The most important thing in life, Bhikku, is death. I wish I could tell you more about it, but that's all I know.
-- The Diary, Date Unknown, Year Unknown.
One thinks of the strangest things at the strangest times. There was no real reason why he should have thought of Chandru that day. He was playing racketball. It was an easy game. He was much better than the other guy. He was taking it easy, trying out different things. To one ball, he played a drop shot. The ball was just about a foot from the side wall and dropping neatly. Normally, he would have smashed it low down the line, but this time, he leaned back and rolled his wrists on it. He wanted the ball to just touch the rebound wall and drop dead, but he had hit it too softly. The ball dropped short.
That was when he thought of Chandru. Something about that shot's slyness reminded him of Chandru playing table tennis, back when they were in the hostel. Chandru had never been quick at TT. His reflexes were poor, and he couldn't hit powerfully and accurately like Barra or Yoko. But Chandru could put vicious spin on the ball. He would wait for the ball, bend back, and with a theatrical crack of the wrist, send the ball slowly sailing across the net, where it would touch the table and turn square. It was fun to watch him play the quicker guys, a bit like watching Ramesh Krishnan play against the big boys of world tennis. You knew Chandru, like Ramesh, would ultimately lose; but you felt vaguely happy every time he won a point.
He forgot about Chandru almost immediately. He finished his game, and had dinner with his racketball partner. They didn't know each other very well. It was one of those "hang-out" type acquaintances. They chatted about work, industry trends and such. The conversation went on longer than usual. After a while, they left. He started driving home, and lazily thought of Chandru again. The memories flooded back.
He had never really liked Chandru. They had been too similar--both of them bright, witty, aggressive, ultra-competitive. Obviously, there was a rivalry. He often compared himself against Chandru. He knew he was fat and clumsy and diffident, while Chandru was lean and smooth and confident. But he would tell himself that at least he was a nice guy, while Chandru was a bit of a cut-throat. Then he would blush at the absurdity of the comparison.
It was true, nevertheless. Chandru could be incredibly petty at times. Sometime in the first year, he had taken his roommate's notes and gone home for the weekend. There was a big exam on Monday morning. His roommate was livid. Of course, that was childish, and Chandru himself didn't do such things later on. However, it was part of a pattern. Chandru wasn't a cynic and he acknowledged the difference between right and wrong. Yet he had a streak of ruthlessness in him, which could override everything else. It kept getting refined with time, as it usually does among thoughtful, successful people. But it was there.
At the same time, there was a charm about Chandru. He would come to you after the exam, grin and say, "Enna King? Cracked it, huh? Picchi Gaawwwd". You knew that he was being all jaunty because he had done well himself. You knew that he would hate it if you scored more than him. And yet, you couldn't help letting out a warm smile. Chandru always set the group's slang. In the third year, everyone called everyone else "King". Chandru started it. If you wanted to say somebody was really good at something, you said he was "Dhair, dhair, dhair". Chandru had come up with the phrase.
Looking back, he thought, Chandru was a bit like one of the characters in War and Peace. He had forgotten the name, something beginning with D. Maybe Denisov. Denisov was a bastard, but he did the most heroic things. Everybody liked him, though they knew he would kill them if he had to. Suddenly, he realized that he was trying to understand a flesh-and-blood person he knew, by comparing him with a fictional character from a half-forgotten novel. "Nerd," he muttered to himself, smiling and shaking his head.
He thought again of Chandru. He couldn't remember the last time they had met. Must have been at the graduation, though he didn't remember it. They had talked a few times after that. But it had slowly fallen off.
