If You Are Afraid of Heights...

I picked a book, saw the cover and hoped that I would get something special to read. After having read this haunting novel, 'If You Are Afraid of Heights', I feel that this is a book that defies categorization. It expresses tales that are neither too concrete to be real, nor too fanciful to be surreal. The plots float somewhere between fantasy and reality.

Sounds a bit confusing, but that's the hallmark of Raj Kamal Jha, a Mechanical engineer from IIT Kharagpur, who didn’t dabble with the complex equations of thermodynamics and theory of machines after his graduation. Instead he applied for a program in the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of Southern California where he received his M.A. in 1990. Since then his literary journey has crossed many stations.

'If You Are Afraid of Heights' is a book of layered visual panoramas, non-geometric as it builds up, threaded using simple language. There are three different tales which are cemented using recurrent images of doll(s), red dress, a white and blue umbrella, Park Street, man with a crow, Paradise Park, trams, show windows, a crying child at night, overflowing canal, unexpected rain, and so on.

The novel starts on an assuring note, the promise of a flight of fantasy riding a crow and the story of a couple introduced to one another through an unexpected tram accident. This is the incomplete story of Rima and Amir. Amir is a middle-class letter writer, and a part-time teacher who lives in a tiny dilapidated house with few amenities. Rima is the only occupant of a mysterious limitless apartment block in Paradise Park that seems to have suddenly come up in the open ground. It is to this place that she brings Amir after the accident and offers all the facilities including free medication, for him to recoup. After Amir fully recovers, Rima comes to live with Amir and be a part of his life and his lifestyle. Life goes on and one dark night, Rima suddenly abandons, Amir's world because she is unable to cope with the painful cries of an unseen child.

The crying child is constant variable to all three narratives.

The second part centers around a reporter, Mala who travels to a small town to investigate the gruesome rape and murder of an eleven-twelve-year-old girl. The flow of the plot is at its best in this segment, and paints the colors of reportage in desi-land, unlike reporting from NYSE sitting in chic offices. The portrayal of a reporter meandering through mud in knee-deep rain-watered streets, talking to an old man who performed the postmortem of the girl, collecting whatever facts that were possible is nifty. Flawless imagery. The end goal is to crack the mystery behind the death of the girl. Whodunit. In this segment again, the motifs, and the crying sounds of the child recur and these disturb Mala during her overnight trip on a rainy day. In a subtle way, Mala's somewhat troubled childhood starts to replay. I think, in the garb of the story of the abuse of a child, the author is trying to explore the other kinds of violence.

"It is very easy to tackle physical violence — the bruises are visible, the laws are in place, the next door neighbors can hear. What is more fascinating to me is the violence you can get away with — psychological violence. No court will convict someone who says 'there are no bruises, but he made me feel as if I was broken into a thousand pieces'."

The final section returns to the city where a particular neighborhood that has witnessed a series of unconnected suicides by men, women, boys, girls, old, and young. Lugubriousness is in the air. A young schoolgirl, who lives in the same colony, is worried that her parents might soon kill themselves. She discloses about all her fears and dark apprehensions to a friend, who promises to follow her father and mother to make sure that they are safe. This part of the narration touches one aspect in detail that I liked, apart from the plot progression. And you guessed it right, if that was photography.

Each of the three segments has its own prologue which reads like film scripts. The writing is so raw and fascinating that with minimal effort the author creates the backdrop for his plot. The atmosphere is one of those in which every desi can smell the day-to-day life, of crowds, of traffic, of kids playing cricket in the streets, of power failures, of plush high-rise apartments, of gutters and canals overflowing in rainy season, etc. All these and many more minute details of settings and surroundings eclipse the theme. The verbal visuality is magical.

The book ends with the following lines, "Look at the picture on the cover, there’s a child, a girl in red dress; there's a bird, a crow in a blue white sky. And then there are a few things you cannot see.". This is exactly what the cover page of the book shows.

But did you check that, see carefully before you dive reading it.

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Who was she?...

