Thus Spake ramaswamyby Ramesh Mahadevan Ramaswamy is quite a character -- the way he looked, the way he walked and talked and even the way he got pissed off at all those things that seem to ruin his orderly universe. He is a rather diminutive man, with a slight, emerging paunch and a face that desperately needs a lot of Botox -- the cruel Chennai sun had really deep-fried his face into a million wrinkles. His get-up is so distinctive, you can tell him apart from the other side of the town -- his neatly starched, snow-white dhoti, trademark, checked shirt, geeky south Indian eyeglasses. And a forehead filled with a myriad religious symbols -- dots, straight lines and Greek letters. Perhaps because of his small frame, Ramaswamy also happened to be a highly energetic man. So energetic in fact that, in some western countries, they might even give him medication to 'cure' him of it. (And to this day, he has not lost even an iota of his limitless energy, thank god). He used to work his tail off for a nationalized bank, until one day he fell victim to their early retirement scheme and was sent home packing. Give a hyperactive man all the free time in the world and the next thing you know, he is everywhere, trying to do twenty impossible things. At first, he tried to form a neighborhood association to protest the building of a movie theatre just outside our colony. Then he managed to infiltrate into the local temple committee to keep a watchful eye on the temple finances. He even attempted to organize a rag-tag army of marginal singers into a bhajan group that bellowed in various living rooms each Saturday. All these activities lasted precisely three months. His fellow citizens ditched him one by one, unable to match him in wattage and enthusiasm. In a bygone era, I am sure he would have been a folk hero -- a demi-Gandhi, if you will -- doing what he was doing, but not in these modern, apathetic times. His experiments aborted, Ramaswamy turned into a disillusioned community crusader, even becoming a consummate cynic, day by day. He still spoke his mind and lashed out at various wrongdoers whenever he had an audience. But, there is no doubt that Ramaswamy, the unofficial Samaritan, is now relegated to the ranks of chronic whiners -- his ranting so intense some of the neighbors even began to avoid him. I am among his most favorite targets, and every time I went home to Chennai, he would mercilessly foist himself on me and dump his random collection of complaints. From my living room, I would see him ride his rickety bicycle and carefully alight in front of our house. When he got off the bike, he always did so with a perceptible flip, as if he was dismounting a horse. Next minute, he would be sitting in front of me, ready to rattle off. It was no different the last time I was visiting Chennai. He turned up at our house a day after I arrived. After the initial niceties, he was back to being Ramaswamy. “I don't know why Saurav Ganguly chose to bowl first in the World Cup,” he would submit his peeve du jour. “Our fellows, they are 'daal-chawal' types and are no match for the Australian meat eaters.” Even before I could agree or disagree with him, he would fire his next salvo, totally unrelated to cricket. “You see, they made Harrington Road 'one way'. You know, from the Krishna Textiles end to the other end. You don't know where Krishna Textiles is? This is what happens if you leave town and live abroad. Anyway, these guys always cause inconvenience to the public.” You get the drift. Now there is no stopping him. "Ramesh, they finished dredging the Shiva temple pond yesterday. You won't believe how much dirt they scooped out. It is all gathered on the side of the tank like a little mountain.“ Why are you telling me all this, Ramaswamy? “Why am I telling you this, Ramesh?" Here, a throaty laugh. "That too when you have just arrived from America. Anyway, the slum children are playing in it. Why don't we get bubonic plague and SARS here, you tell me? Do you have temple tanks for your Pittsburgh temple and Malibu temple? Do white people come to our temples? “ Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Another day in the neighborhood. Another day of watching jockey Ramaswamy hop off his bike, his dhoti neatly tucked between his legs to save him from any potential embarrassment. Another day of listening to him complain about the high price of sesame oil. “These fellows are all adulterators. Even if we pay money, we cannot get quality products in India.” He would go on. “Even in temples, there is fraud and cheating.” Amen, Ramaswamy. “Oh, even the fellows who come to the temple. I mean the so-called devotees. A lot of them are actually 'roadside Romeos' who come there to ogle the women. See, I have three mature daughters and I am afraid to take them to the temple some days.” Of course, he did not imply that his 'mature' girls were women of wisdom, but that they were simply anatomically mature and ready to get married, have sex and reproduce like xerox machines. "It's all because of the movies these days," he would root-cause his grouse against the present day boys and girls. "The damn movies." He would then elaborate. “Yes, Ramesh. Those movies were movies. Look at these days. You have two hundred people dancing for every song. Those days we had excellent songs like 'Haal kaisa hai janaab ka'. Where are such songs now?” He would go on. “Even last week I saw a movie – something whose title goes like 'Maine apna paagal dil ko kabse dhey chukein sanam aur aapne bi usko louta diya' or MAPDKKDCSAAB…hehehehehe.”