News about Chandru came in every now and then. Peeku met him once in some restaurant, two years after they had graduated. Chandru was attending some conference. His research had hit a snag. He was morose. The next year, Yoko visited Chandru. His research was going great now. He was his old bubbly self. Yoko said Chandru had put on a little weight. He was now a "Tamil mama". Didn't like people swearing and stuff. He was also "big-time into artsy movies." The next year, Chandru graduated, the second in their batch to finish up. He got placed in some big company. Mandu, while announcing the news, had said, "King dhair-dhair-dhair nu uttu kattiruchu". He wanted to call Chandru or e-mail him, but he didn't. The next year, he himself was preparing to graduate. He was busy, so he couldn't respond to Chandru's engagement announcement. It was something along the usual lines--family friend, know each other well, she is also an engineer, common tastes, decided to tie the knot, etc, etc. The style seemed somehow subdued. Not quite Chandru's style, but then he had probably changed a lot.
Four months later, Yoko sent an e-mail on the e-group: Chandru was dead. He had been killed in a road accident. Hit-and-run. His wedding was supposed to have been a week later. The whole group was shocked. People talked to each other again.
"Can't believe it, man. He was on top of his game. Suddenly, this."
"Think of his parents, man. How proud they must have been. Dr. Chandru, working in a top company. About to be married. And then, one day, a phone call. It's over. I think he has a brother. Must be terrible for the family, man."
"I spoke to him just last month, babu. He was so buoyant. Came up with his usual jokes. We were discussing the old days. He was doing his classic Buttocks imitation." (Buttocks = Prof. Bhattacharya)
"I knew his fiance'. Nalla ponnu, da. She was looking forward to the wedding so much. This is cruel."
The more sentimental ones said, "Puts life in perspective, man. I mean, we are worrying about this or that. And then something like this comes along and you learn to treasure life itself."
After a while, life caught up with everyone. They moved on. Nobody talked about it much, but he was sure they all thought about Chandru every now and then. Out of the blue. Just like he was doing now.
He felt vaguely that there was something deep in it, something profound. If only he could sit down and think it through, it would all make sense. Here he was, alone and preoccupied in a world crowded with lonely preoccupied people. He wasn't unhappy, but he wasn't happy either. Life meanders along, as life usually does. Then suddenly something reminds one that there is death, too. The death of the old doesn't cut so deep. It doesn't bother the young, because the young don't really, deep down think they will grow old. Everyone knows they will age, of course. But it is like some famine in Africa. One might intellectually grieve for it and donate some money to the UNICEF, but one doesn't feel it, deep in one's bones. But the death of the young is a rude shock. It makes the whole thing more immediate. Or maybe, it is just that one feels strongly for the death of anyone with whom one can identify. Maybe the old feel the death of their own peers just as strongly.
Anyway, what did it all mean? Chandru and he, what were they to each other? Chance had thrown them together. Then they had gone their separate ways. And now as he thought of Chandru, all he had was an old image, like some childhood photograph. Chandru had probably changed completely since their college days. Why, he himself had changed completely. Or had he? Does one really change? Was there a thread running through his life, common to the insecure teenager he was, and the confident, somewhat unfeeling, man he had become? What was it? Was it the soul? Did it then stay unchanged through lives?
And what about Chandru's family? How did they take the blow? How often did they feel the loss? Was it with them always? Somehow, he felt, that was the key. Not to let death shake one up like a storm and pass by soon, but for it to be ever-present. If death were to truly stay with one, then one's life would be different. Each moment would take on some deep meaning, because one would be aware of the alternative, the terrible void.
He got home, showered and switched on the TV. Tennis. He started watching, with a vague heaviness inside him. After a while, he got into the game. FedEx was playing beautifully that night.
-- The Diary, Date Unknown, Year Unknown.
One thinks of the strangest things at the strangest times. There was no real reason why he should have thought of Chandru that day. He was playing racketball. It was an easy game. He was much better than the other guy. He was taking it easy, trying out different things. To one ball, he played a drop shot. The ball was just about a foot from the side wall and dropping neatly. Normally, he would have smashed it low down the line, but this time, he leaned back and rolled his wrists on it. He wanted the ball to just touch the rebound wall and drop dead, but he had hit it too softly. The ball dropped short.
