Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  ‘You’re going to regret it. This country has no place for people like you. You belong in America.’

  ‘You ever travelled in an Indian train compartment? If there’s no place, you make one. That’s what I’m gonna do. Besides, what you and I call America died on 9/11. If it ever existed.’

  Liu jerked his torso forward, clearly upset, but then he sank back into his seat. He nodded, almost absentmindedly. She patted his hand.

  ‘You will lose, Kay. They’ll grind you down.’

  ‘Yeah, I will lose. I will lose and the one coming after me will lose, and so will the one after her. But when I’m on my deathbed John, and I’m thinking about my losses and how I had fought for what I believed to be worth fighting for, then do you think I won’t die with a smile wishing for another sweet life filled with many more such losses?’

  ‘You break my heart, kiddo.’

  John Liu had another fit of confirmations, checks and transfers. Eventually, the notice boards began to announce that security checks had started for the Lufthansa flight. John Liu got to his feet, held out his arms.

  ‘If you need help, just ask,’ he said. ‘I’m never going to give up trying to get you there.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

  Hugs. A peck on the cheek. Another hug. Liu smiled and waved before disappearing through Security. She continued to sit, gazing emptily at the bright yellow bucket seats around her. She took the Metro, and it was well after midnight by the time she could collapse into bed.

  Next morning, one look at the window panes and their border of ice fractals proved winter had officially arrived. Filled with joy, she pushed open one of the living room windows, shivering even before the first blast of cold air molested her. Her nipples hardened to rock points. Brrr. It was more than cold; it was damn cold. She cradled the steaming cup of Madras coffee, took a sip, returned to contemplating the city. Awesome piece-of-shit city.

  She reached the CompSci department at nine, and getting out the rickshaw, she waited for Yashpal to finish parking his Rajdoot. He greeted her with affection. Down the corridor, she bumped into Maya Nair, who greeted her with affection. Chhotu was busy transferring grime from one corner of the meeting room to the other, but he paused to greet her with affection. In the elevator, Dharmaraj looked up and greeted her with affection.

  ‘Okay, what’s going on?’ she demanded.

  He laughed. ‘We heard you’ve decided not to pursue NYU. Good decision, Professor Kannagi.’

  ‘Goddammit.’

  ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I said when I turned down Stonybrook twenty-three years ago. Biggest mistake of my life and I thank the gods every day I made it.’

  Other than teaching a couple of classes, she spent most of the day taking stock of her work life. She classified tasks into the usual four lists: stuff she was thrombic to do, really wanted to do, wouldn’t mind doing, and would never do. Looking at the time she spent on the fab-jab Clubs, it became obvious they were a major time-sink. She needed to offload some work. Kalai could run Mr Natwarlal for a while. She’d still attend the session, advise if needed, and of course, think by doing. She worked until six, then shut everything down, locked up, hailed an auto. Mir’s talk at the Attic would start at seven; best to get a move on.

  ‘Driver-ji, Regal Building, CP.’

  The rickshaw set off. She noticed him eyeing her in the rear-view mirror. Just when it was getting to the point she felt she had to say something, the driver said in Hindi:

  ‘This is our second meeting, Memsaab. I took you to the hospital.’ ‘Really?’ Kannagi didn’t remember his face.

  ‘It’s fate,’ said the driver, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She had a standing policy of never letting the word ‘fate’ go unchallenged. ‘It’s just chance.’

  ‘Yes, fate.’

  ‘No, it is not fate; it is chance. You operate in this area; I often come to this area. You drive autos; I often take autos. You’re willing to go to CP; I want to go to CP. Also, you have a good memory. So not only is there a good chance you would see me again, but also a good chance you’ll remember having seen me earlier. We will probably meet again, since I always take autos and you will continue to drive them.’

  ‘If it is not fate then why are you not sitting in some other auto?’

  ‘Because I’m sitting in this one. And if it is fate then why this fate for you? Why not some other fate?’

  ‘If it is chance, then why this chance?’ said the driver, unfazed. ‘Why not some other chance? Tell me. Chance, fate; same thing. Everything is connected.’

