One Who Walks

By Sanjeev Chhiber

One Who Walks is a story narrated by Porus, a being from a long, long time ago, an omniscient watcher, who observes people and their idiosyncrasies at the time of conflict. Porus unfolds these stories as he reflects and ponders upon human nature, accompanied by a wise, but often obscure muse. A refined tale, easy and light, that stays away from the usual well-known record and focuses instead on the stories of a few families and a few main characters who you could swear you have met in your life. It's familiar and yet it is a different story a story as told by the One Who Walks. The most striking feature of the book is its ability to evoke a sense of personal loss and perhaps hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9789358561395

Book preview

Dedicated

To my mother, Satya, and my ascended dad, Satpal.

A book requires a lot of patience for a time-bound surgeon used to deadlines. It is as if one has entered a strange realm where time has ceased to matter.

One learns to appreciate the working of many different intellects and the layers upon layers of inferences that the book is exposed to and bettered by.

During my first of many journeys that I hope to take, I have met many fantastic people who have helped me on every turn.

Preeti Mehra, the editor of this book, has been a proverbial brick. The time she took out from her very serious job–as a top journalist–cannot be accounted for. Without her, I would have been lost in the search of my first book.

I must also thank Madhulika Naithani whose assurances about my meager talent emboldened me to write this book.

Finally, I must thank Amit Khanna, my literary agent, a man of many talents, who has helped me on every stage of this journey.

Prologue 

ONE WHO WALKS

Connaught Place, New Delhi, 1997

Forest trails

Porus, Across Eternity

1984, And back into  1947

Delhi, 1984 – Looking back 

New Delhi, 1984

New Delhi, 1984 – Looking into the '60s 

London, 1977 and earlier 

Lahore, 1932 – Sheikupura, 1946  

New Delhi, 1984

THE AFTERMATH OF THE BATH

James, 1984

Pune, The '80s and the '30s 

Winter Rain, New Delhi, 2004

Faridabad, September  2001

Lajpat Nagar to Defence Colony, 2004  

Joy in the 21st Century 

Pakistan, a history 

Farid, Pakistan 

CIVILIZATION FATIGUE

Darkness 

Kutch, Aftermath

Centripetal Dreams

James, Kashmir 

Epilogue 

There are times in a man's life when he questions the meaning of his existence.

When death peers into his bedroom and he stares back at it with life.

When he knows that he has been born only to live and die.

When the meter starts ticking at the very first cry of the journey.

He curls up mentally and looks inwards in deep thought and travels into the labyrinth of his mind, meandering at first aimlessly and then finding his feet in a more purposeful manner.

He comes to a room and looks inside only to find another and then another and then another and then another.

Finally he comes to a room where he finds himself and smiles shyly and is then frightened of the mist which envelops his image.

Is it my soul, he asks? Or am I dead?

It is at these moments that his journey starts.

For those who don't encounter these moments, the journey never begins.

And so he walks and walks and walks and walks, not even knowing that all he is looking for is the answer. The question of course Life ... And the answer?

Maybe, I don't know it yet.

It was the beginning of autumn. The trees on Ashoka Road stood erect as the sun dipped behind the glass of Le Meridian reflecting a thousand sunsets. It was unbelievable what a little pollution could do to the evening sky. Detaching itself from the main body of traffic, a lone auto-rickshaw drew up near Porus, the driver leaning out expectantly.

Not now, I've just started. Porus bent down, re-tied his laces and moved away.

The clamour was by now incessant; the millions who left home every morning were now returning to their nests, spent, their daily hunt concluded. It was strange that no matter how much a man moved away from his origins he would always return to them in the end.

October, a month of vigor, joy, of festivities, had somehow always been a month of intense introspection for Porus. It was a month when he always inspected in great detail the 'what might have been' of his life. Oddly, the most comfortable part of this looking back was the fact that he had spent the major portion of his life in the role of an outsider, an observer. Involvement was anathema yet, somehow, the heart was always involved, even while he was a silent partisan spectator.

The traffic at the roundabout was waiting; it seemed that yet another VIP was passing by.

A green Fiat of ancient vintage idled, producing not an inconsiderable amount of smoke. The family of four in it seemed oblivious to the growing gloom that enveloped the air around them. The father, leaning out of the car window, was in a particularly combative mood as he discussed the origins of this stalemate. His complaint was directed to an old emaciated gent who perched on his Bajaj scooter, was puffing on an unfiltered cigarette, blowing the smoke out defiantly as if making his own mark on history. Just looking at the man, Porus stood there and imagined the poor fellow's wife, surely a giant of a woman, beating this frail spouse, avenging as it were, the historical inequities imposed on her sex. He must be such a perfect foil for her frustrations, her very life in sharp contrast to the hopeful endless soaps she watched on television. There must be children too, taking turns in tormenting a father already helpless and pummeled by the large woman. He seemed to stand there, insensitive to the traffic and the air–just living out the moments of freedom from the dreary life at home. Such vivid and creative stories could only be dreamed up and dissolved in traffic jams, thought Porus.

