Andaman and the Cubicular Jail

This last week I was at the Andaman Islands and as is customary, visited the Cellular Jail. The group I was part of, arranged for a tourist guide to tell us tourists about the place that once had so many regular visitors but none with the romanticism today’s tourism holds.

The guide showed us the “cells” that give the jail its name. Cramped one-man holding rooms with their singular source of ventilation being a window located at a height beyond reach. Yes, this was a solitary confinement prison and the architect had planned well indeed. So had the colonial rulers. Surrounded by the deep sea on all four sides, the prisoners had no choice but to turn to the devil, and hope for kindness.

While I walked through the prison cells, I had in mind this vision, of an aggressive, cruel prison warden wearing the Khakis of the Imperial Police, with his mind hell bent on devising newer and ever more sophisticated methods of torturing the prisoners. The guide was now taking us into a room where they had kept a mini oil mill. He told us how instead of bulls, men would be yoked to the mill and had to move around all day to make a certain amount of oil. He said if the men failed to do it, or displeased the authorities in any manner imaginable, they would be stripped, strung to a pole with their hands and feet fastened and whipped till they lost consciousness. He showed us a life size model of a prisoner being whipped by a prison guard. The image in my head flickered a bit. The guard there was not a European but an Indian dressed in Indigo shorts and shirt with a red turban.

Now, I know that the British rule in India could never have been possible without the help, support and the manpower of the Indians. But seeing it there, as a life size statue, with one Indian whipping another into submission, to obey the will of a foreigner was startling. For some reason, I heard Leonardo di Caprio inside my head, holding a skull and explaining how the part of the brain responsible for submission was bigger inside the head of negros. Was that it? Were Indians also cursed with this appendage to their brain that made them inherently more submissive than others? How many chained Djangos were beaten into submission here by the unchained Djangos?

Or was i being too unkind on myself and my countrymen? Should I just call it a survival instinct? With an impoverished country and dying jobs, who wouldn’t want to take up a job, any job, that was available and promised to pay well? Even if the money came from a man who was from another country? Would we do any different today? Probably not. Well, what if after taking up that job we realised that it would mean that we had to beat up our own countrymen? What if it said that for us to grow, we had to stab our friends, and people that trusted us, in the back? Would we still do it? Would we be just as barbaric and self-centered and desperate as our countrymen were one hundred years ago?

The more I thought about it, the more I felt that we would be no different. And it has nothing to do with our brain or its appendages. It was as human as having two eyes and a nose. The same scene was playing out today, all over the world, in the confined, climate-controlled corporate boardrooms. True, the tools had gotten sophisticated. Admittedly, we abjured violence of the gory kind. But, the bloodlust in us has remained unchanged. If snitching on a teammate at work would put us on our manager’s good books, we did it quite eagerly. If hiding information from our colleagues at work would give us an edge over him, we went two steps ahead and spread disinformation to confuse our colleagues. If surrendering our self esteem and becoming a sycophant would get us ahead of our colleagues in the rat race, we would give up our spine and be the doorman at the corner office.

And who are we kidding? Our colleagues aren’t little angels, floating around looking for our best interests. They’d do the same to us if they had the chance. Isn’t that the justification we give ourselves? Isn’t that what we tell ourselves every night before going to sleep, as the faces of those we betrayed float in front of our eyes?

The steps to our professional growth remain, as they always did, paved with the burial mounds of people we’ve gladly walked on to get there. The colonised man became the whip of his imperial bosses. The corporate man, with his tie and creased collar, proves that he is the true heir.

“It doesn’t matter! It’s just a minor compromise! Hey, look, do you want that bonus or not?” questions that have continued to help us digest the sight of our faces in the mirror.

Our guided tour around the prison complex continued, as did my excursion into the dark recesses of my own mind. Would I have done the same? Would I have been “flexible” like the whip on the guard’s arm? Or would I have been stiff like the bleeding back of the prisoner? Which one am I now?  I felt that, despite our salaries and bonuses, we were corporate prisoners. Nestled comfortably in our cubicular jails, with all comforts that were denied to the prisoners here, we feel ever more unsafe and insecure, constantly waiting for the next opportunity to dig a grave for the ones ahead of us so we may comfortably ascend the corporate staircase.

By this time, I had also climbed the steps of the staircase that led to the central guard tower. From here every single Django, chained and unchained, could be watched. From here the sea was a stone’s throw, seducing the confined with dreams of freedom and scaring the confiner with waves of jobless destitution.

Dawn in Darkness - Part 2

“Oh Kamsa! Oh naïve Kamsa! What am I going to do with you?”

This was Sage Narada, the Triloka Sanchari, the most travelled sage of his time. In fact, it is commonly held that had NASA named at least one of its space shuttles after him, the program would have lived longer.

“Who are you calling naïve, you musical mendicant? I am Kamsa, the most powerful ruler of Bharatavarsha.”

