Epilogue

Thus endeth my trip! In about three hours time I'll be in the New Delhi railway station to catch a train back to Kanpur.
(The last three posts describe the trip)

For the Good Things in Life

Yesterday(Sunday the 5th of Feb) Parinay, another old friend, had come over to my place. I was telling him about yesterday’s visit to the WBF. We both agreed that the essence of being a good writer is to be open to experiences, to interpret them in a personal way, and to be able to express them coherently. Their main achievement is that they've been able to make sense of their experiences. After all, what a history might lie behind a book of a hundred pages or so! What a world of experiences must have led to it’s creation. By and by I told him about “Burmese Days”. He asked “Why?” with a distinct tone of reproach. I reminded him of the saying, “The best things in life come free.” He said that the best things are priceless…not free. For example, the air that we breathe, the water we drink (not in Europe though…wine might be cheaper. And we forgot about food and shelter. Also clothes). I said that’s not entirely correct. One finds happiness when one is not looking for it. It’s not like you can go to a store to buy happiness. I elucidated with an example. Suppose you buy a pet. For example, a dog of good breed. That will cost you money, but it will give you happiness. But this latter is somewhat offset by the fact that you made a conscious effort. On the other hand, if by chance you happen to befriend an abandoned puppy or kitten, then the feeling is more complete. This reminds me of an interesting incident. Once while watching “Kaun banega Crorepati”, Amitabh Bacchan was asking questions to Priety Zinta, who was in the hot seat. At one stage she lets out that she loves animals: “Oh! I love animals! I simply adore them! They’re so cute and cuddly! At home I have two Labradors, one German shephard, and there is a whole fleet of servants to look after them! I take every care of them and have a vet monitoring their diet and health all the time”. Well, so much for that!
In the evening at about 4.00 we went to Priya Cinema. I’d heard a lot about the book stores over here. A friend of mine had bought a book on Salvador Dali and I was curious about checking out the shops. When we reached there I was struck by a sense of unreality. Was that pretty girl over there, walking with her friends, sipping on her Coke, was she for real? Was this shopping complex for real? Were these beautiful people for real? Was the music that was being belted out meant for me also? Their clothes, mannerisms, everything looked like it belonged to a far away, fantasy world. Whenever I’m in Kanpur and I think about Delhi, I think about these glitzy places, and I feel drawn towards them inexplicably. But when I’m actually in such a place, I start feeling out of place. All these people are enjoying the same place and the same things and the same music. Is this for real? The same pretty face looks out of the hoarding at a million faces telling them what they should look like. Like Parinay asked, how can one Shopping Complex be a source of fun to one lakh people? And yet here it was before my eyes and I was feeling like a fugitive. They were eating the same manufactured food, the same beverages from the same MNC’s, and all were looking happy and beautiful. Brave New World is near my friend. Bring home the soma.
Anyhow, we entered a bookshop where Parinay bought a book by Ramanujan (Not the mathematician…a guy who’d translated many Tamil poems into English). Then we went to Music World where I bought a Thin Lizzy CD.
I was in a pretty horrid shape. It felt like a bad Vodka hangover. We went to a place slightly away from the main shopping area. It was relatively quieter there. We were sitting on a bench. In front of us was a large circular wall made of stone about four feet high and sixty feet in diameter. Various people were sitting on it. Most of them were couples and I envied them secretly. In the center of this structure was a defunct fountain. (It really was there. I’m not impotent, and that’s why I was envious)We were sitting and smoking and chatting. Or rather, I was sitting and smoking and listening. He was talking about Marquis de Sade and his works. He was talking about a BBC documentary on pianists, wherein Rachmaninoff was mentioned. He was talking about a whole lot of other things but somehow nothng was forming in my head as I listened passively and smoked actively. At one point he talked about the ultimate high one gets from music…when it seems like the notes you are playing have been extracted from the depths of the universe and put on display. It is as if you are sharing a deep, deep secret which you have been at pains to unearth. I was feeling confused and the thoughts in my mind were too heavy to let me speak. I was still thinking of the glittering shopping complex and the beautiful people that looked so happy and carefree when a beggar came over and stuck out his hand. A coin would have sent him off but we preferred to shoo him away. He went to another bench with his arm held in the same position. In front, on the other side, was a shop with a huge neon sign board. Below it was the sentence, “For the good things in life.” I assume it was “good”, for the trunk of a tree hid the word.

