Wisdom. For a change (but you could pay with notes as well)

The other day a friend and I were chatting about something and he mentioned that it is hard to stay positive (as in, a positive frame of mind, not the charge at one end of the battery cell).  As is usually the case when I disagree, I said nothing.
 
I am now about three generations old.  Back then in 1965, the average life expectancy in India – and this is, if anything, an overestimate – was forty-two and the odds of my surviving the first year if I had been born in a poor family in Bihar would have been around 60:40 (as it happened, it was a C-section birth in Ernakulam and the early delivery was, no doubt, God’s way of handing over the problem after doing his best at getting me to behave in socially acceptable ways).  But back to what the world was like then:  small pox was still around and fatal and polio was amongst a laundry list of diseases that could put someone out for good. India was a horrific basket case, having just got over a debilitating food crisis: we have no idea how many humans - emaciated, crippled, sickened and lost – perished.   
 
As for other species, forests were being rapidly cleared and hunting wasn’t just common, it was, in most parts of India, culturally mandated and wildlife was living a precarious extinction crisis across the world which we thought would be final.  And the world had just overcome the Cuban Missile crisis (for which, of course, I am not responsible, having not yet been born) which brought the planet as close to the edge as it can ever get. 
 
When I think back these years and of what could have been had the call of the dice been different, it is hard – impossible - to stay negative.  Life rocks.  Seriously.  I have thought of this every time I am by a stream or river waiting for an otter to show up (they never do, so it’s mutually exclusive), or when watching a herd of elephants, with a nervous, palpitating heart, or, as in October this year, a flock of snow pigeons at Darwa Pass, after a trek up that I thought would never end (like most of my posts on Facebook). 
 
We live in a world of astonishing charm in the company of the most remarkable species about which we are learning much more every day than was known earlier.  And keeping these species company is an utterly unpredictable, notably idiotic, understandably neurotic, visibly egotistic, extraordinarily chaotic, incredibly talented, generally idealistic, somewhat plurastic one that is, well…., us.  Years ago, I decided to not worry about what I cannot control when I am not at the steering, and instead to enjoy the ride (and to not read the newspapers).  All these species have stories to tell and writing those stories – to inflict on an unsuspecting audience that seeks Literature but is given Peanut Sauce - is the best part of the deal.  This is an astoundingly beautiful world and never has been better.  Truly.  
 
I am off to a river and the forest by it for a few days, hopefully to meet some of the Kuruchiyars I know, among the nicest, gentlest people you could find with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ecosystem.  And to have a cup of black tea twice a day with two delicious unniappams at the world’s finest tea stall.  An apology in advance if I do not reply to that birthday message, but let that not stop you….    

A Monograph on the Inner Psychology of a Bus Driver-cum-GDP Enhancer in God’s Own Country

 I returned to Bangalore from Ernakulam this morning and took the usual airport bus back home and there were times when I thought I was still in the aircraft because the landscape passed by in a blur.  But I did not complain. Here is the crunch: if you live in Bangalore and ever complain about the way drivers of BMTC go about their business of letting others know just who the boss is, I will know that the two places you haven’t visited are Kerala and Himachal.

A private bus driver in Kerala is generally a certified homicidal maniac.  He has a set, grim face and will not look at you (or me or any sub-species like us that are worthy of the deepest contempt).  He generally does not speak to commuters and will grunt or stare in expressive response that tells you that he is not, decidedly Not, Happy. He generally has three states of Being: Not Happy, Unhappy, Furious.  If he speaks a sentence at all - it is generally a whiplash and torrent in one - it means he is decidedly Unhappy (State 2).. If it is more than one sentence, he has moved to State 3.  If you are the subject of State 3, please transform into a boll worm and evaporate in Society’s larger interest.

His principal interest (other than population annihilation, which has been a lifelong passion) is to beat his earlier timing between two destination points. This goal he pursues with determined fervour of the take-no-prisoners variety, inspired by the great white shark of which he has a sticker next to his speedometer. This means driving at top speed on a two-lane road in the wrong lane, giving the oncoming traffic plenty of how-to-handle-the-steering-wheel-while-keeping-heart-beat-at -only-150 experience and providing just the right catalyst for premature ageing and religious belief - they all have pictures of gods, goddesses, crosses and symbols next to their speedometers, clutches, brakes, gear levers, seats, windows and fuel tanks to neutralise GWS (Great White S...).  When he brakes, he doesn’t just press the brake: he screeches, skids, swerves and swears to an inch of the vehicle ahead of him.  The back seat passenger in this vehicle will, in mortal, petrified, shrunken fear, never look back, thus enabling a Life lesson in philosophy that all those motivational videos about Looking-Forward can never teach.

He specialises in sidelining any vehicles in his lane by racing neck-to-neck and then effecting a deft and subtle turn to the left sending the other driver into an advanced state of panic and providing hospitals revenue in their cardiac departments, hence contributing to national GDP (where the P does not stand for Panic). And, as you can see from the picture below, there are even buses named Good Luck that offer a rather dire warning to oncoming traffic.

On a journey in one of these starships, I was offered the sideseat right in front, facing the driver, but the conductor saw the terrified look in the eyes and then said, “Ok, you stand in the middle then and wait for a seat. Many older people find that seat uncomfortable.” I swallowed my pride of course with a “You have no idea. I have rock black hair, it’s just been dyed grey for today”. (No, actually I did not say that to him, no chance in hell, but fantasising never costs you anything). 