That was when he thought of Chandru. Something about that shot's slyness reminded him of Chandru playing table tennis, back when they were in the hostel. Chandru had never been quick at TT. His reflexes were poor, and he couldn't hit powerfully and accurately like Barra or Yoko. But Chandru could put vicious spin on the ball. He would wait for the ball, bend back, and with a theatrical crack of the wrist, send the ball slowly sailing across the net, where it would touch the table and turn square. It was fun to watch him play the quicker guys, a bit like watching Ramesh Krishnan play against the big boys of world tennis. You knew Chandru, like Ramesh, would ultimately lose; but you felt vaguely happy every time he won a point.
He forgot about Chandru almost immediately. He finished his game, and had dinner with his racketball partner. They didn't know each other very well. It was one of those "hang-out" type acquaintances. They chatted about work, industry trends and such. The conversation went on longer than usual. After a while, they left. He started driving home, and lazily thought of Chandru again. The memories flooded back.
He had never really liked Chandru. They had been too similar--both of them bright, witty, aggressive, ultra-competitive. Obviously, there was a rivalry. He often compared himself against Chandru. He knew he was fat and clumsy and diffident, while Chandru was lean and smooth and confident. But he would tell himself that at least he was a nice guy, while Chandru was a bit of a cut-throat. Then he would blush at the absurdity of the comparison.
It was true, nevertheless. Chandru could be incredibly petty at times. Sometime in the first year, he had taken his roommate's notes and gone home for the weekend. There was a big exam on Monday morning. His roommate was livid. Of course, that was childish, and Chandru himself didn't do such things later on. However, it was part of a pattern. Chandru wasn't a cynic and he acknowledged the difference between right and wrong. Yet he had a streak of ruthlessness in him, which could override everything else. It kept getting refined with time, as it usually does among thoughtful, successful people. But it was there.
At the same time, there was a charm about Chandru. He would come to you after the exam, grin and say, "Enna King? Cracked it, huh? Picchi Gaawwwd". You knew that he was being all jaunty because he had done well himself. You knew that he would hate it if you scored more than him. And yet, you couldn't help letting out a warm smile. Chandru always set the group's slang. In the third year, everyone called everyone else "King". Chandru started it. If you wanted to say somebody was really good at something, you said he was "Dhair, dhair, dhair". Chandru had come up with the phrase.
Looking back, he thought, Chandru was a bit like one of the characters in War and Peace. He had forgotten the name, something beginning with D. Maybe Denisov. Denisov was a bastard, but he did the most heroic things. Everybody liked him, though they knew he would kill them if he had to. Suddenly, he realized that he was trying to understand a flesh-and-blood person he knew, by comparing him with a fictional character from a half-forgotten novel. "Nerd," he muttered to himself, smiling and shaking his head.
He thought again of Chandru. He couldn't remember the last time they had met. Must have been at the graduation, though he didn't remember it. They had talked a few times after that. But it had slowly fallen off.
News about Chandru came in every now and then. Peeku met him once in some restaurant, two years after they had graduated. Chandru was attending some conference. His research had hit a snag. He was morose. The next year, Yoko visited Chandru. His research was going great now. He was his old bubbly self. Yoko said Chandru had put on a little weight. He was now a "Tamil mama". Didn't like people swearing and stuff. He was also "big-time into artsy movies." The next year, Chandru graduated, the second in their batch to finish up. He got placed in some big company. Mandu, while announcing the news, had said, "King dhair-dhair-dhair nu uttu kattiruchu". He wanted to call Chandru or e-mail him, but he didn't. The next year, he himself was preparing to graduate. He was busy, so he couldn't respond to Chandru's engagement announcement. It was something along the usual lines--family friend, know each other well, she is also an engineer, common tastes, decided to tie the knot, etc, etc. The style seemed somehow subdued. Not quite Chandru's style, but then he had probably changed a lot.
Four months later, Yoko sent an e-mail on the e-group: Chandru was dead. He had been killed in a road accident. Hit-and-run. His wedding was supposed to have been a week later. The whole group was shocked. People talked to each other again.
