How the World Came to Me [8]

When did I feel the first stirrings of thought in me? Who or what first led me into a world of experience within me? Among people there was Baba and among things there were just too many. Baba won’t mind spending a weekend making a bow and a quiver full of arrows for me. I had those first at the age of four. Thus armed by him, I was readied to make forays into a world of enchantment. I am glad that since then the gossamer drape of enchantment around the world has not been ripped entirely for my eyes.

The walks with Baba helped too. Those resulted in a lively exchange of ideas. Then we were living in a small town in Assam. Our house was on the outskirts of it. We will walk into the town to a newsstand and buy comics. Generally, it will be a Phantom or a Mandrake or the latest issue of Amar Chitra Katha. We bought those in Bengali, they used to come out in translation then. Perhaps, Baba preferred that I listen to those tales of heroism and magic in our own tongue and, may be, learn to imagine in it too. Upon our return, in the evening, he read those out to me. We avidly discussed every twist and turn in the plot. Even when not identified, I learnt to recognize the villain of the tale pretty early. “He is the Bad guy,” I will say, putting my finger on the illustration of the likely villain. “Hmm, seems that he is,” Baba will nod gravely. Phantom’s Dengali became real to me. It remains almost real still. I pestered him endlessly to re-read each comic countless times. The result was that he took to the practice of dramatizing them, recording the dialogues on our tape recorder. Thus, besides the world I was born in, Dengali was the first foreign land revealed to me.

What was it about the Phantom I liked? Hooded and masked, he rode a giant white stallion and was followed by his faithful wolf-dog. He lived in a cave the shape of a skull. He even had a pet stegosaurus on a far-away islet. Like all heroes he was all rippling muscles and sinews. But he was still all too human. Immortal to all but those closest to him, he was stalked by death every moment. The Phantom was a god who was very human. His flesh bled, suffered and died like ours. And yet he lived on as a myth and a man. When a Phantom died he was succeeded by his son who became the new Phantom donning the hood and the mask. Thus, this line of heroes lived a vow their forebear had taken four-hundred years ago.

It was the sixteenth century and Kit Walker was journeying to the new world. His ship was attacked by the pirates of the coast of Dengali. They torched the ship and put to the sword everyone aboard. Kit was the only one to survive. Kindly providence bade the sea wash him ashore. When he came to he swore that he and his descendents will fight to free the world of evil and villains.

The meaning of evil and villainy was still simple enough for me. Evil was when you were not bought a comics, villainy was when someone snatched your candy. They caused a catch in the throat and made the eyes well up. I understood perfectly well that the Phantom should want such ugly things removed. One has to live a while to realize that often evil and villainy come twined with so much else that it is hard to tell them apart. But I did not know this then and was better for it. I think, even as a four year old I faintly experienced the romance of Phantom’s beginnings and the epic quality of his striving. And, of course, I liked Dengali.

A post-colonial scholar will not like the place. Dengali was meant to be an African country and was inhabited by far too many stereotypes. Western gaze is the only continent this country could have belonged to. But I feel now that the creator Lee Falk routed this gaze through the store of gentle decency in him. The ‘natives’ were indeed types, the Bandar pygmies armed with poison arrows, the Llongo, the Mori who unquestioningly accepted Phantom’s immortality. But they were also noble and incorruptible. It was the white man who was generally the villain in the Phantom tales. But I have felt and known all this only after living and growing a while. When I was four Dengali was merely the land of the incredible. It was the country I wanted to visit. Actually, it was where I would have liked to grow up.

