Prologue: I recently finished reading Randaamoozham (The second turn) by the celebrated author, M.T.Vasudevan Nair. Narrated from the perspective of Bhîma, the book shatters many age-old myths that we have grown up hearing. Though MT hasn’t tampered with the story-line, he, as he himself said, has tried to understand the pregnant silences that Vyasa had left behind without explicit explanation. I have read the book four times in all, and it leaves me stunned to bits, every single time.
M.T.Vasudevan Nair has also penned the script for the national award winning ‘Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha’ which received both commercial success and critical acclaim. In that story too, MT glorified the character Chanthu, who, in Kerala folklore, is a most treacherous and despicable villain, who defies the very ethics of warfare with his cunning treachery. With MT’s unique treatment, myths were shattered and Chanthu was transformed to a chivalrous, tragic hero, with his own tragic flaws; his much maligned actions now presented in a hitherto unseen light. The effort was supplemented by a brilliant performance from Mammootty, who too won the national best actor award for his portrayal of Chanthu.
Similarly, Bhîma, the more ridiculed and unsung among the Pandavas, receives a heroic shade to his character in this book. It’s through his eyes that each character is presented. The characters are humanized a lot more; they become ordinary mortals, shedding the supernatural shades that are attached to them in the stories that we have grown up hearing.
I recently wondered why Randaamoozham too, couldn’t be made into a film. Such an enormous epic to be fitted into a two and half hour movie would take some planning. The casting, with each role requiring tremendous histrionic expertise, would also have to be spot on.
What I have tried to do here is to draw a sketch here some scenes of Bhima, with the main lady characters, their relationships with him being the common thread which binds the story together. This article is just intended to give the readers a feel of the whole theme; of the unique ambience which is created in the novel.
Draupadi: An extremely beautiful and strong willed heroine, whom Arjuna wins over at a Swayamvara. Though she is wife to all the five Pandavas, her first passion has always been Arjuna. We see this trait of her character through Bhima’s observations - whenever her eyes light up at the very mention of his name, one such scene being that of her first night with Bhima (The day when his turn, the Second Turn, begins).
Bhima looks on, ready for the first night of his turn, very modest decorations done at his abode, after Draupadi’s year-long honeymoon with Yudhishtira, the eldest of the Pandavas, has come to an end. That night, the Pandavas and Draupadi sit around the bonfire, as she listens wide-eyed to Arjuna, who incidentally has come home that evening after a brief hiatus. Later, at night, when Bhima moves close to her in bed, lust rippling through his veins, she dreamily mutters Arjuna’s name, lying sleepily by his side. Bhima, then gets up, goes out and makes his bed on bare ground and lies down, staring up at the star-lit sky. He would have none of her cold body tonight, Bhima decides, when her mind dreams about Arjuna, even while she is beside him in bed.
On yet another occasion, she mentions her desire to wear the Sougandhika flowers, famous for their heavenly perfume, in her hair. Though Bhima gets the flowers from a heavily guarded pond after a minor adventure, he gets caught and is kept captive by King Kubera. It’s only after the arrival of his brothers and Draupadi that Bhima is released. Though it is an occasion to be embarrassed, Bhima proudly hands out the flowers to Draupadi, but she tosses it away disdainfully and later, when they walk past, the Sougandhika flowers lie, soiled and crumpled on the ground (This is purely the author’s innovation), a beautiful symbol of rejected love.
Draupadi always looks up to Bhima as a protector and someone who would grant even her extreme desires. Bhima realizes after a rare romantic rendezvous with Draupadi, when she pleads him to go instead of Arjuna to fight King Jarasandha, a formidable opponent, in a wrestling bout, that the lure of romance was just a bait. To her, Bhima is always the man who loves her unconditionally, someone who could be emotionally swayed with the slightest gesture of love.
