike of where this was heading.

“Your mother misses you a lot. I know you don’t get along with your father, but you should find a way to see her often.”

I remained silent. I felt a surge of anger within and was worried that she would sense it.

“I knew this wouldn’t go well with you. I thought about it, hesitated, and only brought it up because it was heartbreaking to hear your mother. She was telling my mom that you stay in the hostel even for holidays.”.

She was right. I had not set foot on my parents’ house for a year. I stayed with my uncle when I was not at the hostel. I would avoid that too whenever I could.

“Will you consider what I said?”, she asked after a pause.

“How much do you know about what happened between me and my father?”

“Only that you two don’t see eye to eye”.

I stayed silent for a while. “I want to tell you more, but not now. Another time.”, It seemed to me that I sounded evasive, so added, “I need some time to bring up the courage to talk about it. It is not easy for me. I have not told any of my friends.”

“I don’t want to be nosy. You don’t need to..”

“Actually, I would like to share my side of the story with you. I just need some time”.

I agreed to walk with her to the train at the end of the next day.

Suresh, 1980

 

I left home yesterday. To be precise, I left my father’s house, having sworn never to set eyes on him again, collected my clothes and books in a bag and moved in with my maternal uncle.

It is hard for me to say when I started thinking of my father as my enemy, but I am sure he has always had contempt for me.  It’s not my fault that I was born to someone who was a teacher, perfectionist, narcissist, and sadist, all at the same time. Nor was it my fault that I was merely a good student, not an outstanding one. He taught physics at the local college. He had a reputation for being a disciplinarian and an outstanding teacher. The awards he won were all on display in his room, in a row of framed certificates.  I’m sure whoever gave him those awards had not seen him punish his younger child with utmost cruelty.

I always found it trivially easy to understand what was taught at the class, but I was just not interested in memorizing things and go through pages and pages of repetitive mathematical exercises. I never dreaded the examinations. I used to score in high 80s without breaking a sweat, while having the time to read the newspaper in full every day, finish all the Wodehouse and Alistair MacLean books that I could find in the library, go to the riverside gym as a daily routine and play cricket.

Nandini, my sister was a diligent student. She scored in high 90s, and would cry for losing mark or two in the exams before anyone could ask why she did not score a perfect 100. She learnt things unquestioningly. I was convinced that she did not entirely know the purpose of any of the equations she was solving. She was the apple of my father’s eye. When my father was disappointed with my performance in the examinations, he would hold her up as an example, remind me of his own towering academic achievements, berate me, and take his fury out on me through physical punishment.

In my early teens, my mother and sister would conspire to make up a story to soften the blow. My mother would rehearse the lines with me and my sister to remind my father of all the extenuating circumstances but for which, my performance would have been splendid. I appreciated the effort, fully knowing it would be futile, and would not stop the stinging blows. Over the years, they gave up the efforts, and I learnt to anticipate the physical blows, and learnt to harden or soften the muscles so it hurt less.

Last night was worse than usual. My father was in his room, talking to his students when I took my report card to him for signature. Along with my mark sheet, there was a letter from the principal in sealed envelope. My father opened the letter first read it out aloud. The letter expressed concerns as to my academic integrity, with a vague allusion to my involvement in an incident that ‘did not align with the school’s moral code’. I will tell you more about that later, but to my father the only thing that mattered was that his reputation was tarnished. He slapped me, found a ruler when his palm hurt, and pushed my mother who came in the way so hard that she bumped her forehead on the wall and started bleeding.

Something snapped in me. I was used to him roughing me up, but the difference perhaps was the physical violence on my mother in front of strangers. When he approached me on a fresh charge, I caught hold of both his wrists and held them so tight that he could not move. My father was a small man, and I knew he could not extricate himself from my grip. He tried to wriggle free, shouted more insults and spat at me. I would not budge. I felt a serene calm come over me at that time. I just told him what I thought of his academic credentials, ego and sense of honor. I told him that I was getting out, and I would rather starve than have another meal under his roof. I thundered out of the room after shoving him away. It was exhilarating to see the look of helplessness on his face.  ‘Now you know how it is to be humiliated in front of outsiders’, I thought.

All the blows I received from my father had a positive side. I had developed a high threshold for pain. This helped when I was hit on the cricket field. It also helped build my reputation as a ruffian.

