Hide and Seek- the Second

Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening

She had told herself that she would stop by their room and converse long enough to confirm their academic professions and then return to her book. When the younger man opened the door, he looked comfortably rumpled. She stared for a few seconds and then tugged her gaze away, embarrassed. It was such an odd unfamiliar sight! A man wearing his nightclothes; she could not recall the last time she had seen a man with his hair like that-sleep tossed!

As it turned out, they were not in the academic field. Neither were they artists or photographers. The father was the CEO of a company that had recently launched a new 24-hour news channel that claimed to be comprehensive and international in the true sense. Bilingual anchors. News from around the world, with an emphasis on Indian events. More than one version of the news.

“Garbled!” an acquaintance had labeled it, “How can they tell us that the Tokyo bomb blast were the work of Islamic fundamentalists, and then the very next minute spout some conspiracy theory bullshit about a local hairstylist being behind it?” She had agreed at the time. Sure, there were two sides to every story. But news coverage could simply not function like that. Why, there would be chaos! No one would know what to believe anymore.

Now however…well, she did not know what to believe anymore! The older man had told her about his work as the two of them sat having tea on the porch outside. The younger man was inside, getting dressed. Five minutes flowed into ten..into fifteen..twenty. And she still did not feel like getting up. The younger man joined them. He was a graphics designer. He freelanced; edited movies sometimes. Mainly parallel cinema projects. Though he had worked on a Shahrukh-Kajol starrer once. “Much better money than Nagesh Kukkunoor could ever pay me!” he chuckled.

“But…isn’t that like compromising your-” she searched for a word and came up with nothing better than “-craft?”


He looked at her searchingly. “Is it?” he asked softly.


She was at a loss for words. He must be offended. Of course he was. Such a personal question. What was she thinking? She had gotten carried away by the camaraderie and blurted out what she was thinking. “I’m sorry. I had no business to ask you that.” She mumbled.

“Why not? Don’t look so apologetic for Christ’s sake. I was just asking you why you thought that. Okay, I don’t see it as a compromise because I enjoy working on both kinds of projects. Certainly, I believe much more in a movie that’s not one big fantasy fiesta. But there’s nothing wrong with an out and out entertainer either. And like I said, it pays. Literally. I need to do a college romance type of movie every now and then, so that I can work on projects that are not lucrative but are definitely interesting.”

She understood what he was saying. He would not work for a movie that endorsed Nazism for sure-because he would be against that. But harmless entertainment was just that-harmless fun. No compromise involved. No clash of principles and all that jazz. Suddenly, she was confused. She had categorized them as pseudo-intellectuals. That did not seem to apply anymore. They were too eclectic to classify. And in that moment she gave up trying to classify them. Forever.
The older man enjoyed photography. Hence the destination with the breathtaking view. “I don’t care much for the view. Everything looks the same after five minutes. I did think a couple of days with Dad away from the city would be nice though. And here we are!” his son told her.

Breakfast. Then a visit to a nearby chapel. A short but steep walk. Beautiful, old stained glass windows. Rows and rows of dark wooden pews. And a priest! In a back of beyond Himalayan settlement! Lunch at the priest’s house. Roast chicken and potatoes. Surreal. A return to the guesthouse.

The three of them were too exhausted to go out anywhere for dinner so the older man requested the caretaker to organize dinner. “Whatever is available. Keep it simple.”

They were on the porch once again. Eating aloo paranthas sizzling with butter. In silence, with their shawls wrapped around them because the night air was chilly. The night melted into dawn, which brightened to noon and faded into twilight. A weekend turned into a few days and she spent most of her time with them…

Now, the whiff of pinecones crept up on her again as she tried to remember what the paranthas had tasted like. She could barely remember what it felt like to be hungry, what food tasted like. She had not eaten since lunch the previous day. Food! As if she would ever be able to think about it again. It seemed so trivial, compared with the fact that she had lost everything she had ever wanted to find…

Her mind took her back to the afternoon under the pine trees, in the woods just behind the guesthouse. The heady smell of pine needles filled the air. It was almost potent.
Amusing stories were being exchanged. She related an incident she had to dig out from the recesses of her hoarder memory. Her brain was like her nana’s trunks of clothes. Everything went in, but nothing was ever taken out to air or share. So it was hard. Her sentences were stilted at first. When she reached the part about getting her head stuck in the window grill, the two men burst out laughing. The rest of the story tumbled out easily- hysterical father, fire engines, electric saws, and an everlasting fear of putting her head through small openings.

