The Graduate ...?

**** Latest Updated  Chapter 2 : 'Flashback'  23rd Feb 2017 ***** 

Chapter 1.   'Barely Breathing'...

 Chapter 1

Barely Breathing

1991

I had a strange habit.

I loved to hang out of the running local train door and close my eyes.

When you close your eyes you see nothing. Nothing but moving blurred light and shade, dappled sun rays dancing fervently like unfocused figures on your closed eyelids. 

And your senses are alerted to  a plethora of sounds, sounds of the train wheels turning, of traffic, of people, of the wind kissing your cheeks, of the clanging of the metallic handles in train carriage… 

Many times, I imagined, Oh what fun, if someday, the opening titles of my film would begin this way! And at the end of the sequence, as the protagonist opened his eyes, the film would begin…

I had just about turned 19 last month. 

And as I opened my eyes…. my train just drudged into  Dadar station on platform number 1, and I was back in the real world.

It was around 5 pm on a Saturday and the rush on the Bombay local train was as expected. (Bombay, was my city as I always knew it and will always know it as, politics aside.) 

Pushing and pulling through a determined crowd, one emerged victorious on the platform, mostly intact. With a quick search, I found her standing where I expected, right under the indicator. 

There she was, hair as frazzled as ever, bright, very fair, thin and petite, in a plain saree, holding on to some dubba in one hand and some heavy bag in the other, carrying goodies for me as usual. 

(If you wish to read ahead click on the 'Read more' button below)

All smiles and full of joy, my Mother was, as if she had just seen the jewel in her crown emerge, from this rickety unwashed train. I always felt a little conscious of her unconditional affection and tried desperately to appear all grown-up and act nonchalant about it. 

“Waiting for long, Ma?” Trying to take the heavier bag from her hand.

She dismissed the value of her efforts as usual, rather than give it due importance, she answered modestly, 

“Just a few minutes.” 

I knew it had been more, since I had been unable to catch the previous local.

“And Dad?”

She shook her head.

Take the name of the devil and there he was. Emerging from the crowd, disembarking from the front part of the train. 

All him.

Bright Summer Sun of a tropical country, my father was, dressed a tad bit loud as usual. God knows which ancient, forgotten fashion inspired him to wear ill-fitting suspenders on trousers, on a full formal shirt, with an air, as if he’d discovered the style.

The only problem - the apparent bulge in the tummy area cramped the style sizeably.

 But Stylish to the core.

Straight well-styled hair, dyed as black as a mid-age crisis would force you to and behavior of an age, a teenager would be embarrassed of. But the energy and presence, the man was nothing if not sheer, unabashed confidence, to carry off all the malarkey with  verve and panache. 

Yes, he was handsome (he knew it) and a man of quite a reckoning, but never less than a storm to announce his entry, with a 70mm Cinemascope canvas, all of 1000 trumpets blowing, confetti raining allover and 50 pom-pom girls  heralding the rising of this sun everywhere he appeared. He carried the aura of a Celebrity around him. 

But it never felt odd to see this Celebrity exist amongst us plebeians and  emerge from a general compartment of a local train.Feeling nasty at times, i preferred to assume that his Grandness was mostly restricted to feeling grand among lesser mortals. But that would be too unfair to a man with a rock solid career performance.

In his usual style, that was a dead give away of a Dev sahib shaking his head maneuver, he hammed, in his heavy baritone,

“And Who is this handsome looking young man?” 

He ribbed me. A thin mischievous smile on the side.

 I doubt, in comparison, anyone could have found the both of us to be related in any manner.         

 Me, with my gawky spectacles, curly brown hair, worn-out second-hand shoes; loosely worn, borrowed hand-me-down T-shirt and a blue-rim lined jeans that fit my thin frame perfectly. And yes a wee bit shorter than him.

 Except for my wheatish complexion, I guess, I was all Ma, maybe my voice was probably as deep as him, but the relationship ended there. It's obvious, I was a self-conscious barely-out-of-teenage geek boy. 

Desperately trying to disappear into thin air as of this moment.

Between the three of us, i guess I was the only one who wasn’t smiling at my Dad’s playful banter, Ma was all giggles, amused and doting. I was a bit disarmed, but that is exactly what his  maneuvers always meant to do. 

