Gulty
Originally published August 2008
Pleased to be of Service
Nana Patekar has reinvented himself, in an effort to keep pace with the funky new era in Indian cinema. He now flaunts snazzy t-shirts, chains and caps; in what looks like a love triangle involving Mallika Sherawat and an equally jazzy Anil Kapoor. As I watch them gyrate, I think of another time. I remember the scene from Khamoshi, where a newly born Manisha Koirala, refuses to cry. Nana Patekar and his wife, played by Seema Biswas are distraught. They are worried that their daughter is born mute and deaf like them. In his agitation Nana breaks a piece of cutlery, and the girl starts wailing. It is one of the many beautiful moments in the movie. And from an era in which Nana’s work moved me to adore his skills as an actor.
But as I think of that baby crying, I think of why babies cry when they are born. I imagine some are sad that the peace and comfort is lost. Some are suddenly struck by the fact that the world is upside down. Some are just startled by the expectations and the people around. Some are afraid of the light. I imagine I was as nonchalant then as I am today about the world. But I wasn’t. I cried. I must have wailed. But I cried because I was born with a burden. When a girl once asked me to paraphrase myself, I told her that I was born with guilt and spend my living days atoning for it. It is a great thing, guilt. It can break men. And break countries. Guilt that puts us at the center of everything that is wrong. Guilt that can drive us to inaction. To a caution and silence far greater than we must exercise. And then to some more guilt from the results. But living with that unknown and unnamed guilt can in many ways, make a good life. Guilt that does not let you hurt people. Guilt that let’s you put yourself in harm’s way, so others may be saved. Guilt that robs you of the contempt that others sometimes employ so easily when dealing with their fellow beings. Guilt that makes you a nice person, else the burden becomes unbearable.
Fishing
In the ample amounts of time I have on my hands, apart from contemplation, I have the luxury of fishing and consuming the fresh catch. Most people I know who fish, Westerners and affluent Indians lug along a giant fishing rod, exquisitely crafted bait, sturdy line and that’s all part of the fun. The little fishing I have done is with “glass wool” held by bare hands. Glass wool is a misnomer, as the line is usually nylon, and is the same line we used to cut other people’s lines when flying kites as boys. The “bait” was usually a worm we picked from the earth, or even pieces of fresh meat and chicken; attached to anything we could fashion into a hook — a cycle wheel spoke, a curtain hook, a giant earring. The pickings were slim, both in the flowing river in the town, where the bigger fish were driven away by the faeces seeking hyacinth — and the lakes besotted by detergent. And it took less than a dozen crazy attempts as a little boy to put me off the pastime. A more interesting and fun way of fishing, was what I did once, on a trek to the Liril falls. The little waterfall is tucked away in the backyard of Khandala. The original name is lost to the popularity of an ad for a lime flavored bath soap; which was incidentally how Preity Zinta shot to fame. The water that comes down from the hills around, slows down to an almost standstill; almost mocking the terrible force of the waterfall ahead that cuts rocks and can in it’s fiercest season kill. The vast amounts of water that the thirsty fall consumes means there are pockets of shallow water, which are more turbulent than the rest of the gathering. It is here that we jumped into the water, waist high. The fish are not big. And they are drawn in the current that is strong enough for them, but weak enough to leave us boys standing. And we snatch the fish with our hands. It is not easy at first. But soon we had a technique. As the current swirled around our outstretched legs, the fish would be running directly between them. And we would grab them in a sort of clapping motion that started a little below the water’s surface to avoid the splash. The fish were small. 4 inches at the most. And being fresh water fish were, hardly any meat, and a lot of bones. But as we put the sherry and hammour that we fish on the platform, into the microwave, I squirm. Mostly at my co-worker, and the owner of the catch refusing to add even a pinch of salt or any sort of condiments. I later realized that the water of the sea, which the fish was still dripping of, would suffice. But I also squirmed a little because I felt a terrible sense of guilt. That life was not right. That there wasn’t more mirth. And some of it to give away. Mirth like the day I ate the most delectable fish of my life — grilled over a sputtering fire in the forest, and flavored with joy in the absence of the salt we had forgotten. Fish, that I caught with my own bare hands.