HUNTING FOR A HOUSE--THREE

LOST

Believe me, hunting for a house to live in is the most daunting task I have ever faced.  When one has lived for a long time in a house, the comforts of the house one has configured and enjoyed,  cloud the vision from seeing the comforts of the houses inspected for possible occupation.  It appears to be a matter of mental readjustment; it takes time to ease the old house out and see the new houses with an open mind.  However, there are certain indisputable aspects in a house which stick out as sore thumbs.                                                          

*

I spotted another advertisement in one of the local journals about a house overlooking  the beach near the Murugan temple in Besant Nagar.  I was overjoyed at the prospect of living in that  house, because I loved to look at the sea and watch the sun rising over it as a muted orange globe.  Also, I loved the atmosphere of the temple called “Arupadai Veedu”, where I had occasionally spent the evenings sitting in one of the mandapams, leaning against a stone pillar carved with curvaceous figures, pondering on the purpose of living.  That very morning, I zoomed in on the advertised house and knocked on the door.

A beautiful young woman opened the door.  Before I could tell her why I was there, she invited me to step in, assuming that I was there to inspect the house for renting it.  How I regretted I was not a thief and a rapist: I could have been doubly fortunate, with such women around, throwing open doors and  invitations to enter.

The main door opened into a spacious hall, from which I could enter two bedrooms, one of which was well ventilated and roomy enough to contain a double-cot and space to move around.   The young woman then ushered me into the other bedroom, slightly smaller than the first.  It had only one small window along a wall.  I walked over and opened it and got a big jolt!  I saw a wall of unplastered bricks, which I could touch, thrusting my arm through the bars of the window!  It was the wall of the adjoining house!  I was speechless for a few moments. 

“Is this a store room?” I asked her, attempting to give her the benefit of doubt. 

“No, this is a bedroom,” she asserted.

“I see,” I said, “And the ventilation?”

“The fan,” she looked up.  There was only the ceiling there.  “I can fix one,” she added, “You may also install an AC.”

“I see,” I said, “Where?”

“Where the window is.”

“If the power fails?  It does, every day, you know.”

“No, it won’t.  Not here.”  I have heard such irrational answers all my life.  One has to be merely loud and assertive to sound truthful and convincing.

She then took me through an open corridor, covered with iron grill for safety, to an enclosure with a washbasin, beyond which was the kitchen.  As I was looking around, she excused herself and disappeared.  I waited for a few minutes, for her to reappear.  She did not.

I decided to leave, if there was nothing more to see.  I left through a door, I thought would take me back the way I came, but it did not.  It led me into a room, which could be used for dining.  Satisfied that I had seen enough, I opened a door I thought would lead me out, but it was a bathroom.  I stood there for a while, wondering if that was the only bathroom, so far removed from the bedrooms.  Then I saw another door out of the bathroom and opened it to enter a kind of a small storeroom, where brooms, scrubbing brushes, cleaning liquids, rags, and whatnot were lying helter-skelter.  I opened a door, which I thought was the one through which I came in, and entered the bathroom I had been through.  However, when I took a good look at it, I realized it was a different bathroom.  When I went to open the door, through which I came in, I noticed that there was another door next to it, looking exactly like the one next to it. Suddenly, I panicked.  I was scared to open either of the doors, fearing I might get lost, deeper and deeper in this confounded maze, if I was not lost already.  I stood there paralysed, not knowing which way to go. 

“Christ,” I prayed aloud, “help me out, you are the shepherd of the lost sheep.”  

Miraculously at that moment, I heard a voice from somewhere in the house, but it could not have been the voice of Christ, because it was the voice of a woman.  Was it the voice of Mother Mary, as Jesus was too busy rounding up  other lost sheep elsewhere?

“Where are you?” asked the voice.  It could not have been Mother Mary, as she would have known where I was.  Further, it was not in Aramaic, the mother tongue of Mother Mary I had not learnt.  I concluded it must have been the voice of the pretty young woman, who showed me half way through the house.

“Where are you?”  I threw the question back at her.  I sounded like her male  echo.

“What is the point in telling you where I am?  You wouldn’t know anyway, literally.”

Her answer made profound sense to me, so I decided to answer her question, “I’m in the bathroom.”