  ‘Yes, so you shouldn’t be surprised when you notice a connection. Just live. Why all these stories?’

  ‘Maybe I’m being punished for a sin in my past life.’

  She opened her mouth to argue, then realized he was joking, smiled. She extracted her cellphone.

  ‘Bhaiya, the road is in front of you. Please.’

  The driver dropped her off at the Regal, took the money, touched his forehead. It said: God willing, we will meet again, my queen.

  She was late. There was no need to check the time. The entrance was bracketed with a bunch of noisy college kids. At her approach, they fell silent. Their expressions turned wary.

  She wasn’t that old, was she? God, they were all such bachchas. Some looked as if they hadn’t even begun to shave. She felt a bit embarrassed by her ‘Bio-Fuel’ T-shirt. Why embarrassed? Loads of women her age—oh God, women-her-age. Okay. So it had happened. She had officially turned aunty.

  She pushed past the kids, ran up the stairs. At the entrance, there was a floor-to-ceiling black curtain and she could hear Mir’s strange gendered voice. All the seats were taken, but there weren’t that many seats to begin with. About seventy people in all, enough to pack the medium-sized room. She recognized that she’d recognized a face before she could ascertain just who it was. Mrs Thakral! From Harry’s bar. Just great.

  ‘What is the use of a story?’ Mir Alam Mir took a sip of water. His action was unhurried and deliberate, intended to quench thirst, not buy time or build suspense. Mir’s tall frame seemed even taller on account of the podium, and the Attic’s Gothic interior, with its red and black tones, dusty theatre curtains and corners shrouded in shadows, complemented his slightly ruined aspect. Mir Alam Mir was utterly at ease, his glance flickering over the heads of his audience, acknowledging particular individuals with small smiles.

  ‘Kondai. Psst. Kondai, here.’

  Kannagi turned her head in the direction of the whisper and walked towards the waving arm. Padma had used her new personal assistant to secure an empty chair next to her own. The PA, an attractive twenty-something, took instructions, left. Kannagi took her place.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I see you’ve bought a new slave.’

  Mir was gazing in their direction, leaning towards them, the pose suggesting: oh, do carry on ladies, don’t let me interrupt you.

  ‘What is the use of a story?’ repeated Mir. ‘We live in an age where if we do something, it must be for good reasons. If we drink red wine, it’s because resveratrol in wine has been shown to extend the lifespans of yeast and mice. If you must make love to your spouse, then you may console yourself that at least it will burn a few calories—’ Mir acknowledged the small laugh with a smile. ‘Let me be blunt. No story is necessary. This world, our world, has Hamlet, but the world in Hamlet, the world described by the play, cannot have a copy of the play. Therefore it also does not have Shakespeare. If the world of Hamlet can manage just fine without Shakespeare, then why not our world, the so-called real world? We’re a busy species, so we must have good reasons why we care about the antics of imaginary people.’

  It’s as if he’s on a walk with a best friend, thought Kannagi. ‘Paper people,’ continued Mir. ‘That’s what Forster called the creatures of fiction. Why do I care about what happens to paper people? Who is Don Quixote to me? If Harishchandra suffers, what do I care? Wha
t are stories good for?’ Another brief pause, as if he were gathering his thoughts, but then he gestured to the audience. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Entertainment?’ suggested a woman in an expensive-looking sari and over-curled hairdo.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, we must be entertained. Any other suggestions?’

  ‘We need escape,’ said an old man, who looked generally disgruntled.

  ‘From this tedious lecture?’ inquired Mir, but when the old man only frowned, he smiled and acquiesced with a nod. ‘We certainly read for escape. Any other reasons?’

  Now the suggestions came fast and furious. People read stories to learn. To feel what it was like to be other people. To experience emotions. Someone mentioned Rasa theory and dhvani and how the ancient rishi Bharata had spelled it all out in the Natyashastra, would famous unbiased intellectuals please read and promote this great Hindu work! Someone mentioned catharsis. A dude at the back said he read because girls always wanted to yak about books. Mir gestured to a slim girl in one corner of the room; she’d had her hand up for a while, as if she were in class. The girl got to her feet and said she loved to read because stories helped her forget her worries.

