The War of Roses - From A Story of Faith and Miracles

The War of Roses My interest, rather my fascination with the Mahatma’s autobiography continued with fervour. Often, I would open the book and peruse a page or two. Each time I had the distinct feeling that through the book Gandhiji kept me forewarned of upcoming events in my life. The ministering angels seemed to whisper to me one day, “Beware of the War of Roses.” This was the sobriquet given to the events that engineered a split between the inhabitants of D-17 and D-19, Satra and me through the devious plan of the ever-covetous Bumboo. Earlier, my improved academic performance in class 10 triggered a greater bonhomie between Satra and me. Over the next few years, we became thick friends exchanging thrillers, crime fiction, unusual love stories, books, notes attending rock concerts upon joining Delhi University. Nature has perhaps designed in such a manner that women develop physically, mentally, and emotionally faster in than men and Satra was no different. The cynosure of our campus had come of age and my growing friendship with her certainly irked Bumboo who thought of himself as her exclusive suitor (that she did not consider any of us anything more than just friends was another story!). There was a tinge of romance in the air as my friendship with Satra blossomed and I meanwhile began to learn Hindustani classical music. From guitar to Hindustani vocals. My father was not particularly impressed as he was desirous that I pore over academic books of commerce and economics. But my mother who was herself trained in Carnatic music encouraged me to pursue this craft too apart from writing and theatre, so that I could develop into a well-rounded personality. She had an inviolable faith and belief that the personality and characteristics of a person metamorphose if one performs well in both academics and extracurricular activities. And this allegiance always proved handy to me as I could explore music, theatre, sports, writing, public speaking apart from my normal academic parrot-fashion study. The broken journey in the field of music My first music teacher was a visually impaired, but exceptionally gifted person. Hum Ko Manki Shakti Dena Man Vijay Karen based on Raag Yaman was my first foray in Hindustani classical music. This happened to be the first song I learned while playing the harmonium. Over the years my interest in classical Hindustani music got enhanced. I learned Hindustani vocal, and played the harmonium and sitar, over different periods of time. I had filled several books with the musical notes but hardly practised. That was my weak point in life. Only regular practice or riyaz makes a man perfect. Though my father’s somewhat cynical if not a sinister plan, was that during the Civil Services interview I could sing and talk about my interests in music and theatre before the adjudicators and score additional marks. As far as my father was concerned it was a question of impressing the interview board. Two raags were etched in my mind, which I can sing to this day; Raag Malkauns and Raag Bhairivi. And these send me in to a divine reverie and ecstasy even now. The notes touch a wonderful chord in the heart, body, mind, and soul. My dalliance with smoking, drinking, and eating non-vegetarian fare began in university days. It began innocently by smoking Wills Navy Cut, then priced at 25 paise, at the college canteen and having a few bottles of beer occasionally while rehearsing for plays in college. At home in the post-Swamiji days during some get togethers liquor and non-vegetarian fare would be served. The visitors usually included Prof Pathak, Vaishnav Uncle (my father’s close friend and a prominent civil servant of the Punjab cadre), my cousin Narayan Valluri, an IAS officer of the Maharashtra cadre and a host of Catholic missionaries who assisted my mother in her rehabilitation projects. The goal post was not changed. Merely some spirit was added to spirituality which became a heady concoction. Those were innocent times and we were raised on the scintillating music of the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Simon and Garfunkel, Led Zeppelin among others; where pride, prejudice, caste, and religion did not determine our friendships or relationships. And most importantly the seeds of revolution were imparted at St Xavier’s School. Later Delhi University became a melting pot for exchange of ideas and seeking greater liberation. Once I joined college, my performance nosedived. Certainly, B.Com. and I were not made for each other, the numerical papers. Metaphorically it became an abortive relationship. Sandwiched between writing, acting in plays, watching serious cinema, or rather parallel cinema of Shyam Benegal, Mrinal Sen, Satyajit Ray, Govind Nihalani and watching plays by the National School of Drama Repertoire Company apart from learning Hindustani classical music, I was accompanying my father who meet important opposition leaders like George Fernandes, Madhu Dandavate, Chandrashekar, Lal Krishna Advani and the leaders of the newly formed Telugu Desam. Party. My mother’s service to the hospital patients opened new frontiers as I could interact with other medical social workers and had the unique opportunity to have glimpses of Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul. And above all our family continued to receive blessings from spiritual Masters. All these factors fashioned a communitarian thought process. The frequent visits to Mysore Ashram may have come to an end but our family continued voyages to various parts of India – hills, temples, sea side resorts and spiritual centres which invigorated and rekindled the energy within us. But with my friend Khokhan apart from discussing esoteric subjects, the mind wandered to the mundane and our perennial fantasy, Satra. Why do we have carnal instincts we wondered? Is it just growing up or something else? Lust is the strong, passionate desire for something: not only sex, but also, among others, food, drink, money, fame, power, or knowledge. There are many reasons for which we can desire sex, for example, to be close to someone, to hold on to or manipulate that person, to hurt a third party, to hurt ourselves, to establish or reinforce our identity, to make a child, or to gain some advantage such as money or preferment. But with lust, sex is contemplated primarily for itself, or, to be more precise, for the pleasure and release that it may procure. Two Singular Events in my life Panduranga Hegde, nephew of Prof. Pathak, the man who grew a flowing beard to protest imposition of Emergency invited the noted environmentalist Shri Sunder Lal Bahuguna to our house. Shri Bahuguna was known the world over as the man who taught Indians to hug trees to protect the environment. He was the pioneering leader of protecting the environment through the Chipko movement. In Hindi the word chipko literally means to cling to. Heeding to the calls by Shri Sunder Lal Bahuguna and fellow activist Chandi Prasad Bhatt, men and women in the Indian Himalayas embraced and chained themselves to trees to stop loggers from cutting them down. It was a powerful symbol that conveyed, Our bodies before our trees. It also became a movement that brought to the world's attention the devastation wrought by the environmental crisis in the world's highest mountains. At D-19 it was not a glitzy power point presentation made by the environmentalist but a spartan and graphic display of slides which graphically captured denuding and deforestation of our forest cover. And this presentation resonated with my inner voice. He was soon invited by corporate honchos where he made presentations at FICCI, ASSOCHAM and CII and for once the captains of Industry and their wives hung their heads in shame and a committee on environment was formed. Quite interestingly at the same time, a block of flats was to be added to the existing ones at our very own doctor’s complex. The municipal authorities had run their bulldozer and levelled the one-acre mini farm of Dr Biswas (Satra’s father). The doctor watched helplessly the property which he thought belonged to him being snatched away to construct a new block of flats. He was egged on by his wife who tried to solicit the help of all Bengalis in this purported misadventure. I was torn between the curvaceous Satra and perhaps some legitimate rights of the Chandana’s. The simmering tensions exploded as on a fateful night, when Bumboo landed at the small park of the Bengali doctor’s house and ran amuck like a wild elephant in fields. “Munna, Munna … look at what is happening,” caterwauled Satra. “Mrs Bala, Mr Sri Ram please come down, see what’s happening,” yelped the Bengali family. My mother who had on earlier occasions attempted broking peace between the two families, was fast asleep with the rosary in her hand, oblivious to the happenings. My father was amused and seemed to be relishing the affray. I was shell shocked and fell between the proverbial rock and hard place. Tragically for me Bumboo’s argument won the day…. Satra felt cheated and exceedingly let down. And I lost my first crush. For several years we merely stared at each other blankly as she positively ignored me. We would no longer not watch the Simmi Garewal-Shashi Kapoor starrer Siddhartha at Palace Cinema as we had planned once at the bus stop when it suddenly began to rain and we had to seek shelter under the cover of a shop. We got drenched and she appeared prepossessing quite like the protagonist of the movie. As the downpour increased and we were thoroughly drenched and for those moments real life was almost mirroring reel life. In meantime a rapprochement was worked out between the Chandana’s (D-20) and Satra’s family (D-17). The Bengali family was permitted to access some area in front of the house. It was a token compensation for the Bengali family, more of a face-saving device. For a few days things at Doctors’ Quarters returned to normalcy, but how could one tame the thoughts and planning of the green-eyed Bumboo. The Chandanas were proud prized owners of a rickety British made Morris Minor. In fact, for several years as other doctors rode their wives of all shapes on Lambrettas and Vespas before Hamara Bajaj entered the market, Bumboo and the rest of the family travelled by their four-wheeler with glee. As per the new arrangements, following the aftermath of the bloodied War of Roses, the Chandanas had to directly drive their car to the main road as the occupants of D -17 had occupied the passage towards the main entry/exit gate as part of the compensation of lost territory where new blocks were to be constructed. My father had to travel by foot to board his chartered bus and my mother a few additional metres to walk up to the hospital. My sister and I had to catch our respective school buses and whenever we had the luxury of travelling by a cab or an auto it was parked outside the precincts of our residential complex. It is here that Chandanas were the worst sufferers as their Morris Minor could no longer cross the pathway of glory to the main gate and this punctured their egos. Bumboo, citing reasons of safety that their four-wheeler was to directly land on the main road lodged a complaint with the residential association. Tempers were frayed between the Chandana’s and the denizens of D -17 with no resolution in sight. The Chandana’s insisted on reduction in the size of the garden so that their grand old vehicle would not approach the main road directly and other doctors were swayed by the histrionics and caterwauling by Bumboo and family. A deal was swung. The garden of D17 was further reduced in size, but it was a pyrrhic victory for Bumboo as Satra’s dad on the frenzied goading of Satra’s mother purchased a second-hand Fiat which breezed past the rickety Morris every day. My inner voice chuckled at the compromise formula. “No more rock shows, no more guitar classes, no more watching television together,” chortled Bumboo who was still smarting with the acquisition of a Fiat by the family of D-17. I fell in the abyss of the egregious game plan of Bumboo. Khokhan, the suitable Bengali boy and yet another suitor of Satra was to confide, “Boss, you lost the War of Roses,” to which I agreed hanging my head in remorse. After the fall out of War of Roses and beginning of construction of the new block, the ecosystem of the colony changed both literally and metaphorically. Things never went back to being the same. Three years passed by in a jiffy and I could muster only 56.7% in B.Com. (Hons), while Satra had done exceedingly well in her Physics (Hons) course from Kirori Mal College. I sauntered back home from Hindu College ruminating the three years which passed by. But strangely I developed severe stomach problems once again and lost considerable weight. The numbers bug seemed to have got converted into a stomach bug. “What was this new problem plaguing my stomach?” wondered my mother. I was once again put through a battery of tests with no conclusive evidence found. “Was it recurrence of malabsorption or some other psychological problem?” thought my father. There was no plan to visit Vellore or Mysore Ashram this time. My mother was confident and kept administering me German made homeopathic medicines like Carbo Veg and Nux Vomica. I was looking at my inner voice to provide some panacea for the ailment. My mother’s allegiance or faith in the divine powers did not ebb and she tried out a new diet for me. My diet now consisted of papaya, fruits, large volumes of butter milk and the magical homeopathic pills. She had a staunch faith in homeopathic treatment and administered them on me and they seemed to work like an elixir. “Was it a placebo effect?” some wondered, but not my mother. Faith had once again triumphed over the demons in the stomach. “Forget about Satras and your stomach. It will be taken care off, you better concentrate on studies and learning Hindustani classical music,” my inner voice was to say.