Gnawing loneliness

The word gnawing is interesting and means “persistently worrying or distressing” and it’s a word my unconscious chose for the title of this post. Yes, I will explore loneliness in this space.

            I guess I was born LONELY, even as a child I never fitted into the mould. My aunt used to say that one of her worst experiences in life was tagging me to a temple when I was 2 or 3. She recounts that I would insist on an explanation as why different gods carried different weapons or some such inanities.  She reminisces, “Sathi, you were always different. You have a probing mind to everything from the time you learnt to speak.”  Then Schooling and Colleging years at Hyderabad were growing years and full of torture memories as my parents used the stick and the iron rod to make me fall in line which I of course never did.  Then IMT Ghaziabad happened and I had a full new set of issues to handle in life; I had to live dangling with the sword of bipolar on my head.  Again any mental issue makes for loneliness.

            It was only in 2007 (I was 38 years then) that we found an alternate accommodation for my mother.  I was clear that I could not waste one more moment in the hate filled air that her presence triggered. My mother defines to a polluting agent; she is an expert in filling only hate and fear wherever she goes. I remember telling my sister then, “Take this house, let me run away. I can’t take this anymore. It does not matter whether I reside in Besant nagar or in the slums but my mind needs fresh air with the urgency of oxygen to a dying patient and no more of the evil lady.” Both my sisters had no choice at my ultimatum: either she stays in Besant nagar or I. So they said, “Pay a monthly maintenance to the janmadatta, we will take care.”  And so thankfully my riot filled life of 38 years found silence (no more of the shrill voice that grates like Arnab Goswami live for 24 hours) and a chance to grow. And I did.

            First came Worldwide Media that developed me as a writer with craft. I spent years honing my skills without any expectations of reward. Then Vipassana happened, mindfulness happened but one tambura shruti remained iron clad fixed on a concrete slab: I was condemned to a lonesome existence which actually is heavenly from the cacophony of abuses that my life had its horrible origins.

            The years marched by. 2007-9 were times a Sindhi woman filled on the phones, good for a time-filler but later turned horrible for the morale.  2009 -2014 I had ambitions of making it big as a writer as I invested my energies here. But nature was stubbornly and obdurately cruel. Any skill will only grow when skills meets opportunities, so I expended my energies on a blog medium which by its nature “does not sell” or “earn any money”.  Then 2015-16 were two years I was on the edge of a precipice – more than a simile I was dangling from a cliff whose cords could have snapped any moment. Then I plodded on to Mindfulness and since then some measure of mental stability. What makes me a hero on a pantheon of Greek heroes is I never saw a festival in three decades since my poor old dad died in 1989. My sisters were so determined to include me out for any festivities not out of malice or inherent selfishness but they were wired strongly in the reverse direction for the worst interpretation of Hindu culture and customs (something like a woman once married goes into a new gothra and she is only to enrich the new family even as her former family is dangling from a ceiling fan situations).

            This is a 600 word introduction, a very long one, to the subject of loneliness. Now let’s get to the current state.

            I came from Bangalore in the first week of April fresh as a lemon after a week of Vipassana. But within a week I resumed my smoking and the once the poison stick settled in the system, I found my loneliness gnawing to a paranoid level.  It often manifests like this:  I feel like talking to a human being in the evenings as the sun goes down and the twilight sets in. I look at my contact lists on the phone and frankly I don’t have anyone. I call Vivek once a week, then a try a Prithvi or Ranga or anyone and again honestly none of them give me a conversational value. Then I try some Rudram chanting or Gita chanting to subdue the mind as the waves of loneliness fill the being. This thought does not help: if I die today, the hospital would not have a forwarding address for my dead body. I can’t put my finger on who will make for the cremation party and frankly the number looks zero. Now I can dramatize this thought to a more distraught imagination: if I have a heart attack, no hospital will enroll me into their admissions and administer critical care.  Even for a millionaire patient like me, they would look for insurance in the form of a relative or friend at the cash counter. These thoughts have the effect of increasing my Gold flake count in the day as though death was so easy. 
            What really hit me in the back of the head with a rock was this episode. Last week, Thangam my cook calls at 9:20 am saying that she will be an hour late. This has been happening repeatedly. She has signed a new house and they seem to be demanding. My body works like a clock - since I wake up at 4:00 - 4:30 kinds I am ravenously hungry at 9:45 that a small tiffin at 7:15 at Vishranti does not suffice. I gave her the worst dressing down in 9 years but inwardly I was crying.  This used to happen with Meera too, for on some days I would make a plea, "Meera G, please come at 8:30 tomorrow for I have an interview at 10:00 at Gemini." That day as though cursed she would drag her feet in by 9:00. I have actually cried silent tears on such occasions for they accentuate my vulnerability and loneliness to it highest pitch. 

