Oddly Dissatisfying - The Carpet Truth

I don't know how many enjoy watching those "oddly satisfying" category of clips where people wash carpets, where a grimy brown-black rectangle reemerges into its original bright colours with floral or geometric patterns. A practical example of resurgence and rebirth, though more likely it feeds the same voyeuristic mechanism that makes people watch Dr. Pimple Popper drain pus, extract giant blackheads, marvel at giant boogers, or savour the stench of a just coughed-out tonsil stone.

Let me assure you, in reality, washing carpets is oddly dissatisfying. I found that out yesterday. I hauled out a mysterious, grey-tinged, cardboard-like carpet, long folded up, with no recollection of how it ever got into the house. My mother said it was natural wool and that my father had bought it while I was still in school. It took a boutique blend of cleaners and about four hours of pressure washing to restore it to its original white and cream. My back ached for the rest of the day, and my hand buzzed from the washer gun's recoil for hours.

The monotony let the mind delegate the task to autopilot while it drifted to Albert Camus's Meursault. Not that I have read The Stranger or plan to, I just remembered a clever-sounding British fellow on Reels talking about what it would be like to only speak the truth. Well, I have been doing that for a long time, sometimes blunt, at times delicate, with minimal whitewash. No name-dropping, excuses, or self-aggrandisement. I even stopped telling young women how lovely they look. Sure, some act somewhat ill at ease in my presence, especially the pompous ones higher up the ladder, yet nobody ever accused me of being cruel or deliberately hurtful.

Meanwhile, the same can’t be said about many of those seemingly playing the social game of pretense and perfunction. Take this episode from almost a decade and a half ago. I had just sat on my bike for my weekly dip in the sea when I felt the buzz of my phone in my pocket. It was a college classmate. I barely knew her in college and later only spoke to her because she worked for a stint at a senior friend’s organisation. After a string of probing questions to which I grunted yes or no, she quipped, “Great, jobless and dumped by your wife, enjoying life on the beach!”

Trained since age ten to hear from all around that I was never good enough or didn’t measure up, even I was stunned by the audacity and waited a minute before replying. I said I would let it rest but warned that such flippant remarks could earn her serious enemies for life. She hung up.

Was she deliberately hurtful? I don’t think so. Probably just a little jealous of a seemingly jobless bum who still managed to live a freewheeling life in Goa and take weekend bike rides and dips in the sea. Besides, like many cranially deficient people, she also fancied herself quite witty.

A decade later, just before I blocked her everywhere, fed up with her mindless comments and constant poking into my life and zero respect for boundaries, I reminded her of that line. First, she vehemently denied it, then said she had forgotten, and finally, tinged with hysteria, claimed it was her revenge for my gaffes about femininity on social media. Inadvertently providing more fodder to laugh about.

Then there is another friend from school times through college who, after loitering through life until his mid-40s, finally found a calling as a wheeler-dealer middleman in one of the tribal hill states. He made a habit of calling at night, somewhat tipsily narrating about his various trials and successes, and also sermonising me about compromises and how I should learn from his lessons. Mostly, I listened patiently until one time I had enough and retorted, “Grovelling to corrupt and clueless bureaucrats and "Yessing" to vendors’ managers, is not my life - so let me focus on my innovations.” He slurred back, “So who has recognised your work that you are so arrogant?” This time I cut the phone, but first told him to Fuck Off...

He called up later, confessing he had had one too many. Laughing, I told him I welcome such drunken outbursts because people tell me what’s really on their minds. I haven't heard from him after I posted a slew of screenshots on my WhatsApp status about the international coverage my work received, which he and several others so obsessively keep checking daily. 

Either way, both the characters probably see themselves as victims and not vice versa.

At last, the carpet looked clean, and instead of pondering truth-sayers, I next had to figure out how to lug the wet behemoth up to the balcony to dry.

Perennially tightfisted, my father had obviously not paid the little extra for the magic flying carpet option.

Holy Diver

At an age when most rockers had burned out, OD’d, or on permanent residency in rehab, the King of Heavy Metal came in screaming his first solo mega-hit "Holy Diver," well in his mid-40s. After decades of yelling along without a clue, I finally used the internet to figure out what Ronnie James Dio was actually singing about—apparently some transdimensional batman masked messianic figure taking a dive to save an ungrateful humanity.