Dengali had a little of every continent and, in fact, of age. It resembled Zimbabwe and South Africa in having a white minority. To its east lay a mysterious country simply referred to as the ‘Eastern Dark.’ In their attire and ways its people corresponded to the medieval Arabs. The denizens of ‘Eastern Dark’ were particularly evil slave traders. Somewhere to the north of Dengali were the ‘misty mountains.’ This land was ruled by scores of princes. Today, they impress me as Lee Falk’s adaptation of the colonial era Indian princes. Dengali itself was a tapestry of the prosaic and the fantastical. This country had the most modern of cities. For an African country Dengali’s cities looked like the American cities far too much. They were surrounded by unbroken forests where lived the Llongo, the Mori and so many other tribes. Somewhere deep inside them stood the ‘Phantom Peak.’ Long ago, the black emperor Junkar had had it chiseled in the likeness of the Phantom’s countenance. It was a generous emperor’s gift to a friend. The ‘little people’ lived very far away, in the crater of a dead volcano. They grew no more than one’s thumb and dressed like the Greeks of classical antiquity. The Phantom was friends with them and their prince who was called Vlad. The Phantom kept his pet animals on an islet upon a river. This ‘Isle of Eden’ was a remarkable place where the fawn grazed by the lion unharmed. These beasts of prey had been raised by their master from cubs. Fed only on fish they had turned peaceable and harmed no one, not even the animals they otherwise preyed on in the wild. As a child, I wished very dearly to have a pet lion which will eat nothing but fish and will harm no one. It was on the ‘Isle of Eden’ that the Phantom kept Stegy, his pet stegosaurus. Stegy was kept company by two hominids, a male and a female; they were called Hzz and Hrz. I am afraid, I fail to recall who was the male of the two. But I do remember how desperately I wanted Dengali to exist. I still do.

How the World Came to Me [7]

Tope’s laughter was unalloyed. He could find an inspiration for laughter in almost everything. He and I very quickly earned some ill repute for talking in the class. We used to sit together and endlessly discussed things that were of concern to us. What, for example, could be done to make hair grow back upon Mr. Thakur’s bald pate? Should he apply cow dung on his scalp to make it more fecund? Or, for that matter, could ghosts be really spotted where our town ended and the woods began? He assured me that they indeed could be. His house was on the farthest edge of the town and he had sometimes seen them floating by in the night. As far as we were concerned, we conferred on cerebral enough matters. But by the time we were in grade three it became necessary for the teachers to make us sit on separate benches before they started the class. Mrs. Mamang and Mrs. Tiwari always took this precaution. We found this rather cruel. Not talking did not help either. For then the teachers will get jittery expecting some more serious mischief from us.

I admired Tope for the skills he possessed. The way he cycled and handled the dao made me eager to acquire these skills. Tope could cycle with his hands off the handle bar and never took a second strike of the dao to chop a bamboo in half. After all, his people are famed for their dexterity with the khukri. At the age of nine, in grade four, I managed to persuade Baba to buy me a bicycle. He was reluctant because I was absent minded and accident prone. Rarely did one set of cuts and bruises heal that I will acquire another. My knees always had a little skin missing.

My bicycle arrived one evening, the answer to some passionate prayers. It was an earth brown in color. However, I did not even yet know how to get into the saddle. But this was a small deterrent. I was determined to maintain my bicycle with sufficient spit and polish. The very next day I bought some machine oil to grease the chain and the ball bearings. Not that the brand new bicycle needed the care, but I thought why take chances with its health? Now came the more difficult part of learning to ride. I was confident that under Tope’s tutelage it is only a matter of time before I am cycling to school. Every day one hour after school was allotted to my struggle with the vehicle. I will wobble down the street, dangerously unsteady, and Tope will run after me yelling instructions. I ran into cows and I ran into people. Thankfully, I grew up in parts where both cows and people were rather gentle. The people have changed character since; fortunately, the cows have remained the same.

I made slow progress. After a few days’ struggle I learnt to get off the saddle on my own. But Tope still had to hold the bicycle steady as I mounted the saddle. Frequently, I avoided riding my bicycle into a drain by a hair’s breath. Even if Tope felt exasperation he never displayed any. He was a patient teacher. I was a lousy pupil but was fortunate to avoid any serious accidents till one fateful day.