The Best Things in Life are Free

I could snatch only a four hour stretch of sleep; from 5.00 am to 9.00 am. Dilly-dallying through the morning, it was only at twelve noon that I stepped out of the house and met up with my old friend Kalpana at the entrance of Pragati Maidan, where the fair was being held. We met at 12.45 pm and entered. For sometime we strolled and chatted, and sat on a bench to eat a something. The book stalls were put up inside the halls. Hall-18 had most of the companies of interest. Rupa had a good collection of books. I was curious about many of them, but since I did not have enough money and since I cannot read so many books, I did not make any purchases. There were books by Somerset Maugham which I’d have been interested in buying, but I still have a decent amount of unread Somerset Maugham stuff.
After this we went to the Penguin stall. Prior to this we’d been discussing about how expensive books had become these days and how publishers extort money by charging exorbitant prices. We were pretty pissed with them and had been discussing possibilities of unlawful divestments from the stalls. The long and short of it was that when we walked out, the Penguin stall was short of one copy of “Burmese Days”. I have to thank my jacket for that. It’s quite capacious.
We were pretty elated by this piece of larceny. It wasn’t larceny to us though. What larceny was to us…nay, much worse than larceny, were the unscrupulous, capitalist methods adopted by companies like Penguin. Why, they steal money right from under our noses. Just think…just a few years back one could buy any book by R.K.Narayan for around 60 or 70 Rupees. One could buy books by Jawaharlal Nehru for about a 100 Rupees. But now books by both these authors are being brought out by Penguin and I’ll be damned if I can find a book by R.K.Narayan for less than 200 Rupees and a book by Nehru for less than 400 Rupees (Discovery of India, the book on World History, his Autobiography). I’m sure Nehru would have been happier if his books had been more accessible. Further, as a point of interest, these books had been written by the authors in in moments of realisatin and inspiration, so it is important to circulate these books. This is exactly what the authors themselves would have wanted. But now, these books are available in beautiful glossy covers, in expensive shopping malls where the rich and beautiful people frequent, and these are the people who are going to buy them if feel so disposed. It’s quite funny, the contrast between a Soviet prison and an air-conditioned sitting-room.
It really miffed us that someone interested in reading a particular book cannot simply because it’s not available in any library and that it’s price in the market is too high. George Orwell is dead nad gone…so is Somerset Maugham. They surely don’t need money in the other world. Why should someone not have access to their ideas for as dreary a reason as money? After all, money is a way in which the world’s resources split. It’s understandable if people with money have access to better cars and more petroleum. But it’s not understandable why money should decide who has access to ideas. Ideas! For God’s sake! How can the companies lay claim to the ideas of other people! Anyway, Kalpana and I agreed that reading a book obtained in this way is one of the most satisfying experiences, so much that it almost gives a high like nicotine or sex.
Just as an aside, I might take this occasion to share a private view of mine. I think it’s really important for India to have a vibrant and dynamic literary movement. The regional language literature is important, and equally important are the translations into other languages. And it is important to have publishing companies that will print these books at reasonable rates. It is not fair that foreign companies do their business in this blood sucking manner.
We had dosa for lunch and then we wandered and chatted and looked at the various book stalls. At the end of the day when we were about to part, I had with me, apart from the purloined book, some Soviet books which I’d got pretty cheap and two anthologies which I’d bought earlier in the day. There was also an anthology of french stories. Kalpana made three purchases, one of which was pretty interesting. It was a collection of true murder stories, all somehow related to artists or musicians. Kalpana… I’m gonna take that book someday and read it!
There was one very trivial incident which happened in the evening, and I thought of setting it down just for the record. It was twilight when we decided to move out. We had been walking beside the huge lake near Hall No. 8 in Pragati Maidan. Kalpana was to my right, and the lake was to our right. We were chatting, and I was absently looking at her and the lake and both of us were feeling a quiet feeling of peace. There was a fountain in the center of the lake of the lake throwing out a huge column of water. The sun had set and the remaining light was fast diminishing. The lights by the side of the road had come on and so had the electric lights that illuminated the shops and other buildings. In the fading light these looked like a newly arrived bunch of stars and their fragmented reflections were waving and rolling on the surface of the lake as if someone was waving a carpet containing diamonds. People were seated on benches beside the lake in idle and relaxed postures. Everything was perfect in that moment. Everything was where it was supposed to be. We had traversed about half the length of the lake when I suddenly noticed all this. I suddenly realised how beautiful it was. I pointed it out to Kalpana. However, the moment I did so, the feeling vanished.