Her pledge to let her hair loose, till it becomes wet with Dusshasana’s blood is yet another indication of her trust in Bhima. It is a trust which borders on the attitude towards a devoted servant. Bhima, during the war, tears open Dusshasana’s chest, in an action unbecoming of a Khshatriya and returns to smear Draupadi’s hair with his blood. Could there be any more that a lover could do? Could there be a sweeter revenge? Yes, it had to be Bhima, when it came to satisfying Draupadi’s most unreasonable whims.
The whole relation is captured in a nutshell, in the final scene, during Swargarohana, when the Pandavas ascend the path to heaven. They walk, in the order of seniority, with Draupadi behind them. Then Bhima hears a rustle of clothes, a sigh and a faint thud behind. Draupadi has fallen by the wayside.
Then Yudhishtira says, “She has sinned, she has loved Arjuna the most amongst us, instead of seeing all her five husbands with the same eye. That’s why she has fallen. Do not turn back, do not fret, and keep walking. Erasing worldly memories is a prerequisite for attaining heaven.” All of the brothers obey him, not turning back to look at their beloved wife.
Now comes the author’s classic intervention, a detour from the original storyline, raising Bhima’s love to a feeling bordering on ultimate, selfless submission. Ultimate submission, they say, is the highest degree of love; which is why; in poems and songs the woman whom one loves is often compared to a Goddess.
Bhima stops, ignores his brother’s wise words, turns back, walks up to Draupadi, bends down next to her and cups her face in his palms. She looks up at him, smiles, turns her head away and breathes her last. Peacefully. In Bhima’s arms.
Hidimbi: First wife to Bhima, the sister of Hidimba who was a Kiratha (a primitive aboriginal tribe, with enormous physical strength, who inhabit the jungle) whom Bhima slays in a jungle duel. Dusky, voluptuous, tall and bold, Hidimbi brings with her, womanhood with all its wild, unbridled sensuality.
Her character is brief, but in the context of what is to unfold, assumes immense significance. Bhima’s first taste of a woman, like many other Khshatriyas, is a devdasi in their palace, but the encounter leaves him unmoved. He even wonders aloud whether the much celebrated Bhima cannot satisfy even a mere woman.
But when he meets Hidimbi in the jungle, gets to know her and subsequently makes love to her, he is aroused to a degree which he has never thought himself capable to be. Bhima wonders whether the existing definitions of a woman’s capabilities in bed wouldn’t be enough to describe the fire of passion that Hidimbi aroused within him. He later marries her and introduces her to his mother and brothers. He then sees a glint of shock in Kunthi’s eyes, a shock which he alone notices. (This scene, the shock in Kunti’s eyes, is also a detour from the original storyline, but in hindsight, is one of the scenes in the whole novel which is plotted with inimitable foresight.)
They live together for a few days, after which Bhima and Hidimbi part, when the Pandavas have to leave the jungle to a nearby village. She is pregnant with his child, Bhima’s first child, Khadolkacha who arrives years later as their savior during the Kurukshethra war. They part, with Bhima kissing Hidimbi’s forehead in farewell.
Years later, Bhima does come in search of her into the same forest in the pretext of a hunting trip, but never finds her. Though a Khshatriya by birth, Bhima’s first wife, his first orgasm, his first child has all been from the lowly Kiratha tribe. It is this attribute of his character that Hidimbi so beautifully symbolizes.
Kunthi: The mother to the Pandavas, she is often portrayed in stories as a weak woman, but here she comes across as a wise, shrewd and calculating lady. A frail, non-descript woman; she always takes Bhima by surprise with her quick thinking.
When Vidura, uncle to Pandavas, who is always much concerned about the welfare of the Pandavas, sends an encrypted message to them while they stay in a castle made for them by the Kauravas in the jungle, Kunthi is the one to decipher the message and sense that the castle is made of firewood and could be set fire in an instant. And later, when a Kiratha lady and her five sons come begging, on the night when the castle would be set fire to, while they plot their plans of escape, she amazes him again by welcoming the beggars in. Her untimely urge to serve the visitors with food and liquor irks her sons, but when they question her, she coolly quips, amazing Bhima to no end: “When they search for our bodies tomorrow, the charred bodies of this Kiratha lady and her five sons would mislead our enemies into thinking that we are dead. What can these visitors be, if not God’s gift in disguise?”