Sounds familiar - flood relief Bamboo Boats anyone ??

On a personal level, though, Holy Diver lately started meaning something else altogether.

Call her a metaphor of my Jungian Anima, the female archetype lurking in a man’s psyche, or a temptress - a Sky Dakini in the flesh, luring me to take the plunge. For the Lord knows how pathetically susceptible we men are to female cajoling—far more than to nagging. And its certainly more effective a method of allure than by ghosting, in life or in chats.

Well, this Holy Diver—or should I say Sky Diver—is not a fantasy figure, but a person in a series of YouTube Shorts. A striking, brown-haired, but decidedly unglamorous young woman sitting on a chair, in a white top and cargos, listening to someone intently, who turns to the camera, smiles shyly, and flashes a V-sign. Next she’s in a hangar, zipping up a black-and-white skydiving suit (usually the mark of an instructor or someone advanced), offering the faintest smile before gazing into the etheric distance, tying her fiery long hair into a bun, walks towards a North Carolina–registered plane, turns her head flashing another smile, and boards. Next moment—out she goes, slicing through the air, sketching figures against the sky. And that’s where I sigh deeply…

For if her appearance and demeanour weren’t enough to have me smitten, ready to play the fool a dozen times over, she also breaks the final barrier—jumping out of a plane.
For, alas, I am petrified of heights.

Incidentally, I knew at least four women who’ve done the leap. Three went tandem, thrill-seeking, and urged me to try, assuring me they too had been afraid of heights. The fourth, an army reservist, did three jumps, admitted they were basically booted out of the plane, parachutes popping automatically with half the recruits bawling or wetting themselves until a dull thud and ache of landing brought them back to earth. Only on her third jump did she dare open her eyes midair and glimpse a surreal serenity, and felt her own insignificance against the vast earth below. But no, thank you, she won’t be doing that again.

This leaves me in a peculiar jam. With Concorde's retired, the Russians no longer hawking MiG-29 joyrides, the edge of space still locked behind billionaire gates, and aeroplane bathrooms far too cramped to join the "club," my one remaining option to experience the sky in all its glory is… to take a dive. But really?

I just pray I don't meet the brown haired “Holy Skydiver” from North Carolina—I mean not anytime soon...

The Dao Tse from Indu

My father had a deeply irritating habit. Any subject I picked up, he had to follow. But first, he would patronize me - Astrology, Buddhism, tantra, Jung or whatever I was reading. Suddenly my books became his, and soon he the “expert.” The only things he didn’t chase me into were Taoism, motorcycle repair, and boat building.

Our approaches differed. I collected books, skimmed, dropped them when bored, filing fragments away in the chaotic, multithreaded system of a dyslexic ADD brain. He, on the other hand, would first criticize the author, then read cover to cover, make notes, study further, and inevitably write an article—say, on Tibetan Buddhism’s effect on Shankardeva’s Vaishnav tradition. We rarely agreed: his pedantic stance was dogmatic, while I followed Lao Tzu—“the further one goes, the less one knows.”

Still, one explanation of his stayed with me: the difference between a Bodhisattva and an Arhat - both are realized masters in their respective Buddhist traditions. A Bodhisattva, he said, seeing goats led to slaughter, would lecture the herders on the sanctity of life, their sins, and the karma. A Theravadin Arhat, by contrast, may chat with the herders, bless them if asked, perhaps request kindness to the animals while they are alive, then move on, knowing people must eat and survive. Having somewhat known both streams from inside, I think his was the best distinction I’ve ever heard.

Of course, I had to add dryly that he forgot the Tulkus - reincarnated Lamaist Bodhisattvas who would chant, bang drums and gongs, blow a horn blessing both herders and goats, to protect them from demons and then have one for their meal. “Give me the wandering Daoist any day,” I said. He would stop by, share banter, eat what was offered, drink their booze or his own, laugh and move on, following the Dao.

“In China we call them piànzi -cheats,” said Chen, my hosting company’s liaison, when I shared my fascination with the "Dao Tses," Taoist sages. Making me realize that our people weren’t so different after all - at least in their views about travelling mendicants.

