‘No, Akhil, no…’
‘Ramrao Apte. Go find out what he did. Go discover his claim to fame. How many thousands he killed, uprooted, burned, ran over, tortured. That was And Then There Were None.’
Tears were falling on Api’s lap. ‘Oh, Akhil…’
‘But it is never “And then there were none”, Api, never. They keep coming, like the spawning of a thousand asurs—swords drawn and charging—from a single drop of their father’s blood. There is no end, Api, no end. Raktabeej is amar.’
‘Then why, Akhil? Why?’
Akhil clenched his fist and brought it down on the table. ‘Because every little helps. It really does. Ask those millions who are at least breathing today—ask them. Maybe my “little” was my effort to slow down the conveyor belt on which they were squatting, slow down its rumbling roll towards the survival-of-the-fittest pit. Maybe all in vain, but sti…’
‘No…’
Akhil’s eyes had turned bloodshot and were glistening. ‘In any case, Api, I tried, you know. And I am tired now, I can’t go on. I am sorry, Api, that you had to go through all this. Nothing is worse than seeing you cry like this…’
Api reached out and pressed Akhil’s hand. ‘But, Akhil, what made you so convinced that this was the way? Were you, are you, still convinced of it? How did it come to this, this self-annihilation?’
‘Call it what you will, Api—but it is not fatalism. This country runs on fatalism. The one who is consigned to, becomes resigned to his place or position in society. A rung—that’s what everyone holds close to their chests here. Look at what we are taught since birth. Whatever happened happened for the good and whatever will happen will also happen for the good. What does it mean? Isn’t it a call to sit back and observe, to not take part in the battles that confront you? A call to accept one’s fate—an a priori judgement? Whatever happened, happened for the good. Never has a philosophy been advocated that is so simple to understand and yet so utterly devastating when followed.
‘Yes, great mahatmas have appeared from time to time, Api, and intoned reclassifications—Harijan. Dalit. Children of God. What children of God, Api? Which God ? Calling a bhangi a Harijan improved nothing. The old cataloguing still remains as firm as ever. The children of God still pick shit while the “other” children of God shit. The children of God have become the children of Manochar. Maybe they always were.’
Api wiped her eyes with her damp pallu.
‘Self-annihilation is not everyone’s cup of tea, Api. After all, it runs counter to the basic tenet of the survival of a species—to go against the wishes of one’s brain and its primeval wiring. It is difficult—not impossible, but rare—to be a kamikaze. Do animals commit suicide? I don’t know. But I have wanted to, for a very long time, too long a time, Api. Somehow, every time I thought of going through with it, something prevented me—someone always provided a ray of hope. It has been missing for a long time now, Api. I am shrouded in darkness. I don’t possess a shadow anymore. I could have just gone, you know. It would have been easy—a slit of the wrist, a jump from the building. But this time around, I became the provider of this ray. Maybe, I thought, I can be of some use before I take my leave…’
‘Isn’t your life worth living? Haan?’
‘When exactly does a human life become worth living, Api? What if you knew that you are going to die, say, in a year’s time, would you live that one year all happy and smiling at strangers and saying “Lovely weather”? Maybe.’
Api flicked a tear from her eye. ‘Maybe…’
‘But maybe when you stop valuing your own life, you begin to value that of others. You say, “To hell with it. I have got only a year left anyway.” The funny thing is, this thinking works only when you have got a year left. I mean, people don’t start doing good deeds when they think they have only fifty more years left to live, now do they? Of course they don’t, because if you did start to think like that, there’d be no war, no hungry and thirsty and dying people, no emaciated, displaced refugees travelling millions of miles.’
Api tilted her head forward and looked deep into Akhil’s eyes, with sadness and love.