There was teacher, universally hated, who could not really teach anything. No one was sure how he got the job, but he was shunted between positions where he could not do much academic damage. He started his career as a teacher of crafts, although he would not recognize any sort of craft if it walked up and punched him in the face. He taught physical education for a while, and later was moved to the position of librarian. He resented not getting more important assignments. He would take his frustrations out on the students. I no longer remember his actual name – we all thought of him as ‘craftan’ - an irreverent title coined from his first job.

It was during the half-early mathematics examination. Craftan was supervising us. I was making good progress through the questions. I knew I would always make some mistakes, but was would normally end up getting about 90 percent, which I thought was good enough. While I was immersed in the problems, someone walked by, took the pile of my completed pages, and handed it to the boy at the adjacent desk. I blinked, not understanding what had just happened. And then realized that it was craftan, He winked at me in what he must have thought of as a conspiratorial way. It just creeped me out. I did not have the courage to get the papers back. The papers eventually came back after the other boy copied what he needed. Meanwhile, I had just sat frozen at my desk, losing valuable time.

When the examination was over, I sat under a tree, berating myself for my lack of nerve. On a whim, I walked to the headmaster’s office, and haltingly told him what had happened. I did not have a reputation one way or another, but he knew that I was the son of a famous teacher. He was eager to see that I did not take this up to my father. The next day, he called Craftan and held a sort of trial. Craftan’s explanation was that he picked up some sheets blown by the wind and ended up restoring them to the wrong desk. I denied his story weakly, letting the lowlife get away with a verdict of not guilty. A few days later, I was summoned to the staff room. When I went there, Craftan was sitting alone.

I walked in, trying to sense who had summoned me and why. Craftan advanced on me with a menacing look. I stood still.

“How did you get the nerve to make stories up?”, he hissed.

“I did not need to make anything up. We both know what happened!”, I said, externally sounding calm, my heart racing.

He slapped me hard. It sounds like a quick event when I phrase it like that. But at that time, it seemed to happen in slow motion. When his hand rose, I was on familiar territory. I hardened my cheek muscles so the blow would not hurt and turned my head slightly in time to soften the blow. Despite that, the slap rang out in the empty room.

It did not hurt at all. It was weird, but I recall thinking that the man could use some lessons from my father. That caused me to smile. He seemed puzzled. I saw something like fear on his face.

I had suggested that the room was empty but for the two of us. That was wrong. We had been facing each other with the entrance to our right. Neither of us had noticed that we were no longer alone. Ramachandran Ayya, our Tamil teacher had entered the room. He looked a but surprised, but quickly assumed a normal expression and quietly went to his desk. Craftan looked even more agitated, perhaps wondering what Ayya had witnessed. My smile widened as I walked out. At the entrance, there was a group of younger students, looking mortified. They were trying to figure out who was being punished. I pushed them aside and walked out beaming. They seemed bewildered at the triumphant look on my face.

One of them must have started the tale that I had slapped Craftan to avenge some unspecified insult. I liked the story and let it spread. When my friends tried to confirm the story, I would just smile mysteriously. There was no masterplan, but this episode helped me think of myself as the aggressor rather than the victim. Outside my household, a few people knew how my father treated me. I used to lie awake at night, wondering how many people knew at school, and what that might do to my reputation. Having a reputation as a bully was a sure way to protect against being pitied or being dismissed as a lightweight.  I never hit any of the juniors, but sinister stories of how I abused them somehow spread as well. I made no effort to counter any of them.

Suresh, 1985

 

Vani was already waiting at our agreed meeting spot near the English department. I was surprised to find that I felt guilty. I blurted out an apology about the professor engaging me longer than I had anticipated. It was as if I had made a social superior wait. This realization surprised me further. I did not have the habit of apologizing. And I rarely acknowledged anyone as my even my equal.

The plan had been to walk with her to the train station as I told her my story. I was initially surprised by the realization and walked quietly for a while.

Then I told her the story. It was her turn to walk quietly. After the pause, she asked, “So, your tough guy routine is to show yourself that you are not easily bullied?”

That was insightful but was none of her business. I did not respond.

She resumed, “I was not prepared for such a story. Thanks for confiding in me. I am not sure that I can really help heal anything, but… “

“I’m not sure anyone can. You would agree if you knew the man”.

“Perhaps. But my concern was about your mom. It could not have been easy for her to be torn between her husband and child”.

“I blame her for my allowing my father to act the way he did”. I realized I could not explain why even as the words came out. Fortunately, she did not ask me to explain.