            The medicine for LONELINESS is not COMPANY but UNDERSTANDING. I have ten thousand friends (not literally but I have many who care for me) but those don’t help when a Diwali or Pongal is on the anvil.  Why is UNDERSTANDING so essential in a relation for we will die out of thirst for it? It operates at different levels: if the man of the family has a heart attack, it affects his immediate family only for they are OBLIGATED to care for him financially and physically in the hospitals. Our societies are not so advanced that the wife of a heart-attack victim will go dancing in the pub or travel to the United States when the surgeons have fixed a date for surgery. At least for appearances the wife and the kids must stay at the hospital as friends and relations troop over with their concerns and a plastic bag of mangoes or even a Horlicks bottle. Again appearances but these are the essentials I am denied.

            It is then I realized that UNDERSTANDING operates at different levels. Hypothetically if my wife cuts a finger in the kitchen, I am OBLIGATED to offer words of solace and also finish the rest of the cooking, again obligated to wait for the stench of blood to clot to wrap a band-aid or take her to the neighbourhood clinic. This is an advantage of having a family around – take someone to the clinic, wait outside the ICU at the hospital and the obsequies after death. All these are denied to me and this is where I died a million times in the last three weeks. Trust me, 2-3 Gold flakes only make matters worse.

            I have my daily SPARRC rehabs and I like the positive energies of the place where most of the therapists are in their 20s and full of youthful zest. I also like the energy at the swimming pool in the evenings but my days don’t intersect any human being the rest of the day which is highly demotivating. So disparaging that if I had a gun, I would have shot my brains to smithereens by marking an exact spot at the temples after a google search. I keep telling myself: Wait and wait for two more years which is the energy that I am left in the tank after managing a kitchen and groceries for 13 whole years. The prospect of an old age home is the bitterest pill to swallow, I promise I will do a Kurt Cobain if I reach there.

            So many truths impinge on the way. If your first relation in life which is with a mother is screwed up then the rest of the journey is more arduous than a climb on the Everest. I used to feel that destiny will not so cruel and that I deserve a second chance at life; that there is a Sita or Savitri in store for me. Now at 50 I know better. Even if a Sita or Savitri were to cross my path, and if they were to fall down on their knees for my love (this is imagination reaching absurd levels) I have gone past the expiry date for romance and marriage. Physically and mentally I have grown out of a young man’s shoes. There are things which suit only young bloods and not a 50 years old. The worst calamity you can invite for yourself is to invite a woman to a bed after 50. You don’t debut at that age even on a occupation much less something extremely vulnerable and stressful as a marriage in our times.

            So where does all this leave me? Maybe a soft skills training could assuage to a large extent but with each passing year, I am sure loneliness kills more efficiently than a cancer or a hemorrhage. It is easy for me to grow my 1 crore to 3 or 5 crores in less than five years (I am being realistic here for I am learning to trade in Options and futures and forex asset classes) but that will not plug this hole. Yet being the peaceful man and respectful of destiny I await a miracle where I can find a purpose to my days.  Maybe the third Gold Flake will get me sooner to bed and sleep!!!! 
            As a Hindi song goes: Jine kee vajah toh koyee nahee marne kaa bahana dhundata hai
Ek akela iss shahar me...

A slice of Madras

#129

“Chennai is the most negative city in the world” is my assertion in any social gathering even at random encounters with raw strangers while on a train or a flight or anywhere I get human company. But I can’t do without the city for my mind is used to TAMIL and restaurants around every corner serving idly/vada and filter coffee.

            Last August there was a possibility of a job in JUST DIAL at NOIDA that my mind revolted. Fortunately I did not get the offer but if I had then I would have had a hard time self-convincing to make the shift to a NCR region. Delhi hits the gut with the Punjabi aggression and Hindi everywhere (Acche Hi, buchha hai) that my mind at 50 is fatigued. I do need a bit of Tamil in the air, filter coffee at every corner. And with my lame legs I am happy and content at Besant nagar where my movements are optimized to the lowest possible denomination.

            Yesterday I had a day out and it merits a blog post.

            I booked for a gas cylinder refill at 6:00 in the morning through interactive voice response (IVR) where you use the numbers on the mobile for bookings.  Normally it takes 2-3 days but yesterday the door bell rang at 11:00 and presto, cylinder delivery. The bill was Rs. 722 that the delivery boy said was Rs. 750 for climbing two storied staircase. I had just over Rs. 300 in the wallet and I told him in a morose voice, “Please take Rs. 250 now, I will go down to the ATM for the remaining Rs. 500 which you can pick up later in the day.” The boy acquiesced and it is such instances that reinforce my love for Chennai despite it being the most negative city in the world. Here I can talk to bus drivers and conductors, milk vendors and grocers and have a running conversation; something I can’t in a Bangalore or Hyderabad and definitely not in a Mumbai or Delhi. Knowing the local language is vital when dealing the menial working classes, otherwise you are not one of them. You might as well count for a German or French or a American or a Martian for all they care.