“Also the most gullible. Kamsa, consider this. If I put eight mangoes into a basket, and then try to get the eighth one, what are my chances of going wrong?”

“Hmmm… More than your chances of getting it right?”

“Exactly. Do you think you can afford the risk? And yet here you are, joyfully cuddling the first born child of your sister. No wonder the Asariri voice called you a fool.”

“What?”

Kamsa’s reaction was so fast and violent that he had to double the wages for the workers that cleaned the floors of his palace.

“So be it, Kamsa. Do not take any chances. Remember, the eighth child doesn’t necessarily have to come out eighth.”

Yes, you guessed it. Narada also served as the inspiration for Heath Ledger’s Joker.

So Kamsa cut short the misery of the next 5 kids in the same fashion. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even wait for Vasudeva to bring the baby to him, but would rather rush to the prison cell where he kept them and finish off the crying child. The guards had gotten so used to this ritual that the moment they heard Devaki go into labor, they would stand in attention, expecting Kamsa’s arrival at any moment.

The distraught Devaki would cry into Vasudeva’s shoulder night after night and they would together pray to the Lord. The trauma led to a miscarriage which Kamsa quickly counted as a child that departed without his having anything to do with it.

With each passing child, Kamsa was getting happier and at the same time more paranoid. He became delusional and was often seen peering through mirrors as though he expected to find his killer there. Kamsa’s friends and ministers tried to calm down. They also tried to convince the public, who had by then heard the rumors, that the summer heat was getting to the King and that everything would be fine once the monsoons started.

And the monsoon started. It was the month of Shravan, a month of festivities to celebrate an end to the tyranny of summer. The soothsayers predicted, like they did every month, that the tyranny of Kamsa would also end this month.

The dark fortnight, aptly named the Krishna Paksha, was on and it was the eighth night. The star Rohini was on the ascent. Devaki felt herself going into labor. Vasudeva moved closer to comfort her. She sobbed into his shoulders and loudly lamented if their misery would ever end. He promised her it was going to be over, one way or the other. This was the eighth child.

He looked through the bars of their prison cell to see if Kamsa was coming. He was surprised to see the guards fast asleep. Their loud snoring drowned out any other noise.

And while the world slept, Krishna awoke, to life and freedom. Covered in the darkness of the prison cell around him, he cried briefly as was customary. Opening his eyes, he reluctantly saw his parents. He then smiled a smile that would enchant an entire age. This would be his tryst with destiny.

Happy Janmashtami folks. 

For Part 1, please click----> http://jeys-abode.blogspot.in/2013/08/dawn-in-darkness-part-1.html

Dawn in Darkness Part 1

Kamsa was furious. His most trusted driver had called in sick. Today was the day Kamsa’s dear sister, his beloved Devaki was getting wedded to Vasudeva. And Kamsa had ordered that a new chariot, light and speedy be made for the new couple. Cursing his driver and his stars, Kamsa decided that he would himself be the charioteer for his sister and his brother in law. He yoked the horses, the finest in his kingdom, to the glittering chariot and drove it over to the palace where the wedding was to take place. 

The couple had reached separately and the wedding ceremony started with Kamsa’s arrival. The people were surprised to see the formidable Kamsa shedding tears during the wedding. And like all people of all eras, they forgot the tyranny Kamsa had subjected them to and praised his love for his sister.

“Kings will be kings! They mean no offense” was the word on the street.

They even felt elated when Kamsa declared that he would be the charioteer for his sister and brother in law.

Shouts of “Kamsa Maharaja ki Jai ho!” were heard for miles around.

“Idiots! If only my driver had turned up for work, I wouldn’t have had to struggle with these ruddy horses. But hey, heaven knows I can definitely do with some positive press”, Kamsa thought to himself.

And so the procession moved on, with all the townsfolk following the chariot still singing praises of Kamsa. Suddenly, there was thunder and lightning. “The skies are breaking out in music for the wedding”, said one of the citizens working with a pro-establishment media outlet.

Kamsa beamed at him and threw him a pearl necklace. It was up in the air, truly Ravi Shastri style, but before it reached him, a bodyless voice boomed out of nowhere and pierced through the crowd like a tracer bullet.

“KAMSA!”

Kamsa frantically looked at the crowd to see if this was a cruel trick they were playing on him, but no, they looked as shocked as he was.

“KAMSA!” Again.

“KAMSA! YOU FAT OAF!”

“Sarathi! Is that you?” Kamsa mumbled, since he thought the only person missing in the crowd was his charioteer.

The crowd wondered if Kamsa’s Sarathi regularly referred to him as a fat oaf.

“YOU FOOL! YOUR END IS NEAR!”

“Sarathi! I know. I drove the chariot today. Your seat is not comfortable at all. I’ll get it fixed. I’ll double your pay. Please stop this.” Kamsa was at his wit’s end. His crown had risen a full two inches off his head, with all his hair standing upright.

