The Fallen Woman

I am a banana peel thrower’s delight. You know the kind that intentionally throws a banana peel in the middle of the road and hides behind a tree to watch? 'Be careful', I warn others. And then I forget, walk unsuspectingly, head in the clouds, slip and fall; face first. 

Apart from this type of general carelessness, I have two left feet. Acutely aware of this disability, in unknown places I walk gingerly like I am stepping on ice. However, since normal surfaces are not made of ice, my ice-walk doesn't work. I trip and fall disgracefully. On such occasions I casually smile and say 'I'm trippin', but my wit is usually lost on the better half who says I am an embarrassment to go out with. Then I analyze my problem on google. I troll through pages and I don’t know why, but I am given tips about walking on ice. It says I should try walking like a penguin, since they have mastered the walk. With this effort, I fall even more. 

In known places, I am more at ease. I don’t fall really but I keep banging into tables and bed corners, walk into doors or any other furniture lying in its destined place. You would think this loss of motor-control is because I’m an octogenarian or thereabouts; but actually I am a young, dashing, easily excitable woman, in my early thirties for many years now. 

With the above being the state of how I walk, you can imagine my plight when I have had to take jumps of any kind. Of course I don’t mean the – ‘Go, take a jump’ kind of thing that the husband tells me each time I ask him for anything. I mean the sudden jumps that one has to undertake in life, faced with an eventuality. So here is a wild jump, I remember having taken. 

When I was 15, I had to attend an extra class in school. Leading a typically sheltered life of a school-girl, I was used to traveling by the school bus. On the ill-fated day, the arch enemy of my childhood (my elder brother) offered to take me along on public transport. I should have known his intentions. Anyway, we got into a rusty Delhi Transport Corporation bus that contained a few thousand people. The moment, the sibling pushed me on to the bus, we were separated like in the movies by a sea of fat, sweaty people. I was overwhelmed. I had never seen anything like that in my tender years. Being pushed by all sides, I stood right in the middle, squeezed into half of my usual size (which is not very much). Sweaty armpits loomed large on my face. I fell against soft cushiony bums and a few people purposefully stood on my feet. 

As luck would have it, the place where we had to get off came unannounced and suddenly I glimpsed the elder sibling standing on the street gesticulating. As I pushed through the crowd with all my might, resembling a mini bulldozer, the bus started moving. By now, I could hear my mother's first born yelling frantically – 'Jump Jummmp JUUMMPPP.' 

In the cacophony, I froze for a few seconds staring at the stretch of moving tar in front me, glistening in the sun. No one had prepared me for this day. I didn’t even know whether to jump in the direction of the moving bus or the opposite. I chose the opposite, where the betrayer stood, wildly flailing his arms. My life of a few years flashed in front of my eyes. I would see my enemy for the last time, I thought satisfactorily. And then I took the leap into the unknown.

While this event of great significance was taking place, an hour or half prior to my tragedy, a childless couple had decided to appease the gods of reproduction by feeding a cow (Indian cows enjoy demi-God status, hence the expression 'Holy Cow!'). That morning, the couple scouting for a hungry cow couldn’t locate any, to their dismay. All they spotted was this healthy and disinterested cow meandering on the main road. They parked their car in front of it and began force-feeding the reluctant animal. 

'I will ruminate on it later’, said the mammal to itself and gulped halfheartedly whatever they were stuffing into its face. So while I was preparing for the great fall, this very cow decided to take a hearty dump, to lighten itself of this unusual breakfast. Having done its deed, it ambled away slowly. It was this fresh, bright yellow mound of shit that I landed on when the bus full of people ejected me. 

‘BULL SHIT’!  exclaimed the sibling in a volume that the city of over 14 million heard. He deserted me promptly and refused to recognize me in school later. 

Anyway, instinct saved my face from getting smeared. The left arm and school bag were not spared. They landed in the center of the manure. After endless minutes of pondering over my fate, I limped slowly to the school smelling like a Delhi municipal toilet at 6 in the morning, without water supply. 