“Oh!...mmm… which bathroom?” was her next question.

Shit, I thought, how was I to answer that question?  “Look, I am in the second bathroom.”

“You are in the second bathroom?  But that’s impossible,” she retorted.

I was really pissed off, a bathroom being the most appropriate place to do so.  “Why not?” I too retorted, trying hard not to show anger in my voice, lest she abandoned me a second time.

“Because I am in the second bathroom,” she answered with some authority.

“Well, I must be in the other bathroom obviously, whether you call it the first or the second.  Can you come and get me?  Because if you are sure you are in the second bathroom, you must be sure where the first is, although I’m not sure if I am there.”

“I think I can,” she replied. 

I waited for about a hundred years.  Was she also lost?  Or, was space really warped, that you could never make a beeline for anything.

Suddenly, one of the doors in front of me opened and out came a short, lean man of middle age.

“What?  Who are you?” I almost screamed.

“I am the voice you were talking to,” he replied in the same female voice I have been talking to. 

“Sorry, I thought you were the lady of the house, who was showing me around.  Doesn’t matter, but where is she?”  I asked  him.

“Yes, where is she?” he asked, now sounding like my female echo.

“What do you mean ‘where is she?’.  Are you not her husband?” I asked, annoyed already that he was not.

“What?” he recoiled, “Who put that silly idea in you head?”

“Well, nobody, really.  I guess I was hoping you were, so you can get me out of here.  Then who are you?” I repeated the question, but now stressing the verb. 

“Me?  I wish to God I knew.   After a week of wandering about in this house, I feel like Jeremiah in the wilderness, looking for a house to live,” he wailed.  I was sure, his Bible was all messed up.

I did a double-take.  “What?” I screamed again, sounding like my own echo this time.

“Yes, I came about a week ago, to see this house.  She showed me around, but excused herself halfway through.  Since that cursed day, I have been going round and round trying to get out, but getting nowhere.  My friends used to call me ‘fatso’ but look at me now, a scarecrow.  I have neither slept nor eaten for a week.  I am famished.  Do you have something on you I could eat?”

I felt like a scared crow now.  The only thing I had on me was me.  I could already see him eyeing me hungrily.  Instinct warned me that I should get out NOW!  But HOW?

Precisely at that moment, one of the two doors in front of us banged open and the pretty woman of the house breezed in.

“Well, gentlemen, if you have seen the house fully, I’ll show you out.”

“YES!  YES!” we both cried in unison.

She then promptly opened the other of the two doors in front of us, and we walked through to find ourselves bang on the street!

A.V. DHANUSHKODI,  June 23, 2011

HUNTING FOR A HOUSE--TWO

THE  LOST  SHEEP

Believe me, hunting for a house to live in is the most daunting task I have ever faced.  When one has lived for a long time in a house, the comforts of the house one has configured and enjoyed,  cloud the vision from seeing the comforts of the houses inspected for possible occupation.  It appears to be a matter of mental readjustment; it takes time to ease the old house out and see the new houses with an open mind.  However, there are certain indisputable aspects in a house which stick out as sore thumbs.                                                          

*

Scanning the rental columns of the local journals, I noted  down the address of a house in Kalakshetra Colony and decided to see it without any delay.

As the address was within the colony I was living in, I took a leisurely walk in the direction of the area, where I guessed it must be.   Approaching the area I had in mind, I started to look keenly for the name Raja Street.  I went about it methodically, from one end to the other, reading every name board without fail.  After about fifteen minutes of careful combing, I ended up at the other end, without finding the street. 

I was now standing in front of a large house.  A big black car was parked in front of it, with its engine running and a man at the wheel.  All the dark tinted glasses were up, obviously the car was air-conditioned.  When I was wondering if I should ask someone, a burly man came out of the house, opened the gate, came out, closed it, and took a few steps towards the car.  Then he saw me standing there with an air of uncertainty and walked towards me. 

“Are you looking for someone?” he enquired.  His speech was slightly slurred.   He was near enough for me to pick up a whiff of alchohol.

“Well…,” I dragged, “not really.  I’m looking for a street.”  I replied  reluctantly. 

“Which street?” he asked.