"Can't believe it, man. He was on top of his game. Suddenly, this."
"Think of his parents, man. How proud they must have been. Dr. Chandru, working in a top company. About to be married. And then, one day, a phone call. It's over. I think he has a brother. Must be terrible for the family, man."
"I spoke to him just last month, babu. He was so buoyant. Came up with his usual jokes. We were discussing the old days. He was doing his classic Buttocks imitation." (Buttocks = Prof. Bhattacharya)
"I knew his fiance'. Nalla ponnu, da. She was looking forward to the wedding so much. This is cruel."
The more sentimental ones said, "Puts life in perspective, man. I mean, we are worrying about this or that. And then something like this comes along and you learn to treasure life itself."
After a while, life caught up with everyone. They moved on. Nobody talked about it much, but he was sure they all thought about Chandru every now and then. Out of the blue. Just like he was doing now.
He felt vaguely that there was something deep in it, something profound. If only he could sit down and think it through, it would all make sense. Here he was, alone and preoccupied in a world crowded with lonely preoccupied people. He wasn't unhappy, but he wasn't happy either. Life meanders along, as life usually does. Then suddenly something reminds one that there is death, too. The death of the old doesn't cut so deep. It doesn't bother the young, because the young don't really, deep down think they will grow old. Everyone knows they will age, of course. But it is like some famine in Africa. One might intellectually grieve for it and donate some money to the UNICEF, but one doesn't feel it, deep in one's bones. But the death of the young is a rude shock. It makes the whole thing more immediate. Or maybe, it is just that one feels strongly for the death of anyone with whom one can identify. Maybe the old feel the death of their own peers just as strongly.
Anyway, what did it all mean? Chandru and he, what were they to each other? Chance had thrown them together. Then they had gone their separate ways. And now as he thought of Chandru, all he had was an old image, like some childhood photograph. Chandru had probably changed completely since their college days. Why, he himself had changed completely. Or had he? Does one really change? Was there a thread running through his life, common to the insecure teenager he was, and the confident, somewhat unfeeling, man he had become? What was it? Was it the soul? Did it then stay unchanged through lives?
And what about Chandru's family? How did they take the blow? How often did they feel the loss? Was it with them always? Somehow, he felt, that was the key. Not to let death shake one up like a storm and pass by soon, but for it to be ever-present. If death were to truly stay with one, then one's life would be different. Each moment would take on some deep meaning, because one would be aware of the alternative, the terrible void.
He got home, showered and switched on the TV. Tennis. He started watching, with a vague heaviness inside him. After a while, he got into the game. FedEx was playing beautifully that night.
6 comments:
Another great post. Makes you think, does encountering the death of the 'young' as you say regularly make one appreciate life more? Or does it merely desensitise one so that death of the young is again as mundane as the death of the old, the famine in Africa type thing? I had a close friend die a violent death when I was in school, we were about 16, and this affected all of us a lot. But time changes people and memories fade and the effects have been pushed into the back-burner. Sometimes I'm not sure if thats a good thing or not. Your post makes me wonder about it.
@Darwin,
thanks for reading this, and sorry about your friend, particularly if my fellow tamils had anything to do with it. one of these days, your people and mine will stop killing each other. hopefully.
good luck with the job-hunt. i notice that you'd promised to murder the next person to say this. i just hope someone else said it between then and now :-)
dude.. nice stuff again.. but not your typical style i noticed.. does one really change?..niceee..and like i said you got yourself a fan!
Dear b, nice post. Death is inevitable, makes us realize that life is too short to be wasted on unworthy stuff.
No, he died via a train not a tamil. Somehow I doubt peace being on the plate anytime soon considering the current situation there!
I MIGHT have some news with regard to the job but I dont want to post about it untill I'm certain (I don't want to go 'splat' on my face if it doesn't work out). Stay tuned! And yes, plenty of people have asked inbetween then and now so you're safe:P
dI came looking for my usual share of laughs and left instead with a slightly heavy heart.
Well done.
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