Later, when the Pandavas return home with Draupadi after Arjuna’s victorious Swayamvara, Yudhishtira shouts aloud to Kunthi who is inside the house. “Mother, see what bhiksha we have got today!”
She shouts from inside, without looking out, “Whatever the bhiksha may be, my children, you must share it among yourselves equally.”
Yudhishtira, who is always inclined towards dharma, suggests that they must not disobey their mother’s words, and hence Draupadi becomes destined to be the wife to all of them, from the eldest to the youngest, the turn changing with each year.
Later, Kunthi says to Bhima, who was vehemently of the opinion that Draupadi must belong to Arjuna and not to the five of them together: “I knew that the bhiksha was Draupadi. I saw lust in each eye that looked at her, even in the eyes of the youngest Sahadeva. My sons must never quarrel over a mere woman, hence my words.” Bhima struggles to look Kunthi in her eyes again during that night, wondering whether his mother could have spotted lust in his eyes too.
But the real bombshell comes after the Kurukshethra war, when Kunthi asks Yudhishtira to perform the last rites for Karna, who, she reveals, was her first son. Karna knew it, but the Pandavas hadn’t and Arjuna had killed him in the war. The Pandavas sink to the ground in despair when they hear the news, the most distraught being Arjuna, who had killed him using unfair means. Yudhishtira even curses womanhood as a whole on this occasion that they can never keep a secret to themselves again.
A visibly angry Bhima shouts at his mother, deriding her decision to keep Karna’s secret from them for so long. He recollects aloud his umpteen encounters with Karna, in each of which he had insulted Karna in public, by calling him Soothaputhra (Which means, son of a charioteer. It was a humble charioteer, Adhiratha, who raised Karna, after he was abandoned at birth by Kunthi. Karna has to hear this insult many a time in his life, at various critical junctures in his life, the most important one being Draupadi’s Swayamvara, when, on the verge of being successful, Karna was expelled from the Swayamvara because of his
parentage).
It is now, that MT pulls off another magnificent, stunning and the most important deviation from the epic’s original story-line:
Kunthi looks at Bhima and to his consternation, remarks, “Karna was a Soothaputhra indeed.” She continues coolly, “At sage Durvasa’s ashram, amongst all the hardships that I suffered there, it was a handsome Sootha (a charioteer) who showed me some care, some love. Karna was born to him.”
A stunned Bhima listens as she goes on, “Listen. Dharma is Vidura indeed. And Vidura is Yudhishtira”, thereby breaking the secret of Yudhishtira parentage too, which is attributed to Dharma, the God of Justice. When Bhima shouts in despair, “Then tell me! Who am I?”, her reply is similarly icy cold.
“I wanted my second son to be strong. Strong like an elephant. Then he came to me, from the deep forests. Like an unbridled, violent wind. A Kiratha with the strength of a thousand elephants. Bhima, you were born to him.”
To Bhima, who has grown up, muttering silent prayers to Vaayudeva (the God of Wind) who was said to be his father, by Kunthi herself and also by all the paean-singers who sang praises of the royal families; this was a shock which was too much to bear. His life-long arrogance at his physical strength, his confidence in Vaayudeva, who he has always believed would incessantly keep guarding over him, all becomes meaningless myths when faced with this cruel, humbling reality.
It is then that everything falls in place for the viewer. His first marriage with Hidimbi. The shock in Kunthi’s eyes when she first sees Hidimbi. Khadolkacha, his first child. His first hunting success, which unconventionally comes in the form of slaying a wild pig. His forays into the forest, which is a second home to him, unlike other Khshatriyas. His obsession with wrestling, considered to be a low-grade war form. His wild, animal instinct which comes to the fore when he tears open Dusshasana’s chest during war and even drinks his blood. Uncle Vidura’s obsessive attention towards the Pandavas. Everything. The legends that we have grown up hearing now lies astray, shattered into pieces.