Was Sa happy or was he chasing the rat race? Run, run and run and the road keeps extending. He doesn’t have a definite answer to this query but all he could say is that he was following a pattern, a pre-set societal blueprint. Every morning when he woke up, he used to think about the milestone that he had planned to reach, and late at night when he hit the bed, he used to do a catharsis of how close or how far he was from that destination.

Now if some sensible person asked Sa what he was after, he would struggle for a befitting reply, but all that mattered at that moment, clear like a crystal was to make it big, real big in life. He felt this 'real big' word was a bit deceptive. 'Real big' is like a mirage, the more nearer one goes, the farther the view range extends. Still there is a stage in life, when all these dichotomies just don’t matter much and there is one thing creeping in the mind. That one thing is some goal about which he knew but then again he didn't know.

Time passed by and the so did, Sa in his journey. He worked very hard, learned every trick in the trade. Soon he was walking, talking and behaving like one of those in the business circles, the 'in', 'with it' crowd. Everything he did was always pointed towards getting what he wanted, measured, calculated and assessed. It's not that success was his partner all the time, even the numerous lessons in failure alongside, made him worked harder. His career needle was accelerating northwards, with muddiness still sitting like a couch potato within him. He made lots of friends, who were always there in times of celebration and festivity but couldn't count on any when there was dark cloud over his ceiling.

The badges and emblems of worldly success were slowly getting into his bag. Everyday at around midnight, when he opened the door of the apartment, he was sure that he was getting one step closer to his target. He was not afraid of the loneliness that awaited him as he knew it was only for half a night, and then as morning drew close, he felt energized hoping that in a few hours he would be in his kingdom, with his rules of governance.

And then she came, to use a cliché, like a breath of fresh air after long gap. She was everything that he was not, she stood for everything that he did not, she believed in everything that he did not, she did everything that he did not.

She reminded Sa of the senior professor, who had assigned him with a bagful of responsibilities about a decade ago while he was an intern. Polite, poised, well-behaved, never loosing temper, accommodating, in short humility personified. These are a few commonalities that they shared, but there was a lot more to this remarkable woman. It was kind of a scenario in which one feels overloaded with words to express but you just can’t express. Heart in heart, there is a sudden flood of phrases, similar to the kind when water gushes when the dam gates are opened. She seemed too good to be real. Did he mention she was good? Maybe he was using that word because he was short of words as to how to describe her. Yes, she was good in the sense that she was good in what she believed in, stood for or did. And perhaps that was what made him like her, though he often found her beliefs unearthly, her attitudes and values outdated. Sa could not but admire the way she stood for them and acted on them and, yes, she was really good in that. She stood for 'what you preach is what you practice'.

Sa having come across a host of personalities in his work-circle somehow found her to be unreal. She did not behave like the people he interacted with or dealt with in his day-to-day life, and that really made him comfortable on the surface and uncomfortable in the interior.

She made all his years of bookish experience and knowledge feel like useless, though that was never her intention. That’s how Sa felt it, all acquired skills were just bi-sected and looked upon in a different angle. He was trained to always read between the lines, to study the body language, to know what a person really meant. He always tried to study the expression in the eyes, as they normally did not lie. He also developed the skill that enabled him to see through the veils of words spoken and signals sent. He was trained to differentiate between a genuine smile and a fake one. He learnt to gauge the degree of warmth in a person.

Did any book teach him that, nah nah never.

Everybody around Sa was an actor. Yes, they did show emotions, but everything was calculative. Every smile was calculated every tear was accounted for, every hug executed to enhance relationships, every handshake to convey messages. He was with everyone, but did not belong to anyone. Every relationship had its own value and place in the larger scheme of things and served some purpose or the other and always acted as a mean. Sa was not apologetic about this because everybody did it. That’s the way, life is modeled after in today’s age. Rather, that’s the only way Sa had seen the world so far.

And as Sa said at the very beginning, was he happy? Still no clues about that.

