Driver

I think that is what his name was. I can't really be sure because I haven't met him in a long time now. And when I knew him, I knew him only for a few months. Dalapathy. Yes. That was his name. Not very common, even in the heart of Tamil Nadu. He seemed a pretty nice guy. I usually found him camping outside the house waiting for my Dad to leave for work. Since I was home only during vacation from my boarding school, I was usually free and aching for company. I would sit with him on the dusty steps that snaked through the apartment building in the housing colony. He would narrate tales from his life and his village, always with a flourish and always with a glorified ending. The protagonist in his story would invariably end up as a District Collector, signifying tremendous success. To set the record straight, the position of District Collector is pretty close to the entry point for the Indian Administrative Service(IAS) trained graduates, but was and probably is held as the gold standard for the educated Indian bureaucrat - succesful, wealthy, owning a car, the works. Of course I fell for his stories, hook, line and cliched sinker. Dalapathy, he was an extremely talented guy. Sometimes, he would get invited to play cricket with us kids on holiday. Though he was pretty much the same age as the eldest of the lot, he had such strength that he would lift our best bowlers for sixers effortlessly. But he would equally effortlessly drop the bat and run when someone called him to run an errand, so we stopped inviting him. Everytime we would call him to play a different sport, and everytime he would surprise us with his skill and strength.

On many mornings, I would see him talk to my Dad on his way out of the building. My Dad would shake his head, explain something, and leave. Dalapathy would sulk on the steps. After a while, one of the ladies in the building would summon him. Next minute he would be riding his bicycle to the nearest town for the errand he was summoned for. In my language, there is word for this kind of person - edupudi, the closest literal translation of which is bits-and-pieces-man. He was probably lonely when not running an errand, for he would humour my questions and give elaborate answers. Funny thing was, I never asked him why he himself didn't try to become a district collector, given that the protagonist of every story he narrated ended up becoming one. Sometimes, when we had to drive somewhere in the evenings, my Dad would ask Dalapathy to drive the car for us. I noticed that he enjoyed driving, being in control of the car, talking to people through the window for directions, smiling to himself all the time. Sometimes he would find me watching his face on the rearview mirror and he would acknowledge it with a wink and a smile. May be he was playing the role of the district collector in his mind.

When my family decided to relocate to a big city, Dalapathy was overjoyed, though I could not understand why. He helped us with the packing, ran all the errands, offered to drive us all the way. I suspect my Dad didn't want to entrust the overnight drive to a young boy who had got his license a couple years ago. So we had an older driver driving, but Dalapathy managed to tag along, I don't remember how. At the city, he helped us unpack everything and get setup. After a few days, he was still sticking around in the city, probably with a friend, or on the street, I don't know. I found him in a morose mood one morning. He had been talking to my Dad that morning. Did my Dad say something that made him angry. I asked him. He said it was nothing. I noticed tears in his eyes. I pestered him, but he refused to say anything. After a while, he was back to his normal self. Later that day, he asked me if I wanted to ride with him on the moped. Both my parents weren't home. I knew where my brother left his moped keys. So off we went.

On the way back, he stopped at a tea shop. Over hot tea, Dalapathi sat me down and explained to me what his ambition in life was. His dream. His ultimate goal. He wanted to be a driver. A chaffaeur. Yes. Thats all he wanted to be. Thats all he had worked for all his life. All the errands, all the curt dismissals, all the waiting. To be a driver. I looked at him with wonder. I understood why he had tagged along with us to the city. The poeple in the housing colony near his village were the only ones he knew who had ties with the city. We were his passport to achieving his dream. My Dad is usually the helping kind. If someone from a village, any village, stops at his doorstep, he/she would invariably get invited in for a meal, and my Dad would try to help the person find a job, any job, in the city using his friends and connections. Dalapathy probably knew this.

That night, Dalapathy bid goodbye to my family. The next time I went home on vacation, my Mom informed me that Dalapathy had committed suicide a few days after he had left us and gone back home.

All he ever wanted to be. A driver.

Ramani mama

I've hardly spoken to him. Actually, he didn't seem the chatty type. I met him for the first time when his son-in-law introduced me to him, rather formally. His reaction - a glance, a nod, then back to work. I was just that little bit annoyed. But why should I expect an elderly gentlement retired from a busy life as an executive pay any attention to a kid less than half his age. I let it be.

My encounter with Ramani mama continued, however, in the third person. I knew both of his daughters, and I heard stories from them involving him once in a while. The fuzzy picture of Ramani mama I had in my mind was getting more detail by the day. Ramani mama's reactions to everyday things that happen in every Indian middle class family were often contradictory to what I'm used to hearing about people his age. He was not ostentatious, his pride in his achievements were legendary, and he was idealistic to the point where some would percieve him to be headstrong, but he seemed to have a heart of gold. Somehow, the image of the person I had met did not merge with the image of the person in my head. How can a short-tempered person seemingly so full of himself be kind-hearted and soft inside?

It was, however, when I heard the story of his childhood that the picture of Ramani mama took shape. Ramani mama was born into an affluent rural family in TamilNadu. His father was a farmer who wanted to venture into business, which apparently he was not very good at. Slowly his ventures eroded the family wealth. So much so that, at one point, they had to sell the family properties and move to the city of Madras, now Chennai. His father's attempts at establishing a stable income for the family were not fruitful. Somehow a decision was made by the family that one of the seven children should be sent to an orphanage. And Ramani mama was the chosen child. As a pre-teen, Ramani mama was sent to an orphanage run by the Ramakrishna Mission. I can only imagine what the poor child would have felt at the time. To be sent to an orphanage when both parents were alive and well. To be separated from family and siblings at a tender age. To get accustomed to being an orphan without really being one.