While at school, I cleaned whatever could be cleaned. The teacher, a secret practitioner of Chinese torture didn't give me the day off despite the enormity of my tragedy. Smelly, abhorred, ostracized and shame faced, the day passed somehow. At home later the mother (another practitioner of the said torture) threw away the school bag. She was making up her mind to throw me away too when a pang or two of motherhood struck her and I was retained. 

Needless to say, I was variously referred to as 'shit-face', 'potty-face' and what not, for years to come. 

Waiting for Godot

Tigers, these days are a much respected and revered lot. They are under threat of extinction and justifiably so, trans-national and state machineries are working overtime to save them. From page-3 tiger parties to international conventions, the theme is singular – Save the Tiger. 

Fat donations are pouring in from the likes of actors Leonardo Di Caprio, Amitabh Bachchan and Russian Prime Minister Putin, who are puttin’ (note: pun) the money where the mouth is. And whenever the world’s interest in the cause starts to waver, they rope in Lindsay Lohan (in the desi context Sherlyn Chopra/ Poonam Pandey) for a nude Tiger series. With a loud growl the coffers start overflowing again.

Sandalwood Veerappan is dead. Naxalites (‘Gandhians with guns’ as activist Arundhati Roy fondly calls them) are passé. Tiger poachers are the new state enemy. These gangstas are out to rob us of our leftover feline beauties by selling their precious parts to international syndicates. However, just like the best laid plans of mice and men, their sophisticated poaching tactics go awry. Brave forest officials ambush them, a dramatic chase ensues, the bastards are nabbed by their collars, and we see their hankie covered faces alongside beaming officials on national television. But the twist in the tale (tail) is that the tigers are almost always killed.  

Which brings me to the Great Tiger Conspiracy by the Indian animal conservation parks. It seems that majority of the tigers in India are already dead due to poaching, apathy and neglect. But to save face and keep the money flowing in, the national parks and their cohorts are keeping the farce of the tiger, alive. Through smart PR, they plant stories of high-on-testosterone tigers making away with unsuspecting babies and pretty village belles, the way men from Haryana do. The resorts around the national parks advertise heavily, tour operators talk about tiger seasons and forest officials speak knowingly about tigers' preferred  brunch, who is spotted sleeping with whom, their favourite tree for the siesta and the times they get up to pee at night. 

Sample this latest visit to the Pench National Park in Madhya Pradesh touted to have at least 30 big cats at the last count:

The tiger-spotting trap got me conned the moment I said 'Tiger' to my travel agent who usually spoke in monosyllables and on special occasions through hand gestures. He nodded excitedly and before I could say T-A-A-E-E-E-G-E-R a second time, he whisked out the confirmed booking of an expensive resort, bunged in a safari for extra, threw in a few taxes, cess and duties. Dutifully emptying my wallet, I asked the crucial question: Will I spot a tiger? It was a special occasion that deserved gestures. He jerked his head in what I guess was his positive response and as I walked out, happily flashed a V for Victory with the wrong fingers. Then he sank back into his chair to rip off other gullible people eager to spot the non-existent tigers.  

The drive to Pench was uneventful and unpicturesque except for the large green signages with majestic tigers about to leap off on our car. At the resort, I was eagerly welcomed with a wet face towel that had a tiger on it. The staff alternating between Hindi, Marathi and experimental English insisted on calling me Sir (saaar) (semi urban folk in India are all for gender equality). I asked the thin, mousy receptionist if tigers were being spotted on those days. He dropped his voice a few notches and whispered mysteriously, 

"What are you saying saar? This IS the season! All tourists are spotting HIM in both morning and afternoon safaris." I wondered if there was a particular HIM that I would spot, but later realized that everyone spoke about the tiger with immense respect and in hushed tones.

