And Freedom Shall Be Mine

He sat there, motionless and still, waiting for the clocks to strike twelve. At midnight, freedom would be his.

The watch-light from the central tower beamed slowly in circles around the five wings of 498 solitary cells that radiated from the tower, casting long and creepy shadows across the cellular jail.

From one end of the wing in which he was put in, he could hear the distant and broken voice booming from the transistor radio.

“Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom… ”

The familiar voice of Jawaharlal Nehru being broadcast by All India Radio echoed in the empty corridors that adjoined the cells and lead up to the central tower.

Outside, he could hear a couple of guards marching up and down the corridor, keeping a tight watch on the prisoners.

Ram Sharan managed a magnanimous smile. His mind and heart glowed with happiness at the thought of waking up to a new dawn, a free dawn.

Yet, he winced at the irony of it all.

He was one among the 134 prisoners sentenced to be hanged till death, and his turn would be coming up at 4:25 am on the 15^th of August, 1947.

He had heard news that although documents that contained orders of all political prisoners to be freed had been sent by the central command to all jails across the country, they had not yet reached this cellular jail housed on a remote island due to stormy weather conditions.

The jailor, taking advantage of this misfortune, had ordered that until the papers reached his prison, all executions would be carried out as pre-ordained.

The prisoners had revolted against this, but as in the past, the prison guards had managed to silence them with the use of excessive force and inhuman methods.

4:29 am, 15^th August, 1947

As the noose around his neck tightened its grip further, images of himself marching along with Gandhi on the route to Dandi flashed in his mind, along with memories of several revolts and protests in which he had been a part of with such leaders like Nehru , Bose , Sardar Patel and Savarkar.

As the nation arose to a beautiful orange sun that brought along with it the first rays of a free India, Ram Sharan breathed his last, as he set foot into a freedom of different kind.

Romancing the Moon

Tonight, it was her turn to kiss him goodnight. She looked up into the midnight sky lovingly, her deep gaze fixed on her beautiful lover. He was in full luminance tonight, his easy charm making her heart flutter, his lingering smile making her insides melt, his romantic serenade embellishing the night sky.

Sounds of hordes of nocturnal creatures making merry in the dead of the night echoed through the empty farms. As she walked the fertile earth, she could feel swarms of locusts buzzing past her. Oops… a lonely cricket just got crushed under her feet. “Nothing is going to distract me from him, not tonight” , she said aloud to herself.

She walked up slowly to the lone oak tree in the middle of the farm. She loved to rest underneath the tree in the hot afternoons, taking in the cool shade that it offered. At this time of the night, even to her, it looked a trifle scary – with its myriad little branches spread out against the night sky like the hundred arms of a flying witch, its main trunk looming large over her like the broom on which the witch roamed the skies. She stopped a good ten yards in front of the tree, regained her composure and made sure her heart was beating at a normal pace before finally making herself comfortable under one of its branches.

She liked to play this little game sometimes. Through the intricate weaving of the leaves, she could catch fleeting glimpses of her lover in the sky. She craned her neck to and fro as the leaves and the clouds masked and unmasked her lover, creating a delicate play of shadow and light. She loved it when a beam of light directly poured into her eyes; for that was when their gaze met each other and that was when she always felt herself to be truly in love with him. At those moments, she felt she could do anything for him. Roam the lands forever in search of him, wait for a hundred suns to pass before he finally appeared, or walk till the ends of the earth just to see a glimpse of him.

Somewhere far in the distance, she could hear gypsies play the songs of eternal love and she could see their dancing silhouettes against burning bonfires. The soft tunes of crude guitars and make-shift clarinets, coupled with their rhythmic chanting was starting to put her in a bit of a trance. She couldn’t resist singing along herself, her mellow voice peppering the gypsies’ songs every now and then. She looked up, cajoling her lover to join her for a little round of a slow tango. She loved to dance, but she hated dancing alone. Whenever she felt her body give in to the rhythm and the beats, she wanted him to hold her, lead her into a night of a slow, intimate dance where words held no meaning. The way they touched told them how they felt, and their passion was conveyed through nothing but their eyes.

