Diary of a Malayali Madman, page 16
The other guy told me, ‘It’s quite simple, my friend. This kurta-wallah cannot see anyone or anything except himself. Isn’t that the kind of existence everyone craves these days? Not having to care for or love or be benevolent to anyone, not having to get involved … This guy has reached the highest level of such an existence. If not such a person, who else are we going to idolize?’
Having said this much, he pointed the forefinger of his right hand up, down, left and right as if doing an exercise, and said, ‘There I am, there I am.’
I was scared, watching his eyes bulge out of their sockets.
18 September, Tuesday
To become rich, one should first be able to achieve stability of mind. One must liberate one’s mind from all other thoughts and concentrate solely on the aim of making money.
Why do we get an education?
Why do we expand our skills?
Why do we get involved in politics?
Why do we pursue a literary life?
Why does a doctor treat a patient?
Why do people express moral outrage about stuff?
The answer to all these questions is the same: for money.
All human beings must understand the significance of wealth. Until a person attains the pinnacle of such an understanding, that person is not truly alive.
I began to comprehend this simple matter only after reading the preface to the book How to Get Rich in 30 Days several times over and digesting its message.
It is quite possible that such poppycock colours many of the insights in this world. Consider the pronouncements made by spiritual gurus who have no financial worries, who never have to deal with opposition from politicians or anyone else. It is all meaningless blather. Let them try fending for themselves, doing some ordinary job to provide for their own food, shelter and clothing. Then they’ll understand that irresponsibly mouthing off as they do is equal to committing mortal sin.
And there’s one more thing. The followers of these spiritual gurus – the trusting believers – they are no squares either. They are proper worshippers of wealth and prestige. Imagine, for a second, that one of these spiritual leaders, male or female, declared: ‘I don’t want money or followers, Indian or foreign. I don’t want buildings constructed in my name. I don’t want the support of any community or political party. I don’t need anything other than spiritual bliss.’ Imagine, then, that they started living as they said. What do you think will happen? No one will even turn and look at them.
Are you beginning to feel bored? I am feeling quite bored too. Some days are like that, one’s mind goes scuttling after some boring topic.
It is noon now. Best time to catch some sleep.
19 September, Wednesday
There was an Urdu play at the town hall today, performed by a troupe from Delhi. I don’t remember whose play it was, or what it was about. There were just two characters, both women. One was in a folk-dancer costume: a white skirt with small, brown flowers reaching just below the knee, a maroon top with a dark blue vest over it, and a necklace and glass bangles adorned with sparkly stones. The second woman was dressed like a Rajasthani dancer in a long multicoloured skirt and a dark red scarf. There were more songs and dances than actual dialogue. Their dance had a wonderful rhythm – from the tip of their fingers to every atom in their body, they seemed to be celebrating the beauty of movement.
As I sat there watching the play, I began to feel terribly sad. I felt that the rhythm of this dance would never be repeated in quite this way ever again. Even these same performers wouldn’t be able to repeat this performance. These singers and musicians would never come together with these same emotions ever again. This play will end here – today. Some people may have made a video recording of it, but that would be a different visual experience. I continued thinking such thoughts and my sadness increased. Sitting in the dark hall, I began to weep quietly. Then, suddenly, I had a strange thought. This dance does not end here. It will remain in the atmosphere. Or the particles of this dance will come together in some part of the atmosphere. There, on an invisible and unknowable stage, this dance will continue eternally. The future – many futures – will receive their dance, while remaining unaware of it. This thought made me exceedingly happy. The performers continued dancing to the alternating beats of gypsy and Rajasthani music. I couldn’t contain my joy any longer.
I got up on a chair and shouted, ‘Arre, wah wah,’ and applauded the performers.
Someone shouted from behind, ‘Sit down, you!’ I was not scared of him, but I sat down anyway.
20 September, Thursday
I had a long chat with God today about a lot of things – especially about His existence.
‘I am what you want me to be,’ God told me. ‘You can define me however you like – you could choose to use incomprehensible words or simple transparent language. I don’t care. I have no particular demands or desires. You are the one who should decide who I am. You need me to love and to hate, to praise and to vilify, to frighten and to get rid of fear. That will do for now. If you ever consider doing a PhD in philosophy or theology, we can continue this discussion in a more abstruse language.’
‘Oh, God, have I landed myself in trouble?’ I thought to myself and ran away. I am in a precarious state as it is, and definitely don’t want to create a situation where God takes it upon himself to mess things up further for me.
8 November, Thursday
I have been in a terrible state for the last forty days or so. You must have heard of Kandaka Shani – the transit of Saturn that rains bad luck on people. I’m not sure if the calamity it brings is usually so short-lived – I haven’t consulted an astrologer – but it seems to me that I have been hit by it and it is only this morning that I have managed to come out of it. Sukumaran sir and Jayanth have been trying to get me out on bail for the last two days, and the good magistrate finally sanctioned bail at 11 a.m. this morning. May good come upon everyone!