By now the waiting traffic was stirring. The mood swung between sullen resignation and open rebellion, yet strangely no one was being very vocal about it. All one could hear was the sound of revving up, the muted horns now gradually opening up. Porus thought he could actually hear the sound of teeth gnashing in concert but dismissed it as 'observer error'. The traffic started edging forward inch by inch as if driven by a collective death wish. The cops in charge of this menacing horde fidgeted, shuffled and deliberately avoiding eye contact adopted a decidedly more accommodative posture.

The pedestrians moved back from the curb, faced the road, waited, watched expectantly. The Jamun-sellers calmly and deliberately started gathering together. Suddenly the sound of sirens split the air and a convoy of about six cars whizzed down Janpath, turned into Raisina Road and was gone. And then with a whistle, the traffic was released and the moment passed. A pair of cops now sauntered across to the itinerant hawkers, picked up a handful of Jamun, eyed a particularly pretty woman hawker and waited expectantly. A short, squat potbellied man of indeterminate age, apparently the leader of this rag-tag hawker army, shuffled up to them, smirked knowingly and a handful of money exchanged hands. The guardians of law nodded expectantly towards the pretty hawker and potbelly winked. An auto-rickshaw was summarily summoned and the young woman, now flanked by the praetorians, left to perform the nocturnal ritual of her daily duties.

By now the deepening dusk was playing its daily game of dancing shadows. The new fangled sodium vapor lights on Janpath took their time to light up and illuminate. Slowly they began to warm up. Car headlights blinked on. It always surprised the much-traveled Porus when most drivers in Delhi started putting on the lights in near perfect visibility. And full-beam at that. It was as if there was a collective fear of the dark in this ancient city.

At a paan kiosk outside the main entrance to the Eastern Court, Porus paused. The kiosk owner was gesturing animatedly. He would point a finger to his palm, point it back to his head and repeat the routine without the slightest semblance of change. In between the acts he would pause, spit out large amounts of red fluid from his mouth, look around as if seeking an audience for approval and then nod, satisfied. Finally, wearily, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he spat out the entire contents of his mouth and thus relieved, started berating the man who stood bemused in front of him. The onlooker looked Slavic and was clutching a wad of currency tightly to his chest. He stood quietly for some time obviously not comprehending the language–a mixture of Hindi, a variant of English, and raw hot-blooded Punjabi accentuated by the paan-seller's somewhat dramatic gesticulations.

A silent crowd of pedestrians had by now gathered to watch the exchange. They noted with great interest the bright red shiny polyester tee shirt, the torn faded jeans, the worn-out leather sandals, the blonde hair and the slightly darker stubble on the rather indecisive chin. The Slav glanced around furtively, shoved the money into a money belt around his waist and then walked away with a purposeful air into the night.

Brother, what is the matter? a short spindle shaped man enquired.

The poor critter thought I was a black-marketer. Wanted to sell dollars to me. I told him no, but he kept going on.

Forget it; the poor sucker must have been confused. He must have thought that your shop was the one on Kasturba Gandhi Marg.

Yes, yes, there's one there near the American Centre, interjected a lean nicotine-hungry private-security type as he reached behind the counter and picked up a packet of Wills Navy Cut.

By now the traffic on Janpath had thinned. As he crossed over to the Inner Circle, Porus paused, looked around, and moved ahead. It was an old familiar feeling; a feeling as if somebody was watching him, following him.

In the Central Park, a middle-aged Sardarji was sitting on a bench on the south side of the fountain caressing a young boy of about sixteen. The Ancient Greeks did it all the time; possibly the ancestors of this modern warrior had cohabited with the invaders a bit too closely. Porus found the connection potentially intriguing. A few hawkers drifted by, as the citizens of the city lolled about, deeply inhaling the cool polluted evening air. It was interesting to note that most of the people here in this park were from the walled city. It seemed as if any sort of escape from claustrophobia was welcome. There were many veiled, burqua-clad ladies celebrating an escape from their individual harems. Most had scowling husbands and a wide variety of children in tow. A man in a priest's garb walked by Porus and looked straight through him. A pot-bellied cop walked out of the loo under the fountain complex. The rather energetic way in which he swung his baton betrayed both his freshness and readiness for the evening action. He patted his trouser zip reassuringly as if confirming his now empty bladder. Now he was ready for the night. Soon he would be joined by some of his colleagues and the park would be emptied of all humans.