Final thought: It is through these three women, that Bhima knows life. Every emotion that a man needs to know comes to him through them. Love. Romance. Despair. The layers of superhuman facets, attached to him and his fellow characters through age-old mythical tales peel off, gradually, during his interactions with them.
What we see in this adaptation of Mahabharata is not a legend that we have come to see many times on the small screen, but a group of beleaguered ordinary mortals, Bhima included, forced into helplessness by the cruel turns of fate.
There are a lot of other characters – the other Pandavas; Balandhara, his second wife; Visoka, the trusted charioteer; Karna, the wronged brother, Gandhari and Dhritharashtra, all of whom play more than significant roles in the story. Bhima comes across as a worthy central character, a fulcrum around which the whole tale can be woven. Maybe I could write a sequel to this article to elaborate on the other characters as well.
But the greatness of this adaptation by M.T is that it simplifies the Mahabharata. The characters and their actions are no longer arcane and mythical; their motives and secrets become clearer and more justified now, thanks to the unconventional genius of M.T. And this is the reason why, this adaptation could, and should, be made into a film. A film which would transform these characters into mere mortals, which would demystify the legends and which could alter the common man’s perspective of this magnificent epic. Maybe, for ever.
PS: Malayalees, who have not read the book yet, go get your copy of Randamoozham straightaway. Non-Malayalees, try to get the English translation of the book, titled ‘The second turn’ or shop for it online at:
http://www.amazon.com/Second-
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Randamoozham - Bhima and the lady characters in his life..
Saturday, May 30, 2009
SOME LUCK!
Scene 1
4:30 PM
Sreehari’s Office
Sreehari sits facing the computer, tense, veins distending on his forehead, sweating in spite of the air-conditioning. The problem reported in his code had huge impacts and could incur huge financial losses for the client of the software firm for whom he was working for.
The client was one of the biggest privatized banks in the country.
The bank people had already kicked up a huge ruckus. The issue had already been escalated to the top management of the company.
And he was solely responsible.
Damn. What a horrible time for the issue to crop up, he thinks, with just a month more to go for the probation period to get over. The whole thing could even affect his confirmation.
Then, the cell phone rings. It’s Mom.
“Sreehari”, says Mom, endearingly. “That girl’s mother hasn’t responded yet….”
He was already into his third unsuccessful year of girl-hunting. This one suited him to a T; the horror-scopes gave in too. He wished her family would be as interested as he was.
Horrible day.
“Too bad. I’ll call you later Mom”, he tells. “Very busy now.” He disconnects the call.
Then, he nose-dives into the task at hand, frowning at the monitor, taking occasional sips of cold water, and furiously massaging his aching temples.
6:30 PM
Sreehari’s Office
Two tense hours whizz past, in a flurry of intense activity.
Then Sreehari goes out, has a smoke, comes back and strides confidently towards his Manager’s cubicle.
There is no tension now. Cool and composed, with an air of a person who was unjustly convicted, he starts to speak.
The issue reported has nothing to do with his code, which is working perfectly. Pucca.
All the fuss was a result of a mistake by some ignoramus dealer at the bank, who knows nothing about software. God help these fools!
The manager is happy. He realizes that he wouldn’t get the firing that he dreaded, congratulates Sreehari profusely and rings up the client, the Bank.
The manager waxes eloquent on the quality of his product, and on how unlikely it was for bugs to be found in the system.
Buoyed by Sreehari’s discovery, he even audaciously suggests to the bank that they employ people who are better trained so as to prevent such confusion in the future.
To which, the bank agrees and they also furnish their embarrassed apologies.
In the meanwhile, Sreehari packs his belongings and starts to leave home. The girl’s family must have called Mom by now, he hopes.