Let me tell you what happened in detail. It all began on 21 September when, at the market, I met a saffron-clad, strikingly handsome sanyasi. I don’t think I have ever seen a face so beautiful and alive. I was standing on the footpath under this foreign divi-divi tree. Perhaps he noticed my appreciative looks, he came and stood directly in front of me, straight as a needle, and with no apparent change in his facial expression, said:
‘Tell me, Shishya, what do you desire? Do you wish to live in a palace with a beautiful princess? Would you like to conquer some country and rule over it? Or perhaps you’d rather travel the distant oceans, alone in a sailing ship? Tell me, and I will make it happen.’
‘Oh-ho, just my kind of guy,’ I thought and, gladly prostrating myself before him, said:
‘Guru, I don’t know how to thank you for this affection you shower upon me. However, I do not desire any of these things.’
‘What then? What do you want?’
‘I would like some mental peace – a milligram will do.’
‘Oh, my dear Shishya, you’re truly sensible. One milligram – or as they say in our local parlance, a pinch of mental peace – that’s the very thing that is most prized in this universe. I have travelled all around the world advising millions of people on how to attain true happiness. There’s nothing as easy in this world as dishing out advice. But let me tell you, my dear friend, this thing that you desire, a pinch of mental peace, I have not found it anywhere. India, our very own Bharathabhoomi, is the place where answers for all complex questions can be found, remedies for all spiritual aches. That’s why I came back here. We Indians are good at deceiving foreigners by the mere mention of words such as Aathma, Brahmam, the Great Bliss, Kundalini and so on. There are as many fools abroad as there are in our country – perhaps even more. Here’s the problem though: If there is a thing called conscience inside us, at some point it will start niggling us, asking, “Why do you con these hapless creatures?” I decided to give it all up when I couldn’t deal with the pressure of that question any more, and decided to attain self-awareness by submitting myself to the tutelage of a woman. She’s not as worldly-wise as I am, but she knows much more than I do about the common man’s spiritual and material pain. I have come here looking for that woman.’
‘Swami, where are you going now?’
‘This woman, Jalajadevi, lives here in Kuliyanmukku. She possesses a secret mantra, one that will soothe the distress in my soul and elevate my spirit to the purest and loftiest form of bliss. A naadi jyotishi in Thanjavur who read my horoscope told me about her. I am going to see Devi. Would you like to come with me?’
‘Of course. I’ll follow you anywhere, jungle or desert.’
And off I went with that expectant, truth-seeking gentleman.
Devi’s ashram was around fourteen kilometres away from town. We took a taxi. Although he’d said that this was his first trip, my guru seemed to know the way there and gave precise directions to the taxi driver saying, ‘Turn left here,’ and, ‘Take the cut-road next to that big building,’ and, ‘Turn right,’ and so on. Eventually, we reached Devi’s ashram. Well, not so much of an ashram but more of a house. ‘House’ seemed a more appropriate name for that building which, despite being in the architectural style of a modern place of worship, looked neither affluent nor very clean.
Upon entering the yard, we were met by two pretty young women carrying silver trays on which lay Mysore plantains studded with sandalwood incense sticks. They bowed in unison and chimed, ‘Welcome.’
With hearts brimming with joy, we followed these maidens inside, into a good-sized drawing room furnished with an exceptionally ugly sofa and a teapoy. The walls of the room looked as if a child had been let loose on them with some colours to draw elephants and boats and birds and flowers.
I sat there for over five minutes, looking at those pictures. The sound of a conch brought us to our feet. In another five minutes, Jalajadevi appeared, accompanied by a servant. She was dressed in a shimmering red silk sari with a sleeveless blouse, and wore a long garland of jasmine around her neck. She carried a rose in one hand and a gold-coloured – it may have even been solid gold – hatchet about six inches long in the other. On her head was a crown similar to those worn by goddesses in dance-dramas. Despite all these embellishments, the moment I laid eyes on her, I recognized her – I was absolutely certain that she was the same Jalaja who had been my classmate at the Polytechnic. I gave her a nice wide smile, and didn’t bother to hide the fact that I had recognized her.
My guru, meanwhile, had prostrated himself at her feet and was wailing, calling her ‘Amma’ and ‘Devi’. Jalaja gestured to him to get up.
‘Don’t fret,’ she said to him. ‘She’ll come back. Just wait another three months. When you were here last time, did I not tell you it will take six months? And that was exactly three months ago. Your wife has started feeling the heat. You may not even have to wait the whole three months.’
Happiness spread across my guru’s face like sunlight across the dawn sky. Now I was sure that this was not the first time he had met Jalajadevi. I couldn’t figure out why he tried to make me believe otherwise.
‘Have you sent your oldest child for coaching in Thrissur?’ Jalajadevi asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ said my guru, with the utmost respect. He took out a bundle of thousand-rupee notes and placed it on the silver platter that the servant was holding. He then pointed to me and said, ‘This is my disciple. Please bless him too.’
By then I had decided there was no point in continuing with this charade.
‘Jalaja,’ I said, ‘did you not run away with driver Lalu halfway through the second year at Poly? So when did you…’
Before I could finish the sentence, two burly men – her security guards – rushed at me and, lifting me up bodily, ran out to the back of the house. Jalaja’s house sat on a piece of land ten or twelve cents in area, surrounded by a man-high wall. When we reached the wall, the goons raised me above their heads and threw me over.