“Ramaswamy, is anything the matter?” “Yes, Ramesh. Those good-for-nothing fellows.” Here he paused for effect. “They stole my bike. I was at the electricity board to pay our bill. You know, now they have moved the electricity office again. I don't know why they keep moving the office. Anyway, I was only gone for five minutes and some scumbag made off with my bike. He won't live happily at all any more.” Definitely not! Because, whoever had stolen the bike, had indeed inherited a headache. It was such an ancient, clunky excuse for a bike. (Of course, I didn't tell him that) Did you complain to the police, Ramaswamy? “Yes, I did. In triplicate. I am even going to write to the commissioner himself directly,” he said. “But you know how the police is. They are so corrupt. They are only interested in 'mamool'. From top to bottom. I bought my bike with honest, clean money. Lord knows that. Anyone who cheats such a man of integrity will face the fury of hell.” I had a brainwave just then. Maybe I should buy him a new bike. A quick dollar-rupee math indicated that it would not bite my wallet much. “Ramaswamy, how about us getting you a new bike to mark your twentieth wedding anniversary?” Ramaswamy snickered dejectedly. Perhaps he was finally reacting to my perpetual condescending attitude toward him. “You won't understand, Ramesh,” he said “ I have had this bike for twenty three years – I have had it longer than I have had my wife. My bike and I have this unique bonding that transcends the typical man-machine relationship. My bicycle is of super-sentimental value to me. A new bike will not even come close. I appreciate your gesture, however.” He came up with half a dozen ideas on what to do next about his bike. “It is all 'written on my head' -- to have owned that bike, used it to go to office for twenty odd years and then lose it one day in broad daylight.” He genome-ified his karma for me.
“The inspector is a gem of a person,” he said at first. “He always talks to people when he comes to the temple. There should be more people like him.” Some other times, he would get philosophical. “That bicycle was bought with my blood and sweat. If you are honest and clean, nobody can take away your assets from you, Ramesh.” Ramaswamy, perhaps nobody wanted an eyesore of a bike that was only a few months away from being smelted into oblivion. Whatever. At last, Ramaswamy too had a complete story, with a classical beginning, middle and end. He was never tired of recounting it – in twenty different ways. Whatever said and done, he was rejuvenated, now reborn with total faith in all of humanity – in the police, in the administrative system and in the value system in general. There was not a hint of his patented cynicism as I watched him dust off his family jewel of a bicycle and get on to the saddle with a renewed vigor. Yes, who else but Ramaswamy had had a proverbial paradigm shift? Or, had he? “See you later, Ramesh,” he waved to me. “Now I will have to go and renew my daughter's moped registration. You see, these guys are so corrupt and unforgiving, they don't even tolerate if you are one day late. Of course, you can always give 'something' to the broker agent in the RTO office and get your job done. Boy! It is so hot here today – only dogs can survive this temperature... Oh, look at Srinivasan – just running off without even acknowledging my presence! Wealth corrupts...Ta ta...!” |