“I’M NOT YOUR SARATHI, YOU DOOFUS! BEHOLD, FOR I AM GOING TO MAKE A PROPHECY ABOUT YOUR FUTURE, WHICH I’D SAY IS RATHER BLEAK.”

This caught the attention of the citizens. All praise forgotten, they were listening intently like the dog on a certain brand of gramophones.

“YOUR SISTER’S EIGHTH CHILD WILL BE YOUR YAMA”

“What? What are you saying?”

But the Wizard of Oz wannabe was long gone. No response was made.

Kamsa turned around to look at his sister. She was already cowering in fear, with allegiances having shifted quickly from brother to husband. Vasudeva was embracing her protectively, but he knew that he was no match for Kamsa’s legendary strength and fighting prowess.

Kamsa pulled his sword out from the sheath and roared, “Move away, Vasudeva! I have nothing against you.”

“But Kamsa! This is your sister. Your blood.”

“A cousin. And yet, I brought her up as my own. Like a princess. She’s going to give birth to my killer, huh?”

“Kamsa, please! Some random voice says something and for that you’re going to slay your sister? What madness is this?”

“Move away. I know about these voices and their prophecies. I’m going to make this one false.”

“Please calm down Kamsa. If that’s all you want, I’ll bring to you the eighth child of Devaki and you can do what you want to do with it.”

Kamsa was too enraged to pay any attention to this, but Vasudeva stood up. Even though frail in comparison to Kamsa’s massive frame, he stood steadfast.

“I, Vasudeva, hereby promise to bring the eighth child of Devaki to you, soon after it is born.”

Thus ends Part 1. For Part 2, please click----> http://jeys-abode.blogspot.in/2013/08/dawn-in-darkness-part-2.html

Abandoned

The morning hung out in the sun for the dew of the night to melt. And the memories of darkness, disinfected by the light of a new day. You turn around, murmuring in your half-asleep state of mind. The unruly mass of hair that you often play with flows away from my grasp as you turn towards me.

I kiss your forehead. You move your neck upwards. I plant one on your left eye. Your eyebrows bristle over my lips. I wonder what you would say about my personal hygiene as I lie there smelling of yesterday’s dinner. I smile as I imagine you shaking your head exasperated at what you call my “caveman approach to hygiene”. I see, in my mind’s eye, your nose scrunching as you refuse to believe that a modern man wears the same, unwashed jeans for three months. I thank my stars for not bringing my non-existent cleanliness to your notice and chasing you away from me. I kiss your unscrunched nose.

You cuddle closer to me. The sun peers through the window to catch a sight. I hug you, hiding you away and claiming you for myself. I raise an arm to shoo him away. You move painfully close, for me to let my thoughts stray. 

The sun lights your brown hair golden. Poorer is the man whose wealth rots in metal safes, for his dream carpets aren’t woven with live strands of gold. I let those strands fall on your face to see how they hug your smile. I probably imagined it, but I hear you murmur the name of a place we once were at. A lively, joyous place, where no sun woke anyone up and people knew how to live. Away from the busy chaos where the dead moved so brisk, we lived a lifetime there, unperturbed by the torturous rigor of the clock and the calendar.

Another day, another world. Early morning hours. The maiden of night was reluctantly wrapping the folds of her shroud together. We lay there, folded into each other, with no time for the sun. As his scorching glare penetrated us, we moved on, to shadier places. A hideous shack, where we’d talk all day long, you said. So scary looking that nobody dares disturb us, you said. It had been a railway maintenance men’s waiting room. The railway authorities had been frank in pointing out that it was no longer in use.

“Abandoned”, it was written on all four walls, on the outside. Dark, stern lines of black soot, written using the coal they used for the steam engines, I said. 
“You know so much, so, so much about things that are obvious. How do you do it?” you said, kissing me.

“Well, considering what I get for pointing it out, you know…” I said, kissing you back.
And then we spoke. About a million things. Life, youth, the railways, the telegraph lines, the dirty window glass, a kite flying in the distance, steam engine coal, steamy sex, old age and a house. You wanted to settle down right there. “Paint it blue all over and write “Occupied” on all four walls, inside and outside” you said.

“That way, from a distance, a passerby on his long journey won’t know where the grass ends and the sky starts and we’ll live here forever” you said.

“But won’t that offend the Gods?”

“Ya, it might. But who cares? We’ll paint the roof green. Looking from above, they won’t know which is grass and which is home.” 

And that convinced me. 

And so, in this house where I die, I paint the roof blue and the walls green. So they all know where to come to take me away. Where I lie, breathing fully, without your comforting, secure arm across my chest, living a toxic existence.

As the sun withdraws into the clouds, he furls the images away with him, of the shack, of the telegraph lines, of the kite flying in the distance and of you. All that remains is the warmth on the mattress where you lay. Ya, that and the word “Abandoned” written with the indelible ink of memory, all along the walls.