“Suresh, you don’t really know me. Thanks for letting me intervene in your family matter. I just want to take one more liberty and ask you to think about ways to stay connected with your mom”.

I said I’d think about it. I was worried that I might grow angry at Vani as well if she continued to press me, but I did not say that aloud.

I watched her walk to the large peepal tree outside the train station, join her friends, and disappear into the station.

Continued in Episode 3

Parthiban Kanavu - the Unabridged English Translation

My translation of Kalki's Parthiban Kanavu is posted as a separate blog.  Here are a few easy links for you to start with.

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1: The Pier

The translation has been done in a way that is loyal to the original. It is also meant to be accessible to people who do not understand Tamil. For example, I have avoided the use of Tamil exclamations, expressions and salutations for clarity and accessibility.

Thanks for your support.

Episode 01: The Secret Message

 

Krishnan, 1980

If someone had predicted that Vichu would change someone’s life through his cricket, I would have just laughed.

Vichu was my neighbour, classmate, confidante, and cricket partner. We had been inseparable. We shared a strong bond that comes from suffering from the same academic difficulties. The original group had comprised three members. Vani, Vichu’s older sister had been a part of the gang. We called ourselves the VKV gang – short for Vani, Krishnan and Vichu. Vani had been a perfectly normal girl until something changed. She suddenly grew taller, developed a maddening air of superiority, and started twisting my ear when she was displeased with me. She dropped out of our gang voluntarily. I was not entirely displeased, given her new attitude. That thickened my bond with Vichu further.

I had an additional reason to like Vichu. He was the only boy who was smaller than me in our cricket team. Our team consisted mostly of boys from the higher secondary classes. Vichu and I were magnanimously accepted into the team although we were both in class eight. We mostly acted as practice bowlers and substitute fielders. On the rare occasion one of us got to play in the eleven, we rarely got to bat or bowl. That did not stop us from fantasizing as to what we would do when we got an opportunity in an actual game.

We considered ourselves lucky to be in the team.  If you have forgotten your own early teen years, you can’t appreciate what it was like to play with boys who had already traversed their growth spurt. If you are the junior member, the bigger boys seem to be about twelve feet tall and as muscular as Arnold Schwarznegger (as he was in the 80s, that is). When a team of such strong specimens accepts you as a member, you are grateful, even if you know you are only there to make up the numbers.

The contest between the IOB Colony and Rajaji Extension was what the team lived for. We lived in IOB Colony. Rajaji extension was a set of adjacent streets. Someone who had been to Delhi discovered that the South Extension was called SouthEx and renamed their team ‘RajEx’. We considered the name yet another symptom of their vanity, but reluctantly adapted the name. The rivalry was intense. To us, the rivalry was akin to India vs. Pakistan, or Manchester United vs Arsenal. The senior members of the team all knew each other’s game well and would continuously plot against the other team. Vichu and I were too insignificant to feature in those plans of course.

Our captain was Alphonse. His deputy was Ponnan. They both were the most valuable players, our star batsmen and lead bowlers.  The string of events that I'm going to describe started on a warm evening in early May, on the eve of a challenge game against RajEx. Ponnan had sent word, asking Vichu and me to meet him at the Pillaiyar Temple near Kaveri, our usual spot for team discussions. We went as instructed. We were told that we would both be in the playing eleven the next day. We were both pleasantly surprised.

After the team meeting, the two of us walked home, discussing our hopes, fantasies, and fears. Most fears involved Suresh, the captain of the opposing team. Suresh was tall, strong, and bowled fast. He had a fierce temper. He was notorious in our school. He was rumored to have beaten up the physical education teacher when the latter had said something insulting to him in public. He also used to make dark threats to the juniors when they failed to comply with his instructions. The most common threat was the ‘poison ivy treatment’. He never elaborated, but the boys used to whisper that it involved applying poison ivy leaves to your unspeakable parts, leaving you to choose between dying of itch or dying of embarrassment when you seek treatment.

The big day dawned. We used to play with the “cork” ball, which was as heavy as the real cricket ball, but lasted longer. It hurt like hell if you get hit. We played without pads or gloves. Helmets were unheard of. A critical requirement to be in the team was not to cry if you got hit on your shin.

Alphonse won the toss and decided to bat first. As usual, he and Ponnan scored most of the runs. We suffered a middle order collapse, and before we knew, Vichu and I were batting together as the last pair. We put up a stout defense, with no intention of scoring. We frustrated the opposition for six long overs and were applauded warmly when we returned. We were dismissed for 124.

