Library

‘…it is tough to pinpoint creativity. Most believe that it has something to do with a new point of view or experience or expression. But, if you could erase familiar frames of reference, can a ‘new’ perspective of an ‘old’ experience be considered a part of creativity? Mind you, the emphasis here is on erasing that which is familiar and not really on the ‘new’ or the ‘old’.

Consider a short story. The traditional reader expects a snapshot of life, more or less linear with a connectivity that allows a gradual build-up of tension or understanding or a twist in the tale. But, instead of that, if there are distracting parts and contrasting themes that create a disorienting effect, and worse, if levity and gravity are indistinguishable…is it good or bad? Strangely, the befuddled mind of the reader is found to be more receptive to new threads of thought. That which enables the reader is the erasure of fixed frames of reference…that fixed sense of certainty or expectation borne via experience. Here, the author and the reader have dual roles, a blend of subjectivity and objectivity, and creativity depends on both…’

I hardly heard myself speak while I delivered the introductory lecture to the new batch of students at the Centre for Creative Studies. It felt like I had put the talk on automatic mode. I scanned the rows, studying the faces of new students, some senior students and a sprinkling of colleagues. I was surprised to see the Librarian Mr. Raman standing at the back, near the door. He kept staring at me and appeared fidgety. I went through the lecture, accepted the applause and responded to a few questions before excusing myself. Mr. Raman was still standing near the main door and I went to him.

‘Mr. Raman, is there anything the matter?’ I asked him.

‘Ah yes, I think so. Could you please come with me to the Library?’ he spoke softly, nearly whispering, and I nodded. He led the way and we remained silent en route.

Mr. Raman is a soft-spoken, reserved and rather morose individual. Some say that he became morose after his wife ran away with one of the students. But I remember him as such even before that event. At that time, he had seemed stoic and quite matter-of-fact about the situation. It must have helped to be connected with this Centre where nearly all mind their own business and where it would take a lot more for any event to be elevated to the status of a scandal. We are quite proud of our capacity to shock the outside world with creativity rather than be shocked ourselves. During a rare personal conversation, Mr. Raman had confided to me that the underlying reason for his wife’s elopement must be his obvious lack of imagination.

For an outsider, it might seem out-of-place for a Centre like ours to have an unimaginative Librarian. But the Library, like other libraries of any subject, is merely a depository. From classics to pulp fiction, from philosophical tracts to evangelical rants, from religious texts to pornography, the Library offers a place to check upon existing points of view. It is hardly creative or imaginative in itself and rarely inspires the same. In fact, instead of offering a new creative path, the Library functions as a block against traversing well-trodden paths.  

I am associated with the Library as the Faculty-in-Charge. Effectively, I am the middleman between the Library and the practitioners, the latter being the faculty and the students.

When we reached his office, Mr. Raman broke the silence, ‘There has been a type of desecration.’ He moved to his table where he had piles of books each nearly half a man’s height. I could see that the selection of books was from every possible topic: religion, romance, thriller, poetry, plays and others. He picked a book at random, flipped the pages to a bookmarked section and handed it over to me.

I could see in the margins of those pages a fine, neat handwriting. I flipped the pages to the next bookmarked section. I moved quickly through that book and then through some of the others. I realized that each part filled two pages, that is, the margins of the left and right pages. The parts were on the same theme but there was no strict chronological order and each could be considered as a stand-alone. Even at first glance, I could sense the various combinations and permutations giving birth to new, like the mix and match of chromosomes.

The theme itself was commonplace but the variations looked complete. Even if most of it were already there in published material, having such a mass in encyclopedic proportions from a single source made me terribly nervous.

The writing was about a man and a woman. There were no details about them. They could be married, casual partners or even strangers. Each part of a series or sub-theme described an ‘encounter’ wherein the two explore a new aspect of their relationship. The parts seem to cover the entire gamut of scenarios: distant, bitter, affectionate, reproachful, submissive, childlike fumbling, mature exploration, sick or old, demanding, forgetful and it went on and on. Some were asexual but most involved a fair amount of torrid stuff, rather explicit about every detail though quite natural given the situation.