            Then I got down to withdraw 12 k from the ATM and went to Nilgiris store for Aavin milk sachet and Oosi Thenkozhil (a traditional savory that is fried and comes packed). I saw Ramani a mid-70s walker at the beach who greeted me asking, “What are you doing in this hot sun?” I showed him the half litre milk sachet and the Thenkozhil as we both smiled on cue as it were. Again I can’t have such a dialogue in a Delhi or Bangalore if Tamil was missing on the roads.

            In the evening I had to pick up Ranga for a drink at Maris and he backed out at the last moment. I was determined as I engaged an auto from Sathya studios to Maris.  I signaled for a couple of autos for negotiating the price; one fellow said, “Rs. 120 for Maris” and I asked with devilish cunning, “Is it for to and fro or just the drop?” He got the dry humour. Again something I can only do in Chennai with my Tamil skills. Finally I found a fare for Rs. 90 and off we went. The driver was beefy, large frame and he had a manly contour to him as he started talking which went like this:

            I reside in RA Puram area and only drive in the evenings. Actually I make a living as a money lender. I give weekly loans say if I give a loan of 10 k, I only pay 9 k to the borrower. The borrower has to make weekly installments of 1 k weekly for 10 weeks. Earlier I used to give monthly loans but suffered over 15 lacs loss. You see this Navodaya restaurant (as we passed by on the RA puram road) and that man ran away without repaying my loan advances of 1.5 lacs. That fellow despite being a Brahmin cheated me and these days one to be careful. I added a comma for a filler in this one-sided conversation, “To make a living as a money lender is tough for you need brawn and you need to be thug on a recollection drive.” The auto driver continued: Yeah, I have been out in the market for 20 years and all the local goons are my friends.

            Then he shifted to family matters: I was 19 when I got married, I fell in love with a 16 year old, we eloped and got married. It was my being responsibility getting the elder sisters married, finding grooms and financing the weddings. The second girl's marriage did not work out, she came home after a year with a baby and we have been supporting her ever since. Seeing that failure, my brother-in-law refused to get married. Now he is 50 and we keep an eye on his health and safety.

            I told him, “I am also a bachelor at 50 but a happy one. There are pros and cons both sides and a wise man takes advantage of where he is placed while the fool cribs at what is lacking.” We introduced ourselves, “I am Sathya and I make my money trading in stocks; I am Raja and I also around your age.” Again such a conversation can’t be imagined in a Telugu or Hindi or English or whatever. These are occasions that connect me to this most negative city in the world and boy, I come alive in these moments.

            This was the first time I was drinking alone at Maris as I ordered two large of Signature whiskeys and a soda as the sides dishes of a sundal, puffed rice and peanuts were served. The bill came to Rs. 495 which I swiped with a credit card leaving Rs. 20 as tips. I asked the steward, “Is it crowded today or what? Usually your service is better.” He smiled taking me for a regular saying, “Today our man power is less.” I loved being alone on the table and resolved: no need to wait for Ranga or anyone; being alone is so much peaceful and less stressful on the nerves. Must make it a monthly habit. 

            That done I hobbled to the restaurant on the ground floor. I sat on a corner table away from the maddening 8:40 pm crowd. The bearer took my order for a full meals.  I rate Maris restaurant the best in Chennai for service; you will never find such alacrity of stewards filling water to your glass or be attentive for refill of a sambar or curry or pickles or whatever anywhere else. You don’t find this level of service in a Ratna Café or Sangeetha or Saravana Bhavan. You see the same old familiar faces and they go out of their way for very best in hospitality in the city. I ate my food on a banana leaf and left a Rs. 20 tip. I spoke very little to the bearer but we connected, as he kept refilling and replenishing my glass of cold water or the extra rasams.

            I went outside and waited for a 29 C. There are a few new red buses in town with bucket seats and there was a new red bus 29 C Deluxe that I boarded opposite Chola Sheraton. This is the most negative city in the world but I lived every moment of it thanks to the auto driver, the stewards and even the trees and birds retiring into the night. I looked at the asphalt roads and thought, “This is my city and my roads and I will not exchange it for a Abu Dhabi or a Manama or anywhere else” as I looked at the crescent moon on a cloudy night skies with lampposts throwing light on the rising polluting airs  over the treetops. This is my city and this is where I belong. And if a spell of hell is prescribed for you, first thing you get down to learning is a smattering of Tamil which will convert it to heaven.