After that everything else that followed were tiger related, except for the beast itself. There was tiger paraphernalia all around. Cups and saucers were printed with a striped tail, there were coffee table books on the mighty beast, a gigantic oil on canvas depicting the majestic stride hung on the wall…you get the drift. As I settled for the night I remembered the mousy manager’s warning for the early morning safari – 
"Better not be late than sorry saar." I pondered its meaning for a long time and fell asleep hugging the tiger-print pillow. 

A weak but persistent knock on my door early dawn woke me up. I opened up to a faintly smiling waiter standing in the morning mist saying: 

"Your Potty please. Will help when you go to see HIM."

In hindsight, the waiter was right, the pot-tea was needed as there would be no food or water for what seemed like the end of time, waiting for the big beast to show itself. So, at 5.30am I got into the jeep with fellow tourists who for some reason were dressed like hunters. 

We had to pay more money to get an authorized guide, who walked up to our gypsy and smiled benevolently. "Very good morning," he said. "Myself Waghmare" (a common Maharashtrian lastname that meant Tiger-killer). I said to him in a strict tone: 

"Waghmare, I hope we will spot a tiger." 

"Not to worry," he said with a confident grin, "You will see HIM at least a few times in today’s trip. Happy saar?"

On that positive note, the big search began. The gypsy rattled for 15 minutes through a narrow forest path and reached a water pool. 

Waghmare exclaimed, "HIS favourite hole saar!" 

Within a few minutes, more gypsy cars trooped in at HIS favourite hole. Eager faces and binoculars kept staring at a muddy waterhole for half an hour. Suddenly, the sound of steady breathing was broken by a cacophony of animal cries. The vehicles jerked wildly and raced to the direction the sound came from. Waghmare almost fell off our gypsy and then steadying himself spoke in a panic-struck voice:

“That’s the sound of the Sambar (Indian deer) signalling other animals saar! HE must have reached the other hole. This one is a man-made hole, the other one is natural. Maybe HE likes natural these days,” he said tremulously. 

Five vehicles crash-landed near waterhole no 2 in barely a few seconds. Whatever chance there was of spotting a tiger would have been eliminated by the ruckus of the vehicles. Anyway we resumed with our soundless waiting. This time the anxious silence was broken by a loud fart. The offender kept staring at the bushes determinedly. Potty had done its job, I noted. 

After a few more minutes of silence, a rustling sound came from the woods. A man straight out of Kile Ka Rahasya (the scary TV serial from childhood) walked out of the deep, waving a stick portentously. He was scraggy, oily looking with bloodshot eyes and stained teeth. He said in an ominous tone, 

"Go away. HE is gone. HE was here this morning. Gone. Gone." 

He briskly walked past and disappeared into thin air. Suddenly a guide from one of the other vehicles pointed at something on the ground. Everyone gathered to see what they were. Pug marks. To me they looked like any other animal’s. Like Jhumroo's, our domesticated stray dog back home. 

With the unanimous conclusion that HE had left waterhole no 2, Waghmare said he would take us to a faraway lake where HE can almost always be spotted, playing with cubs. He added that the long drive to the lake, cutting through the forest, will be very enjoyable as we will get to see a lot of wild animals. We were left with no choice. With sullen silence and long faces we embarked on our excursion. 

The next major distraction was when Waghmare squealed,

“Look saar! WHORES!” 

Eager eyes scanned the bushes for the variety indigenous to these parts. All we saw was a tired looking horse tottering on its hooves aimlessly. 'Herbiwhore' I muttered to myself.

Wild dogs were spotted next. Waghmare acquired his tremulous voice yet again, 

“You can spot HIM easily saars, but wild dogs? (longish pause for effect) NO way! They are ferocious, clever and hide well. Why! One rarely gets to see them!” 

As he completed speaking, a pack of not less than half a dozen dogs with fox like faces scampered away. Dogs done. What next now Waghmare? 

“Look, look! Wild Boars” was the next visceral reaction. I half expected him to say wild whores. 

“Pigs in a swamp are a common sight in any Indian city, Waghmare. These are just uglier,” said my neighbor dressed like a hunter.