In the margins of a sacred religious text, I found descriptions of ‘strip shows’ where the two undress in front of each other for the first time. In one series revolving around a scene where the male drops his pants, it starts with the woman exclaiming, ‘Oh, just like a boy....’ In one part of that series, the man reacts sensitively and unfavorably to this assessment and in another the man takes it in his stride. The reader is given various scenarios following that. In another series, the woman admits (falsely, truly, ambiguously…each explored in various parts), ‘Exactly as I had dreamt…’ and the scene develops from there.

The sheer multitude of stories and scenarios that came out of each scene or statement was awesome and at the same time frightening. With such a source, I wondered if I would ever find something new to add. And worse, even if I wanted to, would I be able to forget such a complete set…will I ever have my own frame of reference for any new experience?

‘Are these the defiled books?’ I asked Mr. Raman.

‘These are the books I have found. I am sure there are more. Lots more…’ his worrying words trailed off.

‘Who knows about it?’

‘Only you and I…’

‘Good.’

‘And the author…or authors…I suppose…’

‘We will deal with that later…’

‘What should we do?’

‘We have to close the library, make some excuse…then we have to find all the books…’

‘And then…?’

‘I do not know…storing it would be dangerous…possibly destroy and replace if we can…’

‘But…destroy this…?’ Even Mr. Raman appreciated its worth.

‘Otherwise, it will destroy creativity…’

‘Oh God…it looks like a snake swallowing its own tail…’

Clothesline

My new neighbor moved in six months back. The new should actually be pronounced as ‘new’ (with quotes) – everyone and everything gets outdated pretty fast these days. The old ones stayed for less than eight months.

There is just a low wall that separates our houses but we have not had a chance to meet or see each other. It is partly because our hours and choice of space do not match. Nocturnal and diurnal office or personal hours, left wing of the house on the left and the antipodal right wing on the other side – it is easy to miss.

 There is an area where we could meet. Our balconies at the back face each other and that’s where we have our clotheslines. From the clothes there, I have deduced that there is only one person and that it is a young woman (utmost, mid-thirties). I am even quite familiar with her routine and it is not difficult to figure out her personal or professional life from what’s on her clothesline. Weekends – informal casuals, pyjamas and nightdresses; Monday and Thursday – formal Indian wear, most often churidaar and occasionally sari; Tuesday and Friday – formal Western wear; and, Wednesday – casual Western office wear. I have never seen her innerwear on that clothesline. I don’t hang mine outside either.

If I am really interested, I could know more about her through my maid. My maid and the neighbor’s maid seem to be comrades-in-arms. But, my mode of communication with my maid tends to be a monologue and rarely goes beyond her curt statements, ‘She (neighbor’s maid) is getting Rs 200 more than me’, ‘She got a bonus this week’, ‘She is on leave’, ‘She does not have to clean all the bathrooms everyday’ and so on. So far, I have managed to express with silence and a nod or a shake of my head my agreement or disagreement with her implicit demands. I could ask her for details about the neighbor. Her comrade must have shared that with her long back. (At times, their world seems like a shadow world that seems to know everything about our world, as if we were just actors for that close audience to observe and discuss.) It might shock my maid if I depart from our normal mode of interaction. Maybe, the neighbor shares a more vocal relationship with her maid and she has asked about me.

I am quite liberal as far as maids are concerned. I do treat them the way I treat my junior colleagues in office, professional with minimal but sufficient interaction. In fact, I believe I am more than liberal as far as pay and leave are concerned. I have remained rather old-fashioned only with regard to cooking and clothes – I do not involve my maid there, not even in picking up the dry clothes from the clothesline. I remember visiting an old friend at her place. We were having a good time together talking about old times. Then, she asked me if I would like tea and I said yes. When she called out to a man-servant ‘Bhaiyya, do chai’, the visit went for a toss. I did sip the tea but piss would have tasted better. It does not really make sense but that’s the way it is. In my house, it has to be my cooking. In another’s place, it should be that of the host. I have been to my maid’s house when she invited me for some festival and enjoyed a feast there. (Was it for Ugadi? Well, that’s when I got to know that my maid’s husband is in an asylum, her son in high-school is protective of his mother and studying well, and her daughter is a clerk in some government office.) I should change with the times but somehow, I can’t.

