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

ID CRISIS--TWO

ID CRISIS – II

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.

The queue was long, but I am a man of extraordinary patience, being an artist.  The counter was open, the tickets were being issued, and the queue moved forward like a millipede. 

Suddenly, a teenager materialized before me, like a stop-bloc action in a movie.  I almost knew what he would ask, “Sir, you acted in Raajapaarvai?”

Reluctantly, I replied, “Yes.”

He extended his hand enthusiastically, “Pleased to meet you Mr. Chandrahasan.”

I was peeved.  I did not extend my hand, “Sorry, I am not Chandrahasan.”

He was visibly embarrassed, “I am so sorry Sir.”  He stared at me for a few seconds, “Then you must be Mr. L.V. Prasad, surely.”  Again he thrust his hand out, this time hundred percent sure of his wild guess.

That was too much for me to take.  “Look here mister, I am not L.V. Prasad either.  By the way, who is L.V. Prasad?” I asked, to trap him.

“Sir, you don’t know Sri L.V. Prasad?  He is a great man, Sir.  A famous film producer and owner of Prasad Studios. This film was also produced by him, Sir.”  He looked very proud, as if he was one of L.V. Prasad’s close friends.

“Young man, do you think such a great man, a famous film producer and owner of Prasad Studios, who has produced this film, would stand in the queue to buy a ticket to see his own film?” I shot with some asperity.

He was shocked.  He had never thought of that.  Then, suddenly, it struck him, “Why not Sir?  He could be in disguise like you, beard and specks and all, to find out first hand what people thought of his film?”  He looked immensely pleased with himself, that he had excelled even Sherlock Holmes.

I thought for a few moments and realized that his line of reasoning was not improbable.  Then I laughed heartily and extended my hand, “You are absolutely right!  I am Sri L.V. Prasad!”

Horrified, he drew back his hand, “No, Sir, you are not Sri L.V. Prasad.”  He started backing away from me, eyes wide open with confusion and consternation.

“Are you sure?” I asked him seriously. 

Without a word, he turned around and bolted, as if he had seen an apparition.

Suddenly I realised I was at the counter.  I thrust a hundred rupee note through the opening and said, “One”.

The man at the counter jumped up and his dhoti slipped down, revealing his red-striped underwear.  He was shaking with excitement.  “Oh my God!  Sir, what is this?  One word, I would have myself brought the ticket to your house.”

I leaned forward, furtively looked around left and right, put my index finger on my lips and whispered in a conspiratorial voice, “Shhh…..calm down.  Don’t let anyone know  I am L.V. Prasad in disguise.”

“Oh…Oh…I see….I’m…I’m sorry I thought you were Charuhasan in disguise,” he stammered.

Not a bad idea I thought, and continued in the same conspiratorial voice, “In fact, I am really Charuhasan in disguise, but I did not want to give myself away so easily, so I was trying to mislead you.”

“That’s OK Sir, I understand,” he replied, nodding his head vigorously and gave me the ticket, but would not take the money. 

I took the ticket and the money, patted his hand patronisingly, and walked towards the auditorium.

A.V. Dhanushkodi

June 20, 2011

ID CRISIS--ONE

ID  CRISIS - I

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.

The other day, I was waiting for a bus at the Vannanthurai bus stop.  As usual, I had to wait for a very long time, about 20 minutes.  During those twenty minutes, a large crowd had gathered;  I was desperately hoping that all of that crowd was not waiting for the same bus I was waiting for, 29C.  However, when the bus finally came, groaning and moaning, to a stop at the bus stop, I saw that it was about to explode.  On top of that,  I saw everyone of the crowd make a beeline for the bus.

As I stood there petrified, unable to decide whether or not I should board that bus, the sea of men, women, and children moving towards the bus, swept me along like a driftwood into it. How I got into the bus was a miracle.  Such miracles can happen only in India, perhaps only in Chennai.  Another closely related miracle is the very coming of the bus.

Having got into the bus, I could not sit back and rest on my laurels, figuratively.  For one, I had to stand, hanging on to the steel rod attached to the  ceiling of the bus, jostling a hundred others, who were also engaged in the same act of jostling a hundred others.  If that were to be all, there would be nothing much to be proud of.  Hanging on to the steel rod with one hand, I had to fish out my purse, from among a handful of other assorted items occupying one of my pockets, such as house keys, handkerchief, vicks inhaler and whatnot.  Not much to boast of in itself, but what followed can be successfully performed only after lifelong experience.  Hanging on to the steel rod with one hand, I had to open the purse and take out the exact change, close the purse, and put it back into the pocket, all single-handed, literally.  That single act of miracle alone should earn me Sainthood!   By the way, if every one of our deities, blessed with not less than four arms, had performed miracles, was that worthy of any mention?   If they were to travel in our buses standing, I wonder how they would fare taking the fare out of their pockets, if they had any, and did not have four hands plus.  Well, only God alone could have helped them!

