by R K Laxman
As a matter of routine I used to pick out a minister for a call in the morning, join him at breakfast and have a casual chat before he departed from the house to set the gigantic wheels of administration in motion. And I made sure, at the breakfast-table meetings, that those wheels moved in my favour: a government contract for a friend for laying electric cables in a particular project area or for a paint manufacturer for painting a bridge across a river. In all this I got my cut from the contractor and so of course did the honourable minister, in a more devious way.
Now I had gone up really high in the social ladder. The respect my fellow men showed me was tinged with a certain fear because I was frequently seen at public functions seated along with the governor, the mayor or a minister. The press began to consider me newsworthy and included my name or photograph when reporting such functions. I was even invited to address the local Rotary Club once and another time the Junior Chamber of Commerce. I remember having thrown open an art exhibition too.
My main occupation was that of a tout acting for the business community on the one hand and on the other for the powers that be. I was amazed by the number of contracts I was instrumental in securing for various interested parties: the monopoly of plying the passenger-bus service, the construction of the government hospital, the municipal auditorium and various other petty jobs like city road repairs, painting the ironrailings in the parks, supplying drill uniforms to the ward boys in the government hospital and so on.
Money did not interest me any more. I was after power now. I measured it against that of the ministers and derived a curious joy in seeing them buckle under pressure and yield to my suggestion, or fall for the temptation I cunningly held out, or succumb, maybe, to a subtle hint at blackmail.
Slowly the realization came to me—the ministers knew that I knew a little too much for their good! It was at this stage that I lost my peace of mind. I began to feel uneasy in their presence and insecure, as if I was in some sort of a weird secret society from which there was no escape. I imagined that we held each other on an invisible leash of constant watchfulness. Fear made me read all sorts of dreadful meanings into the way they looked at me or talked to me. I desperately wanted to run away from the life I was leading. But I knew it would be disastrous to snap ties with them abruptly—as risky as getting off the back of a maneater. Even mere suspicion on their part would surely destroy me. But thankfully no one had the slightest inkling of what was going on in my mind.
To cut the story short, philanthropy, in a roundabout way, helped me finally to withdraw to a pious world of harmless activities, far from the reach of contractors, commissions, and ministers.
I financed a free primary school and named it after my mother. I added a separate ward to the local hospital with beds and all and named it after my father. I created a trust that would award scholarships to deserving students for higher studies, expanded and equipped the medical college laboratory and started a charity home for single mothers. Somehow all this created an agreeable gap between me and all those characters I wanted to avoid.
At this time the general elections in the country was announced and that made my total disappearance from the scene easier. Except for a little house and a few acres of land in my remote ancestral village I quickly sold every bit of my property and liberally gave away the proceeds to a variety of political parties regardless of their shade and colour. The election activities were steadily gathering momentum and working towards a delirious pitch. It was at that point I left the town quietly with my wife.
I have lived happily in my village for several years now. I have a comfortable house; not too big, not too small. I have a car and a few servants. My wife likes the quiet life we lead. My elder son is the chief technical adviser to a huge industrial complex and the younger son is prospering as a management consultant for a string of firms. Of course, I do nothing much these days except spend the time in the open air under the blue sky, looking at my green paddy fields and watching the interlacing of my grapevines as they inch up the poles. Thus I enjoy a great sense of well-being and contentment for which I am grateful to the Almighty, and also to the country for all the opportunities it gave.
BAREFOOT IN THE PALACE
I WAS shown into a small room through a side entrance. But for the guard at the door in his gold-embroidered red uniform gripping a savagely huge sword, it was hard to believe that I was inside one of the biggest palaces in the country.
There was, of course, an oil portrait on the wall of the ruler dressed in a complicated blend of British and Indian regal splendour. Next to it a notice painted on a wooden plank announced, ‘All people other than Europeans should remove their footwear including socks here before entering the palace . . . ’ Or something to that effect.
I carried out the order and got ready to follow my escort. I had put on my best shirt, tie and suit for the occasion but now I felt silly and naked without my shoes on.