At the “lunch” break, when we usually ate peanut brittles and drank water, Vichu declared to me that we had done our part in the game. Suresh was annoyed that his team could not get us out, that usually meant he would be angry when he batted. Ponnan was sure to capitalize on that anger and get him out cheaply. The seniors usually hid us in remote corners where our lack of speed and poor catching were not exposed. So, it did seem plausible that our role would be insignificant from then on.

Vichu and I could both bowl, in the technical sense of the word. We both had legitimate bowling actions. I was a self-styled “fast” bowler in my age group, but called myself a leg spinner in the senior team, as “fast” meant something else in that group. Vichu was an off spinner. Neither of us had bowled in a real game.

RajEx started their innings steadily. Suresh was accumulating runs, but wickets kept falling on the other side. There was a mishap in about five overs. Ponnan hurt his hand trying to stop a ball. He did not make a big deal of it, but in a few minutes, we knew from the swelling that it might be serious. He was ferried away on a bicycle for some parental scolding and x-rays.

That left Alphonse in a tight spot. He had exactly four bowlers, not counting us juniors. He told both of us to be ready to bowl. I had butterflies in my stomach. I felt my action was a lot cleaner and less embarrassing, so I was bound to get to bowl ahead of Vichu.

Alphonse shuffled the four bowlers skillfully to get more wickets, but Suresh was still batting. He was smirking, reminding us of the over limits for the senior bowlers. He told his partner in a needlessly loud voice that he was waiting for ‘fresh meat’.

Alphonse used his ingenuity to pick up two more wickets, leaving Suresh with the last batsman. Suresh was skillfully farming the strike, protecting his partner. They still had twenty-six runs to get. Meanwhile, I could see that Alphonse was looking worried. Two bowlers had run out of their quotas and he and Murali had only two overs each. He had to bring one of us juniors on.

I took deep breaths and was prepared to be called to bowl. To my surprise, he gestured Vichu to warm up to bowl from the Raja Garden end.

Call me a snob if you wish, but I was surprised that Vichu was picked to bowl ahead of me. I loved Vichu like a brother, but his action was ... strange, to put it mildly. His bowling routine went something like this. He would mark his run up, as though his steps were predictable. He would start running in unevenly, slow down, look towards the sky and raise both hands as if pleading for divine assistance. His left arm would remain relatively still, while he would rotate the right hand and bend his neck at a strange angle. He would be looking at the ground at the time of release. The plan was to bowl  off-breaks, but it was usually hard to tell what might transpire. Years later, when I saw a bowler called Paul Adams bowl for South Africa, I was reminded of Vichu. But Adams was stylish in comparison.

Coming back to the game, we all realized that Suresh just needed a few boundary hits, and the game would be as good as over.  Suresh was smacking his lips, mouthing the words ‘fresh meat’ at Vichu. Alphonse tried to look confident but failed miserably. He moved me to fine third man to stop any wides.

Vichu duly started his gyrations as he ran towards the bowling crease. When the ball was released, it seemed to come straight to me. The slip fielder stopped the ball, and the umpire giggled as he signaled a wide. I could hear the batting team laugh heartily from the makeshift stands behind me. Alphonse moved fielders around, as if that might make the bowling more accurate.

Vichu, looking defeated, walked back to his bowling mark, ran in again, and released the ball after the usual sequence. It looked somewhat wide of the off stump as well. Suresh looked contemptuous as he shaped to cut. The ball turned sharply after pitching well outside off. Suresh persisted with his shot, but to his surprise, the ball hit the bat close to the handle. It ballooned towards Murali at point who calmly caught it.

It was hard to describe the pandemonium that followed. We all ran to Vichu, who did not seem to have understood what had happened. We hugged, shook hands, and screamed our collective lungs out. Alphonse was bragging aloud as to how his  surprise move accounted for Suresh.  When I turned to look at Suresh, I expected him to be trundling back with a bowed head, dragging his bat. On the contrary, he was standing with a raised bat, eyeing Vichu with unmistakable rage.

I could not speak to Vichu on the way home, as the team insisted on walking with him. As we bicycled to the school the next day, I was rehearsing my lines to warn Vichu of Suresh’s reaction. He surprised me by asking, “What do you think Suresh will do?”

“What Suresh will do?”

