“Uncle, Numair has hit me unnecessarily. He is a very bad boy”. The complainant was a 6 year old child – about the same age as my son Numair. It had been a tough day at the office for me. I had been intercepted by this gang of children as I was walking back home after parking the car. Numair stood in the background, sulking. I could not help but feel a sense of déjà vu as I surveyed the scene before me. I was transported back 40 years to a  time when I had been in a similar situation.

As a child, we used to play in a small ground behind our home in a small city. One of those evenings, all 6 years of me got into an argument with a neighbourhood kid. 40 years down the line, I cannot recall the actual reason, but the passage of time has not diminished the righteous feeling in me that my premise was more correct! Well, we tried to resolve our arguments like any other sane and rational 6 year olds – we whacked each other. Whilst our whacking bout was on, my dad came back from his municipal school where he was a teacher. My opponent ran up to my dad and vented his anger whilst I sulked in the background. Dad surveyed the scenario, slapped me twice in front of everyone and walked away without uttering a single word. A dumbfounded and very hurt self tried to hold back my tears, my cheeks red and stinging. Apart from the physical pain, what really hurt was the feeling of being punished unjustly and in front of everyone by my own dad. I can still hear the jeers of everyone as I walked back home – hurt, angry and alone.

At home, dad explained that he had hit me to keep the outward impression of impartiality intact and dismissed the issue. Impression at your son’s expense? – the child in me cried silently. That night, all alone in bed, I was quick to absorb the lesson of this twisted middle class morality. The impression of others was more important than that of your near and dear ones. Cursed with this sick logic, I grew up making the interests of my family and near and dear ones subservient to the ‘impressions of others’. Imagine living you life with this kind of morality – sacrificing your own interests for the sake of others at all times. Pleasing others became more important than the happiness and comfort of self, family and my dear ones.

Did my father ever realize what he did that day? No, I don’t think so. In his defence, I must hasten to add that he was probably too busy keeping the wolves away from our doors, to make sufficient money to pay for our education. Life was a struggle, dependent on the goodwill of others to survive. The only people willing to stand by you and suffer for you were your near and dear ones…………  

I jerked back to the present and called out to my son. As Numair came close, I put my hands protectively around him and told the other boys “All of you are old enough to sort this out amongst yourselves. Don’t be sissies and complain”. I believe I finally corrected a 40 year old wrong.

It was one of the lazy weekend afternoons during the early nineties. I had reported to a Mumbai based coast guard ship on deputation from the Indian Navy. Keen to get acquainted with my new shipmates, I changed and went to the Ante Room. The bar was open, the atmosphere was relaxed; the lights dim with Enigma blasting from a futuristic looking stereo system. I went around introducing myself. Vikram was sitting in one corner, ensconced between two pretty girls. “Please call me Vicky” was his laconic self introduction as he went back to the animated close quarter discussion with his girls.

Vicky was the ship’s Medical Officer or in civilian parlance, a doctor. He was suave, smooth and urbane. An extrovert who loved interacting with people and a compulsive party-goer, Vicky was also good at squash and Bridge. Grapevine said that his list of Mumbai girlfriends was a mile long. Vicky was ruled by his impulsiveness. I remember an occasion when we took the ship’s Gypsy on the Marine drive at midnight after drinks onboard and tangdi kebabs at Bade Miyan. The dare was to touch the highest point on speedometer in the stretch between Nariman Point and Chowpatty. Needless to say, Vicky won; the runner up not even within 10 kmph of Vicky’s top speed. There was this air of controlled aggression around him, of someone who would charge at the enemy without batting an eyelid and enjoy the plunder of his victory with equal aplomb. Vicky could very well have been a swashbuckling buccaneer but for the fact that he was living in a different age.

. Within a month of my joining, the ship was shifted to Chennai and deployed in Palk Straits. The mission was to prevent LTTE using Indian soil as a sanctuary from Sri Lankan Army. We did a cycle of 15 days deployment in the area followed by 15 days rest and recuperation at Chennai. Over the next one year, Vicky and self became the best of friends. During our stay in Chennai, we used to paint the town red – getting drunk, smoking pot, listening to Enigma and doing all those delightfully sinful things bachelors do when deployed away from home port. We purchased a life size stuffed Pink Panther which we took along with us everywhere we went. This Pink Panther was our passport to striking interesting conversation with pretty girls. I recall a particular episode when we went to Chola Sheraton for dinner and deposited Pinky with front desk for safe keeping. While retrieving him, Vicky also managed a date with the pretty thing at the desk. Vicky’s philosophy of life was a tad radical and futuristic even by today’s standards!