For the next quarter of an hour we kept going through innumerable arches, corridors, pillared halls, up flights of stairs, under giant chandeliers and along murals of battle scenes huge as a hockey field. All the way I waded through acres of fifteen-ply lush carpets, sinking up to my knees.
At the end of it we came to a hall which looked something like a royal Chor-Bazaar: crystal glassware, paintings of English country life, Chinese scrolls, Rajput miniatures, ancient clocks, musical instruments and stuffed birds and tigers. Here I was asked to wait and offered a seat which was the most expensive I had ever sat upon.
So ornate was it with gold-laced velvet bolsters, pearl tassels and silver filigree work, I felt I was sitting on a bejewelled dowager.
At a slightly elevated level on a throne, his cheeks ruddy, whiskers battle-ready, sat the ruler of the land in wax. But he was measured, tinted and dressed up in royal robes to approximate, except for life, to the nearest degree the original of some half a century ago.
The glassy eyes stared eternally out of the window at the green pastures of the sprawling palace estate where at that point of time the royal dairy buffaloes were grazing, merrily twitching their tails. The escort returned to lead me on my further journey. I nearly bade goodbye to His Late Highness when I left the room.
More corridors, pillars, chandeliers and halls and we came to a door big enough to let an elephant pass, howdah, king, and all. Fierce-looking guards stood as if frozen on either side with spears curved like the crescent moon.
The door opened, revealing an enormous hall: officials of the royal court were bowing and at the same time walking backwards towards the exit. Once out, they stood erect and walked away normally.
Then it was my turn to be conducted to the presence of His Highness. I felt silly and naked without my shoes on as I went in.
AS LIFE UNFOLDS . . .
FOR ME the day begins as it does for many others, with the unfolding of the morning paper.
The very thought of having to read, understand, and extract sense out of the spew of events, speeches, policies and plans makes me desperately want to run away to a tiny cottage with a view of blue mountains in some remote jungle, to enjoy a life of undisturbed tranquillity.
But these are bad thoughts to occur early in the morning, especially if one happens to be the bread winner of the family. Eventually, I have got to get up, rush off to the office and plunge myself into more newspapers. So I brush aside this defeatist vision; there is a whole world waiting for me to set right through my cartoons and I cannot shirk my responsibility. But I see there are a few more minutes yet. Let me make the best of them.
I avoid the calamity columns and turn the pages to the classified advertisements. I cannot resist the vicarious joy of reading about the eternal foreigner who is leaving this country and who wants to sell his binoculars, cooking range and icebucket. Odd things, indeed, to be left with, I should imagine, after half a decade’s spectacular career in India. I like to speculate on him and his life of comfort here with chauffeurs, servants and golf—the home he is going back t
o, is I am sure, cold, colourless, and drab.
But my line of thought is interrupted; my eyes catch an advertisement under ‘Miscellaneous’. It quietly announces: ‘ . . . Four-track, three-speed, three magnetic hands, two loudspeakers, latest, brand-new, unpacked unused tape recorder for sale . . .’ At once my suspicions are aroused; why did he buy it in the first place if he was going to keep it unpacked and unused? Surely there is something fascinatingly shady about this man’s business. In my mind’s eye I can see him sporting a pair of dark glasses, he has fancy whiskers and sideburns, and he smokes cigarettes in an ivory holder. Before I can further thicken the plot of this mystery, a huge advertisement on another page captures my attention. It shows a family of four with angelic faces in ecstatic joy and an exploding message at the bottom which says, ‘ALL YOUR PROBLEMS ARE OVER!’
I can never cease marvelling at the people in the advertisement. They seem so totally exempt from all the ills and suffering that assail humanity such as floods, earthquakes, poverty, cold, bad breath, backache and baldness. However, the advertisement which attracts me now is about a new brand of biscuit; the whole handsome family is not merely engaged in crunching the delectable stuff but adoring it too!