Today, I had to talk to my maid about the neighbor. Since Saturday, for nearly four days, I saw the same clothes on the neighbor’s clothesline. With each passing day, my curiosity and anxiety increased. I thought of climbing over that short wall, ringing the door-bell and enquiring if all is fine. At night, I could see lights go on and off in that house and so, I knew that she or someone was there. By Tuesday, I was quite sure that she must be sick. Tuesday night, I hardly slept.

Yesterday, on Wednesday, I nearly spoke to my maid. But she went about her speedy ways pretending not to hear or assuming that I must be talking to myself. Last night was another sleepless night.

Today, I repeated the question to my maid, loud and clear, ‘Do you know if the lady next door is fine?’

‘How should I know?’ she replied insolently.

‘Your comrade, I mean, your friend there…’

‘She has been on leave since Sunday. She came back only today.’ She followed that news about her comrade’s generous leave from work with an accusing or complaining look. I ignored it.

I went to the back and looked at the neighbor’s clothesline. The old set had been removed (finally…I nearly let out a sigh of relief), and I could make out at least three days’ washing on that clothesline.

I confronted my maid on my way back to the front. I could see that I was making her uncomfortable with my new voluble nature.

 ‘She has washed lots of clothes…worked lots today and for long, it seems…’ I gave that pointed jab to my maid. She ignored it.

My ‘new’ neighbor and her clothesline will not interest me again.

Love in the Time of Ayurvedic Viagra

I don’t usually get caught in the act.

If I had been in a better state of mind, I would have protested to my wife, ‘Can’t you knock before entering my room?’

That is not true. First, in a better frame of mind, I would have locked the door. Second, it is not my room. At best, it is our room. Third, and most importantly, I would rather be a protestor in some Arab nation rather than protest to my wife, especially when she is in the right and particularly so when she has two friends with her, peeping over her shoulder and making a fickle account of it like paparazzi.

And…from the look she gave me, she did not seem in the mood for squabbling over any issue, territorial or any other. That was quite unfair actually because every such affair has shades of grey and is rarely black and white.

Popular journals of this age talk about the modern emancipated woman being of fairer material. If it had been a woman of my mother’s generation, I could understand that such an indiscretion would have provided sufficient grounds for a divorce or a quick painful murder of the errant husband or if the matrimony had to survive for pecuniary interests, it would be precariously perched on a crumbling precipice under the ever-darkening gloom of doubt. Alas, women change with time only as often as the spots on a leopard, so true is that adage. Even now, in the new millennium, a woman treats a crying husband as badly as they were treated in the dark ages. The modern woman claims that she does not mind seeing a husband cry, but that is only true as long as the husband in question is not hers. In fact, a recent survey showed that 62% of women connected ‘in flagrante delicto’ with a situation where the husband is found crying and only 19% thought it had something to do with sex. The rest assumed that it is some cooking ingredient.

Let me clarify that I was only close to crying. I was sitting in front of my PC, with my head in my hands, drooping over the keyboard under the weight of heavy angst, shoulders slumped, chest heaving with the arduous load of sniffing, wheezing and muffling the oh-and-ahs of grief. With a bit of encouragement or empathy, those strong broad shoulders could have quivered like a leaf in the Monsoon, probably as drenched too with tears. It is in that state that my wife (and our friends) found me.

She reacted quickly. She turned around, laughed nervously and quickly led the two friends back to the drawing-room. After depositing them there, she raced back to our study-room, stood in front of me with her arms folded, eyes opaque and lips as straight and thin as possible. I blurted out the truth,

‘She does not want to meet me.’

There are two types of wives in this world. On hearing such a statement or something similar, the first type will reach for a heavy paperweight and in a single fluid motion, smash the nose and upper jaw of the speaker. The second will smile and my wife belongs to that category. I would love to add that it is a result of love, care, trust, loyalty and an understanding borne from our years together. In simpler words, the unflattering truth is that she understands my limitations rather well…she knows that she has a better chance of winning the bumper lottery than me striking rich with some other woman. What is that sad but true cliché…yes, for some men, there is only one woman in his life.