Some people even turned around to see the tamasha and i felt a wee bit embarrassed. But there you looked at him and he was least bit bothered, he actually reveled in the attention. 

“Come let’s move.” I nudged Ma and Father.

Continuing his tiring act,

“ Yes, but where?” 

I wish Ma had chosen wisely in her life, but there she was, actually all broad smiles, unfazed as if we really deserved this guy. I began moving out, getting irritated.

“Dad, I am hungry!” I was sort of actually.

Ma suddenly broke out from her dazed ‘joy to the world’ state to  a typical serious concern,

 “Oh! Wait I’ve got some laadoos,”  very earnestly she began opening her Dubba but the thought of having Laadoos on the station platform really put me off, i had almost begun shaking my head as i walked on, by which time i guess Father had dropped his act and took on a normal human form.

“No, let him take the Laadoos with him, we’ll have something, there are so many restaurants outside.” 

He bullied my Mother to put the Dubba inside and as always, she obeyed promptly.

Walking with my parents, my Dad’s nervous energy on the road was always palpitating. Agitated like  some military commander in a war zone, Dad walked with purpose and pomp, making an event of crossing even a meagre cramp packed road, outside Dadar station. 

“Hold hands!… Look alert!… Don't get lost” were common orders he barked at us, as we crossed.  

He held  our hands tightly, as we walked with him, on either of his sides and the three of us looked  like a Mother Chimpanzee running with her babies cuddled to her bosom, with no herd on the run chasing us. He just had to be the centre piece of every event. 
What is the word? Ah..yes Cynosure...

“Aati hai yaad mujhko Janvari Farvari..” 

he sang away loudly without a care in the world (now in Kishore Kumar mode) as we climbed on the first floor, which was the family part of the restaurant. 

The waiters were amused at his antics and he smiled back at them, with fun in his dancing mischievous eyes. 

Ma sported a wide smile which refused to come back to normal beyond the pause mode. I was always curious because It wasn’t practiced or even plastic but what was it actually? Was she really amused?  In some manner was there a genuine dazed joy? Or some weird state of nirvana attainment ? Or maybe extreme sadness reversed out? 

What was that smile? I had always wondered.

Playing around with the service personnel, Dad at his best, very seriously pointing out to me and Ma,

“See look at his eyes, they are typical Mangalore! ” making the poor guy conscious of his lineage, while his colleague looked with wide eyes at us.

And they say children are embarrassed by their parents. 

Damn right, I was. But 19 yrs of it and you kind of get resigned to your fate. Sigh.

Finally, after much ado, we ordered stuff. And as the guy went to get it our second act began.

I was sitting next to Ma, and Dad was in front of us. Amidst all his banter and performance and our soft rapprochement through silent acknowledgements, you could have seen the three of us and seen the contrast on either side of the table. 

High energy, Stylish, Suave, gregarious, batting to make a century, on one side of the table and gentle, humble, scraggy, subdued, trying to make the most of every moment on the other.

“And I told her ‘Mrs. Gandhi sorry but the Saree just won’t do…”  
       

I had heard the story a billion times before, but who cared? We listened with no less attention. He performed, we laughed, he gesticulated vigorously as he spoke and we nodded our heads. But mostly we sat looking at him in a daze. Ma holding my hand tightly and squeezing it sometimes.

The stories, the overdone display of affection and caring.  Deliberately forcing me, to eat his falooda. All of it, the whole Grand Show was a bubble, actually moments where the world was forgotten, there was no past, no future just the then. Never ending. Static. Frozen. Still-Frame.

And it was 9.15! Our time was up. 

Dad’s overbearingly flamboyant nature forbade anyone else to pay the bill. 

We rushed to grab the last bus for CBD Belapur on the other side of the station. Luckily we were early and there were 5 mins left. I hugged Ma,  Dad caressed Ma’s hair like he was blessing a child. Ma was all emotions and her eyes full of them. I was holding back. Dad kept talking, but this was different, it was like a nervous tick. 
Mumbling stuff like, 

“let the past be, we must look ahead, we are meeting again next week aren’t we?”, the conductor yelled, and I touched Ma’s feet. She shoved the Laadoo dubba in my hand and climbed on the ST. 