It warms my heart to see such completely happy people who seem to have discovered a solution for all human woes in an ordinary biscuit. Ironically, there is a news item next to this advertisement about some poor secondary school teachers on a protest fast. I cannot help the thought that these disgruntled gentlemen ought to partake of those miracle biscuits in the next column!
Such idle, frivolous thinking is a luxury one is entitled to before one wakes up fully to face the painful realities of the outside world. I come across one of them the moment I reach the corner of the street in my car. The mammoth traffic jam throbbing with impatience and giving out dark fumes, looks like a stubborn beast with a life of its own.
On such hopeless occasions I settle down to scrutinize my fellow drivers in other cars and their occupants, pedestrians and harassed policemen. The rugged-looking taxi driver on my right has wisely switched off the engine of his battered taxi and has dozed off in his seat. Next to the taxi is the shiny little car of a junior executive, I should think, of a prosperous firm, judged by his natty tie, watch and hairdo. He is looking anxiously at his watch and the impenetrable traffic jam ahead and, every now and then, looks round in despair. I have seen this young man for many years at the same spot at the same time going through the same act.
Then there is the old gentleman with the profile of Julius Caesar in the black sedan. He is another familiar sight at this corner. He is always seen concentrating calmly on the crossword in the morning paper, sitting buried deep in the rear seat. I have watched him thus for years and noted his hair turn from black to steel grey to snow-white.
Similarly, over the years I have seen in a bus queue a lissome lass metamorphose into the hefty matron that she is today, standing there patiently in the same position in the queue.
It is sad that our lives have thus come to be regulated like clockwork, minus all the excitement of fresh sights and new experiences. Even the road accidents which one would expect to produce shock are viewed as a familiar sight.
In other matters too we are reduced to a dull state of perpetual anticipation like looking at a movie which we have seen over and over. For instance, at any public function—whether it is foundation laying or statue unveiling—everyone know what the presiding dignitary is going to say, nor will anyone be surprised if he arrives a couple of hours late. Haven’t we all come to expect as a matter of routine, scans, mismanagement, irregularities, misuse of funds and finally a judicial enquiry around any project? Likewise, no normal person in the present-day world will feel scandalized to learn that the vice-chancellor of a university is bullied and stoned by his students or that the chairman of a company is locked up in his toilet by his employees.
In short, life from the moment one wakes up to the moment one retires at night is a succession of stereotyped experiences. This sort of apparently unexciting existence suits my temperament eminently. It leaves me free to discover and enjoy the out-of-the-ordinary in the common day-to-day routine.
I do not have to listen to the man in front of the mike for I already know what he is going to say. I use my time observing his mannerisms, studying the way he fiddles with the third button on his coat, remembering his long nose, short chin, bald pate and other interesting details, all of which I will use profitably in a caricature. Thank heavens, no two faces are alike and I can have endless delight whether I am in a vegetable market or at a wedding reception.
Similarly, politics is a dull, cliché-ridden business and here too I look for the oddities and awkwardness that the people engaged in it are so inclined to reveal. I hear one of them say, ‘Our economy has turned the corner; we are now at last, in a position to face our financial crisis . . .’ Another asserts, ‘I am agreeable to arbitration if I am assured that the dispute will be settled in my favour.’ Yet one more shouts indignantly, ‘Your strike is illegal and unreasonable! I will not yield to your demands for another four or five days.’ And lastly, I hear a thundering voice proclaim, ‘We all belong to one nation . . . and we are all Indian first, especially the people of our region who will not rest till a separate state is given to them . . .’
Thus, I look forward to another day to derive a thrill out of a dull morning paper, seek variety in a tedious traffic jam, enchantment out of human faces and fun in a humdrum life.
SILENT DAYS
ON THE CONGESTED narrow street in front of the Theatre Royal a five-piece brass band was pouring out some vague noisy notes. A man in shirt and dhoti with a bagpipe which had genuine Scottish tartan trimmings tucked under his arms was squeezing out, as he paced up and down, a sad Highland marching tune. Oddly, all this noise and the smell of sliced cucumbers and fried peanuts that lingered in the air created for us, in those days of silent movies in our village, the atmosphere of the Wild West, lusty cowboys, gun-smoke, stallions galloping across the rugged terrain of Arizona.