So, she smiled and asked gently, ‘What happened?’

‘She says that she wants to keep the two spheres separate – the real and the virtual. Real and virtual! She makes it sound as if they are actually different!’

‘Hmm…’

‘According to her, a virtual relationship is an oxymoron. She has no idea about the bonding that can develop…’

‘Bah…’

‘Do you know why people want to think that it is different? They are scared to admit that their reality is not that different from their virtual life. Don’t you agree?’

‘Bah…’ In any other situation, I would have told her to stop bleating. But I had more pressing worries…

‘She has met a few, though. But, she says that she never took the initiative. Could have done without it, she implies…’

‘Those who took the initiative to meet her…has she told them that?’

‘Not directly…’

‘Oh, she should…so deliciously cruel…that would be wicked!’

‘But she does not want to meet me. A flat refusal! Oh! Why?’

‘You have refused to meet a few…’

‘Come on, could I do anything other than refuse those?’

‘What was wrong with that one named Anna…Anna something?’

‘Kournikova…? That turned out to be a guy…’

‘No, not that one…’

‘The one who called herself Anna Hazare…? Believe it or not…she actually looked like him…Brrrrr…’

‘No, the one you called cute…you showed me her photo…’

‘Oh! Ana Conda…?’

‘Ah! Yes. She is cute…she looks like your Chippy…’

‘Chippy is cute…for a cuddly stuffed koala…’

‘See, she could have some reason like that for not wanting to meet you…’ I took that personal jibe in the right spirit. But, I could see that my wife was getting impatient.

‘But listen…it is not just that…’ I tried to explain.

I wanted to tell her the really dark secret but my wife hushed me and indicated that we should attend to our guests.

I shuffled behind her to the drawing room. I greeted our friends warmly. The diminutive and fidgety husband sat next to me on the sofa. He is the author of the bestseller, ‘Honey, I Hate Our Kids’. I have met his kids and initially I had assumed that they were the inspiration for that book. But, my wife tells me, it is a book about discovering the joys of parenthood and filling a vacuum within.

His wife took the armchair next to my wife. It is she who introduced me, my wife (who rarely participates) and her husband to social networking. One of her blogs (‘Size Does Not Matter’) has even gone viral. It dealt with an epistolary confession of a self-sacrificing wife to a physically challenged husband. Women pooh-poohed the blog but the men inundated her with compliments. Apart from being an active blogger, she is a vegan and a vociferous campaigner for organic food. On every visit, she brings along a sampling of her own cooking. This time, it looked like a green (for roughage, she explained) biscuit with yellow and red dots (pure protein, she beamed) and white mould-like beard (‘Surprise! Surprise!’ she squealed and remained unforthcoming with specific details). After hesitating over its appearance and cud-like chewy feel, I found that it had an invigorating uplifting effect. I complimented her.

‘Lovely!’ I lied glibly. ‘The after-effect is rather unexpected.’ I added truthfully.

‘Ah! That must be the kapikachhu…’ she replied.

Her husband leaned towards me and whispered, ‘Ayurvedic Viagra, man!’ I reached for another biscuit and surreptitiously pocketed a few, too.

‘So, what was happening inside?’ the vegan asked.

‘Oh, nothing…just an Internet problem…’ my wife replied.

‘Ah, really…lately, I have been troubled too…on the network…’ the vegan’s husband offered his predicament as consolation.

‘It is just his imagination…he thinks he has discovered virtual infidelity…’ his wife interjected.

‘She is definitely not my imagination…and I am not the only one she has snared…’ the husband protested and proudly proclaimed.

‘Who is this ‘she’? What’s going on?’ I asked. It can’t be, it can’t be her, I told myself.

‘She is some Mata Hari who has been ensnaring male hearts,’ the vegan said dismissively.

‘What does she do?’ I asked, trying to sound innocent. I could feel my wife’s eyes upon me.