That evening, in a bar, Chen pressed me about why an Indian is interested in Daoist thought, when it's been long ignored in China except for perfunctory temple rituals. What followed was hours of my drunken stream of consciousness - Daoist parables, Iching cosmology, Chuang Tzu quotes, reflections on “the Way.” A fascinated audience gathered, some catching my English, others listening to Chen’s translations. 

In true Daoist style, the language barrier and the booze only thickened the mystic veil.
Years later, I visited the city again. Chen had left the company, and his replacement took me around. On seeing my interest in a wayside Taoist shrine, his face lit up in recognition: 

“Ooo...so you are the Dao Tse from Indu!
I heard much about you!”
As a follower of the Way, I didn’t ask what.

An Unplanned Sabbatical, a Volcano, and the Toilet of Doom

I’ve found myself on an unplanned sabbatical due to factors completely beyond my control. Sudden caregiving responsibilities, and the absolute apathy toward my work from all quarters in my region (international interest and multiple media coverage be damned), have forced me to step back. Not to think or replan or reevaluate, but simply to flatline the monitor.

Time now drifts by in household chores, repairs, and errands. Fixing a 50-year-old bungalow, a 20-year-old car, and then there’s the “Toilet of Doom.” 

I’ll come to that later.

First, a revelation made by myself to myself, in a dream last night. I was seated in  a large glassed office or a conference room when a smart, pretty young lady, purportedly a CA, who asked me, “What do you think is wrong with the startup sector?”

I took out my notepad and drew a cross-section of a volcano.

“Everyone,” I said, “wants a startup to grow into a massive volcano, impressive and loud, great for the optics and valuation. But no one wants to provide the magma that turns into lava, or accept the eruptions that make it grow. So you end up digging for the magma and in no time are surrounded by hordes of volcanologists and other experts (the mentors, incubators and accelerators), all curating your growth, offering advice, or acting as touts for tourists, which is to say, the potential investors.

Founders are expected to stack stones uphill, show slides of Mt. Fuji, and promise they can do the same or better. Some even put up a fake facade with an impressive volcano image -that’s the whole ‘fake it till you make it’ mantra.

In the end, no one really cares what your volcano actually does, whether it forms islands, raises mountains, or fertilizes the land. And yes, volcanoes sometimes explode, taking everyone around them with them. Eventually they go dormant and die”

Now, about the Indian Johns - or the Toilet of Doom.

There was an old Indian-style lavatory in the house, leaking and blocked for decades, but it stayed that way because my late father insisted on using it -  his meditative power spot. I finally decided to convert it into a western WC. Got all the fittings, but plumbers either weren’t interested, disappeared after a look, or quoted enough to build a new one.

Never one to be blackmailed by the working class, my left leanings notwithstanding, I took on the project myself.

 It took two days just to get the old pan out. Turns out the contractor who built the house had cast the floor with a 4-inch concrete slab.  Subsequent plumbers poured even more concrete below, trying to fix the discharge pipe leaks.

The result, me lying on the floor for hours, head in the hole where the pan used to be, inhaling fifty years of sewage fumes, drilling out bits of concrete, and holding a digging bar while my Friday swung a giant hammer right above my head to hit it again and again.

By now, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, though a little still remains.  One thing’s certain, Stephen King wouldn’t have seen any redemption in this one. 

Frankly, neither do I.

It’s definitely not something you’d put on a résumé, I may as well as write about it here. After all, it’s not about skills or tight purse strings, but attitude. Besides, dubbing it “the Toilet of Doom” not only makes my unenviable effort sound cooler, it also feels oddly appropriate.

A Tale of Three Babas

 

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“Hello—No Problem!!” bellowed the grimy dreadlocked Sadhu Baba for the umpteenth time that evening. His fixation was Derick, an egg-headed bull of a man in his sixties from Australia, who could easily have made a film career playing a Nazi or a skinhead. He was also the owner of the worst Royal Enfield imaginable—glitter and chrome but breaking down at every corner. We were sitting across in a former parachute-turned-tent at Sarchu, shared with a few dozen others—tourists, truckers, the owner’s family, and the Baba himself. Totally sozzled after helping the truckers with their booze and then stoned from countless chillums, he would first yell “Hello,” wave at Derick, and, once he had his attention, give a thumbs-up and roar again: “No Problem!!”

