North East India has long been conflict-ridden. First came fights among tribes, then tribals versus non-tribals, then tribals and non-tribals against invaders, followed by cries for independence, protests against discrimination, and so on. It was this way before the British arrived, it remained so after they left, and it continued unchanged as part of India. The 70s and 80s saw mass insurgency, agitations, and political unrest. And yet, if there was one man who was the undisputed and omnipresent aspirational icon across the region, it was Bruce Lee.
My generation grew up under his stern, steely, daring, all-seeing eyes. He was everywhere, staring down from posters om the walls of friends’ bedrooms, roadside eateries, garages, and barbershops. Fights in ticket queues outside theatres screening his movies put those in the films to shame.
With much of the population having Mongoloid features, teenagers and young men imitated his look and strut, sporting the Lee-cut hairstyle that resembled wild boar bristles. They maintained perpetual scowls, the wary, all-seeing Chinaman look. Many joined martial arts classes, and even those who didn’t still radiated the aura of kung fu and karate experts.
Traders made a killing selling Jalandhar-made fake Chinese nunchakus. Both original and pirated reprints of Kung Fu Weekly, complete with the inevitable Bruce Lee poster, sold like hot cakes. The Tao of Jeet Kune Do and Official Karate magazine graced the coffee tables of the more well-heeled. Cheap, smuggled Chinese black cloth slip-on shoes, dubbed “Lee Shoes,” were on the feet of every self-respecting teenager. If anyone had started selling yellow tracksuits, he would have become a billionaire overnight.
By the time I got into martial arts in the late ’80s, Bruce Lee had been dead for over 18 years. Taekwondo was then the most popular “kicking sport,” karate still had a modest following, and kung fu was all but forgotten. Several martial arts clubs thrived in town, their dedicated members religiously doing their morning and evening “hu and ha” sessions. They attracted an oddball mix: aggressive bullies, posers and wannabes, a handful of angry feminists, and both cocky and frightened kids whose parents mistakenly believed martial arts would teach discipline, self-confidence, and self-defence.
The instructors, meanwhile, were a veritable rogue’s gallery: a notorious gay paedophile, two brothers who moonlighted as muscle-for-hire, a con artist who used his students to extort donations for his “foreign black-belt exam tours” that never happened, and a brash young woman rumoured to provide more pleasant “services.” I shunned all the prominent schools, primarily because I knew most of their resident bullies, and there was no way I was going to let them humiliate me as a bumbling novice.
So I selected Judo. Unlike karate with its dance-like katas, it offered close-contact sparring and, most importantly, its unique appeal was that it was almost unknown.
The dojo was nestled on the top floor of the stadium’s crumbling gymnastics hall. Apart from the coach, there were only two students: an unbelievably good-natured Bengali and a Bodo of indeterminable age, perpetually sneering and suffering from an acute case of what I can only describe as “Angry Nigger Syndrome.”
My loud mouth and wide circle of friends piqued curiosity, resulting in a steady stream of aspiring students to the dojo almost overnight. Most vanished after day one. A few stayed and became serious judokas. For me, it was recreational at best. My heavyweight ensured I was always paired with gorillas twice my size and strength, so competition was meaningless.
I also lacked the “cool and aloof” aura martial artists magically acquire the moment they tie a gi. Which explains why you never see them fighting on the streets, with equals anyway, except in kung fu movies. Their sacred art is reserved for the dojo alone.
So when I once smashed the face of a college senior, the sermons were endless. I had allegedly used a "secret" move. The morons didn't realize that standard Judo is just grabbing laundry and sweating on people, hoping to make them trip; it doesn't break cheekbones.
Atemi-waza, the striking techniques of judo and jujitsu, which I admit I practised privately, had long been banned in competition sport and hence not taught at all. Even our coach knew nothing about them, despite his expert act.