My afternoon training sessions with Tope continued for a few months. The unsteady cyclist and his yelling teacher became a familiar sight on the street we lived on. Sometimes, some other friends too dropped in to lend some courage and confidence. Devender was one of them, another champion cyclist who rivaled Tope with the range of his skills. He had recently picked up a pup from the streets and was trying to train it. Sometimes, all of us went to our school football ground. Sharp edged rocks peeped out of the earth there and the place was not the safest for a rather inexpert cyclist. But when you are nine losing a little skin of your elbows is a small concern. So, there will be days on which a strange sight could be witnessed on the ground. The inept cyclist, his patient teacher, a pup and the lender of courage will be seen going round in circles. Seventeen years have passed since and I have realized that those willing to lend some courage are far rarer than those willing to lend some money. I am grateful to Devender that he ran in circles to lend me some.

As the days drifted by I finally learnt to ride steady. But mounting the saddle without support still eluded me. The acquisition of this crucial skill had to be postponed for some time since the exams were drawing close. We decided to suspend the training sessions for the time being and both the bicycle and the pupil retreated into the house. In the month of March as the earth awaited spring and the far away peaks thawed, we awaited the exams, our courage too melting with each passing day.

When the exams got over and the result came out I was second in the class, just as the earlier years. And just as the earlier years Ma told me that if I had read a few comics less perhaps I could have been first after all. The fuss never made any sense to me. In those days I spent the summer vacation at my maternal grandmother’s and soon it was time to leave. Though we boarded the bus at six in the morning Tope came to see me off. “You are lucky to have a friend like him,” Ma told me. I knew that I was.

When I came back a month later the rains had set in. The acacia and the flames of the forest were in bloom all over the town. They also lined the street we lived on and formed blotches of yellow and red against the often grey skies. The school was soon to reopen, yet there was no sign of Tope. The school reopened and we all took admission in the new class, yet there was no sign of Tope. One rainy morning, perhaps it was a Sunday morning because I was at home, Tope’s mother came to see Ma sobbing. Tope had run away from home. Some days later I was to run my bicycle into a truck ending my cycling for then. I rode the bicycle again many years later as an M.A. student. Tope reappeared in the town in about a year, but that makes for a different tale.

How the World Came to Me [6]

The rain did not deter us, nor did an excess of sun. We just played on. We imagined ourselves to be surrounded by cheering millions. In our imagination that jagged plot will sometimes be the Lords and sometimes the MCG. No quarters were asked for and none were given. Pride mattered a lot. While fighting for pride I also realized the stark poetry of this fight. I have been aware of this poetry since and the pain that it often entails. In a human life this pain is often.

There was a lot of physical pain too since we were chronically short of equipment. Sometimes, we managed a pair of pads and gloves which the two batsmen divided between them. Toes and fingers were bruised often. Looking back, it seems like a miracle that none of us were ever seriously hurt, though we often played with a cork ball. None of us, however, ever made it to the school team. Actually, we did not even try.

Just as the houses in the town, our school too stood on stilts. I loved and hated school, just as all boys do. I was fond of all things about it which bore no relation to the studies. I loved the flames of the forest and the gooseberry trees on the premises. I loved the knoll standing behind school and being in the goofy band my mates and I formed. Of course, I hated the studies. School meant reading things which I never wanted to read. It was no fun knowing the Latin name of an insect. It was so much better catching it and keeping it in a jar.

Even when I was very little, my parents never accompanied me to school. So, even as a six year old I walked to school on my own. Then cars were few on the streets and our little town held no threat for a child. It was less than a kilometer’s walk. I walked across the school football ground which was about a hundred meters from our house. Once I had crossed the ground, I crossed a street and will be at the gates of the school. A short enough walk it was. But when you are little that is a very long way. As far as I was concerned, I crossed a continent every day. The flames of the forest which stood on the other side seemed mired in a haze. I imagined their branches to be swaying under the breath of an unseen monster. On many days I picked up a little stick on the way. Those days I used to kill a dragon or two almost every day on the way to school. Those were hostile lands that I crossed. It rained often on the way to school. I always carried an umbrella. With the umbrella unfurled I could imagine myself a brave paratrooper landing in hostile lands. Sometimes, it served as a shield during battles with monsters and enemy soldiers. The junior classes started early. So, as a six year old I set out from home at six-thirty in the morning. The classes began at seven. In the winters it will be misty in the morning. I will not be able to see the trees and the school up yonder. Then, I will fear what if I do not find them where they were? Fortunately, they never played the trick on me. However, I would have been happy if the school did, at least once. The school never did go away. It always remained where it was.