‘So what is your quantum, Api. One year? Five years? Surely not more than five years. But a human life means so little, like that of an ant that you crush under your shoe. Only a war makes you realise this. You—miles away from the front—you prepare yourself for the news of your soldiers’ deaths. A small war—we can spare a thousand; a world war—alright then, a million, maybe ten. But in peace time, that same human life regains its significance. Remember last year, when thirty firefighters were trying to save the life of that one man, that Indo-Pak war veteran, trapped in his burning house? And that same man would have died unnoticed on the front in ’71. We, the society, we judge a life’s importance. But what if I don’t wait for you to condemn me or glorify me? What if I volunteer?’
Api shook her head. ‘No…’
‘There are millions who are dying even in peace time, or didn’t you notice, being so transfixed with that news of those firemen and that one man trapped in his house? Is your peace time so different from my peace time? While you are desperate for that one man to survive the fire because it makes you feel good, while you are desperate to forget the millions who are trapped all over the world but don’t have thirty hoses trained on their burning bodies, while you are kind and desperate, what the hell should I do? Tell me.’
‘Oh, Akhil.’
‘Can I balance one life—mine with those million lives? Believe me, Api, when I tell you that I am convinced my life isn’t worth living. To carry on day after day like an ox that quietly ploughs through a field all its life. You say I carry on like this till I am seventy? Why? What have I got to live for, haan? Who to share everything with? It’s time to twist those propellers, Api, time to twist those propellers…’
Api squeezed Akhil’s hand. ‘But what made you think you weren’t already doing your bit, your “little”? Didn’t you say you wanted to work on “my diseases”? Who’s to say that you wouldn’t have come up with a new drug for tuberculosis?’
Akhil gave a wry smile. ‘Working on my own? On a yearly budget that’s less than the monthly cafeteria allowance of a Pfizer employee? Who are you kidding? And even if, let’s say, I did manage to come up with a new drug for tuberculosis after twenty years—what about it? Are you not aware that most diseases are curable already? And what’s the purpose of most new drugs anyway—a 10 per cent improvement over the existing drug. Lesser side effects.
‘Tuberculosis, Api, is completely curable. I stress, completely. And yet, two million die every year because of it—these are WHO numbers. The drugs are there already. No, it’s something else. People die, not because of the lack of a drug, but because these deaths are of no importance in the eyes of the state. The protraction of a disease has got nothing to do with the availability of the drug meant to cure it. The real culprit is the apathy and failure of the state. It’s a game. The minister says next year we’ll get the deaths down to sub-two million levels. Sub-two million. These are people they are talking about, people who can’t even get forty-year-old anti-TB drugs, and you are waiting for a rainbow to appear after fifteen years courtesy my research efforts?’
‘But…’
‘Science and Antakshari have a lot in common. Biding my time. That’s all I was doing, Api, biding my…’
The poignant splendour of ‘Für Elise: Blumen aus einem Buch’ broke the conversation.
Api rummaged her purse to find her mobile. ‘Oh, sorry I…’
‘No, take it, take it.’
Api flicked the phone open ruefully and placed it by her ear. ‘H-hello…’
‘Hi sweets, this is AB. I have been trying your cell for God knows how long! Where the hell are you, Aps?’
‘I am alright—on my way back to the guest house.’
‘Shit, Aps, there’s been a murder on the suburban. I have just reached the spot. Do you know who…’
Api wiped her
nose with the back of her hand. ‘Yes, some railway minister.’
‘Oh, so you know. Where are you?’
‘On my way. Should be back in half an hour…’
‘Well, take extra care. Guys here are on full alert. They anticipate mobs on the streets. Where exactly are you?’
‘AB, I said I am fine. I’ll talk to you when I get back.’
‘Listen, I’ll be late, Aps. This could be very important. I think this murder is somehow linked to Saane—and the Apte…Go straight to the guest house, okay? Take care, alright?’
‘Ya, you too. Bye.’
Api flipped the phone shut and dropped it in her purse.
‘That was AB. I think he has an inkling, Akhil. He just said he thought this murder was linked to Saane.’
‘Clever dickey, our AB.’
‘Why would he say that, especially when he said he’s just arrived at the crime scene?’