He rings up Mom, she doesn’t pick the phone. Must have gone to the temple, he guesses.
Feeling relaxed, he switches on the car stereo, and drives back home.
8:00 PM
Sreehari’s Home
A bit of shopping and Sreehari is back home. Mom has reached back as well.
“Did they call, Mom?” He asks.
Mom answers in the negative.
“Why don’t we call them up?” He pesters.
“I will call them now, then.” Mom consents, looks up the number from the directory as Sreehari waits by her side.
She finds the number and proceeds to dial.
8:05 PM
Sreehari’s Home
“We had come across your daughter’s profile in the matrimony site...” she says. “Wanted to know your reply...”
There is a click at the other end, and then the line goes dead. Mom places the receiver into the cradle.
“The girl’s brother says they are not interested.” Mom says with a tinge of sadness in her voice.
She feels for her son. She knows that her son had really wished that this proposal would go through.
Sreehari has a cup of tea, a quick bath and then climbs upstairs into his room, hiding his disappointment. He tries to get it out of his mind, but cannot.
He wonders what could be wrong, but he is not able to figure out.
He then locks the door, plays his favorite movie on the computer, and sits idly, smoking, cigarette after cigarette.
Ten Minutes Ago
Lakshmi’s Home
Lakshmi and her Mother looks up at her brother Vimal, who has come back from work.
He looks distraught.
They anxiously enquire and come to know that he was fired by the bank for which he worked as a contract employee.
“Initially I thought that it was the mistake of the software people”, he said, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Then they realized it was my mistake, and my contract was terminated.” He sinks into the chair, devastated.
The three of them sit around in a circle, immensely worried, pondering over what could be done. The job loss is a big blow. More so, in these times of recession. And he being the sole breadwinner in the family.
8:05 PM
Lakshmi’s Home
Then the phone rings, its shrill tones cutting through the silence of the room. Vimal gets up, and picks up the phone.
At the other end is the mother of the guy from whom Lakshmi had received a proposal last week.
“We can’t proceed right now”, Vimal mutters into the phone, in a dejected tone, “We are sorry.”
Then he disconnects the line.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The IPL - Love it or not ?
Browse for the IPL on the web, and you get a whole slew of posts on it, on cricket websites, on newspapers, on blogs. But there are not many columns which would make the Mr. Lalit Modi beam with pride - excluding those by the players and commentators of course.
Every second writer that we come across on the net lambasts the league. Viciously. The criticisms are, by and large, uniform. Here we go.
- Sixes are now DLF Maximums, every turnaround in the match is a CITI Moment, every also-ran, under-23 kid is now in contention for the CITI Find of the Tournament award, and Vodafone, as if zoo-zoos are not enough, keep on inventing outrageous ‘ultimate’ guessing games, which only leave you puzzled.
- If time-breaks in a match were an absolute no-no, we now have a compulsory time-out, every game. Not once, but twice. Yeah, and we are not counting the innings break.
- We all grew up eating, drinking and sleeping cricket. Cricket was religion, they said, and Sachin was God. Now, Ravi Shastri, addressed as an ‘overblown commentator’, is said to have offered the throne to The Commissioner himself. Shastri had gone on record, addressing Modi as ‘Moses’, it was said.
- The whole thing could be fixed. It might could even be a pre-planned script.
But this entire hullabaloo, does the average cricket fan care for? If I were asked, I would have simply quipped that I couldn’t care less.
Accept it, after the Kerry Packer revolution; IPL is the next biggest thing to hit Cricket. It is heavily commercialized, agreed. But in this age, what isn’t?
An average cricket fan could only dream of matches where a Shane Warne would bowl to a Matthew Hayden or Sachin taking guard against Anil Kumble. Most of the lineups in the IPL would even bear striking similarities to the World XI’s released by the ICC annually. And these guys, happily retired, wouldn’t consent to take part in a competition, if they are paid peanuts. The mind-blowing auction which preceded the tournament, with its sky high price tags only goes on to reinforce the same.