All this in the name of security. Like most other things in life, the more one yearned for security the more insecure one became. Porus, now seated comfortably on a stone bench in this rapidly emptying park, looked up at what little he could see of Orion through the smog. There was a time when chess players would play throughout the night in the park opposite the Palika Bazaar. They would even store their boards in a small niche in the caretaker's room below the fountain. Scores of homeless folks would spend the nights in the park, huddled up in the cold winter nights and in semi-naked freedom in summer. All that was gone now. The centre of Delhi was to be made an example of. Anyway, common people were not supposed to just do what they wish and have a bit of fun at all hours. It did not matter if anarchic gangs roamed about in most of the Hindi heartland but the Capital was different.

Connaught Place always assumed funeral stillness by about 11pm. The keepers of public morality ensured that. A few stragglers hung about the few restaurants. The flower sellers were winding up their day. The street children divided the day's takings amicably amongst themselves. Occasionally, a dispute would break out, but Porus noted that the grown-ups would always be discouraged from interfering. It was as if these children had indicted the entire adult segment of the human race. The prostitutes were exhorting their personal rickshaw-pullers to move faster, as if one last burst of speed would take them to their destiny.

Porus walked away, silently, purposefully, with his customary long strides. The cool March breeze blew down Man Singh Road, and as it blew through the leaves of the Ashoka trees, the air was filled with gentle sighs and ululations, sounds that seemed to float across the century through years of history. Far in the distance a police siren shattered Porus's reverie and looking up he saw the almost full moon, its bright celestial light throwing up, in sharp relief, the sandstone edifice of the India Gate. The vast silent lawns surrounding this colonial legacy resembled a scene of carnage. Millions upon millions of ice-cream cups now lay strewn amongst the reams of plastic. This thus was the detritus of an evening out at India Gate. Clumps of debris in the more shadowy parts took on the shapes of fallen warriors as the moonlight played hide and seek behind a stray cloud. This was the mighty Central Vista. The glow of the fire commemorating soldiers fallen in battle filled Porus with an aching void. He knew too well the young unfulfilled lives falling, forgotten.

Truly that Yunani had got it right, things generally remained the same.

For a short while Porus stood on the empty pedestal on which once had stood the statue of King George. The British Raj had been a mixed time in Indian History. On one hand it had accelerated the demise of the 'dark' ages; on the other, it had systematically reduced India into an impoverished, looted state. But how could a mere fifty thousand Englishmen rule over such a vast country? It was nothing short of a miracle, reflected Porus, the observer of the ages.

As the first hint of dawn broke through above the National Stadium, the rumble of the city began gathering momentum once again. The walkers were once more out in numbers. To the south of the Vista lay the Lodi Gardens. Porus reached this patch only to find a traffic jam at the main gate. Scores of cars were disgorging the elite as they sportingly huffed and puffed their way into the complex to sweat out their collective sins, many decked in Versace, Ralph Lauren, Givenchy to vie with the petunias, dahlias and roses that adorned the gardens. At the sign, Jogging Track-0.00, people of various hues queued up, counted mentally and took off. There was the mandatory VIP or two, marked out by personal security guards in tow. These superbly fit commandos watched benevolently as their wards gamely pounded on in these leafy environs. There were others-women, young athletes, girls, elderly matrons, geriatric, arthritic, even the odd paraplegic.

In the grassy lawns, which lay within the confines of the track, were various monuments, the last Hurrah of the Lodi kings who had ruled this city between the 12th and the16th centuries. On the lawn north to the central complex, there was a congregation of balding, laughing, middle-aged and geriatric men, in knickers, khakis and keds. This band of people had an interesting theory going for them. They believed contrived laughter was the panacea of all the ills present in the world. To see them mocking sorrow, an eternal tool of chaos and change, amused Porus greatly.

Imagine, what would have happened to man if he hadn't had the Blues. Probably swinging from a tree somewhere.

A few clouds appeared from nowhere and light drizzle began falling on the denizens of Delhi. Rain turned to hail, and a strong wind gusted in from the north with the promise of early winter. At the Bhairo temple behind Purana Quila (Old Fort), the junkies celebrated this by pulling harder on their chillums, under the benevolent gaze of Lord Bhairo himself. For centuries now the dropouts in India, ranging from wandering sadhus to all types of mendicants, had fortified themselves with hashish or marijuana. It was their belief that the Third Eye present in all of us would open up and these lucky hashed out souls would attain speedy moksha, nirvana or whatever else one might call these highly personalized and instant orgasms. Porus watched them with deep feeling. In a distant hazy past, he too had tried hash, but when his brain began to go, he'd kicked the habit.