I decided not to bother a stranger with my problem, especially when he was inebriated, “Please don’t bother.  I can find out myself.  You must be busy with your work, and your friend is waiting at the wheel.”  I took a step to move away from him, when he caught me by the arm with unexpected alacrity. 

“I am not busy at all Sir, and my friend is in no hurry at all.  Sir, you are lost, and it is my duty to show you the way.  Please get into the car.  We’ll take you to where you want to go.”

I was beginning to get worried.  I almost felt like a lost sheep, waiting to be rounded up.

Rather sheepishly I replied, “Look mister, I am not lost.  I am only looking for a street.”

“Precisely!” he exclaimed.  “If you don’t know your street, you are lost, I tell you,” he told me.  His grip tightened.

I thought I was getting into panic mode.  What was he getting at?  My purse had not more than a couple of low denomination notes and a few assorted coins.  Or, were they a bunch of gays, trying to get me into the car, take me to a remote spot and rape me?  The very thought was repulsive.  Perhaps it was an attempt to kidnap me and claim a handsome ransom from my son, or daughter, or wife, or brother, or anybody at all, who valued my life worth the ransom.  To my knowledge, and I am very knowledgeable in such matters, nobody, I repeat nobody at all, in the whole inner and outer circles of my family and friends, valued my life worth any kind of ransom, apart from the fact that none of them was financially fit to pay a handsome ransom.   In fact, to be frank, many of them were unaware that I was still alive and kicking, kicking myself for being alive.

“Look,” I tried to make it clear to him, “I am not looking for my street, but a street,”  making sure I got the stress on the indefinite article right.

“A street?” he repeated, mentally scratching his head.  “I don’t think there is any A street, or B street, or C street around here.”  Now, he physically started to scratch his head and, in the process, unwittingly let go of my arm.  He looked crestfallen that a rare opportunity to play the good Samaritan had slipped out of his hand.

That was the moment I was waiting for.  Within seconds, I was out of his reach and moving, saying, “Thank you, thank you very much for your kind consideration.”

As I took a turn, away from that street, I could see him still standing next to the car and scratching his head.                    

A.V. Dhanushkodi

June 23, 2011

HUNTING FOR A HOUSE--ONE

Hunting for a House--One

I was living happily as a tenant in a house for the past nearly five years; a house which I, in my opinion, deserved neither by status nor by financial means.  How I came to I occupy it as a tenant could be the subject of another story altogether.  Although I was generally happy living there, during the past few months I was feeling uncomfortable continuing to be a tenant there, due to certain reasons, which appear now, in hindsight, rather inexplicable.  At the time, however, I was unsuccessfully rejecting those reasons, although  I recognized them to be irrational.  It is like our ambivalent attitude towards God, whom we, as adults, rationally reject, but at the same time irrationally fear, and ultimately, settle down to appease, rationalizing that we do not wish to hurt our parents and the society, but, in truth, appease to be on the safe side, lest we incur the wrath of the Almighty.   Summarizing my state of mind, I vaguely desired to shift to another house but could not see any reasonable reason I should.    

A few days after my birthday this year, I was deeply ruminating on the futility of all existence, in particular, of mine.  I was wondering what I had achieved through all the years of my existence; at the same time I was groping for a defensible definition of “achievement”. Mercifully, I heard the cell phone ringing, pulling me out of a possible descent into depression.  When I answered it, it was the landlady urging me urgently, in a trembling voice, to descend to her ground floor.  I did so, unable to understand the urgency, as I was up-to-date in the payment of all bills, including the monthly rent.   However, deciding that the ground floor was preferable to depression, more than willingly I made the descent.

She received me at the door with a grave expression and ushered me into the house.  I knew where she was heading, as the floor plan of the ground floor was the same as the first.  It was the kitchen.  Was it some fantastic dish she had prepared which she wanted me to taste straight from the stove?  I dismissed the idea as most unlikely under the present circumstance, when, as a confirmation of my conclusion, she stopped at the door to the kitchen and said, “Take a look”.  I did so promptly.  The kitchen was a perfect set for a horror movie.  The floor was completely strewn with chunks of plaster, of all sizes, which had fallen from the ceiling.  In other words, the ceiling was on the floor.  I stood there, frozen, speechless, for what appeared to be a hundred years.  Then, the first thought that appeared in my frozen head was, “how fortunate, no one was in the kitchen, when it happened.”  She almost echoed my thoughts, “Thank God, no one was in the kitchen when this happened.” At the time, I never imagined that that would be the reasonable reason for me to move out of the house. 