Tonight, he seemed to be in a playful mood. He was being completely chivalrous, following her with a spot-light like beam wherever she went. He was being naughty, focusing on the curves on her body and making her feel embarrassed. He was being romantic, neatly shuffling the stars around him to make them resemble her face.

And he was being defiant. It was almost 4:45 am now, and he was refusing to go. He was holding his own against his brighter cousin, who was slowly beginning to fill the sky with a radiant orange hue. It was apparent that just like her, he didn’t want this night to end. He didn’t want the day to ever come back. He wasn’t ready to be alone, without her, for another 16 hours. He didn’t want to feel that emptiness again. He felt complete, with her.

The lovers watched in sadness, as the orange tyrant slowly took over the early morning sky. As his slight silvery beams could no longer match up to the harsh orange sky, he was slowly beginning to fade away into the horizon. She watched in pain, as she could do nothing to hold on to him, nothing to prevent him from going away.

She’d have to wait, wait for another 16 hours, wait for another night to fall in the countryside, in order to see him again. As the day broke and she could see him no more, she sat up from her seat underneath the oak branch, let a little salty drop of agony flow down from her eyes onto her cheeks, looked up in the sky with eyes that reeked of anger and howled wildly at the orange tyrant.

She then turned back on all her four legs and walked back into the woods to rejoin her pack of wolves.

Leela Talkies

Vijayprakash was a name that far belied his age. At just 11, young Vijayprakash was bubbling with life and overflowing with energy. His mind was ripe with ideas and filled with the magical realism that the world of Hindi cinema offered.

It was entirely another matter that he was Vijay “the boot polishwala”, the way the locals referred to him. For it was his profession, his father’s profession, the profession of his entire lineage.

Dressed in rejected clothes that one of his father’s customers had given him – clothes that had now turned into rags- Vijay was now sitting on the edge of the footpath that lined Marine Drive. It was almost 9:30 in the night now. His mind was struggling to find a balance between the harsh reality of his life and the wondrous world of his dreams.

It was only last year that his father had taken ill, a lung condition caused by the incessant inhaling of smoke that emanated from the factory behind which their hut was built. Vijayprakash, at the age of 10, was forced to take over his father’s work. His mother had given him a slice of hard brun, along with some tasteless chai , wiped his face with a dirty cloth dipped in some left-over soap water and sent him on his way to work.

“Bring back at least half of what your father brought home everyday”, she warned young Vijay.

And so Vijay would roam the streets each day, armed with a torn bag that held his father’s precious belongings - a couple of shoe polish dabbas that held the shine in various colors, a few weather-beaten brushes that his father had used for more than 25 years, a piece of white cloth that had become black by its continuous use of shining dirty shoes.

On his brighter days, his mother would sometimes pack in a few dry rotis filled with coarse sugar. On others, she would say to him , “Eat a couple of vada-pavs if you earn more than what you are supposed to bring back home”.

He roamed the local trains, the footpaths, the bus depots, the eateries outside busy offices, all in the search for a few people who’d like to see a shine on their shoes. Not even a handful would show interest, most often treating him like a beggar, shooing him away. On his luckier days, he would manage to find about 10-15 people who’d offer him 2 rupees per shoe. They’d ask him to be careful while shining the shoes, not wanting his soot-covered fingers to touch their clean skin. He felt like an outcast, an unwanted element of the society that no one cared about.

His only source of escape from the harsh realities that confronted him each day was Uncle Ram Chaubey’s cinema hall. Located in a seedy area of the city, Leela Talkies was long forgotten as one of those obsolete buildings in the city’s by-lanes. Its owner, Ramprasad Chaubey was an honest man, a clean man. While most of the theaters in the vicinity aired pirated adult films, Chaubey had stood his ground and stuck to airing old Hindi films like Deewar and Sholay, Ram aur Shyam and Madhumati. He had few patrons, but he was happy with his inner self for not giving in to the color of money.