The senior was a known bully who shoved me from behind with a slur. As I turned to hit him back, I was jumped by students “breaking up the fight” because it was on campus. So I went around the building and caught him at the next corner. Again, I was grabbed by others trying to play peacemaker. But this time, even with my back to him, I wriggled free and threw a reverse backhand punch that looked like a cross between an uncontrolled upswinging pendulum and Pugachev’s Cobra. Zero technique, pure improvisation, unexpected and effective at very close range.
I think I cracked his cheekbone. When I saw him months later, he still looked wrecked, one eye shut.
He complained to the student body, the authorities, and later even tried hiring goons, without much luck. Despite being a fresher, I faced no disciplinary action. After that, nobody tried physical bullying again. Unless you count the moral lectures about my use of “secret fighting techniques.”
One day, one of the stadium senseis sternly called me aside. I braced myself for another rebuke about some female-related issue, as I had unknowingly acquired the ill-deserved reputation of a Lothario. Most of my problems back then were either caused by or related to women. Not much has changed.
No, he just wanted my help buying a telephone call metering machine. Long before mobile phones, cities were dotted with manned telephone booths called Public Call Offices, or PCOs. One shop in town held a monopoly on selling such equipment, and high demand meant deliveries often took months. The owners were acquaintances, and I was good friends with the eldest brother, despite him being decades older.
The sensei had heard from someone about my good relations with them and wanted me to get him a machine out of turn, and at a discount. However, 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 fulfilling his demand.
Still relatively polite in those days, I offered to accompany him to the shop and put in a request on his behalf. But no, that wasn’t enough.
“Can you do it or not?” he snapped, grinning confidently and snapping his fingers at the gathering crowd.
I repeated my offer to put in a word.
“So, you can’t!” he jeered.
I shrugged and walked away.
Weeks later, while walking through the town market, the eldest brother from the telephone shop yelled my name and beckoned me over.
“Hey man, come here! I’ve got a great story for you!”
Apparently, the impatient sensei had visited their shop without me, using my reference, but in a manner 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?
Shop owner: I know many Ravis, but none of them are mad.
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. 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.
(He later 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, never to be seen again.
Not being Putin, the novelty of tumbling around daily in sweat-soaked gis with equally perspiration-drenched men, who collectively stank like horse farts, wore off quickly. The judo coach never conducted exams, citing various excuses, and we remained yellow belts even after three years, while our contemporaries in karate and taekwondo were inching towards their second dan black belts. It only dawned on me much later in adulthood that this was his technique for job security, ensuring he remained the only judo black belt in the state.
Finally fed up with persistent back pain and swollen wrists, I traded it all in for motorbikes, peace, love, and Rastaman vibrations with their hazy fumes.
Truth be told, I found the world of martial arts riddled with bullshit, posers, and fallacies. While it may look cool in photos and deadly in films, in reality it is much like Facebook: human flaws like posturing, insecurity, ego, envy, ambition, and bullying take centre stage. The core difference? Martial arts leave behind not just bruised egos, but broken bones and bodies crippled for life.
Years later, I learned from newspapers that the sneering Bodo had been 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, the same miracle also emptied his father’s bank account. The sensei himself was eventually arrested for extortion, claiming to belong to a militant outfit.
But that wasn’t all. The PCO equipment shop owner later went on the run from the police as well, because his criminal friends robbed a railway warehouse, stole a bunch of ticketing dumb terminals thinking they were computers, and dumped them at his shop for repairs. That’s where the police found them. The last I heard, he was trading Himalayan wild herbs and berries.
A sprinkling of Japanese wisdom aside, and counting ich, ni, san, shi, years of judo neither taught discipline nor provided inner peace. It didn’t improve concentration, and it certainly didn’t attract female attention. There is, however, one invaluable principle: kuzushi, using the opponent’s weight to unbalance him. Incidentally, it is also the perfect tool to counter any aetes thrown your way.
Reflecting on all the toxic bullying I’ve witnessed throughout my life, from friends, relatives, employers, and clients alike, using aetes or dares to manipulate others into doing impossible tasks, and usually for free, I now apply this principle. I no longer play defence, justify myself, negotiate, or argue. I listen patiently and then shift the burden back onto them. I ask for a wish list and a 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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