She consulted three engineers, all of whom gave the same advice, “Demolish and reconstruct.  The builder had used sea-sand. The problem would recur, even if repaired.”  Finally, she decided to demolish the house and construct apartments.  When she called me one day and informed me of her decision, I recollected my indescribable discomfort and the vague desire to vacate. 

With that began my hunt for another house.  Believe me, that is the most daunting task I have ever faced.  When one has lived for a long time in a house, the comforts of the house one has configured and enjoyed    block the vision from seeing the comforts of the houses inspected for possible occupation.  It appears to be a matter of mental readjustment; it takes time to ease the old house out and see the new houses with an open mind.  However, there are certain indisputable aspects in a house which stick out as sore thumbs.                                                           

One of the apartments located on the ground floor had windows with wooden panes opening within and horizontal iron bars were fixed on the outside.   When I went into the rooms and opened the windows, I was staring at multi-coloured clothes and undergarments of the watchman, hanging from the window bars for drying: a good preview of the colourful day one could look forward to, early every morning!

Another house had such a small strip of a kitchen, which allowed only one person to move at a time and no dining area at all: a house most suited to house a rishi who had no need for material sustenance to sustain his spiritual evolution, perhaps. 

I stumbled upon another house, which I was prepared to rent, despite all its shortcomings, but the owner put me on to his sister-in-law who demanded a commission of one month’s rent, although she neither brought the vacant house to my attention nor was she a broker.  Further, when I attempted to negotiate the rent and other terms, she said that I should discuss those matters with the owner, upon which I inquired why I should pay her commission when she was not prepared to do anything for me.  Most annoyed at the question, she asserted that that was the way it was; an assertion one hears day in day out from almost everyone when he or she has no rational argument to support the point under dispute.  She further informed me that when the tenancy agreement was renewed every eleven months, I would be required to pay her a commission of one month’s rent.  I politely advised her to work to earn money and disconnected the line.  (To be continued in part two)

November 29, 2009

THE SHADY CHARACTER SYNDROME--WINDOW SHOPPING

THE  SHADY  CHARACTER  SYNDROME

By A.V. Dhanushkodi

WINDOW  SHOPPING

One fine evening, I was taking a leisurely walk in Besant Nagar.  As I got into the Second Avenue, my sight fell on Spencers Department Stores.  I remembered that  I needed to buy something.  I stepped into the store, but was not sure where I would find what I wanted.  I thought of asking an assistant there, but changed my mind to first look at all the things that were on the shelves.  So I started at one end of the store and went methodically, shelf by shelf, taking my time, picking up things, reading the labels and putting them back.  There were other customers going through more or less the same act of “window shopping”.  Among them I noticed a tall, lean, and attractive young girl looking at the products on the shelves and at others now and then.

I moved on to the next section of shelves and was indulging in the same kind of “window shopping”, when I noticed the young girl follow me almost immediately and continue to window shop.  Now and then, she took a quick glance at me, but would avert my eyes, when I caught her in the act.  First I thought, perhaps she was attracted to me, a flattering thought, but soon I dismissed it, being aware that I was not all that attractive or handsome.  Then I realized the reason for her behaviour, when I remembered that I had acted in many stage plays, in about six feature films, and about the same number of TV serials.  Perhaps she was unable to place me, but felt shy to ask me, unlike almost all those who recognized me as an actor and confronted me with the question boldly.  Or, perhaps, she was merely a customer like me trying to find the article she wanted to buy.

Having exhausted the second section of shelves, I moved on to the third.  Within seconds, she was there in the third section, rummaging through the shelves and stealing glances at me now and then.  This time, I was more or less sure she was not there to buy anything.  Perhaps she was there only to window shop, like me.  The next time our eyes met, I smiled at her, but she instantly turned away, unable to hide her annoyance.   I took a few steps towards her to say “hello”, but sensing my intention, she moved over to the opposite row of shelves in the section, an obvious indication that she did not welcome the idea. 

