PAST FORWARD
I
could not recollect whether it was an ‘odd’ or an ‘even’ day. The prowess of my mental and physical
reflexes had diminished and could not steer my car. This was a period of spiritual
rejuvenation and physical recuperation.
So I hailed a cab. In wake of the revised
traffic regulations to combat pollution, Praji was reaping a windfall. Soon, he
would operate his own taxi service and give Uber’s deep pocket a run for its
money.
My mind travelled to Travis Kalanick. By his
own admission he walks 60 plus kilometres a week. I used to footslog on the treadmill for long periods of time trying to maintain a
chiselled body, reasonably handsome and was enhancing my proficiency in economics which made some friends envious.
We
were both fire signs, she an Arian with an astonishing mane and I a Sagittarian
sporting dishevelled hair. Knowledge of the curves (micro and macro) earned me
the epithet of Keynes Jr.
Women mature rapidly while men remain gawky, I
used to quip. She was alluring, prepossessing
and intellectually stimulating and had triumphantly ingratiated herself to the
opposite sex and the faculty (old farts!). However, there was opposition to her;
some covetous, others pedestrian, primarily from
her clan. Why do women slander each other? We were not misogynists, though.
Elections were announced in the college. I planned
proposing her candidature for the Presidency. But our hedonistic yet intellectual
gang torpedoed my concealed agenda and I was projected as an alternative
candidate.
She masked her affection and admiration for my
intellectual prowess and debating skills. Handsome girls are spellbound by
talent and the power of the brain, but cannot withstand opprobrium. It was a
rugged battle. On the campaign trail and stump excursion, we traded charges. So
much so, my occasional smoking and drinking too became incredulous subjects
which were bandied, much to my chagrin.
I
romped home by a whisker. We shook hands, though I could see indignation and
tears in her eyes. She wished me good luck. Like Obama,
I wanted her to be a part of the team, which she politely refused. She was no
Hillary but smiled infectiously like the former First Lady.
It
was party time! Bacchus flowed the drains of the campus. Someone spiked my drink with sedatives which
left me mourning next morning.
Apparently
in a riotous state that night, we (the gang) manhandled the warden and her
daughter was molested. We were put in a lock up and rusticated. Hearing about my ignominy my mother suffered
a PAT (Paroxysmal Atrial Tachycardia) attack.
There
were no re-elections and she was appointed the President. She missed Keynes Jr
in the classroom, at seminars, and during debates and discussions over coffee.
So did the faculty. I was cerebral, donnish and polite to the core. Such
humility can be misconstrued as play-acting at times.
She had no opposition. Be it scholarly
pursuits or extra- curricular activity, it was a cakewalk and a virtual
monopoly. Those insecure of her phenomenal growth facetiously called her a
monopolist.
My
proven track record and goodwill, reputation as a raconteur par excellence and
no previous charge of any turf war with the establishment came in handy. The
suspension was revoked at the cost of a term. This was the time when the
President stepped in and bailed the buddy who purportedly assaulted the
warden’s daughter. She happened to be her cousin.
The
stock of the President appreciated dramatically. This gesture earned her
enormous goodwill. I apologised to her excessively at every aperture and
managed to earn her benevolence. May be
covertly she needed an ego massage.
Since
we lagged by a term, I borrowed notes from her. And she appropriated my brains.
Over a period of time our friendship blossomed into love.
However, she suspected something was amiss. My
hands trembled and at times I reeked of cigarettes and liquor. I circumvented
her pointed queries and blamed it on the medication prescribed for my anxiety
attacks occurring on account of losing a term. But indubitably during that hiatus I was slowly getting
hooked on to drugs and alcohol.
Things
appeared hunky dory for some time. The college canteen discussed the Paris Climate
Change Summit, the ISIS, destruction of the Twin Towers, growth of a
nationalistic party and its powerful and popular leader, stagflation,
unemployment and also our entanglement.
At
this point in time a group christened
as the Flotsam Panthers and Jetsam Army
(FPJA) staged a play called ‘T Vs I’, an acronym for Tolerance versus Intolerance.