Akhil smiled. ‘Unless he has read 4.50 and connected it with Links.’
‘He never tells me what he is thinking. It is still a long shot that he’s aware of 4.50.’
‘You never know.’
Api sighed And said, ‘Now what, Akhil?’
‘Nothing. As I said, I was prepared for this and I am prepared for what happens next.’
‘Are you? And who will believe anything you say? You think the police will…’
‘I don’t want anyone to believe me. And yes, it is in my plan to make sure that I don’t go unpunished.’
‘W-what do you mean?’
‘I want a favour from you.’
‘AB’s on to you, Akhil. It is best you come with me to the guest house. Together we can make him understand.’
Akhil shook his head. ‘No, Api, no. No one needs to be made to understand.’
‘Akhil, will you listen to me for a change? We will—I will—explain it all to AB, I really will. AB can give you a patient hearing. But you need to understand, too. If those who you killed committed a crime, then you did, too. There’s no getting away form it, Akhil. We wi…’
‘Look, Api, I need this thing from you. Now either you do it or I’ll have to make do without your help.’
Api lowered her head and looked away.
‘I want you to keep all this under wraps for just a couple more days, just till this weekend. Look, no one can help it if it comes out on its own—and it might in all probability now that AB’s on to it, but it might be that he may want to hold on for a little longer just to tie all up loose ends, link all the connections. And two days is all I need. So will you please help me in this, please, Api?’
Api felt dizzy. ‘Wha-what is on your mind? What is going to happen in a couple of days?’
‘I’ll give myself up. I must, however, get to one last thing…in Batia.’
‘Batia? Where’s that? You are not going to tell me, obviously.’
‘I will. I will. I will tell you about it when I am there. I must be off tonight, to avoid being called for questioning by A B. Just tell him that you haven’t seen me since last night if he asks. I’ll contact you in two days’ time.’
‘You are off tonight?’
‘Yes, I’ll take a train—any train going that way. I have your mobile number.’
Api squeezed Akhil’s hand with firmness. ‘Can I come?’
‘What?’
‘Maybe I should have chucked it all a long time ago, Akhil, but it’s never too late…’
Akhil rubbed Api’s hand gently. ‘Yes, it is too late, Api, too late. Now go—there might be trouble on the streets soon.’
‘I don’t want to leave you, Akhil. I’ve got a bad feeling. Tell me what’s going to happen in Batia, please Akh…’
‘Look, Api, I can’t. Trust me. Now hurry.’
‘I want you to know that I understand why you did what you did. I cannot possibly absolve you, but I understand. I…’
‘Good girl. Now stop crying. Come—you have a taxi waiting?’
Api nodded.
‘Then come, let’s go…I’ll come back, you know.’
Api moved her head slowly. ‘No, you won’t, Akhil, I know you won’t.’
What was all that about, eh? Sixty years. Seventy years. Eighty. We die a thousand deaths every day anyway, don’t we? And turn into trillions of vibhuti particles. Or is it ashes? Alright, you can call it stardust.
It could have been perfect.
Almost perfect, that is. Woman meets man. They are attracted to each other. Love blossoms, they progress. He wants to set up India’s best research laboratory, study communicable diseases and she wants India to grow up and take charge. They dream separately. They dream jointly. There’s fire, there’s passion, there’s energy, devotion, dedication, a sense of necessary sacrifice and there’s hope. But above all, there is that space and that time where everything is possible. Can’t be explained by any other word except udaan—flight. Soaring comes close, but sounds imperfect.
Udaan is that coming together of space and time where the two can leap, without a net, without a belt. Their love is so binding, it sets them free. Their roots are so strong in their knowledge and in their curiosity that it gives them that push for a leap of faith. For life is exactly that—a leap of faith. When you are allowed to leap, that is.
Desperate, decisive, dainty, daunting, daring, dreadful, doleful—all rolled up in an ambition for India. So frighteningly impulsive, like the birth of a star, an unknown trajectory. The only way it can ever be. This was not an atlas; it was a compass called heart and for them the only direction it pointed was upwards.