He sat back, relaxed and looked back in time. It was strange that after all these years nothing surprised him any more. The thought of enlightenment had crossed his mind but he would rather trade that for a ringside view of life. Whenever his thoughts began to take on a moral hue, he would remind himself of all the sins that he had committed in his youth and he would mentally chide himself. Nothing is more distasteful to a man than his own misdeeds. In trying to forget them, a man is condemned to repeat them again and again.

Remembering your past aren't you? said the bearded figure of the muse, suddenly appearing out of the haze, startling Porus.

Ah! There you are. After all these years. I thought I had lost you, Porus said.

I am always around, watching. Just as you have been watching the world, Anando smiled.

Forest trails

I saw a mirror in the jungle;

It was a drop of dew.

It would tell stories, it would dance

Like a drop of wicked brew.

I would lie in wait all night to see

The images of the morrow.

Everyday a new story,

Some joy, some sorrow.

Some days, a glimmer of joy

Would pierce its heart;

Some days, a deeper dusk

Would rip it apart.

I would see old men, young children,

Women of all hues,

Walking in the jungle

Sweaty, limbs loose.

The animals would all gather

At the water hole to drink.

Some human, some inhuman,

Glasses would rise and clink.

The tribal and the tiger

Lived in perfect truce.

They shared the shady forest,

Drinking mossy juice.

The mongoose would rub itself

On a herb three feet high;

No snake would now kill it,

However hard it tried.

Then came the government,

The poacher with evil juju.

They came and killed the tiger;

They raped the tribal too.

They took his woman;

They usurped his land;

They sold off his children to

An evil far off land.

The tiger was very dead now,

The tribal a mere whore.

Smelly, rotten officials,

All rapists to the core.

The police and the security

In this evil rotten land

Would bow to their masters,

Licking supine hands.

The dew now shimmered

As the jungle shook and roared.

All around was gun fire;

All around was gore.

In a village in north Bengal

They have a jungle too.

They call it Naxalbari,

Tribals live there too.

When they fight back its evil,

So the saying goes.

Suffering is their duty,

To suffering they must go.

The drop now shivered and cried a tear or two,

Never had I seen water crying too.

Maybe, one day time will heal the sores of

The tiger and the tribal and old jungle lore.

It was a hot day. So hot that the sun's rays pierced through the dark foliage of the jungle and turned the damp undergrowth into smoking ember. He stood still, waiting for a movement in the underbrush, which would mean he could return home with dinner. Far away he heard the frightening stomping sound of a herd of mammoths pounding their way to extinction. Through a gap in the upper branches of the dense forest, the man saw the reddened midday sky. It was as if the hot white sun had set the sky on fire.

The earth was warming at the dawn of the Holocene epoch but to the unknowing man it was all a celestial dream. Every day the sun would rise, traverse the length of the sky like a mighty burning god and then set, leaving the world in darkness. The moon, the stars would then play their games till the mighty orb returned, bringing relief from the unknown dread of night. For this was Dandakaranya, the abode of the demons and the sages, where night was the arena when the two immortal foes–good and evil–clashed daily.

Just then the boar emerged and charged towards the man as if seeking relief in certain death. The man was tall for his time and had a spear with which he killed the boar and then lovingly wiped the weapon on his skirt adding sheen to the raw animal hide. Then, as the boar was too heavy to carry, he made a small carriage or gurney of some branches and large leaves, and dragged it to his home. It wouldn't have been right to drag the dead animal on the ground for it would have meant showing disrespect to the spirit of one who had given its life for your food.

Above the rise ahead there was a clearing in the middle of the forest with a few makeshift huts made of wood and crudely placed stones. The forest acted as a sentinel, protecting the score or so people from outside danger. A stream trickled by a few hundred paces away making the whole area self-contained. There were dangers here, yes, but at least they would be protected from the rampaging mammoth herds who favored open ground. And the fire, which burned day in and day out, what with the ample fuel available acted as a deterrent to tigers and other predators.

As the man neared, he thought of his dead father who had chosen this spot wisely. They called it Usrot which meant home to the man. He remembered how his father had died many moons ago. He had grown very warm and had shivered even in the heat of the day and would sweat profusely. Finally one day he had given up trying. The man thought that he didn't want to go that way. He would rather die in battle.

Reaching Usrot he sat down on a rock and mopped his brow, as his people excitedly began cutting up the dead animal. Bopi smiled at him as she showed him a piece of liver; he