Little Vijayprakash had stuck up a friendship with his ‘Uncle’ Chaubey, one of his first few customers. Chaubey had always liked the little kid when he’d clung onto to his father’s hips on some of his boot-polish rounds. Now, he took a genuine liking to the boy, and sensing his interest in films, would allow the little boy to sneak into the projector room and watch movies from there.

It was earlier during the day that Uncle Chaubey had allowed him to watch a re-run of his favourite movie “Deewar” for the 37^th time.

Little Vijayprakash’s mind went back to his favorite moment from the film.

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“Main aaj bhi faike hue paise nahi uthata , Davar saab’ , a heavy voice boomed in the theatre’s outdated speaker system. Vijay, the character played by Amitabh Bacchan, the entire country’s demi-god through the late 70’s , was on screen, a determined look on his face, his dialogue referring to fact that he still wouldn’t pick up money that was thrown at him, just like he had refused to do so several years back , when he shined shoes on the streets of Bombay.

Little Vijay looked at Uncle Chaubey, a wide smile pasted across his face, his eyes having the same determination that his namesake had displayed on screen. Chaubey knew that this was the kid’s favorite scene, among all the movies he’d seen. He wondered at the striking similarity of the kid’s life to what he was seeing on screen. He smiled back at young Vijayprakash.

It was 8 pm when the movie finished, as little Vijay realized that in his craze for the movies, he’d not collected enough money to take back home to his mother. He’d have to work extra hard for a couple of hours if he was to please her and avoid her canings.

Back on the streets, he scavenged for potential customers, often begging them to let him shine their shoes and chappals. He remembered the ‘sweet spot’ where his father used to sit along the footpath on Marine Drive , a place his father termed ‘lucky’ as it brought in the maximum money.

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He was sitting there now, impatient but desperate, hoping for a few more customers to fulfill his day’s quota. His face lit up as he saw a man in his forties coming by. Dressed in a suit and wearing expensive shoes, the expression on his hardened face suggested he was in a hurry to go somewhere. Vijay saw his gesture ordering him for a quick shine.

Vijay, happy to earn four more rupees, took out his box of polish and started brushing the man’s shoes. As he was about to do his final round of polishing, the man suddenly withdrew his feet from underneath Vijay’s brush, took out a 5 rupee coin from his trousers’ pocket , threw it on the ground in front of Vijay, turned around and walked away in a hurry.

The scene from this favorite movie flashed in young Vijayprakash’s mind. Amitabh Bacchan. Vijay. Daavar. “Main aab bhi faike hue paise nahi uthata”

Little Vijay looked up at the silhouette of the man disappearing into the crowd , his eyes filled with conflicting emotions of gratitude and anger, happiness and despair , his lips quivering, his insides wanting to yell “Main faike hue paise nahi uthata saab” in the voice of his demi-god.

Faced with the reality of the broken footpath staring back at him, he somehow managed to get a hold of himself. He picked up the small 5 rupee coin from the pile of garbage that it had rolled on to, cleaned the coin with his boot-polish cloth, put it into his shirt’s pocket and sat back onto the footpath.

He counted the coins collected in his pocket so far, managed to fake happiness at having earned enough for the day and walked back home thinking of the smile he might see on his mother’s face.

As he followed the overflowing drains that that led to his little hut, his favorite scene replayed again and again in his malleable mind.

“Main aaj bhi faike hue paise nahi uthata , Daavar saab” .

Arthur "Vishnu" Dent

I was just going through some write-ups on the Mahabharata and came across these two rather interesting characters , Jaya and Vijaya , who were Lord Vishnu’s dwarapalakas (gatekeepers). Apparently, when a quartet of sages came to visit Lord Vishnu in the guise of little children, Jaya and Vijaya refused to let them meet Vishnu, thereby evoking their anger and eventual curse that they be born as mortals and roam Bhuloka(Earth) in their next seven reincarnations.