Being rather sensitive in such matters, I dropped the idea and moved on to the next section, but there she was, promptly close on my heels.  Now I began to get annoyed.  I decided to complain to the store manager, if she persisted in her cat and mouse game.  Although I tried, however hard I could, to ignore her presence, I could not.  She was hovering around, within the periphery of my vision, now left, now right, and now behind.  What kind of a game was she playing?  Finally, I took a firm decision that,  if she followed me to the next section, I would definitely go to the Store Manager.  With that resolution, I moved to the next section.

After a few moments,  I realized to my surpise that she had not followed me.  I was greatly relieved, when I suddenly caught sight of her talking to someone near the counters, who looked important enough to be the Store Manager.  She was pointing in my direction now and then.  Was she complaining about me, that I was harassing her?  Probably, yes.  I was furious now.  That made up my mind for me.

I started walking towards them when, at the same moment, I saw them walking towards me.  We met halfway, but before I could open my mouth, I saw a look of extreme surprise and a broad smile appear on the young man’s face.  When we were near enough, he extended his hand with a, “Sir!  What a pleasant surprise!  How are you?” 

I gave him my hand, for a warm handshake.  The girl was visibly flustered and at a loss to know what to do. 

“Sorry, I don’t recognize you.  Have we met before?”  I was asking him, as he pumped my hand up and down, almost dislocating all my bone joints from the fingers to the shoulder.  Now, the girl was getting flushed with embarrassment. 

“What Sir?  Don’t you recognize me?  I am Vinod.  Your student for three years.”

“My God, Vinod, you!  You were such a horrible little golliwog, when you  were my student!      But now you have grown up to be a handsome young

man,” I exclaimed and added, “and who is this pretty young girl?”as she was attempting to slip out of the scene. 

Vinod caught her by the arm, “Sir, this is Malini, my wife.  We were recently married.  Malini, meet Mr. Dhanushkodi, my art teacher, way back ten years ago.”

Malini had no option but to greet me with a namaskar, her face red.

“Well, young girl, were you complaining to Vinod that I was sexually harassing you?”

She was stunned and speechless.

Vinod laughed heartily, “Sir, not exactly, but she was complaining.  You see Sir,  I am the Store Manager and she is the house dick.”

Now, I laughed heartily, but there still was one matter that needed clarification. 

“Tell me Vinod,” I asked him seriously, “do I look like a shady character, a kleptomaniac?”

Vinod looked at me keenly for a few seconds and answered, with a serious face and tone, “To be frank Sir, yes, you do.”

We three burst out laughing so loudly, that all eyes around us were on us with a look of annoyance.

Soon after, I took leave of the fine couple and stepped out.  I was happy that an unpleasant event turned out to be pleasant in the end.   I thrust my hands in my pockets, my habit whenever I was in a happy mood.  I stopped suddenly, when I felt my left hand groping at something in my pocket beside my bunch of keys.  I pulled it out.

To my horror, I was staring at a brand new Eveready Battery Recharger, I had been wanting to buy for quite some time!

A.V. Dhanushkodi

June 28, 2011

THE SHADY CHARACTER SYNDROME--BELONGING

THE  SHADY  CHARACTER  SYNDROME

By A.V. Dhanushkodi

BELONGING

All through my life, I have never felt I belonged to any place, or attached to anyone.  I have always been alone, in every respect.  There have been, however, a few occasions when circumstances compelled me to make an attempt to belong to someone or something or somewhere, my attempts have failed miserably.

One evening, my wife, my son, my daughter-in-law, my daughter, and I, went to the Besant Nagar beach to enjoy the cool air, the sand, and the variety of snacks one finds only on the Indian beaches.  After an hour of jokes, stories, and heated discussions, we decided to have dinner at Vishranthi, one of the restaurants lining the Second Avenue.   Vishranthi was earlier known as Sri Krishna Bhavan, the only restaurant in Besant Nagar, when I moved into the area in 1988.  Sometime, around the turn of the century, the cosy little restaurant was thoroughly renovated.  As one entered, there was a self-service area, behind which was an air-conditioned hall with plush cushioned seats and dim lights.  Dim lights in restaurants perform the function of concealing in darkness the dishes that are served, deluding you into believing that they will be delicious.  Now, there are so many restaurants, vegetarian and non-vegetarian, all along the Second Avenue and other roads and streets, but my preference has always been for Vishranthi, a sentimental attachment from the last century. 

