Mr. R

It's been a year-and-a-half now since M and I made the epic sojourn to Kailash and Manasarovar. Although overwhelmingly brilliant, I simply could not find the right words to describe the journey for a long time. Eventually, I thought it best to document it bit by bit, one wonderful experience at a time. The Lake Where No One Lives came first, hopefully others will follow.

While there are several noteworthy stories to share about the sights we set our eyes on, equally inspiring and interesting were the 40-odd people we shared our pilgrimage with. Names are hazy and easily forgotten, but their faces and their smiles, their words and their deeds, will remain etched in my memory forever. 

There was Maa, who had literally turned blue after catching a cold but went on nevertheless. There was Doctor S, who I'd witnessed administering stitches to an elderly lady after she had met with an accident. At the end of the procedure he touched her feet, thanking her for the opportunity to serve her. Both pairs of eyes welled up, rendering useless any further words between them. There was also the girl who made my dip in the Lake possible, who helped me walk into the cold waters with courage I never knew I had.

But most of all, I remember this one man, whom I shall refer to as Mr. R.

Mr. R, with silver-gray hair, was probably in his late fifties. He was the kind of man you could tell was very handsome in his youth, good enough to have been a movie star. His frame was muscular and there was a certain beauty in the way he held himself and took his long strides. As you'd know if you've read some of my previous posts, I take great interest in observing people who catch my fancy, and Mr. R was certainly one of them. 

So observe, I did. It was hard not to. Impossible, really. The man was remarkable not just in terms of physical beauty, but also physical endurance. The cold and high altitude that had gotten to me, a person half his age, had seemingly no effect whatsoever on his health and attitude. While the rest of us bundled up in layers, he went about regally in the only flimsy pair of clothes he had packed - as a man on a true pilgrimage would. Due to the lack of hot water, the group abandoned bathing as we gained in altitude. But not Mr. R. He continued to cleanse himself with ice-cold water at every stop we made, after washing his clothes. As he waited for them to dry, he would chant aloud Sanskrit verses on the praise of Lord Shiva. 

Naturally, I was not the only one whose attention he had managed to grab. A few considered him a man of extraordinary physical strength. There were rumors doing rounds that he would walk all the way from Chennai to Tirupati and back, once every month. Others in the group said he was a show-off, trying desperately to gain some attention by openly defying the rules. I'm not sure if the whispers ever reached his ears, but they seemed to be of no consequence to him. He seemed set in his mission, whatever he'd decided it was.

It was around 4 am on a dark, chilly morning in Paryang, Tibet, when my intense observations of the past week had actually led me to do something I never expected I would. The group was readying itself for the next leg of the journey, the all important one that would lead to the Lake Manasarovar. I was ready ahead of time, completely uneasy with the climatic conditions, having vomited non-stop from altitude sickness the previous day. It irritated me beyond reason that I had to have fallen sick while on the journey of a lifetime.  As I walked out of my room, I tried to gather my thoughts, focus myself on devotion and nothingness. And that's when I spotted in the hallway, a lone figure, seated on a wooden stool. Faint chants told me that the person was none other than Mr. R. Dressed once again in his flimsy t-shirt and pants, he was engrossed in singing the praises of the Lord, while all around him were busy looking for toothpaste and waiting for some hot water to arrive. 

I stared. I could not believe it. What on earth had this man done, I burned to know, to have possessed such an extraordinary control over his body. Here was a man, who at the age of fifty could do something that I could perhaps never, ever hope to do in my lifetime. Here was a man who had mastered something that I have been struggling with ever since I could remember - the body. He was comfortable in his skin, comfortable in his discomfort, and for that, there was no way I couldn't have done what I did next. I walked straight up to him, and bowed down at his feet. 

At first he didn't notice me. A few seconds later he did, but his chanting continued nevertheless. I shed a few tears, got up and walked away, realizing how far I was from where I wanted to be. Also realizing that maybe not too far, if I could only find a way to bow down to every creation of the creator, just the same way.

When the Maami Wore a Burkha

Passing time at the doctor’s office can be a big bore. Especially if you don’t have a good book or an interesting conversationalist for company. It’s usually my mom or M who accompany me and they’re no fun. Doctor’s lounges transform them into zombie-like versions of themselves, they simply stare into space, holding on to their chins, a small frown between the brows. No amount of my pestering can snap them out of it.

So over the years, I’ve devised several ways to amuse myself. The best one is observing people. I’ll admit it, I’m one of those loony girls who will stare until you’re wondering if there’s something stuck in your teeth. I know it sounds creepy, but I can’t help it, I just find people fascinating. I take in all the details, right from what they’re wearing to their tiny mannerisms, and then I make up stories about their lives in my head. Silly ones.

Some people look incredibly Indian, while others look like they might be from anywhere in the world. This always gets my attention. I wonder if this is so because of their genes, their dressing or their attitude towards life. So I give them a mental makeover. For instance, if there’s this ultra-hip girl in tight jeans and heels, I imagine what she would look like if she lived 30 years ago, in a sari, hair tied into a tight plait, and a big red pottu on her forehead. I do the same for guys, imagining them in a lungi and well-oiled hair. It’s funny to see in my head that they all fit pretty well into Indian costumes. Very rarely do I see someone who just doesn’t look Indian from any angle.

I do the opposite as well, put traditionally-dressed people in modern attire to see if they could ever ‘adapt’. Most of them would, my conclusions tell me. Cross-religious dressing is fun too. Like a imagining a woman in a burqa dressed like a Tamilian maami  and vice versa. Sounds blasphemous, I know. But I guess it’s just my way of removing the tags people have created for themselves, realizing that essentially everyone is the same. Okay, that was too meaningful. This is a silly post. Moving on…

Yesterday I found myself waiting yet again, while the super-busy doc kept seeing medical reps. It was exasperating, of course, until my eyes fell on this person and then he had my complete attention. I found him so fascinating, I almost had the mind to walk up to him and say, Excuse me sir, I find you fascinating. I now severely regret not doing that.

I immediately started my Sherlock-Holmes-wannabe-type investigations. The man was visibly in his early to mid-forties, owing to gray strands, bags under his eyes, and a large paunch. He was pretty fair by Indian standards. I was guessing Muslim, and he confirmed it by answering his mobile in a pronounced Urdu twang. By then, I was hooked.

What drew me to him was that despite the telltale signs of aging, his face had retained a boyish sort of aura. He wore a perpetual frown, as though he was confused about something. Reasonably well-dressed, and yet I couldn’t help thinking that he was charmingly careless about things. I shamelessly listened in on his conversation, turns out he had forgotten his file and was asking someone to get it for him. Aha! One of my observations turned out right.

His gait and mannerisms suggested a certain amount of affluence, yet the powerful personality that comes from a successful career was missing. He kept glancing nervously at a crying baby in the room, as though he would have liked to do something to cheer her, but wasn’t too confident of speaking up. The man with the baby dropped his pen, and Mr. Boyish-charm immediately stooped down to pick it up. Ah, my object of observation had a good, helpful heart, I concluded.

My fun was interrupted when the doc was finally ready to see me. And then I forgot all about him, until now.

So this is what I do, more often than not. Not just at the doc’s, but at bus stops, railway stations, airports, pretty much anywhere I’m waiting. Please somebody tell me this isn’t too creepy. Oh well, it’s okay if it is I guess. The world needs more creepsters like me, or so I would like to believe.

One day, I’m going to muster up the courage to speak to the people I find interesting. Hopefully, when I do that, I will come back and tell you all about it.  

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