  ‘We already said escape,’ objected the woman in the expensive sari.

  The girl sat down, crushed. An old woman, with snow-white hair, asked Mir in a quavering voice whether reading the same book many times over made her a reader.

  ‘Of course it does, mother. And which book do you read with such devotion?’

  ‘The Godfather.’

  An astonished ripple of laughter from the audience. Way to go, grandma! But Mir was having none of it. He held up his hand, his expression quite sharp. ‘Yes, yes, a masterpiece of characterization. Is that why you like it so much? Why this book, mother? Does it give you pleasure?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say pleasure,’ said the old lady in a halting voice. ‘It makes me quite sad actually.’

  Her voice trailed away. Mir waited. When an audience member began to say something, he again held up his hand sternly. He waited.

  ‘I read it because—’ the old lady hesitated, then gave up. ‘I don’t know. I just love it!’

  ‘And there it is!’ Mir slammed an invisible desk with his palm. ‘Who needs reasons to love? And if love came with reasons, who would want such a love? Do we look at our wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, do we look at them and craftily weigh their use to us? When our child runs up to us, do we embrace them because it is to our future benefit to do so?’

  ‘Yes,’ shouted a man from the left. The audience laughed but at Mir’s serious face, they quietened down.

  ‘Yes,’ repeated Mir. ‘Yes, some of us do. We act after weighing the use such actions will have for us. We’re also ready to offer it. Schools think of students as customers. Marriages are legal partnerships. Friendships are networking opportunities. Our resumes are phrased in utilitarian action verbs. Utility to utility, dawn to dusk. Left unchecked, this habit of the mind turns us into rational-choice fundamentalists. Or less insultingly, neoliberals.’

  Mir Alam Mir took another sip of water. ‘It is then we discover something peculiar. To be a neoliberal is not to be anything, but rather, a way of interacting with other people. Imagine you were to go to a friend’s house for dinner and they wouldn’t let you in unless you produced an entrance ticket, and once in, you couldn’t get anything to eat unless you paid for your tray, cutlery, seat and the dinner. You couldn’t talk unless the ticket price included broadband rights and you couldn’t fart unless you’d paid for pollution rights. You couldn’t reach for the pepper without paying rent to use the neighbour’s space and if two or more hands need the pepper, it is mandatory to hold a sealed first-price auction. You stoutly refuse to tell a joke until the other person has paid to be entertained. When you leave, you discover your wife has sold her marriage shares and your relationship is under a hostile takeover bid.’

  The audience laughed.

  ‘I really like his Jodhpuri suit,’ whispered Padma. ‘I bet its a Sigma Farooqi.’ She checked for messages, tweeted her presence at Mir Alam Mir’s talk, nodded at a friend’s call-me gesture from across the hall, moved her bare arm away from the exploratory touch of the bespectacled kurta-and-jeans sitting next to her, and adjusted her sister’s T-shirt to cover the peeking bra strap. ‘He’s your jaath all right. Another radical.’

  ‘Thank you for that laugh,’ said Mir, giving them another pointed glance. ‘It’ll cost you nothing. But more seriously, this ridiculous example is not so ridiculous. We recognize the farce that is neoliberalism when it’s applied to what cannot be purchased, but we fail to see our laughter comes with a price. It is purchased by granting that neoliberalism has dominion over what can be purchased. What are the commodities that have value but no price? Human things, humane things, humanizing things. So we see that neoliberalism has dominion over precisely those commodities that are non-human, non-humane and de-humanizing. If the devotees of neoliberalism want to increase their dominion, they have to perform what Nietzsche called Entmenschung, the dehumanization not just of nature but of humanity itself. The human itself is nothing, but the utility we place on its back, that becomes everything. ‘Now, there are two kinds of neoliberals, and the difference is one of corruption. The corrupt neoliberal hangs onto his humanity, but he’s stretched thin between necessity and guilt. He cannot morally act on his logical beliefs. These creatures are schizophrenic and replicate the ghastly dance of their God, the Market, amongst their contradictory selves. What one self wins in a situation, the other loses; what pleasures one, pains the other. You see them nodding in agreement at talks where they are being abused, they dream of escaping to artificial islands, you find them searching for the Buddha at car dealerships. So while corruption typically ruins a human being, in these poor souls it’s their corrupted souls, their impure doubts about neoliberalism, that may yet save them.