Undaunted, Waghmare continued to show us other species with palpable excitement. He showed us owls that stared at us warily from the trees. He pointed at the white-haired, black-faced langoors sitting sorrowfully with their babies in their laps. We saw Nilgais standing in a group staring into the horizon. We saw the four-horned antelopes having a good time tickling each other in the waist area with their many horns. 

Finally, we reached our destination and parked ourselves exactly in the middle of an open expanse. There was a lake on one side, another forest in the front and a blue simmering sky over our heads. After a while of waiting under the harsh May morning sun and sweating like the boars we just saw, my neighbor  remarked, 



“Waghmare, by waiting in the center of this field are we spotting the tiger or is HE spotting us?” I felt an immediate bonding with the fellow hunter. 

Waghmare said calmly, 
“We are not allowed into that forest saar. So we have to wait here till HE comes out of the forest to go to the lake.” 

Of course, Godot never came. Simply because HE didn't exist. When we returned to our resort an hour later two shades darker and feeling like we had suffered a heat-stroke, I wanted to shake Waghmare by his collar and yell:

"WAGHMARE!!! You and your bloody ancestors are responsible for all the tigers vanishing." 

A Restless Life

In English, August Agastya Sen’s father tells him at some point - “Most of us live with a vague dissatisfaction if we are lucky. Living as we do, upon us is imposed a particular rhythm – birth, education, job, marriage, birth again. But we all have minds don’t we.”

I don’t know if I can call myself lucky, but I suffer from this wretched disease. Of persistent dissatisfaction. Of an inability to calm down, embrace peace and emotional stability. It may be a bearable affliction compared to many other illnesses, yet it plays havoc with the system. With age and maturing relationships, one needs to bring harmony in daily life, fit into the society (that we are condemned with) and settle down emotionally. Suppress restlessness. Tame the spirit. Buy peace (however expensive or damaging it may be). Angst looks good on you when you are a teenager. Or in your twenties. Anytime after that, it comes across as foolish, fatuous, faked.

But instead of taking inspiration, I look with trepidation at those dispassionate faces who have made their peace with life. Their restful looks and dull smiles of contentment throttle my spirit. Instead of the unbridled joy that turning calm is supposed to bring, it makes me terribly afraid. Afraid of a life akin to one in a mental facility. Sedated, calm, functioning like an assembly line. Your own life turned into a generic component.

Then I seek expert help. Best friend (woman) brushes it aside, .“Silly girl. Why can’t you like dailiness and peace? What else is there? Anyway you have never been the party-type” It’s a passion of the spirit, I argue, nothing to do with wanting to party. Best friend (male) says gravely, “I have always noticed that you have been very confused in life.” I get clarity in strife, I protest. Peace dulls my edges. The better half (male) says, “Of course you do it to harass me. Your sole aim in life.” I resign.

Following this periodic feedback, I try to settle into society’s rhythm yet again. I quiet down. I ease up. I turn down feisty. This mellowing down, being agreeable, settling into the rhythm of life dictated by the society kills my spirit. As I turn peaceful, demons possess me. In the nights my throat is always parched, my bladder is always full, my temples throb, and I toss and turn, head full of misery. The days go by in an envelope of  hopelessness. A dark clammy quiet grows and settles around the heart.

I feel wretched in mellow. I go silent in the soul. I lose the will to live. I start ageing rapidly. Grays on my head grow in geometric progression. Crow’s feet branch out of my eyes. Tired smile lines look back at me from the mirror. Not that I choose to stay in this state for long. I crave for my familiar discontent. I bring it back. I nourish it. Teach it to gnaw at my heart. I get ready to toss out the faux calm for the sake of my sanity.

Then one morning I wake up and say loudly - I am immensely unhappy. I am dissatisfied. I say to myself. I say to whoever cares to listen. I glow. Angst, passion, strife, discontent, restlessness return. They illuminate everything around. Fuel my mind. I burn the fires of discontent within me. I live again.