Things to say

Well, this post is about sayings and things said and unsaid. I sometimes wonder at the phenomenon called mind. You never know what it thinks and what it says and what it is afraid of and why it is afraid of it. I never payed much attention to it but the other day a word or two made me to brood over it.

A friend of mine asked me to say something and I quoted Robert Frost without realizing it "half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it." meaning to divert the topic to another direction as I usually do. But then she asked, “In which half do you fall?”

I thought of it and answered with unnecessary words meaning to tire her out with words like I usually do, saying “I say things that I don’t have in order to hide the things I really want to say because I can’t say them. So I think I fall in both halves.”

Later on I was thinking back on the talk we had after that. Somehow my thoughts wandered into different channels and I found myself thinking about the things not said and those which I am afraid to say and why I am actually afraid to say them. I know of at least one other person who will understand this because he is as bad at saying as I am. Straight answers are hard to come by when talking to us.

The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.

Don’t you know who I am?

There are phases in life when people come to you – and this happens right from school – and ask you, ‘How could you put up with that?’ ‘Why didn't you say something?’ “How can you let them do this?’ If you aren't seen screaming and protesting and doing a sort of a war-dance, sword in hand, at all the perceived injustices being handed out – being a Mamata Banerjee, basically – you’re seen to be passive, timid, a rollover. You are supposed to make yourself seen, heard, known – to let people know, with collars up, who you are. What do they think you are, anyway?

 I have not been a fan of that thought process. It means that the guy who brings his car to a violent halt bang in the middle of the road and rushes out to slap the auto driver for denting his shiny door panel is the epitome of true manhood. It means that when a disoriented school kid bangs his screeching scooter into my car and smashes my taillights, and I see what’s happened and simply continue listening to music, disappointing all those around waiting eagerly for me to stomp out to settle scores, I’m being a loser. Ditto, if I do not opt to have a protest demonstration of sorts at every point of life where I think I’m not getting my due. But who is getting his due, anyway?

Am sorry to disappoint, but to not react with abuse or rant at the first sign of being irked is not weakness. To strut around with a robotic gait, and the vibes of an off-screen Rajinikanth at all times, is not being cool. Being the school bully or being the reckless SUV driving son of a quasi-don – said SUV usually having been purchased primarily with illegitimate money – does not make you a Cool Dude, sonny boy, even if does get your testosterone and adrenaline pumping furiously.

 We equate brashness and cockiness with strength, and a dignified keeping quiet and carrying on with timidity. That is akin to equating a calm sea with an absence of water. The strongest of men have learnt to keep their egos under check and not be affronted when in situations where their presence is not heralded with pomp and show. It’s not easy.

Think of the big clash of the Mahabharata – Krishna-guided Arjuna vs standalone Karna. Karna was fully aware of who he was; a man of royal blood equal to the Pandavas, but he was content to be seen as the charioteer’s son. Neither did he find any reason to embrace his biological mother and leave the ones who raised him. He saw no reason to tell the world, I’m as royal as any of them. His peers may have mocked him as a Sootputra among the royal warriors, but the lord of the devas, Indra himself, knew very well who Karna was, knew he was the one who could defeat Arjuna, knew the ‘daanveer’ part of him as well, and knew that he wouldn't hesitate even if asked for his kavach and kundal. Did it really matter for such a man what everyday people saw him as?

I tend to respect Karna more than Arjuna, but Arjuna too wasn't someone who needed to strut around and tell the world who he was. In the period of agyatvaas, the man addressed by Krishna as ‘bahubali’ lived the life of an eunuch for the final year – a sharper contrast is difficult to imagine. Would he never have cringed at having to live that life in an era where prowess and manhood were the definitive traits of the Kshatriya prince? But he did; he lasted that year without going into an angst-filled drunken session and declaring to all and sundry, ‘you don’t know who I really am!’ Krishna himself – though he would hardly need such indexes of self worth – grew up among the cowherds despite being from a royal family, and even after being acquainted with the facts, never needed to distance himself from his less powerful foster-parents.

Closer home, when I read about the figures that interest me, I draw a mental picture of Humayun wandering in exile with the newborn Akbar; of a Maharana Pratap sharing grass rotis in the desert as he fled Mughal forces; of a Shivaji attempting to curb his ego and stand in the court of Aurangzeb (it didn't work for long, though); of a Bose trudging across the Afghan frontier as a poor and dumb villager, being heckled and prodded by guards. Men with no deficiency of self-esteem, men with a sense of honour, often fairly powerful in phases, who, when circumstances dictated otherwise, did not rant or scream or turn into melancholic brooders. They shrugged their shoulders and quietly carried their cross on their backs. Till the tide turned – or even if it did not.

There was a ten-rupee poster of ‘A Prayer’ by Max Ehrmann tacked up above my office table. Midway, it says, “Though the World know me not, may my Thoughts and Actions be such as shall keep me friendly with Myself.”