“You know, he looked pretty angry yesterday”.

“It was a game, and he got out. He can’t be mad at you. Don’t worry!”. That sounded hollow even as I spoke. We were talking about he-who-must-not-be-named!

As we talked more, the threat seemed more and more real. It was only a matter of time before Suresh would find Vichu, but we decided to evade him long as we could. During the lunch break, and phys-ed period, we decided to not go to the playground, but hide out in an empty classroom at the east end of the school. In the evening we left the school as late as possible, and rode our bicycles along the riverside, avoiding the road.

In the next few days, our fear had abated somewhat. Three days later, we were camping at the east end at the lunch break. We had spread comic books on the table, trying to arrange them in a sequence. The door burst open. It was Suresh. He was holding a brown paper bag that my mind quickly associated with poison-ivy.

Vichu and I stood frozen, unable to speak. He walked slowly towards us, like a tiger stalking its prey. He looked calm as he addressed me, “So you have been helping him hide!”

I did not know what to say.

He resumed thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself, “I’m trying to figure out whom I should take care of first!”.

I finally found my tongue, “Suresh, I can explain everything!”

“I’m sure you can. But I don’t need any explanations”. He paused for a bit and resumed. “Here is what I have decided. I will deal with you one at a time. I want you to meet me here at lunch tomorrow. And Vichu should meet me here at the end of the day tomorrow”.

I agreed, not knowing exactly whether it was good news. Vichu, the perpetrator, stood silent through all this.

Vichu had heard somewhere that sesame oil minimizes the sting of poison ivy. The next morning, we both applied generous amounts of oil, just in case. I coasted through the morning classes with no idea what was being taught. The lunch hour came before I was ready. I did not feel like eating. I left my lunch box at my desk, and headed to the east end, quivering from head to toe.

Suresh was already seated when I reached the rendezvous. He had another envelope in his hand, but it did not seem like it might contain poison ivy. I couldn’t be sure of course.

He looked calm. Not at all like I pictured. He came straight to business. “You are friends with Vani, right?”

“Yes, of course Suresh”, I said quickly, in a timorous voice.

“I want you to give her this.”, he said, handing me the envelope.

“What is this?”

“I find her good looking… Actually, you don’t need to know. Just give her this. Make sure there is no one else around.”

“What – Vani, good looking?”, I asked, distracted from my fears.

“You are in enough trouble already. Don’t make it worse by being nosy! Just be sure to give it to her. And not a word to anyone else!”. He looked menacing again.

I hastily withdrew. I did not mention the envelope to Vichu. I didn’t ask him what his punishment was. I might have had to break my oath of secrecy if I raised the topic.

I did not have a chance to see Vani alone for the next day or two. One evening, I saw her ascend the stairs to go to the terrace. I took the envelope, dashed to her house, and followed her to the terrace. This task did not seem daunting now. It was just Vani. And I used to be in their house all the time, so nothing odd about me going to the terrace.

When she saw me, she just raised a silent eyebrow, resembling a French queen asking a peasant if he was going to harp on bread again. She had a book in her hand.

“I was asked to give you this”, I said, trying to give her the envelope.

“By whom?”, she asked with a stony face.

“Hm, can’t you just read it? It’s all in there”.

“Actually, I want you to open it and read it. I may take it, depending on the contents”

I got uncomfortable. “Vani, I’m not supposed to..”.

“I will tell you what you're not supposed to do. You're not supposed to carry messages to young girls from strangers. If you don’t want to be in further trouble, open it and read it!”

I lost my nerve. That sounded like blackmail. I thought it was unjust, coming from a childhood friend, but I figured I had no option but to comply. I opened the letter, handed her the envelope, and unfolded the single sheet inside. It was one of those colourful sheets, with flowers and quills as the background.

“Dear Vani, this is Suresh, your admirer”, I started reading.

I heard footsteps from the staircase. I felt a surge of panic. I did not want to be caught with that letter. I tried to push the sheet to Vani, who backed away, with her hands behind her. I remembered something I had seen in a spy movie just in the nick of time. I crumpled the sheet up, put it in my mouth and started chewing.

Vani’s mom emerged from the stairs. I vaguely realized that she smiled, and asked me what I was eating, but I fled without replying. My heart was hammering fast.

Suresh found me the next day. I told him I had handed Vani the envelope and did not wait for a response. That seemed to satisfy him. I seemed to be off the hook.

The next month went uneventfully. Vichu seemed to be back to his cheerful self.