Lord Vishnu eventually met with the sages and overwhelmed by his hospitality, the sages requested Vishnu to decide the punishment for his gatekeepers himself. The Lord, although disappointed at the lack of judgement on the part of his gatekeepers, told them that he couldn’t take back the sages’ curse, but could give them an alternative option of being reborn three times as powerful beings, albeit as sworn enemies of Lord Vishnu, and die each time at the hands of the Lord himself.

And thus, the gatekeepers ,who chose this option given by Vishnu as they couldn’t bear being apart from their Lord for seven lives, were reincarnated in three different Yugas as demons – as Hiranyaksha and Hiranyakashipu in Krita Yuga in their first life, as Ravana and Kumbhakarna in Treta Yuga in their second life, and as Dantavakra and Shishupala in Dwapara Yuga in their third life.

In each Yuga, Lord Vishnu appears as one of his avatars and is responsible for the death of Jaya and Vijaya ( Varaha (boar avatar) saving the Earth from Hiranyaksha ,Narasimha slaying Hiranyakashipu by tearing apart his stomach at twilight, Rama defeating Ravana and Kumbhakarna during the course of Ramayana and finally Krishna killing Dantavakra and Shishupala during the course of Mahabharata ).

In the Kali Yug, Jaya and Vijaya are freed of their curse and now stand as guards to Lord Vishnu at his abode in Vaikuntha.

I don’t know how, but one of the sleeping threads in my mind was suddenly woken up once I went through Jaya-Vijaya’s story! Now, this thread was completely unrelated and in no way concering the Mahabharata!

It concerns a classic work of fiction though, H2G2( the absolutely fantabulously imaginative The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams).

There’s a minor character called Agrajag (what a horrible name to have!). Agrajag is a piteous creature that is continually reincarnated throughout the timeline of the book and is killed unknowingly by Arthur Dent ( the novel’s protagonist, who’s on a wild ride through the galaxy because his alien friend Ford Prefect helped him hitchhike his way on the Vogon ship when the Earth was about to be destroyed to make way for a hyperspace bypass(!), and then onto the Heart of Gold, the ship hijacked by the crazy guy with two heads and the self-proclaimed President of the Galaxy- Zaphod Beeblebrox) in each lifetime.

Agrajag is first killed by Arthur on pre-historic earth, when he was born as a rabbit. Arthur killed him for breakfast and fashioned his skin into a pouch, which is then used to swat a fly (who’s again Agrajag!). Agrajag is killed again , as a old man who dies of a heart attack, on seeing Arthur and Ford materialise out of thin air in the middle of Lord’s cricket ground!

Another time, due to an act involving Arthur, Agrajag comes into existence miles above the planet Magrethea, as a bowl of petunias (a type of flowering plant), only to begin falling and die, having enough time to think – ‘Oh no, not again’!.

Agrajag has also reincarnated as a flea (who Arthur picked out of his hair), as an oyster (whom Arthur ate alive) , as a cow (whom Arthur had a fillet of at The Restaurant at the End of the Universe) among other incarnations!

He eventually builds a Cathedral of Hate for Arthur, planning to kill him there. However, a little mistake on the part of Agrajag is that he mentions “Stavromula Beta” , where Arthur ducks to avoid an assasin , and the bullet hits Agrajag instead! Arthur argues with Agrajag that since he’s never been to planet “Stavromula Beta” , it is impossible that Agarajag died at his hands there, thereby making it clear that Agrajag has brought him to the Cathedral of Hate too early and it is logically impossible for Agrajag to kill him now!

Agrajag proceeds to kill him anyway, but dies again at the hands of Arthur, who’s trying to defend himself!

During the course of the book, Arthur ducks in a club in London called ‘Beta’ (who’s owner is Stavro Mueller) to avoid a bullet, and it hits the person behind him, who else, but Agarajag!

What fascinated me was the similarity in theme in these unrelated texts. Reincarnations of a person (or creature) in each era, only to be killed by the same man (or a God , for that matter!) in each incarnation.

I wonder who cursed Agrajag!!