Let the world not know me. I do not feel the need to answer to anyone who asks – ‘but how can you not raise this? How can you let them do this to you? What do they take you for?’ Not even when I am sometimes, in an ego-driven moment, asking myself the same questions. It seems to me too close to the typical existential North Indian query: don’t you know who I am?

My take on it is: Maybe you don’t need to know who I am. May be you won’t understand even if I told you.  I know who I am, and that is quite enough.

Some facts on Indian Roads and Driving

Indian road rules broadly operate within the domain of karma where you do your best, and leave the results to your insurance company. The hints are as follows: Do we drive on the left or right of the road? The answer is "both". Basically you start on the left of the road, unless it is occupied. In that case, go to the right, unless that is also occupied. Then proceed by occupying the next available gap, as in chess. Just trust your instincts, ascertain the direction, and proceed. Adherence to road rules leads to much misery and occasional fatality. Most drivers don't drive, but just aim their vehicles in the generally intended direction.

Don't you get discouraged or underestimate yourself except for a belief in reincarnation; the other drivers are not in any better position. Don't stop at pedestrian crossings just because some fool wants to cross the road. You may do so only if you enjoy being bumped in the back. Pedestrians have been strictly instructed to cross only when traffic is moving slowly or has come to a dead stop because some minister is in town. Still some idiot may try to wade across, but then, let us not talk ill of the dead.

Blowing your horn is not a sign of protest as in some countries. We horn to express joy, resentment, frustration, romance and bare lust (two brisk blasts), or just mobilize a dozing cow in the middle of the bazaar. Keep informative books in the glove compartment. You may read them during traffic jams, while awaiting the chief minister's motorcade, or waiting for the rainwater to recede when over ground traffic meets underground drainage.

Occasionally you might see what looks like a UFO with blinking colored lights and weird sounds emanating from within. This is an illuminated bus, full of happy pilgrims singing bhajans. These pilgrims go at breakneck speed, seeking contact with the Almighty, often meeting with success.

Auto Rickshaw (Baby Taxi): The result of a collision between a rickshaw and an automobile, this three-wheeled vehicle works on an external combustion engine that runs on a mixture of kerosene oil and creosote. This triangular vehicle carries iron rods, gas cylinders or passengers three times its weight and dimension, at an unspecified fare. After careful geometric calculations, children are folded and packed into these auto rickshaws until some children in the periphery are not in contact with the vehicle at all. Then their school bags are pushed into the microscopic gaps all round so those minor collisions with other vehicles on the road cause no permanent damage. Of course, the peripheral children are charged half the fare and also learn Newton's laws of motion en-route to school. Auto-rickshaw drivers follow the road rules depicted in the film Ben Hur, and are licensed to irritate.

Mopeds: The moped looks like an oil tin on wheels and makes noise like an electric shaver. It runs 30 miles on a teaspoon of petrol and travels at break-bottom speed. As the sides of the road are too rough for a ride, the moped drivers tend to drive in the middle of the road; they would rather drive under heavier vehicles instead of around them and are often "mopped" off the tarmac.

Leaning Tower of Passes: Most bus passengers are given free passes and during rush hours, there is absolute mayhem. There are passengers hanging off other passengers, who in turn hang off the railings and the overloaded bus leans dangerously, defying laws of gravity but obeying laws of surface tension. As drivers get paid for overload (so many Rupees per kg of passenger), no questions are ever asked. Steer clear of these buses by a width of three passengers.

One-way Street: These boards are put up by traffic people to add jest in their otherwise drab lives. Don't stick to the literal meaning and proceed in one direction. In metaphysical terms, it means that you cannot proceed in two directions at once. So drive as you like, in reverse throughout, if you are the fussy type. Least I sound hypercritical; I must add a positive point also. Rash and fast driving in residential areas has been prevented by providing a "speed breaker"; two for each house. This mound, incidentally, covers the water and drainage pipes for that residence and is left untarred for easy identification by the corporation authorities, should they want to recover the pipe for year-end accounting.

Night driving on Indian roads can be an exhilarating experience for those with the mental makeup of Genghis Khan. In a way, it is like playing Russian roulette, because you do not know who amongst the drivers is loaded. What looks like premature dawn on the horizon turns out to be a truck attempting a speed record. On encountering it, just pull partly into the field adjoining the road until the phenomenon passes.

Our roads do not have shoulders, but occasional boulders. Do not blink your lights expecting reciprocation. The only dim thing in the truck is the driver, and with the peg of illicit arrack (alcohol) he has had at the last stop, his total cerebral functions add up to little more than a naught. Truck drivers are the James Bonds of India, and are licensed to kill. Often you may encounter a single powerful beam of light about six feet above the ground. This is not a super motorbike, but a truck approaching you with a single light on, usually the left one. It could be the right one, but never get too close to investigate. You may prove your point posthumously.