Respected readers, please do not involve yourself with a swami or a sanyasi or anyone dressed like one. Do not listen to their advice. Remember I told you about Gogol, right at the beginning of this diary? Do you know what happened to him towards the end of his life?
Gogol got involved with a spiritual guru by the name of Matvey Konstantinovsky. Konstantinovsky convinced Gogol that all his stories, novels and plays were sinful, and that he would be punished for his sins after his death. That poor writer! He was devastated, mentally and physically. One night, he set fire to the manuscript of the second part of his work, Dead Souls. He became bedridden soon after, and starved himself for nine days and died.
A pity, what else could one say? If Gogol had not been caught up in Konstantinovsky’s clutches, none of this would have happened to him. There is one other shocking episode in this saga. Gogol’s body was moved from its original burial site to another cemetery. When they opened up his coffin for this purpose, his body was found to be lying face down. There could be only one explanation: that he turned over in his coffin – in his grave. Meaning that he was buried before he was actually dead. You see … What an astonishing and miserable end to a great writer who was venerated by the likes of Dostoevsky and Mikhail Bulgakov.
My blood boiled, remembering these terrible things that happened to such a great writer. I began shouting abuses at my guru – indeed, at all spiritual gurus. Calling them feckless imbeciles and con artists incapable of suggesting rational practical solutions to even the simplest of a man’s problems in life, I ran around the perimeter of Jalaja’s house. I must have been on my fourth or fifth lap when a police jeep arrived. Two policemen jumped out and dragged me into the jeep.
At the police station, I was soundly beaten by the sub-inspector and by the policemen. I felt that the SI would have liked to detain me for a couple more days and continued working me over. But – someone somewhere must have called and intervened – I was taken to the magistrate’s house by evening. He remanded me into custody for fourteen days, and I was taken to the sub-jail.
At the jail, the warders also gave me a proper thrashing. Unlike the policemen, their beatings were accompanied by vulgar and insinuating comments about me and Jalaja – ‘Did the sight of her make you horny,’ and so on.
I was detained there for forty-seven days. My jail life was not particularly eventful. The worst experience was having to sleep on a rug on the floor with twelve others, in a room big enough only for five. Oh, human beings are of many hues. There are those who get into pointless political quarrels just to annoy people, and others who, under the illusion of being gifted musicians, sing in horrible voices. Then there are the ones who speak terrible vulgarities, release thunderous farts in the middle of the night, moan in the ecstasy of sexual dreams. The worst are those who are addicted to drugs and alcohol. After a couple of days inside, their bodies and minds undergo such indescribable changes from withdrawal. Some are completely blind to everything and everyone in front of them. They pretend not to see the person lying asleep on the floor and trample over them. Even the beatings don’t seem to affect them, except for the groans of immediate pain. But the strangest of all were the two people I met who, like proper madmen, walked around in circles, drawing pictures in the air. Almost all of these people seemed to care nothing about food. Some would even sleep through for twenty-four hours.
There was one guy who would start whistling as soon as everyone lay down to sleep. Apparently, he regularly broke into CD shops and also had a small habit of smoking ganja. His whistling was bearable for about ten-fifteen minutes, after which people would start hollering, ‘Stop, you pube,’ and other such profanities, which would soon escalate into a proper shouting match. The warders would come running and take him away, and everything would be quiet for a while. Then the warders would carry him back to the room. They gave him a quite specialized kind of beating. He would be completely incapable of lifting his chest or arms, and would slide on to his mat groaning throughout the night. In the morning, when everyone was herded out for using toilets, he would still be asleep.
He wouldn’t hear the warders asking, ‘What Vinu, aren’t you going to get up? Don’t you want to whistle?’ Sometimes his body would be burning up. I don’t know how, but most times by noon the fever would have come down. For the next two days, he would look like a chicken with avian flu. In the time I spent there, this series of events happened to him at least three or four times. One time, the warders had to cart him off to the hospital because the fever wouldn’t go down. In spite of all this, the moment he regained movement in his right arm and could lift his body up, he’d be back to his whistling in the night.
It was in jail that I realized what a difficult and rare thing love was. I felt that no one was capable of really loving another person. Even the people who pretended to be close to me behaved in that way. A lot of the people who were brought to the jail after me got bail and were released, but some of us – like me and Vinu – had to stay put. I was upset that, even though we had our differences, my brother-in-law did not try to post bail for me. It really made me depressed. The only people who came to see me in jail were Barfly Pappan and Sukesan. I am not under any illusion that Pappan cares for me. In fact, I’ve never felt that he cared for anyone. Pappan’s methodology was to bum five or ten rupees off even the most casual of acquaintances, and as soon as he had enough for a couple of pegs he’d run to the bar. A couple of hours later, he’d be scrounging off people all over again. Would someone like him ever be able to care for anything other than alcohol? Would he be able to love anyone wholeheartedly? And yet, Pappan came to see me, and even gave me thirty rupees.