When I was little, I always wished the Sunday to last forever. But the Sunday never did. The rest of the week did seem to last forever. Monday morning always came bearing clouds of sadness. I will be sad because sometimes school seemed to be too cruel. In the class I often sat by the window and invited trouble. I will be caught looking out and chastened with words which stung. There were teachers who struck terror in our hearts. There was Mrs. Mamang who always did. It took me many years to realize how kind she actually was.

When you sat by the window the sunshine outside beckoned. But the call had to be ignored because there were sums to be learnt. Mr. Das taught the sums to us. One day, when I was in grade one, I was telling my friend a tale – how Tarzan once ripped the belly of a giant serpent. Our squeaky voices could never escape him. He overheard me and gave me a scold. I loathed him from that day regarding him quite a philistine.

Strange trees formed a thicket behind our school. They did not bear flowers. Instead, their leaves turned crimson before dying and became flowers in their moments of death. I was told that a ghost or goblin lives in the thicket. Some of my mates even claimed to have spotted it. I regarded myself fortunate that I never did. Nevertheless, I sometimes lingered around the place gingerly during the lunch break. But I never dared to venture into the twilight beneath those trees. It could be an excellent place to conceal oneself during a game of hide and seek. But the twilight beneath those crimson leaves was just too forbidding. However, some years later when they chopped those trees down to raise our new science lab no goblin escaped from their midst. May be, it did after all. But goblins had ceased to be real to me by then and I failed to notice.

Sometimes, during a class, I will look out of the window and see the clouds tangled in the forest upon the hills. The forest will wear the clouds upon its canopy and they will gently shift shape. I never stopped marveling at the sight. Marveling, of course, had its perils because a multiplication table might escape your attention. It took me some time to learn those. The clouds distracted and the rain distracted too. So, I sometimes irritated Mrs. Partin and sometimes Mrs. Pillai. “This boy notices everything except the book in front of him,” Mrs. Pillai said to me once. Since I generally managed to be sufficiently flippant with my answers in the class, I found this to be a rather unfair observation.

I became friends with Tope in the second grade. With a name like Tope Bahadur Tamang this Gorkha boy wore his martial ancestry on his sleeve. And a true Gorkha he was. Tope was simple and guileless and could be fierce when protecting his friends. I never saw him fearing humans, or an animal for that matter. But his world was populated by multiple goblins. I do not think he quite feared them, but he definitely treated them with a nervous respect. Tope was among my very first friends.

How the World Came to Me [5]

Prenex needed a place to practice. We could not always use the school ground, because we could not always wrest it from the bigger boys. Behind our house there was a little plot of land overgrown with bushes. We decided to clear it. It was our summer vacation and there was no school to worry about. Thus, every morning a band of boys aged between thirteen and fifteen will descend upon this length of earth and raise absolute mayhem. Many of us will be armed with the dao, the short tribal sword. I had my own dao with about a twelve inch blade. I was fond of it and sharpened it every second day or so. I felt awfully brave whenever I held this weapon in my hand. We will slash at everything that came in the way, plants, bushes, little trees. The ground yielded wonderful things, once the skull of a monitor lizard. Every now and then I will do some random digging expecting to strike the remains of a lost civilisation. Sanu who shared a little of my idiocy and hopes expected the same. Of course, mostly we uncovered empty beer cans and bottles of whisky.