I know where his kindness comes from. And his anger. The picture is complete in my mind's eye.

The theater

The movie was meandering towards a predictable end - the aged hero bashing up the bad guys for what seemed like an eternity, the plump heroine moving out of the way of all the flying bodies – but Rahul’s mind was on other things right now. His heart was beating furiously, his teeth chewing on his lip in nervous tension. Jyothi was seated next to him, seemingly calm and involved in watching the inane movie. Rahul was rehearsing the speech he was going to make later that day in his mind. How would Jyothi react? Will she accept his proposal? She wasn’t the prettiest girl he had met, but Rahul was head over heels in love with her. He had been watching her from the corner of his eye all through the evening. Every single thing she did was so graceful - the way she brushed her hair aside ever so often, the soft flutter of her curvy eyelashes, the sweet smile that melted his heart every time. Given the chance, he would gladly marry Jyothi right there, in the middle of the disinterested populace seated inside. He noticed a young couple in the row up front. The girl was leaning her head ever so slightly on the guy’s shoulder, and her partner was leaning towards her just that little bit in acknowledgement of their mutual love and affection. That is pretty much as far physical intimacy can get in public when an Indian girl is involved, Rahul mused to himself. Their serene gesture of love centered in the raucous noise of a cinema theater made Rahul’s heart ache all the more. He imagined himself and Jyothi watching a movie like that. He rehearsed his speech again in his mind.

The heroine was crying on the hero’s shoulder now, and she had fallen in love with him finally after he beat up a few goons. What stupidity, thought Jyothi. How can someone fall in love so suddenly? Can’t they give a little more respect to the emotion called love when they make a movie? She caught a movement to her left and watched as Rahul clenched his teeth and bit his lip again. Why is he so nervous whenever he is with me? Hadn’t she made it clear enough to him that she was not interested in him? She hoped he would, someday, talk to her about his feelings towards her, and then she would be able to tell him frankly that though she liked him and regarded him highly, her heart lay elsewhere. To be precise, her heart was leaning towards her right, where Prakash was seated with a lazy frown on his face. He was always in a nonchalant mood. Nothing in life was serious to him. He would even come to work dressed casually, standing out among the software engineers dressed up in formal clothes. But no one seemed to complain, since he was among the brightest minds in the office. Prakash was among the few people she knew with whom she could have an intelligent conversation. But he was such a flirt, and he exhibited a persona that seemed amorous and unscrupulous at first glance, she thought. But she knew he was a nice and soft guy inside. When appa had died in an accident last year, Prakash had arranged for her travel and escorted her home without speaking a word. His composure and attitude gave her strength, and her admiration grew. But he was such a flirt. Will he ever realize that she was in love with him? The couple in front was in the middle of animated, though muted, conversation. They seemed to be so much in love with each other. How long does the magic last, she wondered.

Wow! Prakash was amazed. The heroine’s mother had stooped to pick up a baby, and the cleavage between her breasts showed through the thin veil of her sari. What an amazing view. This yesteryear actress always caused several physiochemical reactions inside his body, regardless of the fact that she was playing maternal roles these days. This one show of cleavage made up for the entire atrocious movie, and added to what happened during the interval, made the day for him. After picking up popcorn and drinks, he had noticed a sensuous but homely girl in the crowd waiting to place an order. He had maneuvered in the crowd to get in front of her and he had, as he passed her, given her upper body a rub with his elbow. She had turned immediately and glared at him, but he had slid past quickly as if he hadn’t done it on purpose, and merged into the crowd. Later, as he was getting back into the theater, he noticed that she had come with another guy, who looked like her husband. But, he thought, so what if she is married? What do I care? I’m cool! They were seated a few rows up in front of him, and his eyes and mind had been wandering in that direction all through the second half of the movie. What he would give up to sleep with her just once, he thought. In his mind, he hurled choice abuses at the lucky husband, and then settled into a dream where he let his imagination run wild.

Nikhil wanted to run out of the theater as soon as possible. He had never imagined that he would see her again. She had been his heartthrob years ago, and he still loved her. It didn’t matter that he was married to a sweet girl like Nithi. Seeing Jyothi again during the interval, thoughts and feelings considered long forgotten had been awakened again. He just wanted out right now, but Nithi wouldn’t budge. She wanted him to confront some guy who had bumped into her during the interval. These things happen in a crowd, why does she get so worked up about it, he thought. She even claimed the guy was sitting a few rows behind them and had been staring at them with a treacherous smile on his face all through, but he dared not take a look, as Jyothi was sitting somewhere in that area. He had made sure she did not see him, since talking to her would surely make him fall in love with her all over again.

The movie had ended. So had Nithi’s hopes about her husband. He was so spineless. In spite of her repeated complaints to him, he would not even take a look at the guy who had intentionally molested her during the break. It had been less than two weeks into her marriage, and she had learnt enough about Nikhil to despise him. He lived in a time warp, seemingly in love with some girl he had met in high school. He had admitted to Nithi that he had married her under parental pressure. And now he would not even stand up for her when some stranger attempted to molest her in public. He seemed detached, something occupying his mind, probably the girl from high school. What a coward, she thought, as they made their way out of the theater. Someone bumped into her from behind, and she exploded. She whirled around and slapped the person behind her smack in the face. Strangely, he was biting his lip and held a red rose in his hand, and suddenly she wasn’t sure if he was the one that bumped her this time. He seemed to be shocked at the unexpected assault. A girl was standing next to him, a mixture of disbelief and contempt evident on her face. She must have seen what really happened. Nithi looked around for Nikhil, but he was nowhere to be found. As she turned and walked away she saw the guy who had molested her during the break and probably now as well, sneaking through the doorway, skulking, the wry smile missing from his face.

Each of them returned from the theater that night, depressed, and alone.