The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.

The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.

On Nativity And Belonging

I undertook a wild trip of Chennai today – I know it sounds grandiloquent when I say that, but I took a trip that was definitely wild on my own terms. My first discovery was that not only had I seen just half the city, but was also under the false impression that there was nothing more to it. My blatantly wrong assumption was quashed fully when I went past Chennai Central (as we know the Central Railway Station) and arrived in that part of the city called, simply, the North. The peoples in other parts of the city – the parts familiar to me – were all immigrants, and had been naturalized over the course of three centuries to make up everything that was cosmopolitan about the state capital. The natives were in the North, unconsciously preserving as well as relishing all that was and is Tamil – the language, the food, the sunrise, the sunset and everything in between.

As we (me and my magnanimous friend, known only as V) drove hither and thither, him pointing out to me all that had changed in the last four years, forgetting that I had known quite nothing of Chennai so much as two years ago, while I told him of all the quaint remnants of the British occupation that I had noticed and researched. V was the quintessential free spirit, the praxis of freedom, while I preferred the sequestered and sound-proofed confines of a room with a view. We each had known Chennai as two distinctly different entities for the last few years: I had known it for the city it was, the residue of its history and no more, while he knew it was a living, breathing being. He would tell me about his experiences with the people he had met, their sufferings they had recounted to him, and the struggles they faced on a daily basis that, in his mind, seemed to define the state of being Tamil. You only had to listen to him speak, and you knew it was true.

That V could find so much nativity in him would sometimes put me to shame. Let alone being a free spirit, I have never even appreciated the outdoors; call it selfish, call it what you will, but my interests have always been with facts, with the physics and the mathematics of this world, and anything under their purview would soon come to be under my purview. All that I have ever known about this city, this beautiful city, is, sadly, only a result of such observations; then again, I have only observed, I have never surrendered my expectations to the promises of the city and seen. What I write today about the Marina beach may seem original because I have been there – but I know, even if you can’t discern it, that there is nothing that prevents me from substituting the word ‘Marina’ with the name of some other beach in some other continent and still be left with a sensible description. There is no qualitative content that I am capable of contributing with, and that is what leaves me ashamed.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="The Marina"][/caption]

At the same time, my logical faculties – faithful as they always are – tell me that all is not lost, that there is still something left in me to give to the city, something it might unfortunately lack, something it might circumstantially need. It is true that this world has always vacillated from states of imperfection to perfection, and it is also true that it can never peacefully exist in the same state. I may not know the pulse of the city, but that only means I am endowed with the unfortunate capability to know and, moreover, understand what is perfect and what is not. In other words, I am the logical faculty of the city. Note that I speak only in singular and first-person terms: I am only contextualizing my role in terms of my emotions. Even in all this shame and defacement, there is an urgent need in me to contribute to an entity I have always only indirectly known, an entity, when not an area on the map, that is the port I set my bearings toward when I am lost in the stormy seas of identity and individuality. I am not trying to get rid of my guilt – I know that only because as soon as the guilt is gone, I will still be its humble servant.