  ‘The other kind of neoliberal however, is pure, unconflicted, and filled with clarity. They walk their talk; they practise what they preach. They strive to dehumanize themselves. Objects, including themselves, do not have utility because they have value, but rather, objects have value because they have utility. They are men and women—I pray they’ll forgive the insult—of vision. Vision is important for this type. Those who are like them have vision, those who aren’t lack vision. Neoliberals are blind to all commerce except that of the marketplace and this blindness is what makes them visionaries. You’ll remember the Victorian elite wore monocles. So too with this type. That’s because they only need to keep an eye on the bottom line. One eye is more efficient than two.’

  His pause squeezed a small laugh from the crowd.

  ‘Thank you. You are an easy crowd to please. I do not intend to dehumanize neoliberals. That they will do on their own. I wish to remind you of our original question. What is the use of a story? What is the use of Godfather? What is the use of the Panchatantra? What is the use of the man from La Mancha? If we begin by saying, let us calculate, then these works we love may indeed be useful to us, but we will also become things they can use. We will extract utility from these works, yes, but be assured that these works will also extract utility from us. We have then set up the master-slave dialectic, and when we call upon our works to dance for us, it’s our feet that will rise, cursing. Are you entertained, master, we will ask our haunted exhausted selves; are you entertained?

  ‘It is when we will sell ourselves into such subjugation, that the art of fiction truly dies. Indeed, a story can live only if its reader is free. Mario Puzo writes Godfather. However, the text is but half the story. Our mother, here, is needed to complete the tale. Mother can do so because she is free. This freedom has been feared by tyrants since the dawn of time. This freedom is so innate, so inseparable from who she is, who we are, Heaven itself cannot, will not, compel a completion. Khuda bande se khud pooche, bata teri raza kya hai? So beware those who would kill fiction. I have a friend, a
computer scientist.’ He was looking everywhere but at Kannagi. ‘Because of her I read about evolution, programs, things I did not, and still do not, know anything about. But in my reading, in my slow trudge across a vast beach of ignorance, I came across a curious fish. I had never seen the type before, yet it seemed familiar. It was dead, so I trusted it to speak the truth. I asked its name, where it had come from. It said it was a crustacean and added that its name was Cymothoa Exigua. I was surprised because crustaceans are beings like crabs and lobsters, not fish, but it seemed impolite to call the creature a liar. My new friend was in a mood to confess. It had entered, it said, through the gills of the spotted rose-snapper fish. It had attached itself to the base of the fish’s tongue, from where it drained blood off the tongue, little by little. Eventually, the tongue withered, fell away, at which time, the crustacean attached itself to the remanent stump and tasted and spoke for the fish henceforth. I was made by chance and necessity, the creature cried. I am not without use.’

  A deathly silence had fallen over the audience. What the fuck was the fellow talking about?

  ‘My brothers and sisters, do not misunderstand me. A story can do many things. It can give you pleasure. It can tell you the truth. It can lie to you. It can inspire you to action. It can turn you into a saint. It can create a hell on earth. All these things, stories can do. However, these things are not the whole story. A table is a surface that can bear a weight. It is not a surface that bears a weight. You see the difference? A story can have many effects. These effects do not reside in the story but in the relation between teller and listener. There is no such thing as the use of a story. A story has no use just as a human being has no use. If you would ask the use of a story, then be prepared to live in one. Beware those who would take your tongue away from you. May God forgive those who would. May God help those who must.’ Mir folded his hands in a namaste. ‘Thank you.’

  Mir Alam Mir accepted the applause with grace and as people rushed to surround him, Kannagi was pleased to see that many of them appeared to be students. She turned to her sister.