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