The “Techno Baba,” by contrast, was a self-styled sadhu—a young Bihari from Pasighat—living off an attractive but perpetually stoned Israeli blonde in an old Manali guesthouse where I stayed. With long shampooed hair, clad in a saffron lungi, and utterly ego-less, he was mercilessly mocked by the hotel owner and his lone helper—a lazy Nepali addicted to chess—both unsure about their roles as master and servant. The Baba, in turn, would mutter about these fallen times when holy men were no longer respected.
Bankrolled by his girlfriend, he ran a modest trade in hash. His routine was simple: slip into the guest circle on the balcony, light up his chillum, pass it around, then announce—“Anybody want good hash? Tell me, I got good hash!”

His girlfriend I only saw in fleeting glimpses. She mostly stayed in their room, except in the mornings, when she queued for the common toilet—oversized shades on, toilet roll in hand, tugging at her pyjamas stuck in her butt crack. Sometimes in the evenings she sat on a bench on the veranda, dragging a joint or just staring into the distance next to a mini boom box. She was hooked on techno, which they blasted at full volume. The Baba would thrash his body and long hair to the beats, leaping into the air whenever a vocal hook dropped—often it was “Om Namah Shivayaaaa!!”

And then, there was the “Unexplained Baba.” I came across him while riding down a lonely stretch between Tura in the Garo Hills and Mancachar in Assam, searching for the only Buddhist stupa in Northeast India. Out of nowhere, there he was: walking nonchalantly up the road, tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, dark as the night, with floppy curls and a distinctly Australoid face. He was stark naked and seemed utterly at ease in his sky costume. I looked at him, he looked back at me—disinterested—and kept walking. I saw no reason to stop—for his autograph or for a pic.

My pillion at the time, the sister of a very loud name in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, sat in stunned silence, then finally blurted out: “What was that?” 

I could only reply: “No clue.”

Later that night, my Garo friends whispered that it was a "Mande Burung"—Meghalaya’s elusive cryptid, or perhaps a remnant of a lost Stone Age tribe, depending on whom you asked.
I would have said “Lord Bhairav on an earthly jaunt,” had there been a dog trotting along. But there wasn’t. John Keel would have been interested. But there was no UFO in the sky.

The Unexplained Baba he remains, his image still etched in my mind.
And no, I have no regrets for not stopping...

The Journey

 

  “Are you a devotee of Lord Krishna?” I was taken aback by the unexpected question and didn’t know how to respond immediately. I looked at the inquirer, my co-passenger in the Rajdhani coupe, and tried to assess if he was one of those self-righteous types who will extol the virtues of vegetarianism all the way to Delhi.
“I asked because you are wearing a Tulsi mala,” he clarified. “Tulsi is sacred to us Vaishnavas; it is a holy plant. I also have one, but I feel shy to wear it. Do you use it for chanting?”
“Well actually… I wear them for health reasons. I suffer from respiratory trouble, and someone recommended Tulsi. These beads are a gift from a friend,” I replied not untruthfully, leaving out the details about how they came from Nimtala Ghat crematorium — one of Calcutta’s more morbid corners — where we once went to smoke for Shiva, talk of life, and stare at death. Besides, which born-again hippie can be without a string of beads?

We made a contrasting pair. He was a middle-aged Bengali bureaucrat, neat and composed. Me — long hair, beard, the beads, a chakra shirt stitched out of a batik-print bedsheet, and dark glasses hiding bloodshot eyes from the previous night’s party. The ice broke when I mentioned I had lived and worked in Calcutta and spoke some Bengali. We exchanged the usual compliments about each other’s states and people before moving to personal topics. He said he was posted in Guwahati, heading to Delhi for a meeting, and would use the chance to visit his family.

When he asked my business in Delhi, I gave him no intelligible answer. Telling him I was joining a group of foreigners I’ve never met, as a voluntary bike mechanic for a six-month “All India Pilgrimage on Motorcycles” — pretentiously dubbed "Bullets for Peace" — might have sent him running out with his luggage.
We talked for an hour or two before falling silent and retreating to our berths. He climbed to his top bunk, pulled out the beads he was too shy to wear, and began chanting Hare Krishna. I opened Wilhelm Reich’s “The Function of the Orgasm”, immersing myself into the world of Orgone energy and human sexuality.