After about a week’s slashing and burning the plot was finally clear. To our dismay we discovered that the plot has an inclination. Once the pitch is laid, the batsman’s end was going to be almost a foot higher than the bowler’s. I must add that we bowled only from one end. So, there was no hope of the ends ever being changed and the bowlers getting a respite from their plight. Undaunted, we decided to soldier on. What if the batsmen were to enjoy a slight advantage? The good length spot had little edges of rocks sticking out of it. We bowlers could always tap the batsmen on the head if we landed the ball on the right spot. On the edge of the plot stood an acacia tree, quite old and rather tall for its kind. It seemed to me that it is slightly bemused by what it is witnessing. Nevertheless, this tree marked the boundary. Beyond it lay the street and you were out if you hit past the tree.

Every afternoon Prenex divided itself into two teams and played some passionately fought out games. I especially remember one valiant captain’s innings I played. It was a seven a side ten over game. We bowled the opposition out for forty-one. We started badly. The ever steady Lingi and not so steady James got out in quick succession while I held fort at one end. At the end of eight overs we were twenty-nine for five. Now I had to face the very irritating Raju who let out a Red-Indian like whoop every time he released the ball. Earlier, when they batted, he had hammered me for a few runs. I blocked his first two deliveries and tension mounted in our camp. I sent his other two for straight sixes which fortunately did not go past the acacia. I ran a single of the fifth ball. We had won.

I was obsessed with my bowling. As long as we kept playing on that plot I kept a count of the wickets I took. I remember that the final count was one hundred and four. I tried hard to copy the actions of my heroes. Some day I tried to bowl like Chaminda Vaas. I was the only one in our team who knew his full name - Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas. He still had not had his shoulder injury and was quite fast. Another day I will be Alan Donald and the next day Fanny De Villiars. Above the foot-board of my bed I pasted a poster of Curtly Ambrose exuding pure ferocity in full delivery stride. Above the head board I gave place to Glen McGrath. When these gentlemen retired and walked out of the arena they took away with them great chunks of my boyhood. I had a nineteen ninety three edition of the Wisden Cricketer’s Almanac I had snatched from a poor cousin. Every now and then I leafed through it for some inspiration, just as a pious man will leaf through his scriptures. Of course, I showed it off to my friends too. I eagerly awaited the issues of the Sportstar. Each issue carried a poster of the sportsperson of the week, often a cricketer. I pulled them out and tenderly filed them away. They could serve as currency if something had to be acquired from a friend. I felt a catch in the throat each time India lost a game. In those days that was often. That is perhaps why I have troublesome tonsils today.


For a change, there was one very ordinary and unheroic player I identified with one day. It was the year 1997. India was playing New Zealand in the Independence Cup. New Zealand batted first. I do not recall how much they scored. At one point during the Indian rejoinder Sachin and Ganguly were batting together. Then the ball was tossed to Simon Doull, a nondescript medium pacer I had never heard off before. He went on to bowl a disastrous five overs peppered with wide after wide, many of them consecutive. By the time he was taken off the attack he had given away fifty-two runs. The crowd was booing him and I could see on the television screen that he is teary eyed. I remembered the day when I had walked back home lonesome through a drizzle. I knew then and I know now what it is like not to be a hero, for I am not one too.

For a boy of fourteen his heroes are immortal. But today I know that no hero is. Heroes too must be middle aged men one day. One day they must take off their armor and hobble into the sunset with a sour shoulder and crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes. And this heals the ache of not being a hero or of seeing the heroes crumble. Heroes must be forgiven if they do. Heroism is but a few discrete and difficult moments. And those moments can never be forever.

One day, when we were in the middle of a game, a middle aged tribal gentleman walked into the ground stopping play. “Did you clear this plot my sons?,” he asked us. “We did sir,” we replied to the nabah. “You have done me a very good turn my sons,” he said, “it is I who owns this plot. I wanted to clear it for long but was too lazy to do so. But now that you have done it for me I can plant some ginger here.” We were left quite aghast. We could not imagine ginger growing on the pitch we had laid with so much pain and love. However, the nabah never came back to plant his ginger. Maybe, he was too lazy once again.