Adam Gilchrist once said he felt like a cow for sale, in a market. It is another matter that he joined IPL, and in the second edition is leading a side as well. Kevin Petersen, Andrew Flintoff and JP Duminy were left gaping, open mouthed at their astronomical price tags. They needed no further invitation to join the lucrative league.
Where does all this money come from? You can’t expect Lalit Modi and the franchisees to pump in millions just to enjoy the whole spectacle. Modi could be as much attracted to cricket and its nuances as Sonia Gandhi would be to the BJP. Money rules, that’s it. If tomorrow, Kabbadi suddenly shoots up in popularity, don’t be surprised if Modi starts endorsing a Kabbadi league even more passionately.
If he has pumped in Millions, he would want to rake in the moolah by the Billions. All of the franchisees would be listed on the stock exchange in a short time, and hence, the market value would be of prime importance. All the glitz goes on to increase the market value of their sides. In spite of their dismal record, Knight Riders are said to have the highest market value. So who can blame the sponsors and the franchisees, if they go overboard in raising money?
A rose is a rose is a rose, so goes the saying. A Six is a six is a six, whether we call it a six or a DLF Maximum. A turning point is a turning point, even if it called a CITI Moment of success. And what if sponsor’s logos adorn the entirety of the team outfits? Let them advertise, folks. Let them get a more than fair return for their investments. We wish to see this spectacle again in the coming years too, so let them.
The players don’t give each other an inch in the matches, and the average cricket fan isn’t complaining.
Who could complain? Most of the matches, barring a few, have gone down to the wire. At the business end of the tournament, six teams are battling it out for two semifinal spots. What more can you ask for? The intensity levels are simply amazing. The carnival atmosphere, with the music, film stars and the cheer girls wouldn’t please the purists for sure, but what do the purists have to show?
Test cricket is facing a stern test. Most One day internationals are starting to be tedious, drab affairs. We see test series played out on flat pitches, with teams trying to bore each other into committing mistakes. Draws seem to be order of the day, with an occasional three day test surfacing, which is most often a result of inept batting. Unless there is an Australia, or a South Africa or an India playing, there isn’t much international cricket worth watching going on. Even they can’t guarantee entertainment these days.
Two years back, we happened to see a certain tournament called the World Cup, with inconsequential, one-sided matches played day in and day out, and an extremely dominant Australia winning for the fourth time in a row. How we wished we would have a second division, a la the EPL, where we could delegate insipid teams like the West Indies and Zimbabwe! These teams were almost non-existent, simply serving to boost the averages of players from the top sides. Not to speak of Bermuda, Holland and Kenya.
Instead, here we see the likes of Dwayne Bravo, Dwayne Smith, Fidel Edwards, Ross Taylor, Dirk Nannes and Ravi Bopara, arguably from countries in the bottom rung of the test ladder, setting the stage alight with their performances for their respective teams. And their performances counted, because all the teams were evenly matched. And such contests were starting to become as rare as a white elephant, until IPL caught cricket by storm last year.
And Indian Cricket! Shouldn’t we be welcoming the IPL with both hands? Rohit Sharma, Yusuf Pathan, Ravindra Jadeja, Suresh Raina, Irfan Pathan – all these players, either emerged or came back into reckoning in the IPL. For long, we have been lamenting the non-emergence of young players and suddenly, the selectors seem to be spoilt for choice. There are several other young players too – Pragyan Ojha for one, who seem to give the senior pros a real run for their money. RP Singh and Ashish Nehra have been revelations as well, and have done their prospects no harm.
But honestly, what could have been dispensed away with, are the anchors on Sony MAX. Gaurav Kapoor and Samir Kochchar sound so clichéd that we keep wishing that the Extraaa Innings would get over as soon as it began. It’s a big glitch. Better not to talk of Mandira Bedi, it seems Sony MAX cannot find prettier girls who could articulate better. Let us wish MAX better luck, which I guess they should soon find, with the innumerable reality shows budding forth daily, on Indian Television screens.