Imagine now, while performing such a miraculous act, someone from behind nudging me and asking in a reverential tone, “Sir, are you not Charuhasan?” That should have been the last straw for any ordinary camel, but I was no ordinary camel.  I turned around and asked, in a not so amiable tone, “Charuhasan who?”, while simultaneously discovering that it was a woman, perhaps Gangubai Hangal’s younger sister!

“Sir, you are joking!  Charuhasan is Kamalahasan’s brother!  You’re Charuhasan, no?”  There is an example of a woman’s thinking for you!

I was strongly tempted to ask, “Kamalahasan who?”  Instead, I asked her back, “Do you think I would be standing, or even sitting for that matter, and travelling in Pallavan Transport Corporation bus,  if I were Kamalahasan’ s brother?” 

From her expression, I could see that she was beginning to see the logic in my counter-question.   After a few moments of serious thinking, which is alien to most women, she ventured to ask, “But then, who are you?”

“Precisely!  I have been asking myself that question all these seventy-four years of my existence, right from the time I was born, without finding an answer.  Can you help me out?” I pleaded.

She looked at me, as if I was an alien come down to earth on a survey to fathom  the IQ of the earthlings.

“However, I am curious to know, why did you think I was Charuhasan?”

“Your beard Sir,” came the answer, without hesitation.

That was the last straw that broke my back.

A.V. Dhanushkodi,  June 20, 2011

CONFESSIONS OF A COMMON MAN--SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  COMMON  MAN

By  A.V. Dhanushkodi

SEVEN  --   SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

I have often wondered why we, the common people, condone corruption.  We read, almost every day, of corruption at every level of functioning of our nation, right from the central ministers down to the sweeper on the street, not impersonal events far removed from our lives, but events that  happen every day in our own lives, affecting us in so many ways.  Yet, we do not take them seriously.   Possibly, either because we do not recognize them as corrupt practices or, even if we do identify them as corruption, we brush them aside with a casual gesture, as common occurrences.  One may call it resignation, resulting from a sense of helplessness.  There may be some truth in that interpretation but, going a step further, I would ascribe that attitude to be rooted in an awareness, conscious or subconscious, of our own behaviour, corrupt to a greater or lesser degree.  I do not mean monetary corruption only, I mean by the word ‘corruption’, a broad spectrum of behaviour in every one of us---business and non-business in nature---crossing the boundaries of legality, morality, and all norms of social behaviour, which have evolved over centuries, meant to benefit the largest number of people.

Being a common man, I am caught up in an inexorable whirlpool of common chores, day in day out, some of which are paying bills: telephone bills, taxi bills, electricity bills, etc.  I have spent half my life of seventy-five years, standing in queues to pay such bills, in addition to standing in queues at the ration shop, train-ticket booking counters, and department stores’ billing counters.  Mercifully, there are no queues at bus stops, where I fight, with all my might, whatever is left of it, to be right.  In fact, I have been seriously thinking of preferring a Public Interest Litigation in the Supreme Court, to have a mandate passed that all queues should be banned.  That would then compel every citizen to be as fit as a fiddle, bringing into vogue the age-old Darwinian perception of the survival of the fittest, to be able to fight one’s way to the counters, incidentally giving one the psychological satisfaction that one is ahead of the others, at the head of something.   The collateral benefit would then go to the physical fitness gyms, but the doctors, whether qualified or quacks, would suffer the collateral damage.  Well, with growing terrorism world over, collateral damage in the fights against terrorism has been four times more than the targeted lateral damage, according to one authoritative study undertaken by those who have suffered collateral damage.

Coming to the point, yesterday I went to the Electricity Board to pay bills.  There was a queue of about seven persons at the counter of senior citizens.  As I took my place at the tail end of the queue, I noticed that there were three in the queue who would, by no stretch of imagination qualify as senior citizens.  I brought to their attention that the queue was for senior citizens and that they should go to the counters on the first floor to pay their bills.  Fortunately for me, they did not fight with me; instead, they pretended not to know that and quietly left the queue.  That still left two youngsters within the counter, friends of the employee at the counter, who was processing their bills.  A senior citizen ahead of me was protesting in vain.  