‘I don’t know… man…no one knows…we have even started a forum discussion…what response, man…’ he said.

‘We…?’

‘In the first day itself, more than 100 guys…’

‘What do they say?’

‘Just pure undying love…some claim that they have met her…but I think they are fibbing…she is not of this world…can’t be…’ By then, his wife was snoring. She had finished off the green biscuits. I had finished off my stock, too. I could feel the heat.

Just then, I felt a sharp kick on my shins. I looked at my wife. She signaled with her eyes that we should have a private conference within. We excused ourselves from the drawing room and returned to our study room.

‘Is she the one?’ she asked.

‘Who…?’ I asked.

‘The vegan…is she the One…is she up to some tricks on the network?’

‘She…?’

‘Hmm…I don’t think so, too…who could it be?’

‘You…?’

‘Ha…I have enough problems with one man…’

‘Me…?’

‘You,’ my wife confirmed her problem. Then, my wife took my face in her hands, stared lovingly deep into my eyes. I felt nearly hypnotized. She asked,

‘Is it you…?’

I woke up from the monosyllabic daze.

‘Me…what…?’ I spluttered.

‘Did you create her?’ my wife demanded.

‘Oh, fantastic…what is this Asimov’s ‘I, Robot’ remixed?’

‘Tell me the truth…’ came the wifely hypnotic drawl.

‘Are you kidding? Do you actually think I created her…or worse…that I am her…and then fell in love with her…with myself?’

‘You are capable…’ came the understanding assessment.

‘But…do you think I can make all those goofies fall in love with me?’ I demanded.

‘Men.’ She offered the obvious explanation.

‘But…still…’ I begged for understanding.

‘Hmm…I guess you have a point there…you have your limitations…’ What did I tell you in the beginning about her understanding of my limitations?

‘Is it some algorithm?’ she asked.

 ‘Are you dehumanizing her?’

‘Is it?’

‘That is what I was trying to tell you earlier…the dark secret…’

‘What?’

‘She can’t be…though much of virtual life and reality can be algorithmic…’

‘Bah…’

‘Don’t start…’ A husband has to show who is master at times.

‘Bah…’ A wife rarely accepts such a master.

‘Listen…look at basic relationships…it is programmable…of course, there is a bit of fuzzy logic…but it is still based on a limited set…’

My wife remained silent. I continued, ‘For example, take online popularity. It is rather simple. First, join a growing network. Second, link to important people on the network. Third, never be complacent. Once in a while, create an extraneous effect. Some blog (something crap will do…people should feel intelligent enough to post their views on that) or some revelation (like, you slept with your mom…of course, you can later confess that you were a baby then)...you get my gist. Then, just a few more steps, that’s all…mimic likes, remain visible…personalize to suit the network, cloning and adapting, gathering people that suits your comfort level…real or virtual, we live in our own gated communities…real or virtual, personal or professional, it is programmable…algorithmic.’

‘So, why isn’t she algorithmic?’

‘Do you know why those men feel pure love?’

‘Enlighten me.’ My wife was getting touchy, I could see.

‘She brings in the unknown.’

‘Stop talking Greek.’

‘I swear…even with me, that’s how she did it…she did something which I never expected…it seemed haphazard…but it was as if she revealed a part of me that I had hidden so well…that which even my subconscious has never touched…she seems to understand something about me which I do not fully or partially accept as me.’

‘Bah…’ My wife was definitely getting touchy.

‘Seriously…if it was some type of Big Brother, it would go for the predictable, controllable, susceptible…random and chaotic are meant to be smoothed out. But she is not like Google or Facebook…she does not depend on data to hook the prey…she is not searching for the hidden known…she does not need connectivity to capture your interest. She goes for the quirk…the randomness…the unpredictable…she uses the noise. Which man will not fall for a woman who gives him his unknown need or desire?’

‘Bah…’

‘Really, it is true…’ I insisted.

‘You make her sound as if she is God or something…’

I remained silent.

‘So…what was it?’ my wife asked.

‘What?’

‘Your hidden need…’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Is that so…?’