When we entered the air-conditioned hall, it was almost full, except one section of table and seats, ideal for us to occupy.  As my family was occupying the seats in the section, I walked over to the washroom to wash my face and hands, to freshen myself.  It took some time, before I came out.  I headed straight for the table, where my family had settled down.  There was a waiter at the table with a notepad, noting down the dishes as one by one placed the order. 

I stood there for a few moments, studying one of the menu cards on the table.  When I had decided on my dishes, I was about to sit next to my son, where there was space for  only half a man on the long one-piece cushioned plush seat, when the waiter stopped writing, turned to me, and held me by the arm and exclaimed in a rather sharp tone of voice, “Sir!”  The “Sir” did not sound genuinely respectful.

First, I was taken aback, but the next moment I thought he was trying to warn me not to sit there, as there was a scorpion or a centipede on the seat, which I had not noticed in the semi darkness.  I looked down at the seat, straining my eyes, but found nothing menacing crawling there. 

“It’s clean,” I informed the waiter, and expected him to let go of my arm. 

He did not.

“I know,” he replied with the certainty of a knowledgeable man, “but don’t sit here.”

“Why not?” I questioned him, puzzled.

“Sir, please sit elsewhere,” his response contained a note of utter despair, as if he was making a herculean attempt to explain the meaning of the Theory of Relativity to a two-year old moron.  All the while, everyone of my family was watching the verbal exchange between the waiter and me, with uncomprehending amusement, judging by the Mona Lisa smile which hovered on their lips. 

Now I dropped the ‘not’ and asked him  simply “Why?”

Then, he had no option but to slap it in my face, “Sir, can’t you see that they are members of one family sitting together?” as if that was, for me, a more complicated fact to comprehend than E=mC2.      

Everyone of my family exploded into hearty laughter.  With a great effort, I had to control myself from joining them.  Instead, I replied, “Yes, I can see that.”

The waiter lost all his patience, “That is why I am telling you to sit at some other table.” I noticed that he had dropped the ‘Sir’ and was ‘telling’ me, instead of requesting me.

Now it was my turn to explain the Theory of Relativity to a three year old moron, “Sir, can’t you see that they are members of my family sitting together?”

The next moment, the waiter was not there, a dramatic disappearance in the demi-darkness.

After a few seconds, another waiter walked over to our table with a notepad to take our orders.

A.V. Dhanushkodi

July 2, 2011

ID CRISIS--FOUR

ID CRISIS – IV

By A.V.Dhanushkodi

No, it is not what you imagine it to be.  It is not the profound soul searching questions who am I, what am I, and where am I?  I am fully aware of who I am, what I am, and where I am.  My crisis is a very simple middle-class crisis.  It is just a question of others not knowing who I am, what I am, and where I am.  I think you are still not sure what I am talking about.  Let me explain with am example.

It was a sunny morning in February, one of the two pleasant months in a year in Chennai.  I felt like taking a walk on Elliot’s beach, instead of the usual quiet roads of Kalakshetra Colony. 

I was enjoying the walk on the walkers’ pavement, despite the unpleasant density of other walkers.  I could not wish them away anyway, so I took it easy.  As I was enjoying the cool morning air, I saw someone staring at me while walking towards me, in the opposite direction.  I did not throw more than a fleeting glance at him and walked on. 

I finished my first lap from one end of the pavement to the other and took a U-turn to do a second lap.  Midway along the second lap, I saw him walking towards me.  When he saw me at a distance, he stopped and continued to stare at me.  I could not help but fix my gaze on him, when his face began to brighten noticeably.  When I was within touching distance from him, he burst out with widespread arms, “DHANUSHKODI!” 

The sheer force of his outburst knocked me out first.  Secondly, I was thrilled that, at last, here was someone who recognized me as me. 

Unfortunately, I could not recognize him even remotely.  His face was not even faintly familiar. 

Before I could decide on the appropriate mode of action, rather reaction, he enveloped me in a mighty bear hug; mind you he was tall and awesomely muscular like the RAW wrestlers of the ESPN Sports Channel. 