To add to my woes, every senior citizen ahead of me in the queue was holding not less than six cards, which would amount to about 36 persons ahead of me.  I was admonishing them in no uncertain terms that it was most unfair to indulge in such proxy payments.  They nodded their heads vigorously in agreement and asked me what I would have them do.  I suggested that they pay one bill and go to stand at the end of the queue to pay another bill and again go to the end of the queue to pay another bill, and so on.  They all agreed vociferously that it was an excellent idea, but continued to pay multiple bills together.  Further, I mildly chastised the man at the counter for accepting more than one bill from one person at a time.  He too nodded in agreement but did nothing about it.  After a while, I resigned myself to my fate and decided to wait it out. 

I heaved a sigh of great relief when my turn came, and pushed through the counter opening, ten bills.

A.V. Dhanushkodi

July 5, 2011

CONFESSIONS OF A COMMON MAN--THE GOOD SAMARITAN

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  COMMON  MAN

By  A.V. Dhanushkodi

SIX  --  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN

I have often wondered why we, the common people, condone corruption.  We read, almost every day, of corruption at every level of functioning of our nation, right from the central ministers down to the sweeper on the street, not impersonal events far removed from our lives, but events which happen every day in our own lives, affecting us in so many ways.  Yet, we do not take them seriously.   Possibly, either because we do not recognize them as corrupt practices or, even if we do identify them as corruption, we brush them aside with a casual gesture, as common occurrences.  One may call it resignation, resulting from a sense of helplessness.  There may be some truth in that interpretation but, going a step further, I would ascribe that attitude to be rooted in an awareness, conscious or subconscious, of our own behaviour, corrupt to a greater or lesser degree.  I do not mean monetary corruption only, I mean by the word ‘corruption’ a broad spectrum of behaviour in every one of us---business and non-business in nature---crossing the boundaries of legality, morality, and all norms of social behaviour, which have evolved over centuries, meant to benefit the largest number of people.

It was my usual early morning walk.  I was on Arundale Beach Road.  It is really a street, but called a road, as most of the streets in Kalakshetra Colony are named, perhaps to give them a touch of dignity.  Normally, at that time of the day, all the streets in the colony would be populated only by walkers. 

At a certain distance before me, an old man was walking briskly, making me wonder if I was as healthy as he.  From his looks, even from behind, I estimated him to be much older than me.  If I could walk faster than he did, I could overtake him within a minute, I calculated.   I put my thought to action, without wasting a second. 

I was closing the distance between us rapidly, pleased with myself that I could be roused to rapid action when required.  There were now merely a few paces between us, and I was closing in on him. 

When I was within arm’s length behind him, I saw him collapse.  His knees suddenly buckled and he went down in slow motion.  With one last quick step, I was right behind him, in time to hold him and prevent him from hitting the asphalt street with all his weight.  Then, I put him down gently on his back on the street.  

First, I felt his breath.  To my relief, it was quite even.  Then, I felt his pulse, which was beating normally.  It must have been just exhaustion.  He must have been walking for nearly an hour.

I estimated him to be eighty.  His shirt was mildly soaked in sweat.  Kneeling down next to him, I opened the shirt buttons and decided to wait for a few minutes, for him to come to.  Meanwhile, I checked his shirt and pant pockets to know if he had any valuables.  I knew that miscreants would remove them first, in such situations.

Not knowing what else to do, I waited, kneeling down.  Then I saw a few legs around me.  I looked up to see that a few walkers and others had gathered around us.  I could also see more and more walkers approaching us and now quite a crowd was gathering around us.

“What happened?”  “Who is it?”  “Is he OK?”  “I think we should sprinkle some cool water on him.” “We should inform his people.”  “Are you a doctor?” Everyone was concerned.  Questions and suggestions were flying all around.

“He has just fainted out of exhaustion.  He is OK.  He’ll be getting up any minute now.  I am not a doctor.  I was walking a few paces behind him, when he collapsed.  I caught him and laid him down.”   I tried to answer all their querries. 

I saw a young man peep over the shoulders of the crowd and gasp, “My God!  He is my father!”  Instantly, everyone made way for him to reach the prone old man.  He was greatly agitated and trembling.  He knelt down next to me.  I calmed him down, “He’s OK.  Just exhaustion.  I think you should take him home.”

“Yes,” he agreed and hailed one of the autos that had stopped there to see what was happening.    The old man’s son and I carried him to the auto and placed him on the seat.  His son got in and sat next to him.

