A nasty kick from nowhere

Last week a paternal uncle S K Moorthy came on the line to enquire, “All well, how are your knees?” kinds for a social call. 

            After my estrangement with my eldest sister for an entire mandalam now – forty days – I gushed forth like a dog gifted with a bone in my affections to the uncle. 

           In the midst of the chat, he said, “I was asking Athai for Prakash’s snaps. She keeps promising.”

            I volunteered: I have couple of his images downloaded from his Facebook pages. 

           For those new to these posts, Prakash is a cousin who died unexpectedly less than three months back.

            I asked, “Do you have a mail id or should I send to Gayatri’s mail id.? 

            Gayatri is his daughter who stays with him.  Something like ‘veetu mapilai” (how do I translate this? It means “Ghar ka Jamai” in Hindi and “son-in-law lodging in the bride’s house”)

            Telephone call over and I lost no time in sending couple of Prakash’s Jpegs to this Pozhichalur uncle (they reside in Pozhichalur, a Chennai suburb) to Gayatri’s email id. Besides I also sent ten web-links of my Portraits posts that contained images of the entire family beginning with my grandparents as a bonus. That was what I meant as excited as a dog that found an unexpected bone!  That enveloping enthusiasm was misplaced as the plot progresses

            This week he called me again and I enquired, “Did Gayatri show you all the images?”

            The Pozhichalur man at 76 is not overtly bright and quick of grasp said, “ Thanks I saw two Prakash’s pictures.” When queried whether he has seen my upanayanam images of 1979, he lost speech. He muttered a hesitant NO and I visualized that if I had seen his face now, it would have shown a dumb look and head shaking for a negative.

            The foolish Sathya still gushing enthusiasm said, “ I will sent those images again to Gayatri and this time not as web-links but Jpegs.”

            I sent a second mail with these Jpegs and forgot all about it till the daughter writes: I understand you are being nice to my father. But I prefer you not to email or call me. My father will be fine if you keep away; in the meantime sort out your own life.” 

          I read this and was swamped by waves of hate. Even if Buddha had advised me to take it easy he would not have succeeded in stopping this intuitive response: May you rot in hell. Get your facts straight for it was your father who asked for these images. Come under the wheels of a MTC bus and don’t inform me when any of you kick the bucket or any woman delivers another genetic garbage.

            I read this hate mail on a Friday night at around 8:30 pm and felt drowned in vortex of hate and misery with each passing minute. The import of Gayatri’s response was clear: She is close to Viji and maybe taking it out on me after reading my blog posts. Or was Viji and Latha spreading poison about me in the relations circle? Or is it just the priest getting angry when the Lord himself is cool and relaxed when a devotee switches loyalty to the other side? My composure was fast crumbling.

            One part of the mind said: This is a good time to practice mindfulness. I just had this thought: Why shoot myself a secondary arrow after a primary one has been shot by Gayatri? I allowed my mind to listen to this wisdom and concentrate as a palliative to the strong currents of negativity. Believe it or not, I found the mental storms abate and within an hour I was back to my normal countenance.

            I slept that night without this baggage.

            Next morning, I spoke to my cousin Arun who has become a Facebook buddy as he “likes” all my posts. I told him the entire sequence of events and he responded like a dream, “Gayatri is high-strung and given to throwing weight. But anna, your response is a bit heavy. It’s like shooting a nest with a Bofors gun.”

            This fresh insight on Gayatri further improved my mood. I have no contact with this woman; she is four years younger to me whom I only chance in family weddings and cremation. We briefly met at Prakash’s death and as we rushed to offer our condolences to the aggrieved family at Mylapore.

            I kept telling Arun, “I am a total recluse. I don’t call or email others out of turn. This is such a wild allegation as though she was waiting to insult me.” 

         Women in our family wear trousers and the first thing they do after brushing teeth is to practice war cries. All of them carry such strong baritone as to fell a tree and even a fort. I can’t think of any woman in this family who stored any value for modesty and reserve; every one of them from the fishing markets.

            In the evening Pozhichalur uncle kept calling and I refused to answer. I switched off the mobile and learnt a wonderful lesson: Just because I stay alone, I don’t need to gush. This was an instance of an over-enthusiasm backlash.” I also thanked my stars: Being alone is heavenly for there are no Gayatri kinds prowling the house. I now understood why women with virulent tongues can make a man rush to jump off the building or hang from a noose.  

            This lesson is so wonderful that it needs repetition: Just because I stay alone and no opportunity for the speaking mouth, I should not be lavish in my affections when people come contacting. Two, staying alone is a huge blessing I have not given myself enough credit.

            I narrated this incident to Srinivasan, my maternal cousin saying, “I furnished drinking water to a thirsty man and instead of being grateful, the fellow spits on the face.”

He said to a reassuring response, “It happens to me all the time. Maybe we are born under lousy stars.”

Ranga who came in the evening gave an expert’s take: Sathya, welcome to the real world.