The astonishing thing about all of this is that the people in the bus don’t seem to mind.  But that is because they – like all Mallus the world over – are bloody smart: it’s better, they reason, to be inside than out.

The Woes of Vaz

Among the many unanswered questions on the planet is one that boggles the mind.  The question: How did Mrs. Vaz remain, well, normal? 

Normal, for this elevated purpose, is hereby defined as a condition in which a person is not transmogrified, by circumstances, into 

a) a weeping wreck

b) a furious furnace

c) a cowering catastrophe

d) a depressed decadent

e) all of the above and exhibiting delirious symptoms suggesting that there would be more to come.

Mrs. Vaz was the only lady in a small group of lecturers who taught our class in St. Josephs and she did so relentlessly for five years which suggests a resilience last seen in The Charge of the Light Brigade.  She was of medium height, always dressed in a sari with her hair tied in a neat bun, a quiet, demure lady with an impassive freckled face that wore an occasional slow, shy smile, and a reluctant walking style which was in significant evidence when she treaded the path to our classroom. 

Every year, much to her dismay, she would be alloted  subjects like Economic Geography, Political Science, Commerce and Business Administration, which were, to put it mildly, unteachably boring.  Let me emphasise this in case you missed it in a hurry to get to the end – the most tedious, dull, dreary, mind-numbing, lifeless, lacklustre, unexciting, routine, plebian, pedestrian, wearisome subjects were allotted to her, because no one else would touch them with a barge-pole tied to the end of a javelin.  Mrs Vaz was far too good-natured to argue with the clever Head of Department and, consequently, at the beginning of every year, she’d turn up when the bell rang, her face a picture of resignation, her posture defeated but holding a pretence of defiance. 

My class - I cannot emphasise this enough - tested her sorely.  As she took that hesitant step onto the wooden podium (that had once housed a stack of crackers under it) in front of about a hundred boys and girls, the vast majority would welcome her with a collective vacant look of vacuous, languid asininity (which was an independent function of time of day).  If she felt the need to return the compliment, she did not show it, for such was her bearing and sense of dignity.  Some of the girls attempted to smile in an effort at feminine bonding, but the boys just ignored her presence, and an odd fellow - Society's misanthrope - would shout, ‘Welcome Ma’am’ in the falsest of notes, while she would nod her head passively knowing perfectly well that he meant no such thing.

And, much as Dr. Seuss’s immortal Horton the Elephant sat on an egg past his bedtime (Horton Lays An Egg – don’t miss it), Mrs. Vaz laboured through every single class with commendable doggedness, reading out chapter after chapter, her voice a montonous refrain that triggered drowsiness on a warm afternoon.    

If Dr. Seuss were watching, he would present her case succintly:

“Let them ignore

Roar.

Snore.

Let them stare

Dare.

I don’t care.

I will for sure

conduct the tour.”

The large contingent of back-benchers who should have been serving time in solitary confinement for their disservice to civil society, would often stretch and yawn with a loud remonstrative groan, day-dream and express their creative, artistic expression on any available medium (including, once, the shirt of the person in front). Many caught up on their sleep.  Others simply did nothing: being part-time philosophers, they stared out of the window in meditative contemplation

Occasionally, though, a loud giggle would break out at the back.  Or even some laughter.  Or someone would visibly display somnolent behaviour that was calculated to test the patience of a certified saint. 

Or there would be a question asked by an otherwise disinterested superstar (who had spent the last few minutes combing his rapidly thinning hair), followed by much tittering around him and words of encouragement that were as hilarious as they were provocative.  In these not-so-unusual situations, her voice would rise, the rapid flow of words followed by a gesture to the main protagonist to exit the room and, as the offender quickly stood up to leave, others would offer to accompany him or offer loud advice, or say sorry on his behalf or even suggest substitution.  Most of this inflamed her anger greatly and her gentle face would become a noticeable red, testing her blood pressure sorely.  

On one or two occasions, she stormed out of the room, but that was playing right into everyone’s hands.  After a few seconds spent in silence, the mass of prospective Chartered Accountants, MBAs and businessmen would evacuate the classroom to the comfort of the college canteen. While I generally kept quiet when there was mayhem, there were times when it was difficult to not be swayed by the peer group and I joined in the collective merriment – not at her expense, but clearly not at her instance (is this an occasion to assuage a guilty conscience?).

It was a hopeless situation, utterly hopeless.  

My primary emotion, though, was one of compassion.  She was doing the best she could, for you can, after all, only play with the cards you are dealt and, when one of us did need help, she was always ready, her gentle nature acting as a balm.  Despite all those provocations, she never had a bone to pick.  I did well in her subjects and she treasured that - years later, she told me that she ‘knew’ I would do well in my career, an unforgettable compliment but happily untrue for I exited the career race early.

A few days ago, I learnt that she had left for a larger realm and, in the mind's fertile eye, I saw her climbing those stairs with grace, clutching a book or two, the hesitant, slow smile on a gentle countenance as the Maker looked on with empathy.  

If only He knew that one of those books was Economic Geography.....