But, she changed all that. He tried to read between the lines, study the body language and always noticed for the eye movements; few were positive hits but every time he failed, he failed miserably. This irritated him, frustrated and angered him; Sa felt he was losing the edge, the ability to get through the veils of people, and that really was a scary thought. So, he tried harder since he never accepted defeat, he was not a loser. But, he failed time and again. But there are times in life, when even the taste of defeat brings comfort.

Her actions always matched the words she spoke, her smile was always genuine, and her hug was always full of warmth. But, how could this be true? How could a person live without pretending or shamming?

From the day she started living with him, his world turned upside down. He returned home early, yes it had become a home, it was not a house bordered by concrete walls anymore. Now, when he inserted the key, he knew there was someone to attend to him. He knew she genuinely cared for him. Her relationship was free flowing, because Sa was the end as well as the starting point for her. Her love for him was unconditional and unselfish and it did not have any ulterior motive, she loved him for what he was.

She cooked all his favorite dishes; she knew what he wants, when. She nurses him when he is ill, she takes him in her arms when he wants to cry (most often in the railway stations and airports before the final departure call) so that Sa feels secure. After so many years, he can laugh and cry when he wants to, not when others expect him to.

Sa is no longer a restless soul anymore. He doesn’t wake up everyday to run and remain ahead of the crowd. Yes, he still enjoys his work, but it is no more the centre point of his existence. There is a big world to explore, just that someone needs to provide one with the right lens to checkout the right colors. He does no longer want to achieve 'it' or reach 'there'. And yes, he is very happy, and this happiness is not a superficial, non-penetrating and deep, vacant feeling like it was earlier. Now his happiness does not need a measuring rod, is not linked to the things Sa is doing or achieving. This makes his new found happiness, complete, composite, stress-free and devoid of any pressure or worries. Yes, it is for real.

And, this has become possible because of her. Sa wonders how he managed all these years without her, after he left for his graduation school. He regrets not having her with him for so long. But, he is glad that he has her now and he wants to make up for all the lost time. He wants to tell her how much he loves her, how essential and integral she is to his existence, how meaningful she has made his life, and Sa wants to thank her for all the things she has done and keeps doing for him, for all the love she has given him, for the care and concern she has shown him and, most importantly, for always being there for him whenever he needs her.

That night after dinner, when she came and sat beside Sa, all he could do was look into her eyes and say, 'Maa, I love you.'

She took him in her arms, patted his back and said, 'Stupid, you need not say that. I know you love me.'
Happy Mother's Day.


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(Note: The pic in this post is by David Zimmerly, an anthropologist and world traveler.)

That Birthday, one e-mail and life goes on.

It was a birthday party at my work. One of those birthdays when we mostly just gather to have a piece of cake and a break. The famous cakes of this land look so yummy and delicious but are so terribly sweet that I can never grab more than two bites. We sang the birthday song, cut the cake into generous pieces and luckily I had the camera with me to take photos. Taking the photos for me was the best part. I could send them to my maa and father so that they could have a picture of my colleagues, the people that I talk about so often over our telephonic conversations.

Although, birthday parties are never that eventful and people just come to say happy birthday out of the mere sake of politeness and to eat a piece of famous, good-looking cake. But the fact that it broke the normal routine of my humping behind my computer, cheered me up. I was happily humming when I returned to my domicile. Jumped on my big chair and tried to resume my work but there was a mysterious force in the air. A power that made me go to my mailbox despite the fact that I was behind in my work. I told myself: "Hey, you sure do not want to miss your internal audit meeting, do you? So, be nice and finish your work." Yet that power in that air was much stronger than the mere thought and I opened my mailbox.

Surprisingly there was only one new e-mail from an old friend of mine. We knew each other from college days, when I was in second year and he was my junior in the same school. He was a brilliant, fun guy studying chemical engineering who had a passion for literature. And it was this passion that became our starting point. I met him in a trip with a bunch of common friends. One of those trips to the green, green north of India when you gather round the fire at night and have a casual talk. You talk about politics, the latest book that you have read, the poet that you like best, the hot crush stories among the batchmates and then you all sing a song together while the fire is lighting up your faces in red and orange colors. Then you live a life of those songs, those voices and those talks, those faces turned into red and orange under fire, wherever you are for the rest of your life.