When a Blind Man Cries - An Ode to Nivedita

Deep Purple’s “When a Blind Man Cries” is arguably one of the saddest rock ballads ever penned and sung. But honestly, I was never a great fan of Purple and only started paying serious attention to the song after hearing a cover version by the German never-grew-old rockers Axel Rudi Pell. They did justice to the song in a way Ian Gillan and the rest of Purple could never dream—  powerful, yet plaintive heavy metal vocals, with canyon-deep guitar riffs emerging from the core of the heart only to rip it apart, while tears stream down from empty eyes. 

Listening to this song invariably reminds me of a college senior and good friend, “Raja,” an ethnic Nepali who lived in a small room behind a pharmacy owned by his uncle, not far from my home. Short, stocky, thuggish but effulgent, we shared a love for books and rock music—though he leaned more towards metal. I started appreciating Iron Maiden thanks to him, while he tripped on Floyd's Wish you were here, which he copied from me. When a Blind Man Cries was his favourite ballad, and he could go on and on discussing the lyrics, the sadness, the pain. Though he never acknowledged it, the song was a metaphor for his secret, one-sided tragic love for Nivedita. His classmate and someone he never gathered the courage to say “Hi",  fearing what all tough guys dread the most—rejection. 

I always saw Nivedita as demure, petite and a reserved girl. She also possessed an almost ethereal beauty and femininity—porcelain skin, natural auburn hair, with a decidedly European nose and cheekbones. But what was truly disarming about her was her utter simplicity and complete lack of airs or pretence. She came from a very middle-middle-class family, had studied in a vernacular school, and always spoke in Assamese. Her voice was normal, almost flat, without a girlish timbre or any of the exaggerated, drawn-out tones of most of the convent-educated girls—all those hiiiii, byeee, waaaow, ooauch… Interestingly, while everyone acknowledged her beauty, she was not on anyone’s radar. I never saw anyone courting her, or her out on a date. Well, except for Raja, but his inaction just made him a ghost that yearns.

And there was me — but she was considerably senior. We never interacted; there wasn't much scope for finding intellectual compatibility or common ground, and most likely there was none. So I chose to admire from a cinematic distance, watching the vision of a real-life Miranda — not one lost in the Picnic on Hanging Rock, but in the bustle of life, of the then-still-small town of Guwahati.

She was also the girl for whom I jumped out of my seat on a bus and offered it to her when I noticed her standing beside me. “Sit down, a girl like you shouldn’t stand,” I uttered with a gracious, flirty swagger that surprised even me. It also the only time I spoke to her. By then, I was used to any of my actions—no matter how kind or well-meaning—being met with a scowl from women. I was surprised when her face lit up with a smile, and she even said, “thanks.”  She kept stealing glances, bemused, realising that the college’s undisputed, Don Quixote, was both her admirer and a gentleman.  She looked happy, but honestly so was I… still am. A transient, yet lasting moment, suspended in time — with a sweetness most dates would struggle to reach, let alone match. It was also the last time I saw her—giving me one last side glance from the bus window as it sped away. 

Years later, I bumped into Raja, who had since shifted to Nepal. We shared a smoke, caught up on our lives, and discovered that both of us were still single had so far achieved absolutely nothing. At one point, I couldn’t resist asking him about her. He went silent for a moment and then said he had once seen her getting off a rickshaw, a few years after college, with two kids—one in her arms, the other in tow—clutching a very heavy vegetable bag, as she struggled on her way home. She looked haggard and tired, despite still being so young.

She was such a frail and beautiful girl,” he said, and after a pause added, “life is unfair.” I nodded in silent agreement. I knew that his own unrequited romance, was the last thing on his mind  - it was a lament for someone he adored, but never knew, yet wished the very best in life. He looked away, quickly brushing aside a tear; I pretended not to notice.

It’s not always the blind man who cries. 

I gave him a quick hug, started my trusty Marmalade and rode off.