And Bollywood seems to be driving the critics to exasperation. But let’s face it, television ratings are surest shot success meters and the SRKs, Zintas and Shettys would woo in audiences who aren’t too keen on cricket. Why should their presence dilute the cricket? Sure, one gets irritated at Priety’s chronic hugging and jumping, and SRK’s high handed talk, but why care, when you have such gorgeous cricketing action on view?
Maybe we should draw a line, between international cricket and the IPL. We watch enough commercial pot boiler films and we queue up at theatres, braving the Sun and the rain, to watch our favorite stars act in mindless comic capers. We have no qualms about leaving our brain outside the theatre. Even for a few of us who don’t really enjoy, we don’t really have a choice. Then why all the fuss about the IPL?
It’s a cocktail, the IPL. A heady mix of some really good cricket, a hell lot of money and glamour. With a shot of senselessness thrown in as well. A wholesome, palatable, pot pourrie.
Let us pardon the Commissioner for his greed.
Let us pardon the sponsors for putting their money over our cricket.
Let us pardon Ravi Shastri, Sunil Gavaskar, Harsha Bhogle, Robin Jackman and their tribe for their subservience. They have been fantastic commentators and they would continue to be so.
Let us pardon the perpetrators of the strategic time out. Let the sponsors make hay, as we walk around a bit, to exercise our lazy spines.
After a few weeks, we would be back to calling a Six a Six, a catch a catch and a turning point a turning point.
Maybe, the Khans, the Shettys, the Ambanis and the Zintas would be back, doing what they do best.
Maybe, we would be back to seeing Australia thrash a insipid New Zealand and South Africa maul a listless England. Smacking our lips at the prospect of Sri Lanka taking on the never-improving Bangladesh in a three-test triple whammy.
Maybe, we would be longing ruefully for the sight of Matthew Hayden, Adam Gilchrist, Shane Warne or Sanath Jayasurya, out on the playing field displaying their ageless guiles.
Maybe, we would miss IPL then. We can’t be sure. Cricket is such a funny game, they say.
But for now, grab some thing to eat, something to drink and settle down into your couch. For a month, leave the cynical half of your brain in the cold storage. Try if you can get the entertainment that they claim is guaranteed.
Happy viewing!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tryst With Destiny
Overcome by fear, I sat sweating, near the window, praying that the morning would never arrive; the dividers and set-squares resting shakily in my fingers, as a spoon and a fork would rest in the unaccustomed fingers of a villager at an expensive buffet.
I wished I could know the result of the examination beforehand. Could have saved me all this effort, I thought. Not an uncommon wish at all. After all, it is man’s obsession with the future which fattens the purse of many a fortune-teller - the obsession to know, change and subvert God’s will through countless prayers and rituals.
In those days, I had this curious little habit, which I had picked up from one of my classmates at school. Whenever I found it impossible to resist knowing the outcome of something, whether India would end up on the winning side of a close cricket match or whether we would land a ticket for a new film release, I would toss a coin.
Up, high and handsome, the coin would soar. The coin in the air, my heart in my mouth. The coin would eventually end up on the ground, with one face upwards. Each face would symbolize a result, and the business of tossing the coin would give me a temporary respite from restlessness.
The entire ordeal which I had endured, the unbearable anxiety as to whether I would pass or fail, had enervated me enormously. I felt like a convict at a jail, waiting with bated breaths, for the dreaded moment when the executioner’s noose would tighten around his unlucky throat.
No more of this business, I made up my mind. Bring the coin!
I never used to have a lot of pocket money. Unfortunately, I did not have a single coin with me, on that wretched morning, rummage as I might, all over the room. And it wasn’t entirely normal to go fiddling in my Dad’s pockets in such unearthly hours; and if I did, landing a scolding seemed more probable than landing a coin.