What happened then, what the hell happened? Life, that’s what. Life happened. It just slipped in. Without a warning, quietly, in all its fury. Gates clanked into place, fences were erected, doors closed, windows shut, and so did all the nine entry points of life—nostrils, eyes, ears, nabhi and the two unmentionables. Vital when we live. Instant obsolescence when we leave our body.
Then life also died. It decided that it wanted to die because something was choking it, strangling it. It had been decided that life had to be dead, by hook or crook. Life took itself into its own hands and preponed its death. Took its own life. Akaala mrityu does not depend on God. You can also kill yourself. What has suicide got to do with our creator?
Then life happens differently. We fail in our exams, we cannot afford to go to school, we miss the bus, we are forced to eat nothing. We are forced to live a life of poverty. We are forced to live a life of privilege. We are forced to succeed, forced to fall by the wayside. When life takes over in all its fury, we can stop neither wind, nor water, nor fire, nor earth. When life takes over, we are not even a speck in time. But we think about that speck, think about it all the time. We are overwhelmed by the littleness, the pettiness, the absurd and the cunning. The observer and the observed become one, they merge.
Aham Brahmasmi. What? Tat tvam asi. What? So no difference between Chamaar and Iyengar, then. So why all this food poisoning?
What did you say? Stream of consciousness? If we are consciousness, then why can’t we be the river, the fountain, the ocean of knowledge and a space of peace? Life is a conscious battle; the Bhagavad Gita is a book for the warrior, for the seeker. It is about war, a just war, the story of war within in our body which is the dharmakshetra and the kurukshetra. Which one do you choose? To kill is also your dharma but you cannot decide how and where. That is not the unknown. That is the known. Karma is a calculation, a very precise calculation, an inexorable rolling and re-rolling of time and action—timely action.
You have to be blessed to encounter evil, otherwise you will not be able to seek the knowledge that will set you free. You have to be ready for the opportunity that disguises itself—good and bad, wanted and unwanted. Being unprepared will be unforgivable. The study of the strike is as demanding as the strike itself. Arjun, about to let go of the arrow, is that perfection that we strive for in our search for freedom from disease. It must make sense, it has to. All else is ordinary.
Is tha
t reasonable? Who is free—the arrow or Arjuna? The one who has been set free, or the one who has set free? The unreasonable is also part of reason. The unwanted is also part of the wanted, the despised is also the part of the desired. Such is the tragedy and the glory, such is the miracle of what we call life. What is truth without knowledge and what is knowledge without its completing corollary in death? Death of a body, not death of consciousness, completeness.
Satyam, Gnyanam, Anantam, Brahman. Millions of years of coding and decoding, a book on a war, a lecture on a battlefield, a call to kill one’s own, a right to kill evil. Dharma. Knowledge is not only power, it is also compassion, laughter, love, mirth. Power that is binding is powerless. We spend entire lifetimes looking for directions when the one direction we should accept, evades us—the direction of simplicity, the path to nowhere. Where are we headed? Into a rat hole? Congratulations, we are bound to find more rats there. Api took Akhil with her too down that road. Who was captured by whom here? How can a free soul be captured? Was it all a lie?
Philosophy is the science of reality. It must not be misconstrued as being scholastic, religious, theological or mysterious. This is a truth without a second. This truth has no other version.
Tat tvam asi—you are it. You are the truth. You are advaita—there is no other. Akhil and Aparajita lived that for a fleeting second. In this janma. For it was it.
Aneka Janma Sampraapta Karma Bandha Vidaahiné
Atma Gnyanam Pradaaneya, Tasmai Sri Gurave Namaha
Could it be that Akhil and Api had freed themselves from the cycle of karma accumulated over several lives and were truly free? A freedom that was the envy of those around? Nah. Api was the arranger in this life. She derailed everyone—some consciously, subconsciously. Several lives crashed together.
The Rat Eater Page 35