As the bus took off, I kept waving at Ma. Dad just stood and watched. 

Walking quietly back to the station. I went ahead to take the ticket and Dad shoved money in my hand. 

“Whatever happens never ever cross the Railway line. Takes only 2 mins, always take the over-bridge.” Dad’s nervous intermittent mumbling, trying to elicit a response, but i was in a numb state, i kept walking ahead just desperate to be alone. Barely even looking at him.

Traveling together in the same compartment, we got down at Grant Road station. 

Taking a taxi, he offered to leave me to my hostel on the way. 

All along there wasn’t a word spoken except the order to the taxi driver, “ Nepeansea Road, Chowpatty se lena!” (Take it from Chowpatty)

Silence. 

The Taxi had arrived in front of my hostel. We sat for a few moments beside each other, silent, not even looking at each other. 

Finally i moved to open the door. He crushed my hand with some emotion as i began to leave, he stopped me, calling out, 

“i have told the D’souza store below, (D’Souza was a store below his building at Nepeansea Road) take whatever you want. Don’t think twice!” Shoving a 100 rupees  note in my hand.

I just nodded. 

“Next Saturday..!” He yelled out, waving excitedly, as his taxi pulled away. I crossed over to my hostel and standing under the 150-year-old arch, I looked at his taxi drive down, to his place, just about 15 mins away. 

Sitaram, the grumpy nightwatchman, grunted in rural Marathi, 

“5 mins and I wouldn’t have opened it!”, as he opened the lock of the outer collapsible to let me in,

I suddenly realised, that I was barely breathing. 

I don’t recollect taking a breath after we left Ma.

 Taking a deep breath, I turned and walked in, climbed the steps to my single room on the first floor, down a long corridor.

Walking down, I saw, very strangely there was a door open, right next to mine. 

Pushpee’s room, I guessed. 

There was a loud chatter and sound of music coming from there. 

Hungama at 10.15 pm in our hostel?  

Curious, I walked over to check out what all the fuss was about… 



Chapter 2        

  **** Latest Updated ***  23rd Feburary 2017

'Flashback'

1990

I was sitting at the outer part of a small office, in an old South Bombay building at Hamam Street, right next to Dalal street, the financial centre of Mumbai. The office was clean and neat as compared to the outside corridors of the old british-era building. I must say, it was pretty well done. It belonged to an old gentleman, Mr. Naval. I could see him through the glass door of his cabin, talking to two younger men. One seemed to be his son, that is for sure. 

About 5 minutes earlier, I had been inside the cabin, handing them a small envelope, with a letter of reference inside it. It was given by Ma’s Counsellor from the Women’s Organisation. I think, Mr. Naval was related to the lady in some manner. 

I wondered what might have been written in the letter because off and on, the group inside the cabin, discussing something, would look at the document and turn around to look at me. 

Obviously, I was a puzzle to them.

Ah yes, you guessed it right, it was for a job, for me.

But what can they give me? This was a Share Broker’s office. 

And me? 

I was a College dropout, that too with a science background, with no understanding of commerce.I had just barely finished my Second year of graduation. 

Who knew this year would turn out to be such a disaster? 

My entire life had taken a nosedive and naturally, for the first time in my life, I had failed in a subject in the last exams. 

Atomic Physics. Sigh.

I had got 9 marks out of 100! 

But our university system is a little forgiving, I was allowed to move on to my final year, with a supplementary requirement, which was that I clear it in the second attempt, in the coming mid terms. 

Its called ATKT i.e. Allowed to Keep Terms. 

Allowed to keep what terms exactly? 

University was kinder than life.

University was allowing, but life wasn’t. 

No family. No Money. No place to stay. 

On the road, with nothing but a question in my heart.

Why?

That was the question my brain just couldn’t bring itself to answer. 

140 IQ? My ass! 

But that supplementary exam was the last of my worries. 

Ma and I were piling on at my sister’s place in Borivali, like refugees, we had no money and obviously, i was now looking at giving up the idea of ever graduating, leave alone sitting for a supplementary exam. 

No graduation =

No Film Institute =

No Film career = 

No Film? = 

Nothing. 