After a wonderful year together, we were posted out to different units in different cities and lost touch with each other. My life took a predictable if staid path. I got married, had children and became a domesticated husband albeit a wee bit reluctantly. After almost a decade, I was posted to Kochi. During settling down, I came to know that Vicky was married and was also posted at Kochi. Wise to the reality of so called marital bliss and aware of the havoc it causes in the psyche of a hitherto free individual, I was perversely eager and curious to meet Vicky and his wife. I had visions of a very modern woman who matched Vicky’s cavalier and devil-may-care attitude.

So I took my bitter half with me that very evening to pay Vicky a visit. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by lady dressed in traditional Kerala cotton sari, a huge bindi on her forehead, oiled pleats and a mangalsutra around her neck. “Hi! Vicky in?” I asked cheerfully.

“ Vikramji has gone for a detachment to Goa. He will be back in a week’s time” she replied. I looked past her shoulders into the traditionally furnished house with the bust of Gods and Goddesses. I could smell the whiff of incense sticks lit in the Puja Room…. I said that I will meet him when he comes back and left.

My wife, who had been a mute spectator to the entire conversation, chuckled and summed up the situation by borrowing one of my wisecracks “A man is incomplete before marriage. After marriage, he is finished”

This one goes back to my junior college days in a small town during the late seventies. The draconian regulations of the school had just been superseded by the lax discipline of college life. I had recently joined the Rotaract Club of Nagpur. It’s always the neo converts to a cause who are most fanatically zealous! So Rotaractor Nadeem Sani was the first to arrive for all projects and dumb enough to be saddled with the most inane jobs.

As part of its activity, the Club annually organized a charity film show wherein the proceeds were donated to a school for underprivileged children. During my first year at Rotaract, the charity movie was ‘Close encounters with the Third Kind’. As a zealous guardian of faith, I promptly volunteered to sell an entire booklet of tickets. Selling an English movie ticket amongst college crowd at an inflated price in Nagpur of seventies wasn’t really easy. I had to cajole, beg, request, threaten, call in past favours and pull out my entire repertoire of emotional blackmailing to sell those tickets. Amongst the dubious deals for selling tickets struck was one wherein I was to sit and watch the movie with Miss Specko – the buyer of a premium charity ticket. The general opinion of the class put her as an ideal candidate for a mental asylum but if the Knight Templar could ride halfway across the known world as saviour of Faith, I could definitely risk watching a movie with the girl-off-her-rocker for the cause!

So, on the movie day, I waited outside the Liberty cinema in my best pair of threads. Thankfully, she came on time and we sat down to watch the movie. After the initial period of being on the tenterhooks, I relaxed and concluded that Miss Specko is not going to spring a surprise today and concentrated on the movie. But girls and destiny have this cruel habit of unpredictability. Post intermission, Miss Specko failed to reappear. I waited for a decent amount of time and then went outside to check. She was no where in sight. Little alarm bells started tinkling in my mind. I went to the Rotaract President and whispered my predicament; all the senior members were dragged out to help. One of the girls checked the Ladies Toilet – no sign of her. It was now 30 minutes past intermission and the alarm bells started to clang loudly. There was a barrage of questions, advice, chastising and angry abuses hurled at me. And the pundits of doom started muttering words like abduction, kidnapping and what not. Thousands of very scary ‘what if’ scenarios ran through my mind. My imagination was working overtime with visions of parents, teachers, and policemen as major actors in the next 24 hours. After about an hour of searching, we formed a posse and extended the perimeter of our search to nearby lanes. This again proved futile. By now, I was a nervous wreck and cursing my luck, the girl, Rotaract and the world. The movie ended and the theater disgorged its occupants.

The whole of Rotaract club was mobilized and we had a hurried war Council as regards our next course of action – parents or Police? I died a thousand deaths thinking of the consequences. It was decreed that we contact the girl’s parents first and then take the campaign forward depending upon the situation.

We reached her house and I was expected to inquire about the whereabouts of Miss Specko from her parents. I had my first experience of what it must be like for the infantryman to charge through a minefield   towards enemy position, little knowing which bullet has his name on it! I rang the bell and probably broke the world record of holding the breath. It was opened by a sleepy eyed, tousle haired, pyjama clad Miss Specko. She looked at me – I looked at her and we all looked at each other. There was a lot of looking around during that couple of seconds. “How come you are home?” I finally managed to croak. “I was bored during the movie, so I left” she replied angelically.

Years later, a wiser me had a whirlwind courtship in Bombay with my (now) wife, hitting all the high spots of Bombay together. She still wonders as to the reason I never ever took her to the movies during the courtship.