“How are you Dhanushkodi!  Such a long, long time, isn’t it?”  On top of the mountain of muscles, he had a booming voice to boot.

“Yes, yes, it is a long time,” I had to agree, at a loss for anything else to say.  My mind was frantically racing backwards, to pull him out of the past.

“Remember how we used to fight in the canteen every day, and you used to beat me up blue and black every time?” he asked with a wide grin and glowing eyes.

My God, was he the canteen cook?  But which canteen?  School or college? “Yes, yes,” I agreed.  I knew not what else to say, for I had always been a pacifist from birth,  that I had never raised a finger against anybody, not to speak of our canteen cooks, school or college, although they eminently deserved the black and blue treatment.

“And remember, how I used to cry out vengefully, “De Kodi, I will not forget you!  I will wait for the day when I will beat you blue and black.  That will be the end of you, Kodi!”  Kodi in Tamil means The End.  “But you used to dismiss me with a disdainful gesture of your left hand, remember?”

I did not remember, but I felt terrified.  He had not loosened his grip on me.  Is this the endgame?

“Do you know, from that day on I have been sweating it out in the gym every day, to this day, and you see the result.”  He flexed his right arm and I could see the awesome bulge of the bicep.   “And I was praying to God, I should find you.”

The air was cool, but I began to sweat.  “Wait, wait a minute,” I stammered, “There is some awful mistake.  I am not Dhanushkodi,” I asserted vehemently in desperation.

“You are not?  Why then did you answer my call?” He seemed to have a point there. 

I did some quick thinking.  “Look, Dhanushkodi is my father’s name.  My name is Vedanarayanamurthy.  That is the V, one of my two initials,” I pleaded. 

“Exactly!” he exclaimed with glee, “and the first initial A, stands for Arcot, right?”

“No, wrong,” I denied emphatically, although he was absolutely right!  “A for Apple,” I blathered. “No, I mean A stands for Athiveeraramapandiyanpattinam” I blurted, absolutely sure no such horrible tongue-twister could exist anywhere on the face of the earth.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed again with some more glee.  “There!  I trapped you! That was exactly where we studied in the Board High School.  Don’t you remember, everyone used to call us identical twins,  because my name is also A.V. Dhanushkodi: Athiveeraramapandiyanpattinam Vedanarayanamurthy Dhanushkodi. Now do you understand why I could not forget you?.”

My brain was about to explode.  I had to do something before I went mad.  I fainted. 

A.V. Dhanushkodi

June 25, 2011

ID CRISIS--THREE

ID CRISIS – III

By A.V.Dhanushkodi

No, it is not what you imagine it to be.  It is not the profound soul searching questions who am I, what am I, and where am I?  I am fully aware of who I am, what I am, and where I am.  My crisis is a very simple middle-class crisis.  It is just a question of others not knowing who I am, what I am, and where I am.  I think you are still not sure what I am talking about.  Let me explain with an example.

My niece Roshini from Phoenix and I used to have breakfast often at  Murugan Iddly Shop in Besant Nagar, when she was teaching and staying at the Olcott School for a couple of years.  After breakfast, we would hop into an auto, I would get dropped at my house, and she would go back to the school.

I had taken my umbrella that morning, the sky being overcast.  After breakfast, when we stepped out, the sky was clear.  We were lucky to spot an empty auto.  After a brief bout of bargaining by Roshini, we got in.  While bargaining, I noticed the auto driver looking at me sharply now and then.  I requested Roshini to drop me at a shop. 

I got down at the shop and was about to cross the road, when I heard the auto driver ask my niece, “Madam, isn’t that Rajinikant?” referring to me.  I stopped to listen to the conversation, proud that he mistook me for the Superstar.

I could hear my niece roaring with laughter, “Are you mad?  Do you think Rajinikant would take a ride in an auto and walk on the street with an umbrella?  Besides, Rajinikant doesn’t have a moustache and a beard, and is almost bald.”  For my age, I still had a decent shock of hair on my head, although greying.

I could hear his sheepish defence, “No Madam, I thought he was returning from an outdoor shooting with his make up still on”. 

I wasn’t sure whether I felt proud or peeved.

A.V. Dhanushkodi,  June 23, 2011