Sigh. 

Who knew?

But here is the catch, i knew. 

I always knew this day would come. Since time immemorial all the damn astrologers, who my parents were fond of cultivating and indulging in, had given one look at my charts and their expressions turned to one, like some monkey farted in a closed room. 

Whatever you asked, they just shook their head from side to side, with a look of unbridled despair. Like doctors proclaiming that there was no hope for the patient. 

Career?  

Money? 

Marriage? 

Education? 

The same darn loser, shaking of the head, surrendered to fatalism face. 

Then they tried to  patronize and soften the blow in the same gesture,

 “You can try it ‘ they would drawl, “ but I doubt, if he will even complete his education.” 

“Graduation?”

No response. Well, almost. Then a slight shake of the head, again.

Finally tired of so many people giving up on my life, even before it had begun, I had argued with impudence with the last astrologer, at the age of 17. 

“What if one tried to change the future?”

“ What?” 

He looked at me like some incredulous occurrence, again the shaking of the head, amused. 

“Impossible! You can’t change what’s written!”

“What if?” I argued, stubbornly. 

He smiled and said in that patronizing tone again, 

“Then the road ahead is the toughest one.” 

Dramatic.Suddenly looking very seriously at me,  

“Boy, don’t take this lightly, it is the hardest road you can imagine! Accept what’s written and take it in your stride, it will be easier for you! ”

“ I refuse to!”,  I shouted back at him, as I got up,

“ I promise I will change my future! ” and I rushed out angrily. 

But this one had said an important thing, that the others never did.

He had said there was a way. An alternate way! 

I made another promise to myself as I walked out.

Never ever to let myself listen to this shit again. 

And for a very, very long time, I didn’t.

And post all that bravado, I had to accept the reality, that the 3 witches of Macbeth, the Oracle of Delphi and Nostradamus himself had prophesied my doom to the letter, so precisely. 

And it couldn’t be denied, as foretold, here I was.

Just the evening earlier, I had stopped at my friend, Manu’s place. It was a mess. His father was shifting to Chennai and they were packing all the furniture. 

Another loss to live with. 

But I wasn’t there for that. I just stopped for a minute below his building, near Kemp’s Corner, Manu came running down with the thing I had come for, his 8th standard class book-Basics of Accounting. Apparently, in ICSE medium, they had had accounting basics in the 8th standard itself. 

I had assumed, that going to work at a Share Broker’s place, it was best to start learning accounts, at the very least. 

Manu was a great friend.

The whole night, I had racked my brains trying to crack the book, but nothing seemed to go in. 

Godoo! 

 I need you now!

I took a deep breath and looked inside the cabin. I was gestured to come in and I entered with great apprehension.

Here was the ‘sorry-we-have-no-place-for-you’ axe all ready to drop on my head.

The younger, fair gentleman, spoke English well and he was more forthcoming. 

“ Can you make graphs?”

“Huh? Graphs?” Confused and dazed, me.

“Yes! Take data and make graphs?”

“Yes?” 

I was hesitant because I wasn’t sure where this was leading, my eyes were wandering from one person to another.

“ See my father here, Mr. Rajkishore Naval, is an Analyst and writes columns in many newspapers, he wants someone to be able to take data of performances, of shares, over a period of time and draw graphs. Trends? Can you make graphs? You are from science, right?”

“Yes! Yes, I can make graphs!”

More than me, I felt, it was the three in the room, who breathed a sigh of relief. 

They were all smiles, while I didn’t know what had just happened.

I was in some dazed, shocked state.

I had a job!

“We’ll be paying you Rs. 500 per month!” The other young man finally spoke, the more practical one, closing ranks.

Too dazed to react. 

Rest I do not recall. 

Apparently, i just nodded, everything locked, I took permission to leave and start the next day, I think.

Walking out of there, down the rickety stairs, on the road to the Churchgate station. 

Godoo! 

Thank you.

To be continued... 

(Thanks to Ms. Rashmi Deshpande, Ms. Padma Ramesh, Mr. Tarun Panwar and Mr. Anurag Chandra, for great help and support.)

Copyright

 'The Graduate...?'  

Sanjay Chandrashekhar Nair

23rd Feb 2017