As the auto driver started the engine, the young man put out his hand, “Thank you very much Sir.  By God’s grace, you were next to him when he fainted.  I am Kaushik.  May I know your good name?”

I took his hand and patted it.  “God is always merciful.   Take care of him.  I think you must go with him, when he goes for morning walks.”

“Your good name, Sir?” he insisted. 

“I prefer to be anonymous.  I hate publicity.  I am happy to thank God, that now and then he gives me an opportunity to be of some help to others.”  With that, I walked away in the opposite direction.  The small crowd had dispersed by then.

Some five minutes later, sitting at a table in Murugan Iddly Shop and sipping hot coffee, I took out the old man’s purse and checked.   To my utter disgust, there was one, just one ten rupee note and a few coins.  I paid the bill with that money. Then, I took out his cell phone and removed the sim card.  On my way out, I threw the sim card and the purse on the heap of rubbish, the Corporation sweepers had collected in front of the restaurant, to clear later, God knows when. 

Quite happy that I was richer by at least a cell phone, I sauntered towards my home. 

A.V. Dhanushkodi 

June 29, 2011

CONFESSIONS OF A COMMON MAN--A MAGNANIMOUS WAIVER

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  COMMON  MAN

By  A.V. DHANUSHKODI

FIVE  --  A  MAGNANIMOUS  WAIVER

 Often I have wondered why we, the common people, condone corruption.  We read, almost every day, of corruption at every level of functioning of our nation, right from the central ministers down to the sweeper on the street, not impersonal events far removed from our lives, but events which happen every day in our own lives, affecting us in so many ways.  Yet, we do not take them seriously.   Possibly, either because we do not recognize them as corrupt practices or, even if we do identify them as corruption, we brush them aside with a casual gesture, as common occurrences.  One may call it resignation, resulting from a sense of helplessness.  There may be some truth in that interpretation but, going a step further, I would ascribe that attitude to be rooted in an awareness, conscious or subconscious, of our own behaviour, corrupt to a greater or lesser degree.  I do not mean monetary corruption only, I mean by the word  ‘corruption’, a broad spectrum of behaviour in every one of us, crossing the boundaries of legality, morality, and all norms of social behaviour---business as well as non-business in nature---which have evolved over centuries,   meant to benefit the largest number of people.

Being a man on the street, I have easy access to a wide range of services, quite a few of which I use every day.    One day, after a long wait of about thirty minutes, I saw my bus 5E groan and grumble as it came to a stop at the bus stop.  When I saw that it was already bursting at the seams, I began to groan and grumble.  However, before I could decide whether I should board that bus or not, I was swept in by an impatient crowd of men, women, and children, waiting at the bus stop around me.

The whole population of Chennai appeared to have got into that one bus.  Everyone was sandwiched between everyone, and everyone was thrusting notes and coins of all denominations at the poor conductor, demanding tickets of different denominations.  I always used to marvel at bus conductors’ immense patience and perseverance.  Being a conscientious daily bus traveller, I always kept in my shirt pocket the exact change for my ticket.  Now, I too joined the others, thrusting at him my collection of Rs.2.50, to buy a ticket for that value.  The conductor gave me the ticket, but I was unable to move forward, a literal representation of the figurative position in which I found myself in life.

Among the many passengers behind me, who were thrusting notes and coins at the conductor, I noticed a man holding a twenty-rupee note to buy a ticket.  When I took a good look at him, I was amazed at the remarkable resemblance we  shared: we were of the same height, same complexion, same design of glasses, greying hair on the head, white moustache, and beard.  He too was looking at me and we smiled at each other. 

I saw him buy a ticket for Rs.3.   The conductor told him, “Take the change before getting down.”  He nodded his head, squeezed himself through hair-thin gaps, and moved forward. 

Soon the bus was approaching my stop.  I put out my hand at the conductor, “Please give me the change, I have to get down at the next stop.”

He looked up at me and asked, “How much?”

I showed him the Rs.2.50 ticket and said, “I gave a twenty-rupee note.”

He rummaged through his bag and took out Rs.17 in notes of different denominations.  Apologetically he added, “Sorry Sir, I don’t have a fifty-paise coin.”  Such an honest man, he will continue to be a poor conductor until his last day.

“It’s O.K.  It doesn’t matter,” I dismissed his apology magnanimously and was getting down the steps at my stop, when I heard him remark, “Thank you Sir.  Many passengers fight tooth and nail even for 50 paise.”

A.V. Dhanushkodi

June 24, 2011