Something in her voice told me that those green biscuits were going to be wasted.

Dates

When we had planned to meet for dinner, that was two or three days back, I had agreed to pick her up at her place. At quarter to seven, when I should have been on my way, I was still undecided and fiddling with the mobile wondering if I should call her and cancel the date.  

We have known each other for a long time but if I add up the time we spent together, it would not add up to a month, maybe just a few days. That would be the time I call person-time. I prefer thought-time. With time measured in thoughts, relationships gain longevity, even seem immortal.

Somewhere in the beginning, I came to the conclusion that I can’t trust her. I have forgotten the exact reason but I can’t forget that conclusion. It was not the date itself that made me uncomfortable, though dates have been rare recently, and I felt that it must be the idea of going out on a date with a lady I can’t trust. I listened to the ticks of my watch, sitting in the dark in my car, with my hand on the ignition, waiting for some decision to dawn upon me. At five to seven, I started the car and it took me twenty minutes to reach her place.

‘You are late…you are usually so punctual…’ she sounded surprised and pleased with my deviation from habit. I had parked the car in her courtyard and got out to greet her.  

‘Traffic…you look good…’ I held out my hand. She leaned over and kissed my cheek lightly. It came out by rote.

During the drive to the restaurant, she told me about some incident at her house or about how she had been busy. Once in a while, I would take my eyes off the road, look at her and nod as if I was taking it all in. I hardly heard her. I prefer to ignore the silly chit-chat at the beginning of such meetings and pay attention to what the body language is trying to tell me. I try to understand her make-up, her choice of dress, if the underwear is discernible or not, the amount of cleavage revealed, the way she sits, with her knees tilted towards me or not, hands nearly touching or not, so on and on. I liked the message I derived. We were in fairly good spirits when we reached the restaurant. We walked in quite grandly, her arm hooked onto mine elegantly and we were showed to the table I had reserved.

I could see that she liked it when I kept staring at her, smiling, saying little. It always started that way. Then we asked about each other, the little common details of daily life, and then talked about our current interests, barely interested but quite eager to listen, it seemed apparent. Somewhere in between, we placed our order. I nearly cherished those moments, when friendship with its vagueness and fleeting companionship seems comfortable.

During soup or the main course, we touched upon the past. I think I brought it up this time. Or maybe she did. Some old common friend or incident, it hardly matters.

‘We were so young then…’ she said sometime later. I nodded and remained silent.

‘We have never been able to talk about it and get it off our chest…’she had continued. Or maybe, she said that in reply to some remark of mine. I can’t recall if I was sarcastic or bitter or flippant. I laughed it off.

I followed her with my eyes when she went to the restroom. I watched her skirt sway with her undulating wide hips. She still had a slim waist though her derriere had filled well with age. I nearly laughed loud at my observations. I knew always that I could never be her friend. I was like a brother when we were young but it was understood to be a charade suitable for those young times. Maybe, I had hoped to be something more than a friend. I was thinking about that when she returned.

‘A penny for your thoughts…’she said.

‘Worth a lot more…’

‘Whatever.’

Maybe, that ‘whatever’ triggered the final test. I waited for the dessert to be served. Then, I told her about a personal tragedy and how I was still trying to come to terms with it. She listened well, as if she was hearing about it for the first time.   

‘I thought of contacting you then…’ I confided to her.

‘You should have…it must have been so rotten then…on your own too…you should have told me…’

I listened to her without letting her know that I knew she was lying. A common friend who knew about my problems had told me some time back that he had told her all about my crisis. And here, she was pretending, acting so well. Those test results were expected, I admit.

The date continued as if everything was the way it should be. When I dropped her at her house, she kissed my cheek once again. She asked if I would like to come in but she and I knew that it was just for the sake of politeness.

This is where stories and movies will make the loud proclamation that he would never meet her again, feeling betrayed, without trust.

On the way back home, I drove slowly, feeling the cool night air caress the cheek she had kissed, watching the late-night cover and settle down under neon. I knew that I was cruising in a circle. I might hesitate and remain uncertain if I should do it again. I was certain I would be back for more of such dates.