He was one of those people that I discovered around fire. His solid voice talking about "if a winter’s night a traveler" of Italo Calvino drew my attention. It was the sparkle to talk about life, the dreams of our young lives and how to set goals. Goals those were so vivid, tangible and attainable then, at a time when we were not even at our twenties. The sparkle lasted long in our eyes, in our hearts till we crossed roads, years later, when I saw him again in a foreign land with the same eyes and bright smile. Looking directly at me and asking that famous old question: Remember "if on a winter’s night a traveler"? It has become a legend for us to remember that we have to stick to our goals in life. And I laughed and saw that orange and red face of years ago without any fire to reflect its light on it.

He came to Paris two years ago. At the beginning we were in constant touch but as things started rolling for him, we were both so busy that although we were lucky enough to live in the same city, we hardly got the chance of talking to each other, let alone getting together and talking face to face. That’s how life is in Paris, as we all know.

Anyways, with all these memories marching before my eyes, I opened the e-mail and read it. For five minutes my mind was blank. My brain had stopped to function. As soon as I could move the muscles of my mouth, my first reaction was whispering loud: No, it is impossible. A few minutes later, the tears found their way and came down my cheeks although I was constantly repeating to myself: No, this can’t be true; he had made a mistake when writing this. I read his e-mail two, three times. Tears in my eyes falling on my keyboard and I could never close my browser:

Dear RC,

This is a shocking news to you and it is with immense pain I share with you the sad demise of my mother.

I am feeling lonely and lost in this world and I wish that you were near me as you have been forever so far.

Regards,

A

I searched for the phone but could not even think of what to say, how to ask if that was true. I remembered his mother so clearly. Such a vivid, sociable creature that was always laughing and so happy. And she was so young may be in her mid fifties. May be even younger. I was weeping loud in my own world, when my neighbor from the other cube brought me back to this world: "RC are you OK?" .I just replied with broken words: "Yes, I am". What could I say? How could I transfer all those emotional load of memories and young dreams in a sentence over the wall of my cubicle? And he did not say anything. That is the role in here; you‘ve got to respect your privacy.

Gathering my mind, I tried to picture him during the past two years. He had come to Paris on a student’s visa and he was a certified chemical engineer, after long years of study and work back home. He got admission with great difficulty, with a clause to work on weekends. It was his dream to work and go for a part-time program in Paris, a paradise for a literature lover. Yes, as an outsider he had a long way to go, to be able to get a residency, with the rules becoming more stringent for immigrants globally.

I remember his words at the early months: "RC, I am not born here, I am suffering every day, why should I start everything from scratch to just say that I studied in Paris? All this pain at what cost? As an outsider, I can choose only limited fields to specialize in, may be two or three and not even what I like. I can never even get into the field that I want. Just I have to stick to internal field chemistry and thank good Lord."

I said: "Hey man keep trying and something positive would work out but still if it is really that bad- winking- why don’t you go back home and make to the best of schools there?" He looked at me kind of upset and laughingly said:"Ohhh. Common RC, you have been there, you know how that hurts. What can I do? Drive taxis round the city after all these years and with all those big plans? Remember "If on a winter's night a traveler"? Can I leave all my wishes? A man is alive as long as he makes wishes! I can not." He lowered his head and I could feel the tears coming from his eyes.

I looked at his big brown eyes and preferred to just keep quiet. What could I say? I knew at least in Paris, he was able to realize what he had in his mind, if not today and tomorrow, but in 5 years, 10 years, just one day. One day before he would give that warm flesh of his body to the cold earth. Before all those brain cells under his hair could stop producing those big thoughts. How could he be cruel to all his dreams? He should stay and fight and I am the one to tell him, now that he is desperate, now that he needs a push.

Moments later there was me talking about the beauties of the utopia of his dreamy universe and how he has to try hard. How his maa would be proud of him one day. One day when all flourishes and once again its he who would rest his head on the bosoms of his kind, loving maa. He can invite his parents soon as he would be a doctrate in chemical engineering cum specialist and they would feel proud.

He looked at me and I could feel that. He loved his parents especially his maa so much. Just the thought of it worked and he started his swim against the stream of time.

He said in a firm voice: "RC you are right. No pain, no gain and it has been our destiny.. pain, pain and when comes the gain? Only GOD knows..." And then he giggled.

He took the exams, Level 1 and Level 2, scores were so high that I was more proud than he was and both of us walked down to a small brasserie in the rain for the celebration. He was offered a residency in Chemical Engineering Department. Things were turning even much better than what we had expected. How he was happy and how I could hear him calling his maa and Papaji from the other room and saying:"I am changing my visa status, they will take care of my work visa as I will start working as a resident in Paris. Hey start planning! I will send you the invitations and in summer, you should come to visit me. We will be altogether again and I will take you to Eiffel Tower, Louvre, and Galeries Lafayette for shopping". Then added with a lower voice "and you do not need to worry about the funding aspect of my education. Now, I will be working, now you wait for my money coming your way" and he laughed so happily that I told him to knock on the wood so that evil will not hear him. He gave me one of those meaningful looks of: "hey, you superstitious creature". But when I left, I could hear the voice of his fingers knocking on the wooden door.

Suddenly I remembered, last time he was talking of starting to work in 4 months after the work permit work paper was done and his visa status was changed. And now? Has it been done? Does he have a different visa? Oh... my GOD, under this new bill for outsiders, he could not leave this country and come back. What does he do now? Knowing him, I knew that he would think of going back home definitely. I should talk to him as soon as possible.

Can’t wait any more, so picked up the phone and it was me talking with such a strange voice. A young woman answered and told me two unbearable, unimaginable facts: he doesn’t want to talk to anybody and he has locked himself up and just mourns. My heart was beating and tears did not let me talk but I had to talk to him. So, I just insisted and asked the lady to mention my name. I was his old friend, the friendship made over a fire and I could not let go all his efforts so easily. It worked and finally it was he on the phone, his voice was slow, interspersed with sobbing.

"RC, can u believe?"
"No, never. I could never even imagine".

"RC she is gone re. She is not there any more. RC my maa is no more. Do you hear me?" (Yes, I hear you with all my heart. Can I still talk about a fight for life, for goals now? Never.) I was torn apart, I heard my voice saying:"I know, how you feel.. It is all so bitter."

"RC, I am leaving this land in two days."

Now I come back to the real life. I should do something, something to prevent him from leaving .He is leaving but he can never come back or at least not so soon. My mind is filled up with that new bill. No more immigrant visas. He has tried so hard in this land. He is close to thirty years old now. How can he start it all again? How many more years should he go through the pain till there comes the gain? I remember all those petitions but never knew if it would be a law or not. More likely to become a law. Oh GOD! How I wish more people had signed that petition. I wished there was no bill but there is one now, what happens to him now? Are they all gone, all those efforts? He can never return, his efforts are all gone, he cannot go home, but how can I say that? "No. If you do, you know all you did is gone for good, you know".

He said, " I don’t care, how can I not be by my Papaji. Huh... How can I even not be there when he needs me so badly? How could I let my maa suffer all this time? I gave her all the pain of loneliness and separation. She was crying all the time that we talked on the phone, and asking me to come back. How do you want me to stay here and live? What is the worth of this life for me? Even if now, I can not go and be there for her, for them for the very last time."

I heard him weeping and then a door that closed. I better shut up; sometimes logic is nothing but a piece of mud to slide on.

I hung up the phone, closed my eyes and made a wish. Wish GOD treated us differently and was a bit kind to my friend.

Si seulement Dieu pouvait nous traiter différemment et être un peu gentil avec mon ami.

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[Note: This is a fictitious story and is not based on any individual, on the intricate laws and rules of any land. The word maa means mother and Papaji means father.]