The response was initially tepid. But FPJA soon mobilised comrades from other colleges
and universities. As crowds swelled and momentum gathered the subterranean climate in the college underwent a change. The
college became a mute spectator to the engagement between the youth wing of the
nationalist party and FPJAs.
Our
hedonistic gang too faced a split. Some FPJAs amongst us changed
their loyalty and the rest of us were called ‘royalty’. It was a woebegone
sight. Friends, who had once shared and cared split; the fissure became
irremediable following a bloodbath between FPJAs, our students union and the
youth wing of the nationalist party. This lead to
further rustications more lost classes and a vitiated atmosphere on the campus.
In the melee the life of one FPJA was snuffed out. His angst against the system
had been palpable and led him to commit suicide.
He could not become a Stephen Hawking or a Jim
Holt, but became a Mars Orbiter.
College, once a haven of intellectual
repository became a burrow of caste politics. And vultures in the form of
archaic tapered intellectuals, politicians, anarchists and overbearing
electronic and print media, all fed on the carcass of the departed FPJA.
The President lacked the canniness and
statecraft to deal with a particular civil servant’s guile (now on a sabbatical),
whose trademark style was to pitchfork himself into battles in order to disseminate
his anarchist ideology. This was his aspirational window moment.
He
earned admirers from the FPJA group, the nationalist party and our students
union. My girlfriend was attracted to the intellectual rigour of this
gentleman. We had raging debates about the intentions of this gentleman, while
she was consumed by his alacrity and skills. I fancied myself to be
anti-establishment with a kind of bohemian streak and an intellectual
lifestyle , but my girlfriend found
the civil servant’s ideology winsome and joined his crusade. The union
got divided and large numbers joined the bandwagon and deserted our ship.
“Impermanence
is the only permanent thing in life,’’ said Buddha. Life is never a straight
line or a rising curve; it is full of peaks and valleys. This event too was
consigned to history.
A few years later this civil servant who
possessed indefatigable energy became an accomplished politician. His financial
rectitude was unquestionable but intellectual uprightness was doubtful.
Time trudges on the traversing years and she
multitasked as the President of the union, fellow traveller on the campaigns of
the Civil Servant, and when not confined to these activities outsourced my
mental faculties to decode fiscal and monetary policy.
We
texted romantic messages like ’luv u’, ‘missing u’, ‘unable to sleep’, ‘thinking
abt u’, ‘how r u’, ‘how was d day’, ‘gn’, ‘swt drms’. But the regularity waned.
Yes sparks ignited when we met and exchanged those passionate moments. We did
talk about the longevity of our dalliance, promising to exchange rings. But the
tumultuous relationship was ebbing steadily.
I
started calling her Comet Hillary which she laughed away. Meanwhile, our gang
regrouped, with a new crowd. Our junior’s embraced us. New friendships were
forged.
Her
absence injured me and I became intimate with other girls. Something she
resented. Our relationship was floundering. She was preoccupied and I miffed. She
was the potentate and I the ordinary populace. I began questioning her
intellectual propriety, especially the association with the civil servant, his
NGO and the crusade. Sensing widespread public support, he quit the hallowed
portals of North Block and a sinecure government job. His NGO metamorphosed
into a fledgling political organisation. Vacuum cleaner wrapped with a muffler was
the party symbol.
“He
will suck all u guys and strangulate you with the muffler,” was my contrarian
view point. She did not appreciate my standpoint. I wrote highly critical articles, questioning
the philosophy and motives of the party which won appreciation from a saffron
clothed evangelist, an advocate and a
psephologist(one time associates of the former civil servant).
I was invited by youth wing of the nationalist
party and the trio to share my views. But I steered clear of politics and was
busy writing and drinking. The former civil servant tweeted about my intellect
and conveyed through my girlfriend that
I ought to join his party where I would be ‘suitably’ accommodated. However,
wary of the guy I was firm in pursuing economics, and earning a
doctorate.
The
leader of the new political party had by now mesmerised the youth, particularly
the FPJAs and my girlfriend. They swore by him, much to my disquiet. She passed
on their literature to indoctrinate me but in vain. I used it to smoke grass.
Our fights and political differences grew over time as I continued drinking and
sniffing smack.
In sheer desperation she took me for
psychiatric help and literally escorted me to Alcoholic Anonymous meetings. But
I continued to be in denial mode and refused to kick the habit.
Some
weeks later we all set off on a ’study tour’. This was the break she had been
seeking so that we could ventilate our feelings and rekindle our passions once
more. But my self- opinionated and conceited mind had devious plans. She found
me and a junior in a state of stupor and compromising position. That was the
last straw. An avalanche of emotions engulfed her and she decided to desert me
once for all. No amount of entreaties and platitudes could convince her and the
parting SMS was ‘F *O’.
While these dramatic events unfolded in the second
term my alcoholism and drug addiction became quotidian. I was admitted to a
rehab. The same night my mother was admitted with a severe second attack of
Paroxysmal Atrial Tachycardia. The heart beat at a furious pace and was accompanied
by sweating and breathlessness, informed my distraught sister. We both clasped
our hands and shed copious tears. But the monkey mind, never in the present
moment, wanted a fag to avoid the physical and mental chatter.
My
mother was on life saving drugs while I was administered a strong dose of Nitravet
to put me to sleep. With remarkable resolution she visited my mother and me;
gave us flowers and notes for a quick recovery.
That
night I was restless and cried inconsolably. My heart melted and bled in
anguish and pain. A well-wisher gave me a book “Guru of Joy”, about Sri Sri
Ravi Shankar. The book struck the right chord in me and I joined the Art of
Living classes being conducted at the rehab. I undertook the detoxification
programme, went to the Bangalore Ashram of the Art of Living and had Darshan of
Guruji. He just smiled and tears of gratitude flowed. I did various courses of
the Art of Living, gave up my addictions and within a year and a half became
part of their faculty. It was the grace of the Master that I quit the
addictions.
My
rehabilitation was conveyed to her and friends renewed efforts to initiate a rapprochement.
But she didn’t drop her guard. She was thrilled that I had given up the vices
and my mother recovered from PAT attacks. But what she could not pardon was my infidelity.
In the theatre of her mind my infidelity and the molestation of her cousin
played incessantly, throwing up questions. Was I also censurable?
It was a typical Delhi winter night.
Government of India launched a programme to promote yoga and lead a healthy life-style.
Not to be outdone the savvy politician directed his followers to undertake moral
policing against those who consumed drugs and indulged in illegal flesh trade.
My former girlfriend led the charge of the light brigade against a group of
peddlers, their accomplices and partners in these activities. There was a
virtual bedlam in which she and some others suffered serious injuries.
She
was shifted to a hospital and remained comatose. Her life hung tenuously. Thousands
had gathered and maintained a candle light vigil. FPJAs, our union, members of the
nationalist party were all united in praying for the brave-hearts. I now
dressed in a Kurta Pyjama, was clean shaven and holding some literature of Art
of Living, a rosary and Guruji’s photograph went to bless her. I joined those
who were praying for her recovery. The guilty were booked and imprisoned and that catapulted the former
civil servant to the status of a national icon.
She
regained consciousness after a few months. Her mane remained intact, but the
bruises and scars mutilated her beauty. And she too lost a term while
recuperating.
Our
relationship remained tempestuous; we had our share of love, affection and fights
and our pangs of physical and mental struggle. Yet our souls were intertwined in
a strange manner.
We graduated the same day………..
It was still dawn when I stepped out of the cab
and walked towards the entry gate of the Delhi airport. The early morning
February air was pleasantly cold.
I was travelling to Bengaluru to attend a college
friend's wedding. It had been four years since we graduated from the same
college. This wedding was also going to be a reunion of our batch mates. But
what I didn't know was that the reunion would begin much ahead of time; right
in the queue in front of the airline counter.
I was almost sure it was she. Same height!
Same long hair! Same complexion! Curiosity had my eyes glued to her. And then
about 60-odd seconds later, when she turned, she proved me right. My
ex-girlfriend stood two places ahead of me in that queue. We had never met
after the college farewell.
We stared in disbelief; my heart beat rapidly, palms sweaty
and mouth dry. Our past welled up her eyes. We realised it was perhaps
impossible to rewrite the past. We had moved forward. Her cousin was getting
married to the politician friend and she was to undergo treatment for the scars
which still remained.