That’s the way of life. When you don’t need something, it sits there, right before your eyes. When you need it so badly, as if your whole life hangs on it, the thing is nowhere to be found. A gentleman named Murphy, I heard realized this fact, centuries before I did, and formulated his own law, which was called Murphy’s Law. I couldn’t agree more with Murphy then.
How on earth, with what on earth, could I toss?
I took a bit of paper, wrote ‘Pass’ on one side and ‘Fail’ on the other, and tossed it. The paper flew away in the ceiling fan, landing expertly at an inaccessible corner of the room. The paper bit would have put an airplane to shame with its airborne antics.
Dejected, I had given up the plan of predicting the future and had gone back to the futile exercise of nibbling at my textbook, when my roving eye caught something.
Lying inconspicuously in my instrument box was the Protractor. An essential tool in a mathematics examination, the Protractor is a semicircular, plastic piece, with the angles from zero degrees to one-hundred-eighty degrees marked on one face, in a slew of closely spaced lines and semicircles. The other face is blank.
My sagging spirits soared; the situation wasn’t hopeless at all. I could use the Protractor for a toss. I took huge pride in the hidden justice that there was in it - what better way could be there, other than using a mathematical instrument itself to guess the result of a mathematics exam?
So it was toss time. Again.
I sat back, temporarily forgot everything about the exams and basked in my newfound glory. With experience, we had figured out a unique way to check if the outcome of a toss was reliable or not. Put the toss and check whether it predicts the outcome of an event that already happened.
Incidentally, I had passed in the previous mathematics exam, with a paltry forty-five percent score. I tossed the Protractor up in the air. If the side with the degrees marked on it falls, it would mean Pass and hence, the toss could be trusted, I presumed. Three times out of three, the marked side fell.
Fantastic. You could bet your life on the Protractor, I thought.
Now, to the big toss. I braced myself and tossed the Protractor up again. It soared up, did several somersaults in the air and landed on its blank side.
My enthusiasm dipped. God, would I fail?
One more toss. More airy somersaults. But again, it landed on the blank side.
Now the world came crashing down. The prospect of failure looked likelier than before. But I picked myself up quickly and thought over it. I would toss it five times in all, instead of three. So in all the remaining throws, the face with the degrees marked on it would have to fall, for me to pass in the examination. I muttered a few prayers and tossed it up again.
Up. Higher. Flipping in the air. Amidst thumping heartbeats.
I stared, anxious and open mouthed. God, It had begun its descent, and was hurtling down, right towards my nose. I backed away, just in the nick of time. The protractor brushed my cheek, diverted from its path of descent, and went sliding, nonchalantly, right out of the window.
Peering out, I found the protractor, lying forlorn, on the sunshade. Looking up at me, as if blaming me for its plight. Worse, it had it's blank side upwards. Failure guaranteed ?
I tried coaxing it down from the sunshade with a broom, but Life seemed to have chosen to teach me all the tough lessons on that horrible, chilly morning. The broom was just an inch too short for me.
Mom came in at the stroke of dawn, with the morning tea and found me, to her extreme astonishment, broom in hand, sweating all over from head to toe. She tried her hand, gave up and called Dad, who immediately took over control of the situation.
After half an hour of pushing and prodding, Dad managed to coax the Protractor from the sunshade, onto the ground. All the while, he had seemed to get madder at me with each passing minute. It was seven in the morning by then. Almost school time. Without any further preparation, I trudged off to school, ready to meet my fate.
Anyways, the toss was spot on, I must say. The day got more horrible as it progressed, especially inside the examination hall. Equations and formulae arranged themselves, deftly, into indecipherable jigsaw puzzles inside my head, and drove me crazy.
Eventually, I ended up with eighteen marks out of a hundred. For once, I remember, the marks where fewer in number, in comparison with the number of beatings I managed to get from home.
If my memory could be banked upon, it was the last time that I ever tossed a coin in my life.
