My generation, 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 erupted that erupted in queues outside theatres screening his movies rivalled 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 scowls, and even joining martial arts classes. Even those who didn’t, still acted like Kung Fu or Karate experts. Meanwhile, traders made a killing selling Jalandhar-made fake Chinese nunchakus, pirated or original copies of Kung Fu Weekly (complete with the inevitable Bruce Lee poster). Meanwhile copies of the Tao of Jeet Kune Do or the Official Karate magazines, graced the coffee tables of the well-heeled. Smuggled Chinese cloth 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 (few angry feminists), both cocky and frightened kids whose parents mistakenly thought martial arts would teach them discipline, self-defence, or self-confidence.
The instructors were even more colourful: a veritable rogue’s gallery. They included a notorious gay paedophile, 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 in martial arts 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. I braced myself for another rebuke about some female-related issue, as I unknowingly 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 actually 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 owners were acquaintances, and I was good friends with the eldest brother, despite him being a couple of decades older.
He heard from someone about my good relations with them, and wanted me to get him a machine out of turn, that to, at a discount. But instead of politely asking, he threw what the Japanese call an Aete, a challenge or dare.
As if the onus was on me to prove my worth by meeting his demand.
Still relatively 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, while walking through town, I saw the eldest brother from
the telephone shop, grinning and beckoning me over. “Hey man,
come here! I’ve got a great story for you,” he yelled.
Apparently, the impatient Sensei visited their shop without me, tried using my name—but in a way truly worthy of a dojo knucklehead.
Sensei: Are you so-and-so?
Shop owner: Yes, how can I help you?
Sensei: Aren’t you friends with Ravi Pagal (Nutcase)?
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 to be seen again. The episode wasn’t either about my sanity or intelligence but rather his lack of both.
Not being Putin, the novelty of tumbling around daily in sweat-soaked GIs with equally perspiration drenched 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 motorbikes, peace, love and Rastaman vibes with their hazy fumes.
Truth be told, the world of martial arts is riddled with an incredible amount of bullshit, posers and fallacies. A sprinkling of Japanese wisdom aside, years of Judo neither taught discipline nor provided inner peace. It didn’t improve concentration, and it certainly didn’t attract female attention.
While they look cool in photos or
deadly in films, in reality it is much like Facebook, where human flaws like posturing, insecurity, ego, envy, ambition, and bullying take the centre stage. The core difference? Martial arts leave behind not just
bruised egos, but also broken bones and bodies crippled for life.
A few years onward I came to know from newspapers that the sneering Bodo was jailed for planting a bomb in a city marketplace, killing many. Another judo 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.
Epilogue: Thinking about
all 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 tactics using a principle I picked up
in Judo: kuzushi, or balance. Instead of playing defense, 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.
After all, Judo in Japanese means “The Gentle Way.”
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