Like many in my generation, I grew up under the stern, steely, daring, all-seeing eyes of Bruce Lee! He was everywhere—staring down from the walls of friends' bedrooms, roadside eateries, garages, and barbershops. In the late '70s and early '80s, he was the omnipresent aspirational icon in northeast India. Regular fights in the serpentine queues outside theatres screening his movies rivaled those in his films.
With a large section of the population having Mongoloid features, teenagers and young men imitated his look—sporting haircuts that resembled bristles on a wild boar’s back, maintaining perennially scowling expressions, and joining martial arts classes. Even those who didn’t join such classes still acted like Kung Fu or Karate experts. Meanwhile, traders made a killing selling Jalandhar-made fake Chinese nunchaku, pirated or original copies of Kung Fu Weekly (complete with the inevitable Bruce Lee poster), and Tao of Jeet Kune Do or Official Karate magazines, which graced the coffee tables of the well-heeled. Smuggled Chinese slip-on cloth shoes, dubbed "Lee Shoes," were on the feet of every self-respecting teenager.
By the time I got into martial arts in the late '80s, Bruce Lee had been dead for over 18 years. Taekwondo had emerged as the most popular "kicking sport," Karate had a modest following, and Kung Fu was all but forgotten. Still, several martial arts clubs in town thrived, each run by a motley crew of dedicated members carrying out morning and evening "Hu-Ha" sessions. These clubs often attracted an eccentric mix: arrogant bullies, driven wannabes (many of them feminists), cocky or frightened kids whose parents mistakenly thought martial arts would teach them discipline, self-defense, or self-confidence.
The instructors, however, were even more colorful—a veritable rogue’s gallery. They included a notorious gay pedophile, two muscle-for-hire types, a con artist extorting funds for “foreign black-belt exam tours” that never happened, and a brash(crude) young woman rumored to provide "services" beyond kicks and chops. I chose to forgo the prominent schools, primarily because I knew most of their resident bullies and there was no way that I would humiliate myself as a bumbling novice in front of them. Instead, I selected the least popular of them all; Judo.. Unlike Karate with its dance-like katas, Judo offered close-contact sparring and had the unique appeal of being almost unknown.
The Dojo was nestled on the top floor of the stadium's crumbling gymnastics hall and there were only two students, an unbelievably good-natured Bengali and a perennially sneering Bodo of indeterminable age with an acute case of "Angry Nigger Syndrome!
Soon, my unusual choice piqued the curiosity of my college and stadium friends, leading to a steady flow of aspiring students—most of whom never returned after the first day.
One day, one of the stadium Sensei sternly called me aside. To be honest, I braced myself for another rebuke about some female-related issue, as I had somehow acquired the ill-deserved reputation of a Lothario. And most of my problems back then were either caused by women or related to them, not that much has changed.
The Sensei called me because wanted my help buying a telephone call metering machine. Because long before mobile phones, cities were dotted with manned telephone booths called Public Call Offices (PCOs). One shop in town held a monopoly on selling these machines, and high demand meant deliveries often took months. The shop owners were family acquaintances, and I was good friends with the eldest brother, who remains a staunch well-wisher to this day despite being a couple of decades older.
Someone told him about my connection to the shop, so he wanted me to get him a machine out of turn—and at a discount. But instead of politely asking, he threw what the Japanese call an Aete, a challenge or dare. It was as if the onus was on me to prove my worth by meeting his demand.
Still polite in my younger days, I offered to accompany him to the shop and put in a request on his behalf. But no, this wasn’t enough for him. “Can you do it or not?” he retorted with a grin, snapping his fingers as he glanced at the gathering crowd. I repeated my offer to put in a word, but he jeered back: “So, you can’t!” I shrugged and walked away.
A few weeks later, walking through town, I saw the eldest brother from the telephone shop, grinning widely and beckoning me over. “Hey man, come here! I’ve got a great story for you,” he yelled.
Apparently, that Sensei had visited the shop without me, tried using my name—an effort worthy of a true dojo knucklehead.
Sensei: Are you so-and-so?
Shop owner: Yes, how can I help you?
Sensei: Aren’t you friends with Ravi Pagal (Madman)?
Shop owner: I know many Ravis, but none of them are mad.
(He later admitted he immediately thought of me.)
Sensei: … Heh heh…
Shop owner: Can you be more specific? I really don’t know any “Pagals.”
Sensei: I mean Ravi Deka… we all call him that!
Shop owner: Well, let me tell you this: I know Ravi very well and consider him one of the most intelligent young men I’ve met. You know what? When stupid people fail to recognize superior intelligence, they call it madness.
(At this point, the whole shop burst out laughing.)
Sensei: Er… heh heh… no, no, he’s my good friend, like a younger brother! Actually, I wanted a PCO machine…
Shop owner: We’re out of stock and not taking bookings. (Though, he admitted he had a spare box under his desk.)
Sensei: But Ravi said—
Shop owner: Cutting him off: I don’t know what he said. But feel free to come back with him, and we’ll see what we can do.
Red-faced, the sensei left and never brought up the topic with me again. This episode wasn’t about my sanity or intelligence but rather his lack of both. While we laughed at his foolishness, it also made me reflect on the toxic bullying I’ve witnessed throughout my life—friends, relatives, employers, and clients alike using Aetes or dares to manipulate others into impossible tasks, and always for free.
Over time, I learned to counter these situations using a principle I picked up in Judo: kuzushi, or balance. Instead of justifying myself, negotiating, or arguing, I listen patiently and then shift the burden back onto them. I simply ask for a wish list and budget, then respond with what I can do, when, and at what cost. This approach separates genuine clients from time-wasters, saving me countless headaches.
After all, Judo in Japanese means “The Gentle Way.”
Epilogue: Not being Putin, the novelty of tumbling around daily in sweat-drenched GIs with equally sweaty guys—who collectively stank like horse farts—wore off. Fed up with persistent back pain and swollen wrists, I traded it all in for the world of bikes, peace, love, Rastaman vibes, and their hazy fumes.
Fast-forward a few years, and I read in the newspapers that the sneering Bodo was jailed for planting a bomb in a city marketplace, killing many people. Another Dojo student was caught with a kilo of heroin, though it miraculously turned into flour at the forensic lab. Finally, the Sensei himself was arrested for extortion, claiming to belong to a militant outfit.
Philosophical principles and a sprinkling of Japanese wisdom aside, years of Judo neither taught me discipline nor provided inner peace. It didn’t improve my concentration, and it certainly didn’t attract female attention. The world of martial arts is riddled with an incredible amount of bullshit and fallacies. While it looks cool in photos or deadly in films, the reality is far less glamorous—it’s much like Facebook, where human flaws like posturing, insecurity, ego, envy, ambition, and bullying take center stage. The difference? Martial arts leave behind not just bruised egos but broken bones and bodies crippled for life.
One of the most brutally honest appraisals of this field by an insider is the book Angry White Pyjamas by Aikido black belt Robert Twigger.
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