At the entrance to the theatre there was a wooden board pinned on to which were ‘stills’. We gazed at them fascinated, trying to conjure up the situation that led up to a man being readied under a tree for hanging or a horse majestically clearing the space between two deadly cliffs with the rider and his lady love. We would be brought back to reality with a jerk by the sound of a bell asking us to get in.
Inside, we spoke in hushed tones and looked over our shoulders discreetly at those in the upper class as if afraid of violating the propriety that the Theatre Royal expected of its patrons.
The screen, of course, was small but its setting was elaborate. It was framed in an enormous drove of winged angels and cherubs cast in plaster, playfully engaged in paying floral tribute to the rectangular white space on which our cowboy would make his appearance.
A bell chimed far away over the din of the crowd around us and all our attention was turned to the balcony which bulged like the laced bosom of a dowager. There a thin, tall, long-haired man in black bow and tuxedo appeared. A hush fell.
He bowed to the audience with extreme grace and took his seat at a piano. Immediately, the doors and windows were shut, black curtains were drawn and lights switched off. Then Beethoven’s Pastorale filledthe hall, drowning the cry of vendors selling paan, beedis and cigarettes.
At last the cowboy came on the screen, galloping across a landscape of jagged rocks and cacti. He rode superbly in tune with the music emanating from the balcony above. As the neatly defined conflict unfolded from adventure to adventure we sat engrossed in the acts of violence, treachery, heroism and romance. The vision on the screen and the sounds produced by our maestro matched so well that for us The Bad Men of Brimstone was virtually a talkie much ahead of its time!
We held our breath as the bad guy suddenly made his appearance from behind a rock and with a mean smile took aim with his gun as the unsuspecting hero cantered down a narrow gap in the canyon.
Just at this point an announcement was flashed on the screen accompanied by a hysterical crescendo of music: DO NOT MISS PART TWO ON FRIDAY NEXT! The lights came on, exposing us suddenly to a painful anticlimax.
Badly let down, we ambled out of the Theatre Royal to the strains of ‘God Save The King’.
THE BESPECTACLED GOAT
WHETHER A FACE is beautiful, plain, comical or villainous it is a fascinating object to watch. Most people take a face for granted and treat it like the address on an envelope. They go about with only a vague impression of their friends, relatives and neighbours. The physical features of a face are not needed for memory. That is why one often wonders whether a person one had met the previous day had a moustache or not, whether he wore glasses at all, whether he parted his hair on the left or the right. Yet if one happens to meet him again the recognition is almost immediate. When we remember a face it is the personality of the individual we recall to memory and not its details.
There was a time when the cartoonist had an easy time drawing popular world figures. Churchill generously lent his famous cigar to the caricaturist with which he could be symbolized and, perhaps, even be dispensed with altogether, drawing only the cigar. Stalin had his formidable whiskers. Hitler, his tooth-brush moustache. Nearer home Rajaji’s dark glasses, Gandhiji’s . . . well, he wholly offered himself to the caricaturist, and Jinnah’s monocle, cigarette-holder, and extraordinary physical thinness were all pegs for the caricaturist to hang his talent on.
But the times have changed and now the caricaturist bemoans the departure of these colourful characters from the world stage. No aggressive characteristics are sported any more. On this basis Mrs Gandhi, Reagan, Mrs Thatcher or Vajpayee have nothing very interesting about them that could be reduced to a simple recognizable symbol. But a true cartoonist does not merely depend on eyebrows or a beard or the shape of the chin. He seeks a factor beyond the physical side and that is where the oddity lies and that is what goes into his caricature of a face. A normal person with an air of regal dignity about him could be made to look like Mickey Mouse without destroying his recognizable appearance. The art of caricature has revealed that the line that divides the silly and the solemn is very thin indeed.