Kanpur to Delhi

Recently I had fallen into a rut and was stagnating. I seemed to be dragging on and each day seemed wasted. I wasn’t dong justice to anything; neither to my academics nor to any of my other interests. I felt like I had to run away from this place just to keep sane. So I decided to go home and seeing that almost all trains were full, and not feeling like standing in the reservation counter, I hopped on to a bus from the main gate for Delhi.
I’d been told that it takes about ten hours to reach Delhi from Kanpur. On the way, about half an hour later, two students had had an altercation with the conductor. Apparently they had a bus-pass which the conductor refused to recognise as valid and they wouldn’t pay the fare. And neither would they get out, in defiance of the conductor’s suggestions. “So be it” said the conductor. “Neither will the bus move.”
“Thik hai! Hum bhi baithe rahenge! Humko chutiya samajh rakhe ho kya?”, thus spake the students…and there matters stood. People were getting restive, the bus was standing in the middle of a lonely highway, and neither side was willing to yield. Finally, after the space of nearly a half hour, and in the wake of an intense stream of invective (whose range was pretty limited), the students paid and the bus resumed. All broke into smiles of relief. It’s not a pleasant feeling to be stranded miles away from anywhere.
Not too many people were inside. I’d got in at 2.00 pm and at 3.30 pm or so the bus stopped at Kannauj, and here it seemed like the bus had suddenly become a popular favourite amongst travellers. It suddenly became full. A large Muslim family had embarked. They had a good amount of baggage. They spoke in Hindi in loud and careless language. One of them was called “Sakeel”. They dressed typically. Shirts were tucked into the trousers and a belt around the waist. Their hair was well oiled. They looked like they were from some small town, and from their language and dress it was obvious that they were slightly below the lower middle class in the economic strata.
Their faces were sweaty and dusty. From their bearing it appeared that they were used to it. The women wore saris that were creased and smudged. They settled into the bus with elan which suggested that this was how they usually travelled. They held converse from all corners of the bus in loud, cheerful language, and the mothers chided, abused and slapped their children in the way a goldsmith hammers the gold (hey…I’m not talking about a skilled goldsmith!)…and the next moment would smile as casually or shout at a relative three seats behind. The child’s wails would be further silenced by similar methods.
A woman, mother to the child she was carrying sat beside the window on the seat on which I was sitting. Next to her, and to my right was a stout, old woman, probably her mother or in-law. Between these two was wedged a little girl of about seven. Both looked typically Indian muslim women from the way they wore their saris, almost like gowns (perhaps so that it would serve as a ready burqa, though I never ever saw them use it thus), and their jewellery, which to me looked redolent of classic mughal architecture, and the way they chewed their betel leaves. The bus was full. The people standing had to jostle for space with each other and the luggage strewn on the floor. I was feeling crammed for space and it was about all I could to keep myself from falling over. The bus was making its way through a crowded part of the town. Vehicles were blaring their horns outside like crazy and inside it was stuffy and there was a hint of peevishness in the air. Children were wailing from all corners of the bus. The woman beside the window was constantly beating and abusing her child, but the girl in the middle had by far a much worse deal; she being hit by both the women and receiving a more strongly worded choice of abuse…at one point being called “suar ki bacchi” by the woman beside the window. I concluded that they were not mother and daughter. At one point upon being hit, she turned her eyes towards me, and I shudddered and had to look away. I realized how truthful a window the eyes are to all that is felt inside. That single glance was enough to convey exactly what she felt, and for a moment, I felt the way she felt. No amount of words or pages can convey that. (Conrad had talked about us living in a dream, and each dream being different from the other, and the impossibility of two dreams merging. Maybe there are times when this does not happen)
After a while the roads cleared and we were on the highway again, making good speed. Except for a stop in another town, we went non-stop till 6.30, where ther was another stop. At 7.15 pm the muslim family got down at Gurgaon and the bus cleared. I could stretch out and relax. Till about 8.30 pm very little happened. The bus trundled on it’s monotonous way. I had finished my packet of Brittania cake I’d bought in Kanpur and was feeling hungry and tired. To make matters worse the first signs of a headache were making themselves felt. My main concern was like when the fuck I’m going to reach Delhi, and what my folks would say, and how I was to make my way from the bus depot to home, and if I would faint from exhaustion on the way or if I would reach at all. Thankfully at about 8.30 pm the bus stopped at a place called Bewar, where we had dinner at a dhaba. It revived me considerably and my fears now seemed exaggerated.
We resumed. At about 11.00 pm or so a group of four young men entered the bus at Aligarh. They were carrying huge bags in their hands. These men were also huge, well over six feet tall. They were dressed like showy kids in Delhi colleges. Their way of speaking was boisterous and unruly. They laughed loudly and talked without reserve. From their language I felt that we were nearing Delhi. Indeed, the moment they entered, one of them said to another one, “abe band ke lund kya kar raha hai!” The choice of his words and his manner of speaking had Delhi written all over it. I felt a bit cheerful after this, as I felt Delhi must be close now. I had not heard this kind of language for some time and I was feeling slightly nostalgic; not having been in Delhi for nearly six months…Outside the night was dark and cold and I had to draw my jacket closer around me.
The bus was now being stopped every ten minutes or so, and at each such interruption a formidable looking policeman of Delhi Police (With You, For You, Always) would enter and run his torch along the length of the bus (even though the lights were on inside) and then go out seemingly satisfied. This had happened thrice till now. From the talk that took place between the conductor and the Police it transpired that some thieves were on the run and the police were stopping and checking each bus on the highway. The next time it happened, the policeman asked for “the four courier guys who’d got in at Aligarh”. He disliked their flippant behaviour and had them open their bags to show what they contained. Apparently they contained only lifafe’s to be dispatched.
After this the journey was uneventful, and the long and short of it was that I found myself at the Anand Vihar Bus Depot in New Delhi at about 2.30 am on the 4th of February. It was a Saturday. From there I took a pre-paid auto and reached home around 3.00 am. My mom and sis were pleasantly surprised and I did not wake up my dad. I’d made this impromptu decision to come here as I wanted some peace and so that I could reflect on myself and things in general…so that things inside my mind could rearrange themselves and settle down…so that I could find time to write something. Another important reason was the World Book Fair (WBF) which was to end on that day itself…

Prologue

On the 3rd of February I left Kanpur on the spur of the moment for a visit to Delhi. Here I've made some notes about my experiences during the trip and I've put them in the next three posts. Hope you enjoy reading them!