Father and son regaled her with stories from the entertainment industry. Like the photographer who had an assignment for a photo-shoot with Amitabh Bacchan and told the superstar, “Now, don’t be nervous. It’ll be over before you know it! And you’ll look just fine, not to worry.” She cracked up at that one.

And about the colony where the son had an apartment, where Art of Living was the latest craze. He mimicked the advertiser who lived upstairs, and had enrolled for a course. He had talked about nothing but ‘the Universal Eye’ and ‘cleansing the soul’ for months afterwards. He had also taken to explaining the ‘Twenty Step Program to Inner Peace’ to anyone who was willing to listen. “An advertising guy through and through!” the older man guffawed. Then there was the couple on the ground floor that felt their children would benefit from the spiritual enrichment the programme offered. The children’s ages were yet to hit double digits…

She grinned, amused, but felt obliged to say something in favour of Sri Sri Ravishankar’s brainchild. “Well yes. It’s funny when people take the whole concept to such extremes. But come on, it has helped a lot of people, hasn’t it? It can’t all be a load of hogwash.”

“Of course it is. ‘Hold your partner’s hand and cry and all your problems will be solved.’ Ha! As if years and years of pent-up pain and sorrow can be released during one sobbing session. It’s temporary relief. Art of Living is no better than a quick fix at the local massage parlour. A transient high.” The younger man said with biting conviction.

Suddenly, she was angry. She had felt like they had been telling her not to make judgements these past few days-by setting an example of sympathetic objectivity. Then what was this? A balanced perspective? They were as hypocritical as anyone else was. Pots calling a kettle black. She retreated into herself and said icily, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because you’re irreligious or an atheist or whatever doesn’t mean all spirituality is fake and pretentious. I happen to know people who have discovered life all over again through Art of Living and other courses like that. Sure, once it becomes a fad it’s harder to see it as a holy, moving experience. But it is really stupid of you to run it down completely. It’s a hell of a lot more than a couple of hours with a sex-worker.” and she stopped, breathless.

“Is it?” skeptically.

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t you gone and discovered life again through it? Not exactly passionate about your existence, are you?”

She was stunned into silence. Oh, the impertinence! She stood up and walked off into the forest behind her. More like stomped off actually. How, how, how could he ask her a question like that? Like it was any of his bloody business. Presumptuous man! He though himself so much superior to her. But he was just another cynic. Funny, she had always thought of herself as cynical. He made her seem almost naïve by comparison! She knew she was not being naïve though. Her sister had gotten over her child’s death, largely because she did a ten-day Vipasana programme. Ten days of living in silence in an ashram. The heartbroken woman had found solace in it, and had come to terms with her loss. She did not come back home ready to laugh at sitcoms again- no, it certainly did not work like that. But she was at peace. Ready to pick up the threads again, with some idea of a pattern in mind. And this man had just thrown that beautiful, healing experience into filth.

She had stopped to think just a few minutes away from the clearing where they had been sitting. She stood there now, and thought about his question. Not that he had any right to ask her that. Still…she could answer it to herself. She did not enjoy her life, or leap enthusiastically out of bed to greet a new day each morning. Why then, had she not enrolled herself? It was certainly not due to a lack of encouragement. Her sister had recommended it at least as many times as her relatives had told her to get married- hundreds! She knew the answer of course. It was just not her style. Chanting mantras, practicing asanas, laughing and crying in a group, spilling deep, dark secrets to a room full of people, kundalini lessons-most people found it soothing and uplifting. She found it boring. And pointless.

“Hey.” it was the older man. He was standing behind her and she turned to face him.

“I haven’t done it because I think it’s silly.” she said simply.

He nodded, “He thinks the same way.”