At the end of the summer, my father said he was being transferred to the head office, and moved all of us to Madras at a short notice. I lost touch with everyone. This was way before social media came into existence, and I was not resourceful enough to find a way to get back in touch with my friends. I heard that Vichu went to study in Coimbatore, but nothing more.

Krishnan, 1999

So, almost two decades later, I met the scourge from my past. I was speaking at a software conference in Hyderabad. Most people in the audience were students. At the end of the speech, some of them came up to ask questions and shake hands.

When I say I spoke, I don’t want you to think I had great pieces of wisdom to dispense. I was a speaker because my company was a co-sponsor. It was my job to go to such conferences and give people the impression that we had an interest in the wider technology community, while subtly positioning our brand. 

After the young students finished embarrassing me, I found someone waiting outside the cluster. It took me a few seconds to recognize the man. It was Suresh!

My initial reaction was an irrational fear. Then I remembered that I was no longer 13. It also helped that he was beaming from ear to ear.  He was still muscular, but much less substantial than I remembered.

“Krishna, what a surprise! You were wonderful up there”, he said, indicating the podium.

“Thanks Suresh. It has been ages! Great to see you. What are you doing here?”

“I teach at the University. I came here, chaperoning some students. Not willingly, mind you! But I am so glad I came. I got to meet you. Where do you live?”

“I live in Delhi. You live here at Hyderabad, I see. How are you? Married? Kids?”

“Yes, I will tell you everything. I have to go now though. Can you come home for dinner?”

“I have to attend a speaker’s dinner tonight”.

“Skip it”.

“I can’t skip it altogether. But I can attend the early part, and excuse myself. I can confirm later. Give me your address”.

He scribbled his address behind his business card. I was debating whether I wanted to go. I had no great affection towards him. But he might be able to tell me all about our old friends. That will beat listening to the snobs at the conference all evening.

Finally, I decided to go, and left the dinner early. I took a taxi to the address.

Suresh opened the door, grinning ear-to-ear. The smile did not seem forced. I gave him the box of chocolates that I had brought. He led me to a comfortable living room. His wife ran into the room screaming and hugged me.

It was Vani!

Over dinner, there were a few jokes at my expense - such as paper roast being appropriate on the menu. Vani also twisted my ear, 'for old times' sake'. For once, I didn't mind being bullied.

Continued in Episode 2

Cricket and the Illusion of Being on the Right Side

 

Let’s start with a story. The setting is a cricket series in Toronto – Sahara Cup 1997. India and Pakistan were taking their cricketing rivalry to a neutral venue. Toronto was considered a suitable venue – it has a great cricket culture, with a large expat population from the subcontinent. The tournament was labeled the “Friendship Cup”, with promoting amity between the countries as the stated goal.

I watched three of the five games live with my brother, wife and some friends. All of us supported India of course! We had seen the earlier edition of the tournament, featuring the same teams the previous year, but had still not gotten over the novelty of the Indian team taking on their archrivals live in our backyard. We had planned the event like a picnic, with packed lunch, drinks and snacks.

There were several things to be thrilled about. We were able to get there early and were able to watch the teams practice from close quarters. It was well before the horrors of 9/11. There was no fence around the playing area.  We ran into Azhar Mehmood and Saqlain Mushtaq on our way in. We recognized them as Pakistani cricketers through their gear but did not know who they were. Saqlain was still new (to us), and Mehmood was about to make his debut. When we took the shuttle from the parking lot, we also sat next to Colin Croft, the West Indian fast bowler who was there as a commentator.

In the stands, the Indian and Pakistani pockets were easily identifiable by their chants, hats and flags. Fans were allowed to bring their drums and megaphones. The pockets were cheering their respective teams and targeting the players of the ‘other’ team with some good-natured banter. To be precise, the banter was good natured to start with.

On the first day, some Pakistani men in front of us were talking to the players who were at the boundary. I recall them asking Abhay Kuruvilla how tall he was and encouraging Azharuddin to ‘grab the captaincy back’. (Sachin Tendulkar had recently taken over from Azharuddin as the captain of India).

The Indian fans started by reminding the Pakistanis of some recent previous encounters in Toronto and Bangalore, where India had prevailed. Again, nothing more than cheerful back-and-forth.

As the day progressed, the banter intensified, and at some point, changed into verbal duels. And later, it transformed into outright nastiness. The Pakistani fans from our gallery were shouting insults at the Indian fielders at the boundary. Not to be outdone, the Indian fans targeted the Pakistani players.

An Indian fan seated near us - let’s call him Desi Dada for convenience – was far above anyone else in his nastiness. I put most of the blame for vitiating the environment in our neighbourhood on him. He picked Rameez Raja for special treatment. Rameez, to our surprise, reacted with a surprisingly crude gesture that was inconsistent with the suave personality he was known to assume in front of the cameras.  Desi Dada apparently decided that addressing the players did not give him enough scope for his creativity and started taunting the Pakistani fans in front of us. The Pakistanis retaliated with some choice words of their own. Soon, water bottles started flying. (Plastic ones, thankfully!).

We were surprised at how quickly good-natured banter turned into a nasty brawl. When a few policemen came down to enquire who started the brawl, my brother challenged Desi Dada towards to display his bravery to the policemen and gave him an encouraging shove in the right direction. Dada did no such thing, of course. A few policemen took station near where we were, and that settled things down for the rest of the day.

On the second day, Shiv Kumar (his real name), an Indian fan started teasing the Pakistani players. We were too far from him to be able to see him, but could hear him clearly, as he had a megaphone. He was particularly critical of Inzamam Ul-Haq’s body weight, calling him an aloo (Potato). I did not hear him say anything unparliamentary, but he was taunting the Pakistani players non-stop.

At some point, the Pakistanis had had enough. Pakistan was fielding then. For some reason, one of the substitute players brought a bat to the boundary. Inzamam picked it up, jumped the fence, entered the crowd, and attacked the fan. The security personnel intervened and broke up the fight before anyone was seriously hurt. The game eventually resumed. The Toronto police spoke to everyone concerned and decided to not bring up criminal charges. I suspect the High Commissions of India and Pakistan were involved.

This shows how mob psychology and group-think can cause good men to lose their reason. Something that initially starts off as good-natured banter can escalate to something bigger just due to a few bad apples. It is not obvious to the participants when the transformation takes place. I recall being ashamed at a stage for initially having enjoyed the wisecracks from Desi Dada.

I have been thinking more about this in the last few days. Why? Two recent incidents.

The first incident is an accusation of racism against some Australian fans in Sydney. I am willing to believe that it started innocently enough and escalated due to lack of reaction from the players or under the influence of alcohol. We don’t know exactly all that happened, but it is hard to believe that the instigators would have thought race is an appropriate theme for humor without some inherent bias. Unlike what happened in Toronto, there were no physical fights. Mohammed Siraj had the courage to bring it to the match officials’ attention, and the Police acted more decisively.

Some Indian fans generalize this to ‘What do you expect?  The Aussies crowds have always been racist’. Someone reminded me in this context that Moeen Ali was called “Ossama” by an unnamed Aussie player. I want to remind them that Moeen was also the target of a "noncrime hate-related incident" involving expat Indian population. That happened in his own hometown, Edgbaston.

The second reason for me to remember the Sahara cup episode was last week’s civic unrest in Washington. Many Republican supporters have now woken up to realize that they have been on the wrong side for a while. The common reaction that I see on social media is - 'what took you so long?' It may have been misplaced loyalty to a person, party, or just willful ignorance. Or it could be just the aversion to the alternative. Many people have seen something bad coming. It is hard for the such folks to resist saying ‘I told you so’, but that restraint is exactly what it might take to unite all the folks against the fringe elements.

Indian press has been wondering if the events were uniquely American, with headlines such as ‘Could it happen here?’. I have seen similar questions raised in the Canadian media as well.

I think it absolutely can. Bias has been hiding in plain sight and has been waiting for a spark. Most people can’t recognize their own bias until someone with the same bias ends up doing something appalling.  In the Indian context, some examples are Godhra, Babri Masjid, the rise of Bindranwale, the anti-Sikh riots, support for LTTE and the spectator unrest in the 1996 World Cup Semi-finals.

The Sahara Cup episode above is a miniature incident that I have seen from close quarters. It might have been a lesson sent to teach me not to see things in black or white. It’s all too easy to be sure of your conviction for a long time, and then find that your moral compass has been off after the fact.

The purpose of this article is not to defend the erstwhile Trump supporters, or the erring spectators in Sydney. Rather, the point is that it is usually hard to tell the good guys from the bad, after nastiness becomes the norm. Wasn’t that the main theme of the war of Mahabharat?