“Okay. That’s acceptable. Great. A kindred spirit. But that does not mean-”

“I know, I know. Save it for the offender. Come on. You need to get back there and give him a piece of your mind. He can be pretty patronizing at times. Take him down a peg or two sweetheart.”

He led her back to the clearing. The young man was standing now. She stood a little distance away from him. He looked at her and held her gaze. He did not withdraw it as he said, “I had no right to tell you that you don’t love your life. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. And I’m not exactly passionate about living. You were right about that.”

He took a deep breath, “About the spirituality scene-”

She interrupted, “I know. It’s not your cup of tea. It isn’t mine either. I just told your father. I think it’s silly. It doesn’t work. For me. But that’s not to say it’s silly for everyone. Trust me. I know.”

“I’m in agreement. I was- insensitive.”

“Yes, you were. Things are not black or white. Isn’t that what your ‘comprehensive, international channel’ tells us? Two or more sides to every story? And no single, absolute truth?” she was addressing the older man now.

He nodded, but stayed silent. His eyes strayed towards his son, as if waiting for him to say something. His son remained silent. He kept looking at her.

“Aren’t you envious of them?” she exclaimed, “Their quick fix solutions? Meet a guru and restart your life? Rediscover yourself through wearing saffron and swaying to the Gayatri mantra? Place a frog in your drawing room and change your fortune? I wish it was my cup of tea. I wish it did work for me.”

“No,” he said slowly, “I am not envious. I can understand why you are though. The thing is…I don’t think that’s the only way. I love my life. And I don’t need Deepak Chopra or Oprah Winfrey to tell me how great life is. I already know.”

“Then you are one lucky man. Because I don’t. I need someone to tell me. And I guess I’m not listening hard enough because no one has been able to get the message across.” Bitterness had seeped into her voice. She did not care. So she was whining. Big deal. The facades were already down. Might as well let them see her as she really was. Who cared? Who cared about anything really? She stood, careless of the presence of anyone else, and looked down at the pine needles and examined them. Long, sharp and smooth. She wondered what it would feel like to lie down naked on them and let them pierce her smooth skin.

The younger man's voice brought her back from the pleasurable pain that was suffusing her. “You can listen all you want. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think you can really love anything by hearing about it. You need to experience it. Shit, I know it sounds corny and new age, but I really do believe that. You have to live, really live. Laugh, cry, love, hate, be jealous, scream, dance, eat, sleep, fight, pray- whatever. It’s like a symphony. You can’t read it. You need to be involved and hum along and listen to every note and every instrument and gasp with awe at the end,” he stopped and threw his hands up helplessly, “I think I’m babbling now…must be incomprehensible. But let me just say this. I’m not being patronizing. Loving life did not come naturally to me. It doesn’t to most people. One has to work at it. Even the happiest marriages need to be worked at, right? The effortlessly blissful ones are rare. Very, very rare. So, I’m not trying to help you or anything like that. Only, well…I’ve been there. I still visit sometimes. So, I know. I know there is my way too.”

She felt a warm, firm hand clasping hers, and looked up into the older man’s face. And she knew she was looking at one of the rare, effortlessly blissful persons who are natural lovers of existence. They fit into the world and the world loves them. He held her hand and looked beyond her. “Too many walls…” he murmured.

She smiled. “ ‘I am a rock. I am an island.’ Simon and Garfunkel were right you know. ‘And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.’”

He broke into a grin at that, “Same chaps who wrote that song lamenting about people not communicating with one another? How does it go- ‘and the silence like a cancer grows…people talking without speaking…people hearing without listening’? And let’s not forget ‘like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down’. Bridges are hardly conducive to an islandic existence, don’t you think?”

She had to laugh. Outwitted by an obvious Simon and Garfunkel fan. She gripped his hand and looked at the sky. Then she looked the younger man. He was not smiling, just looking at her. “I know,” she said softly, “I know what you’re saying.”

It was enough. The wind swept their faces with its cool fingertips. It swirled at the ends of her long hair and breezed inside her sweater. The first drops of rain fell. The earthy smell of wet mud tangoed with the fragrance of pine trees, and the woods danced with the thunder…

Almost like...the elements playing hide and seek.

Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening