The story of a faceless journalist

 

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

By Shevlin Sebastian

'What news of T.S.?' a colleague asked me one afternoon sometime ago.

'Yes indeed,' I replied. 'What news of T.S.? Poor guy. Must be feeling discouraged since we haven’t published him for quite a while. More so, after we turned monthly.'

My colleague nodded in silence.

T.S. Venkataraman was one of the most prolific freelance journalists we had come across. At any given time, there were 30-40 articles of his in stock. They were all neatly typed on foolscap white paper, with a short covering letter.

He wrote on all sorts of sports and pastimes that no one else touched: yachting, hot-air ballooning, kite flying, bowling, kho-kho, kabaddi, and carroms. He also wrote on mainstream games like tennis, football, cricket and hockey.

He had an amazing output.

How did he manage to write so much? Where did he get all this information? (Surely he must be connected to the Internet.) How did he get the time? Did he have a typist? These were some of the questions that we asked each other.

We did not know what he looked like. He stayed in Chennai; he lived in one of the flats of the Tamil Nadu Housing Board. M 28 F is the number that immediately came to my mind as I wrote the previous sentence. That was how familiar his address had become to us.

We did not know whether he was young or old, married or unmarried, a journalist or a non-journalist. We did not know what he did for a living. Nothing of his personal life was mentioned in any of his covering letters.

Suddenly, one day, he started sending articles to us. We published a few and that obviously encouraged him. After that, there was this ceaseless flow.

The supply was so great that early this year [1997], when I collected the articles that we could no longer use and sent them back, it had become a medium-sized parcel.

I felt bad that all this work that he had put in had gone to waste. Maybe, if I had returned it earlier, he could have got them published somewhere else.

What made this guilt deeper was his impeccable behaviour. He never once asked about the fate of his articles. He never asked about payment, which was sometimes delayed. He behaved so differently from the usual freelancers; they were always anxious and tense, wondering about the fate of their articles, whether they had been accepted or rejected.

I don’t blame them since I was once a freelancer and behaved in the same way. But T.S. showed admirable self-restraint.

The only sense of sentimentality that he showed was at Christmas, when he would send us a card with that slanting handwriting of his, wishing us a "Merry X’Mas and a Happy New Year".

I was curious about him.

Last year, in October [1996], when it was time for me to go on vacation to Kerala, I wrote him a letter. I told him that I would be stopping over in Chennai for a day.

‘Could we meet?’ I asked.

He replied immediately, stating that he would be "delighted" to meet me. I gave him the address of the cousin with whom I was staying and the date of my arrival. He promised that he would come and meet me.

And so, I set out, in the hope of finally seeing the prolific but elusive T.S.

But fate decreed otherwise.

Till Vijayawada, the Coromandel Express was on time. But in the meantime, a cyclone had hit Andhra Pradesh. The tracks were blown off on the stretch between Vijayawada and Chennai. That distance which the train would have normally covered in six hours, was done in 60 hours, as we took a deviation via rural Karnataka (which matched Kerala in its beauty) and reached Chennai.

I was too drained out.

So many days of the holiday had been lost. I had to run around to get a ticket on the Trivandrum Mail.

My cousin informed me that a Mr T.S. Venkataraman had dropped in.

‘How did he look?’ I asked.

‘He is a very old man, but with lots of energy,’ my cousin replied.

I tried calling him up a few times, but I kept getting the engaged tone. I was running out of time. In the end, I couldn’t meet him.

A few weeks later, when I returned to Calcutta, I wrote him a letter apologising for not being able to meet him. I, of course, had a "natural" excuse: the cyclone. He replied that it was all right. We would meet another time, he assured me.

The other day, we received another letter. As soon as I saw the familiar pink envelope, I told my colleagues excitedly, ‘T.S. has started his flow...’

But that was not to be.

It was a letter from Kamala Venkataraman stating very matter-of-factly that her husband, T.S. Venkataraman, had passed away peacefully on May 2 [1997].

I felt a numbing sense of shock. I realised that I would never be able to see him. That was so sad. I showed the letter to my colleagues. They also looked stunned. For a brief moment, the atmosphere in our office, which is normally so full of laughter and gaiety and one-line jokes, became sombre and silent.

I felt an affection and a sort of inner connection with this stranger. I wondered whether it was more than just coincidence that the date on which he died, May 2, is also my birthday. Who knows, we might finally meet in our next lives. But for now, this is our message to you, T.S.: ‘We miss your output! May your soul rest in peace.’

(Published in Sportsworld Magazine, October, 1997)

A Flat Tyre and the State of Indian Football

COLUMN: The Tunnel of Time 

By Shevlin Sebastian

Illustration by AI

On a whim, while on vacation, I went with my cousin to see a National League football match between F. C. Kochin and Mohun Bagan at the Jawaharlal Nehru International Stadium, Kochi. 

The date: February 12, 1998.

Forty-five minutes before the match starts, there are long queues before the stadium gates. In the large car park in front, there are several dozen cars, jeeps, vans and an occasional minibus.

“They are all out-of-towners, coming from places like Trichur and Calicut,” my cousin said.

Inside, the stadium looks attractive with its alternating orange, blue, yellow and red plastic seats in different sections and the four floodlight structures towering above the field. Half the stadium is already full. This is a Thursday evening, a weekday, but the crowd is already quite impressive. 

There is an air of expectation. The players of both the teams are limbering up on the field. A drum beat starts up on the terraces. People are hoping that F. C. Kochin would put it across Bagan in their home town. 

For so long Calcutta has been the headquarters of Indian football. Now, by overhearing snatches of conversation among the spectators, it is clear that the Keralites think that Bengal's aura of invincibility is over.

“I remember seeing Subhash Bhowmick and Gautam Sarkar in the Seventies. They were too good. Bengal doesn't produce players like that any more,” a spectator said. 

“But Bhaichung is excellent,” a man said.

“Most of the players in Bengal football are foreign imports. It's preventing the local talent from coming up,” a third person said.

The game, in unpredictable India, starts at precisely 6 p.m. From the word go, it is F.C. Kochin's match. They launch raid after raid on the Mohun Bagan goal. Shots by I. M. Vijayan, Carlton Chapman and Raman Vijayan go over the bar, by the side of the posts, straight into former Indian captain Hemanta Dora's very capable hands.

“Poor finishing, poor finishing,” people kept remarking. The spectators moan and groan in disappointment.

The quality of the football is so visually unattractive. The moves by both the teams are disjointed; there is no smooth build up of attacks. It all seems to be done so haphazardly. The contrast with the smooth moves in international football that we see almost daily on 'ESPN' and 'Star Sports' is just too much. I told my cousin this.

He gives a bright smile and says, “Be optimistic. Within 100 years, we should reach an international standard.”

The match continues. Bagan is in a comatose state. The only man who is awake is coach T.K. Chathunni, on the sidelines, wearing blue track pants and a pink T-shirt. He is jumping up and down and gesticulating and shouting like crazy at his players. The referee, Inayatullah Khan, blows a whistle in warning to him. Chathunni joins his palms together in a silent apology.

Break time. No goals.

My cousin tells me of the time in Dubai when he went to see a local football contest with an Arab Sheikh. The latter was going to see a match after many years of watching a game on TV.

When a goal was scored, he turned to my cousin and said, “Where is the replay?”

“In your head,” was what my cousin wanted to tell the Sheikh but didn't.

The match resumes. Somehow, F.C. Kochin have lost their spirit and rhythm. They have missed far too many opportunities in the first half. It has sapped their enthusiasm. Bagan senses it. They launch the occasional counter-attack. They are allowed open spaces.

Suddenly, a free kick is awarded, a few yards outside the box. Chima Okerie – barrel-chested, with tree-trunk-like legs – strikes a piledriver that hits the inner part of the bar and goes in (1-0). The spectators are stunned into silence by this goal, scored against the run of play. Despite all the talk about the centre of football moving from Bengal to Kerala, the former is still putting it across the home team.

With twenty-five minutes left for the match to finish, the crowd begins to walk out in droves. How quickly we give up, I thought. A country like Germany would think twenty-five minutes more of a match is like a lifetime. But not Indians, nor the F.C. Kochin players. The whole stadium has given up. It comes as no surprise when the end result is 1-0 for Bagan.

Outside, in the car park, my cousin discovers, to his utter chagrin, what seems to epitomise the state of Indian football: a flat tyre.

(Published in Sportsworld Magazine, March, 1998) 

Random Recollections

 

Column: The Tunnel of Time

(Anecdotes from the series-winning second Test between India and Australia from March 18-21, 1998, at the Eden Gardens, Kolkata).

By Shevlin Sebastian

Even on a day when ten wickets fell, cricket can still be somewhat dull. This is in mid-afternoon, when the unlikely pair of Gavin Robertson and Michael Kasprowicz defends dourly, pushes for singles, and hits the rare four.

The sun is shining brightly. The humidity is in the nineties. Naturally, people's attention wanders. They indulge in their favourite pastime of adda, talking about politics. Inevitably, mouths open wider and the yawns come out.

Up in the press box, scorer Rehman keeps everybody on their toes, with his sonorous voice and his up-to-date statistics. He gives details of a bowler's career figures, his bowling spells, the number of maidens, and the number of wickets. He gives the break-up of a batsman's innings: how many fours or sixes, how many singles, the extras and a host of other notable statistics. It is quite mind-boggling, his grasp of figures.

But when it comes to pronouncing Kasprowicz's name, Rehman encounters his first roadblock. He begins with KASH, then moves on to PRO and then there is a pause. Which way to go now? WITCH or WHICH or WISH.

Rehman finally opts for the first, to the amusement and the thumbs-up sign of the Aussie journalists who shout, “You've got it mate!”

Jokes at the stadium have a cricketing connection. When a journalist eats his lunch, much later than the rest, a fellow journalist remarks, “It looks like you are following-on.”

When scorer Rehman loudly asks, “Is there any problem?” an Australian pressman quickly replies, “We need more bowlers.”

Post-game press conferences are always a chaotic affair.

Firstly, high-handed cops prevent you from going in front of the dressing room in the name of security. When finally the defence is breached, and manager Anshuman Gaekwad obligingly comes out to meet the press, people charge him.

There is pushing and jostling, dictaphones are thrust at his face. Most of the questions cannot be heard, the answers are lost in the din, while the women journalists hover at the edge of the crowd, unable to get close.

Why can't the Cricket Association of Bengal (CAB) organise it properly? All that is needed is a room with a mike on a table, and everybody can sit comfortably and listen and ask questions clearly. In every international tournament, this is the standard procedure.

When the Indian players leave the dressing room, a couple of journalists who are on first-name terms with the cricketers stop and speak to them. The cops say, “No talking”. A scribe remarks bitterly but correctly, “If it was a white journalist doing the talking, they would have kept their mouths shut.”

Behind every great success are hours of practice. At the end of the first day's play, there is the sight of Shane Warne practising his bowling against Mark Waugh at the nets. After a few dozen hits, Waugh packs up, but Warne is not yet finished.

He goes over to the other side of the ground, where another net session is in progress. Enthusiastic kids pitch balls up to Ricky Ponting.

Warne patiently waits his turn to bowl. Practice makes perfect. If you want to be good at anything in life, the key is to keep working at it. That is something lesser mortals like us forget very easily.

At close quarters, Warne looks mentally and physically drained. His bowling lacks sting even at the nets. It comes as no surprise when the next day, he is given the pasting of his life by the Indian batsmen. His aura of invincibility lay shattered on the brown Indian pitches.

Here are some of the quotes displayed on the electronic scoreboard: ‘Gangooly: Aussie’s envy, India’s pride.’ ‘We love kangaroos but not for breakfast, because we love cricket.’

THE SECOND DAY

While Sachin Tendulkar is going berserk during his 79 in the first innings, on the sidelines, it is pressman Paul Gough of 'The Australian' who is going crazy.

He goes down to the communications centre with his laptop, to send his copy. (These Aussies hold their laptops with the delicacy and care of mothers holding their new-born children). But there is no plug for his machine.

He bends and searches under the table for some sort of a socket to put the plug in. The women helpers are hovering about him, quite helpless. The socket continues to be elusive. He lifts up the telephone receiver. There is no dial tone. Desperately, he presses his forefinger down hard several times, in the hope of getting the dial tone.

Nothing happens. He starts to scream and yell. His face has become tomato red. (It is deadline time for him. Australia is 4 1/2 hours ahead of us).

When finally, he sends his article across, he comes tumbling into the press box and complains to another Aussie, “This place is the pits of the world. They are twenty years behind. The operators can't even speak English. The phones don't work. The fax is not working. Crazy, crazy, crazy.”

At the end of the second day, the Indians are out on the field, doing limbering-up exercises and going for laps around the lush, green field, led by trainer Andrew Kokinos.

Gaekwad is in good fitness mode. He runs as fast as the youngsters. The most poignant sight is that of workmen, in blue uniforms, who are laying the covers on the pitch. When they see Indian captain Mohammed Azharuddin, they all run up in a group towards him and request him to pose with them for a photograph. Azhar dutifully obliges. Now these workmen have a photograph with the great Azhar. Their day is made.

It is a little puzzling and sad that after fifty years of Independence, CAB issues uniforms to Class Four staff with the legend ‘Scavengers’, printed boldly in black, and in front.

It is such a demeaning word.

The dictionary meaning of scavenger: a person who searches for anything usable from discarded material. Surely, there is a better word than that to describe those who are working at the Eden Gardens, one of the great cricket stadiums in the world. How about ‘helpers’? Sounds much better, doesn't it?

How dramatically life has changed for Saurav Ganguly. Two years ago, he was on the verge of quitting. Now, he cannot walk anywhere without being importuned for something. Either to sign a photograph of himself or give an autograph or have his photograph taken with somebody.

The problem with being famous in India is that people keep barging in, on your privacy all the time. There is not a moment's rest. You need to have a very calm temperament, so that you don't snap. The flip side is, the spectators don't mean any harm. They are sincere and genuine fans. But try telling that to Saurav after a hundred fans have dogged him for an autograph.

At 4 P.M., a father was overheard admonishing his son, “Why did you get up from your seat? Because of that, Tendulkar has got out!”

THE THIRD DAY

Bishen Singh Bedi comes into the press box. He is clad in a yellow T-shirt and a matching yellow patka. He has a direct matter-of-fact way of talking. His nut-brown eyes sparkle with good humour. The only time he is serious is when he talks of Raman Lamba's tragic, untimely death.

[Raman Lamba died on February 23, 1998, three days after being struck on the forehead while fielding without a helmet at forward short-leg during a club match in Dhaka. The blow caused a massive internal brain haemorrhage, causing him to collapse shortly after walking off the field. Despite brain surgery, he never regained consciousness.]

“The facilities were very poor in Dhaka,” Bedi says. “If Lamba had been removed immediately, either here in Calcutta or Delhi, his life would have been saved.”

Bedi is also impressed by Rehman's statistics. The latter informs him that he has been doing this job for the past thirty years.

Bedi promptly tells him, “It’s time that you got a benefit. Ask Lele (J.Y. Lele, Board secretary) about it.”

Rehman laughs, knowing fully well that it is a wishful fantasy. He reminds Bedi that once, in his illustrious career, he had bowled ten maidens in a row.

“Are you sure, it’s me,” Bedi asks doubtfully. “It must be Bapu Nadkarni.”

“No, no, it was you. It was in the series against England in 1974. I am hundred per cent certain.”

One elderly journalist walks up to Rehman and says, “Can you tell me your full name?” (In an aside to journalists, he says, “He has given me a good quote today.”)

“In Sharjah, there is Abdul Rehman Bukhatir,” the statistician declares loudly. “In Calcutta, there is Abdul Rehman Bhikhari (beggar). Sir, no money in pocket.”

[Industrialist Abdul Rehman Bukhatir was a renowned sports administrator who revolutionised cricket in West Asia during the late 1970s and 1980s.]

In the evening, after his stupendous century, Azhar is surrounded by pressmen standing outside the dressing room. He sits on the veranda with cap on head and looks exactly like the Pepsi ad on TV, in which he watches, with sunglasses, a group of men play a cricket board game, and says, “Khelo, khelo, I’m watching.”

The questions are raining down on him. He answers patiently each and every question. Suddenly one question irritates him: “Did [VVS] Laxman get into the Indian team because of his Hyderabad connection?”

Azhar asks, immediately, “Where did you come across such information? Has it been published?”

“No,” the journalist replies.

“Then how can you say such a thing?”

“People are talking about it.”

“So? People talk all the time. That does not mean that you believe each and everything you hear. Please don’t ask me questions like that. Unless something is a fact, just do not ask me these things.”

His eyes flash with anger. It is clear that the old wounds of being hounded by the media, especially during the break-up of his marriage to Naureen in 1996 and the collapse of his earlier captaincy in July 1996, have not healed. It is a sour note for him on an otherwise absolutely brilliant day.

[Azhar scored an unbeaten 163 runs in India's massive first-innings total of 633/5.]

While Azhar is sitting and talking, a young man walks silently behind him, in a white T-shirt and blue track pants, a wry smile on his face, and he quietly enters the dressing room.

That man is Sachin Tendulkar.

Till very recently, he had been besieged like this for quotes. But the good thing is that Sachin, only 24 now, will surely get another long, extended run as captain.

A man, with an overhanging paunch, along with his son approaches Javagal Srinath as he returns from the field. “Excuse me Srinath, I don't think you remember me but we met....”

He describes the encounter with the ace bowler. Srinath just stares at him with no sign of recognition in his eyes. Then he says, “Oh yes, oh yes, I remember. See you later.”

And he trots off to the dressing room.

THE FOURTH DAY

There is such an air of expectation. People sense that India will surely go in for the kill today. It does not take long for the first wicket to fall. What is interesting to watch is the reaction of the spectators.

Firstly, there is a wild yell of joy, which is inevitably followed by a laugh or a smile. It is quite stunning to note that almost every single spectator, out of the 80,000, behaves in exactly the same manner.

Former Test cricketer-cum-commentator Arun Lal sits and talks in the stands with former cricket manager, Amit Mathur. He is dressed in a long-sleeved blue shirt tucked into blue jeans. There is an intensity and passion in his talk. The subject: how to get a cricket event sponsored and the logistics behind a possible telecast of it.

When Mathur complains about the heat, Lal points to the back of the stadium, where a banner is fluttering strongly in the wind.
“A good breeze always blows in from the river,” he says. (The river Hooghly is a mere 400m away).

Lal has played so many times at the Eden Gardens, less Tests and more national-level matches, that he knows the stadium like the back of his hand.

He also seems to have a higher profile than most ex-cricketers because youngsters approach him for autographs. Perhaps, it is due to his Hindi cricket commentary on ESPN and the occasional column that he writes for the local newspapers.

When the match finishes, India wins by an innings and 219 runs, there is a mad rush for the entrance to the field. But the doors are locked. The policeman says no one will be allowed in. Not the press, not the BCCI officials, nor the CAB office-bearers. People shout in anger and desperation. But things remain at an impasse.

ICC President Jagmohan Dalmiya, nattily dressed in a blue suit, arrives to go to the field for the prize distribution ceremony, but a senior policeman refuses entry.

This is amazing!

Mr Dalmiya raises his voice. The policeman rushes off to consult his superior. For at least a couple of minutes, the ICC President waits, unable to move in his own domain. This is police bossiness at its peak. Finally, the door is unlocked and he is allowed to go through with the other Board officials.

Here's the ironic part. The Aussie press contingent just walks up to the door and the same policeman opens the door silently. They are not asked to produce the special press pass that is needed to enter. It is also quite apparent that they do not have it. It seems that sucking up to white people is an ingrained trait in us.

Australian captain Mark Taylor, at the press conference, looks shattered. He has slight stubble on his face but his eyes radiate sincerity, honesty and pain.

He gives the impression of being a genuine human being. So one feels sorry that he is a captain of a team that has been so humiliatingly defeated.

Azhar's second wife Sangeeta Bijlani gets off the elevator on the ground floor of the B.C. Roy Club House. She is dressed in black trousers and a black blouse. Immediately, she is surrounded by people who proffer paper and pen for her to sign.

For what reason are they taking her autograph? Is it just because she is a cricketer's wife? This is taking celebrity fawning to a foolish level. She signs quickly and attentively. When a person extends a piece of paper, she says, “I have no pen.” Then she scoots out of the entrance and into a waiting car. Her husband, a mere 20 metres away, is fielding questions from the media.

A few members of the Indian team depart: Anil Kumble, Srinath, Ganguly and Navjot Singh Sidhu.

The first three whiz through the narrow gap created by the security personnel, their faces a mask, ignoring proffered hands, papers, and congratulations.

Sidhu, on the other hand, stops and smiles, and shakes hands and gives the occasional autograph. Following them are the helpers carrying these large boxes, in blue, green, red and yellow colours, containing the equipment of the players.

It looks heavy, and I wonder to myself, did these players, before they became famous international-grade players, carry these boxes themselves?

Outside, near the car park, four plain-clothes policemen surround a man wearing faded jeans. “Whack,” a cop hits his backside with a stick. The man rubs his bum. “Whack,” another swing of the stick.

Apparently, he was harassing a tourist.

The foreigner, standing some distance away, in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts with a hat on his head, shakes his head, disagreeing with the policemen's accusations.

The guardians of the law continue to hurl abuse on the hapless victim. In a supreme bit of irony, right next to them is a lamp post on which is pasted the slogan of the Calcutta Police: ‘We care for you.’

(Published in Sportsworld magazine, April, 1998)

'The Stolen Necklace' -- Top Seller (Criminology)

Happy to share that ‘The Stolen Necklace’ is still finding new readers, three-and-a-half years after its publication.

It is a Top Seller in the criminology category on Amazon (logo on top left in screenshot.)

Many thanks to those who bought the book, recommended it, and spread the word.   

A year after her death, Mother Teresa is still IN

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

By Shevlin Sebastian

It is 9 a.m. Sept. 4, the day before the first anniversary of Mother Teresa's death. A stream of visitors flows into the Missionaries of Charity (MC) house in Calcutta, site of the nun's grave.

Among the many visitors is a Muslim family identifiable by their dress. “I have come with my whole family to pay my respects,” says Mohammed Sirajuddin, who appears to be in his 50s, as he waits for Mother's successor, Sister Nirmala Joshi. Three young girls and a woman wait with him, holding a bouquet of flowers.

As the family moves to the grave, a nun clad in the famous blue-bordered white sari emerges from the door on the opposite side. “Isn't it nice that a Muslim along with his family has come to pay respects to Mother?” a journalist asks the nun.

“Oh yes,” she says. “This man has paid for the entire marble grave of Mother.”

Meanwhile, the nuns wash the floors and clean walls and ceilings with long brooms, preparing to receive people expected at anniversary Masses scheduled throughout the next day.

Near the entrance, the nun who keeps the door reads the Bible. Another nun says the rosary. Inside the chapel, groups of people pray before Mother's grave.

“How do you feel one year after Mother's death?” someone asks a nun in the corner of the chapel that houses the grave.

“We miss her very much,” she replies as she walks slowly out of the chapel. “I have so much love in my heart for her. I wish she were here.”

The questioner takes out a tape recorder, surprising the nun. “You are a press man?” she asks. “Oh, don't speak to me. You speak to Sister Nirmala.” Before the reporter can reply, she smiles and leaves.

The smell of incense and the sound of psalms call us to Mass in the tiny chapel on the ground floor.

While walking out, the journalist pauses outside the main door. The nameplate on it says: “Mother Teresa: IN.” An MC associate observes that the nuns behave as if Mother is on a trip and will return soon to ask for a report on the progress of the work.

(Published in Asia Focus, Hongkong, on September 25, 1998)

The colour of friendship

 

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

By Shevlin Sebastian

I remember the day my friend Supratim revealed to me a hidden aspect of himself. It was a Saturday evening, sometime in 1992. We were sitting on a bench in the Park Circus Maidan in Kolkata. 

A fresh summer breeze was blowing. The leaves swayed in the trees, making a soothing, rustling sound.

It was in this tranquil environment that Supratim started. “I hate the Muslims. They just keep on having kids. They should be forced to practise family planning. The political parties have molly-coddled them for too long. These Muslims have to be taught a lesson. It's so unpatriotic that when Pakistan wins a cricket match against India, they set off fireworks in our area. They should all be deported to Pakistan.”

I just stared at Supratim, my friend. I had known him for over 25 years. He was my only childhood friend. He is a Hindu and I am a Christian, but this had never made a difference between us, nor had he ever spoken like this before. 

Supratim then pressed the knife into me: “Even you Christians behave no differently. In the name of social service, you go about converting people all over the place. In the North-East, thousands of Hindus have been converted to Christianity. This is just not right.”

Supratim's face was twisted by a peculiar, violent rage. His eyes had become blood-red. I was mesmerised by the hatred on his face, but somehow, I managed to say, “Supratim, how can you generalise? How can you say all Muslims are unpatriotic? After all, there are many Indian Muslims in key positions, even in the ministry of defence. What about our friend Zafar? Is he unpatriotic? We've watched cricket matches together. You know that he is an ardent fan of the Indian team.”

I paused then quickly rushed on. “As for conversions by Christians... you have known me for years. Do I go about converting people? I don't deny there are conversions, but as far as I know, it is not forced. Most convert because of poverty, in the hope of getting better social benefits or simply because they are convinced it is a good religion. I don't deny that there are Christian zealots, just as there are Muslim and Hindu zealots. Every religion has its bigots. But it's unfair to categorise every believer as fanatics.”

Supratim looked at me without blinking his eyes. “The appeasement of Muslims and other minorities has to be stopped completely,” he said in a hard voice.

They chilled me, these statements of his, because he had been, for me, the quintessential cultured Hindu: broad-minded, tolerant and compassionate. But now to see this fine-looking man twisted by intolerance was too much to bear. I was suddenly scared. I wondered what was going to happen to us non-Hindus. Would we continue to have a place under the Indian sun?

For months Supratim raged on about the appeasement of the Muslims and other minorities. These conversations created a nick in my soul. I began to bleed a little. It was all so surprising. We had had such an intuitive sympathy before. We had studied in the same schools and colleges. We had the same liberal education. We believed in human rights and justice. We believed in the primacy of law and the democratic right of people to choose whatever government they wanted.

We had deeply cherished the wonderful richness of our pluralistic society. Each state was like a country; so different and fascinating were the customs, the culture, the language, the behaviour. But now Supratim had totally switched over to the fundamentalist track. Where before two people had a perfect understanding, now I was a little wary and reserved.

The Babri Masjid, a mosque in Ayodhya built in the early 16th century by the Mughal emperor Babur, stood on a site traditionally identified by Hindus as the birthplace of Lord Rama. The site had long been a source of contention between Hindus and Muslims.

On December 6, 1992, a crowd of Hindu fundamentalists tore down the mosque in a few hours, against the orders of the Supreme Court. The ensuing rioting that swept across India left over 1,000 people dead.

Supratim went into shock. He said that the BJP (India's Hindu fundamentalist party, which lost its ruling coalition majority in the Indian Parliament in April) should not have disobeyed the highest law in the land. He said that it showed them in a poor light.

I was too numb to say anything. We went through the horror of riots in our Park Circus area. I could see that Supratim was also getting dazed like me.

But later, after normality had returned to the city, Supratim remained rabid. “Hindu power” was how he described the demolition. He had not changed at all. Inevitably, his Muslim friends, including Zafar, wandered away from him. He could also see my fears, mostly unexpressed, writ large on my face...

Over six years have passed since then. Supratim and I are still friends. Childhood friendship, as we all know, dies hard. There are too many memories and too many years of affection between us. But today there is anguish, a deep, intense, persistent pain whenever I think of my friendship with Supratim. Just as Indira Gandhi told her biographer Pupul Jayakar after her son Sanjay's premature death: “One can overcome hate, envy, greed and other such negative and self-destroying emotions. But sorrow is something else. It can never be forgotten or overcome. One has to learn to live with it, to absorb it into one's being, as a part of life.”

(Published in the Messenger of St. Anthony, Italy, June 1999)  

Our Centre of Gravity

By Shevlin Sebastian

A few days ago, members of my maternal family held a mass in honour of the people who had passed away. They included parents, uncles and aunts, grandparents and relatives.

After the mass, we stood around the grave of my uncle, Justice George Vadakkel, and murmured the 'Our Father' and the Holy Rosary.

Not everybody was buried in Kochi. They were in different parts of Kerala, depending upon their place of origin. By now, in the graves, all that remained was probably skull and bone fragments.

But when they were alive, they were the centre of gravity in our lives for decades. They moulded us, shaped our values, and gave us a home when we were most helpless and utterly dependent on them.

Now they are gone. But they are always with us. They come in our dreams at night, and as memory fragments in the most unexpected of places – while watching a film, driving a car, talking with a spouse, or playing a game.

But what is certain is that their going-away has left scars in our hearts. Now and then, some comment or memory will aggravate the scar, and pain floods our system.

The mood was heavy as we trooped to a nearby vegetarian restaurant for breakfast.

But as we sat around, tucked into crisp dosas and idlis soaked in sambar and chutney, and sipped filter coffee, the mood lifted. There were smiles and laughter, an occasional joke, and a general hubbub.

A cousin spoke of his visit to Calcutta in May 1977, accompanied by his parents, brothers and sisters.

'It was so memorable,' he said. 'The museum, the Victoria Memorial.'

The way he described it, it felt like he had gone a week ago. Now his parents had passed away, his elder siblings were senior citizens, and some had become grandparents.

Another had lost his wife tragically to cancer, while this cousin was preparing for the marriage of his second child, a daughter.

And then there was a clamour, as it happens always now at almost every gathering, for a group photo, thanks to the ever-present mobile phone. So a few phones came out, a waiter came forward, and took one. We pushed chairs to one side and smiled and grinned for the camera.

A moment frozen in time.

We have these types of group shots taken by earlier generations, preserved in albums, now transferred to our mobiles and shared on family WhatsApp groups.

It is always astonishing and heart-breaking to see how young and dynamic they looked. And then time moved forward; they became old and decrepit and eventually passed away.

This will be our fate, too.

We clutch at life with a fierceness that surprises all of us. Yet, at some point, Death will come, pry our fingers away from what we hold dear and whisper in our ears, 'Time to go.'

The Burnt House (this is a short story about a riot victim)

By Shevlin Sebastian

Black stains on the outer walls. Bricks lying in the courtyard. Dark brown spots in front of the entrance. He bent and peered closer. Blood. In the tiny courtyard, a rose plant ripped up, its muddy roots exposed.    

He stepped inside. 

The acrid smell of petrol. In the living room, family photos strewn on the floor. Pages of the Koran ripped off. A piece of paper. He bent and picked it up. A crayon drawing by Fatima of their house with a sun high up in the sky. Bits of soot on the back. He wiped it away. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket. 

The half-burnt mattress on which he and Ruksana slept. At the shop, she said, 'I like this pink colour.' He pulled her close and inhaled her attar-scented perfume. 

'Nasir Bhai, are you there?' 

He looked through the window. Ayesha. Ruksana's friend.  

He stumbled out. 

'Nasir Bhai, we shouted at Ruksana to come with us.'

He took short breaths. 'What did she say?' 

She said, 'This is our home. I will wait for Nasir.'

He pressed his fingers against his throat. A sharp pain. His mouth parted. For a moment, he could not breathe. Why didn't you leave, Ruksana? 

Azamgarh. Inside the hotel room. He stared at the screen. The announcer said, 'There's been a riot in Muzaffarnagar. Many people have died.' A mosque burning. The dome. That's the mosque next to his house. Houses burning. What about his? 

He called Ruksana. The phone switched off. 

He began throwing clothes into his bag. 

Maulvi Ahmed Bhai called. 'Nasir, have you heard the news?' 

'Yes. Just saw it.' 

'There's terrible news, Nasir.' 

'What, Ahmed Bhai?' 

There was a pause. 

'Nasir, your wife and children have died.' 

His head swung. 'Ya Allah.' 

His wife and daughters lay on the ground, wrapped in white sheets. He buried his face in his palms. Can't believe it. One moment they were alive. The next moment. His entire family. Who are these people? 

A low murmur. His relatives, neighbours and friends.  

That holiday to Lucknow just a year ago. They had wandered through the Bara Imambara. Shazia holding his hand. Fatima said, 'The ceiling is so high.'  

When the girls ran in front, Nasir held Ruksana's hand. She looked around and smiled. 'No, no, not in public.' 

Ahmed Bhai said, 'Nasir, don't try to look at their faces. Just imagine them before this happened.' 

Nasir placed his fingers against his forehead. 

The maulvi began: 'Bismillahi wa'ala millati rasulillahi.' 

He whispered the words. Mud was thrown on the shrouds. 

Ayesha came to his sister's house. He came out. 

'Akbar was stabbed,' she said. 'Bled to death.' 

Akbar, his childhood friend. They had attended a rally. The speaker said, 'These Muslims should be sent to Pakistan.' 

Akbar held Nasir's elbow. 'These threats are getting dangerous.' 

'Hope they don't come for us.' 

Will they come for him now? 

He swallowed. 

The sun broke through the mist. He adjusted his pullover. A young man hovered near the gate. A beard. Could he be a Muslim? 

The man entered. 

He bowed his head. 'I am sorry for your loss.' 

Nasir remained silent. Is he from the government? Or an NGO? Or a plainclothes policeman?  

'Sir, I am a journalist from Lucknow. I write for an English newspaper.'

He let out a soft breath. A reporter. How can that be helpful for him at this time? 

'Tell me, what do you want to know?'   

'What happened?' 

He gestured towards the house. 'Can't you see?' 

'Who did this?' 

'I don't know.' 

'Will you file an FIR?' 

'Naming who?' 

Abbas scratched his head. 

Nasir said, 'Why don’t we have some chai?' 

At Ramu Yadav's roadside shop, they sipped earthen cups of tea.  

'What are you going to do now?' Abbas said in a low voice. 

He rubbed his arm. These questions. Can't think straight now. 'I don't know.' 

Some barefoot labourers drifted towards the shop. Once they noticed Abbas's beard, they avoided looking at him. 

Abbas exchanged a silent look with Nasir. 

Nasir's lips tightened. 

They finished their tea and threw the earthen cups into a wastebin. 

They stepped out onto the road. 

He shook Nasir’s hand. 'I will send the report through WhatsApp when it gets published.'

'I cannot read English.'

'I will ask somebody to translate for me.' 

Abbas stood at the bus stop. 

'Be safe,' Nasir said. 

Nasir walked towards his sister's house. A cartpuller. A stray autorickshaw. Most people remained inside their houses. Like a hartal day. 

Inside Zainab's house, she led him into a spare bedroom. 

'Do you want tea or coffee?' 

'No, thank you.' 

She closed the door. He sat down on the edge of the bed, joined his hands together and looked down at the floor. Now what? He kept repeating it.  

He took out Fatima's drawing from his pocket. 

'Abba, how do you like my drawing?' 

'Very good.' 

'Thank you Abba.' 

Holding the drawing in her hand, she ran from the room. 

He rubbed his chest. What to do? What to do?   

Zainab came into the room. 'What are you thinking?' 

'Of killing those people.' 

'I don't understand.' 

'The thugs who killed my family.' 

He smashed his fist against the wall. Small cuts appeared on his knuckles. 

Zainab stood still. 'Bhai Jaan, what's happening to you?'

She hurriedly left the room. 

He licked the cuts one by one. 

He stabbed the men one by one. The knife ripping into each heart. Blood spurted out. He laughed. Go to hell. You brain-washed idiots. 

His hands were shaking. 

Zainab returned. She dipped drops of Dettol on a piece of cotton and cleaned the cuts. 'Calm down, Bhai Jaan.' 

After the initial bite, the pain died down. 

She threw the cotton into a wastepaper bin in the corner. 

Zainab screwed the cap back on  and sat down beside him. 'Let's say you manage to kill one of them. What do you think will happen?' 

'Nothing.' 

'You will be arrested. And you will drag us into your mess. In jail, you will be beaten up. By the cops and the other prisoners.' 

He clenched his fists. 'I'll hit back.' 

Zainab shook her head. 'You'll be physically and mentally destroyed, Bhai Jaan. You and I know of so many cases.' 

Fatima and Shazia. They held hands and began to go round and round. 

He stared at them. They had unsmiling faces. Sweat broke out all over his face. Why are you dancing? Look at our faces. We are not smiling. Don't do it, Abba. Life will keep spinning. You will fall down into a dark hole. 

No. That won't happen. 

Zainab said, 'Let me get some water.' 

When she left, he whispered, 'Please stop, children. Please stop.' 

But they went faster. His forehead throbbed. Children, please.   

'Allah. Save me.' 

She returned with a glass of water. He drank it in one gulp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 

That night Ruksana came. In a shining purple salwar kameez, with Lucknawi chikankari.  

They embraced. His head began to float. He missed her touch so much. The way she caressed his head when he was tense.  

They began to spin. Just like his daughters. But this time, it was slow, and steady. 'Jaan, I will always be there for you.' 

At one point, the spinning stopped. They looked into each other's eyes. 

He pulled away. He began weeping. She took out a handkerchief from her kameez pocket and wiped his face again and again.   

He drifted into sleep. 

The next day, he woke up and stared at the ceiling. He cracked a knuckle. He had a dream but what was it all about? He got up. Walked silently on bare feet from one end of the room to the other. What was the dream about? No answers. Minutes passed. 

Zainab called. 'Bhai Jaan, tea is ready.' 

'Coming.' 

As he stepped out of the house, two words popped in his mind. Yateem Orphanage. He had donated money there every month for years.  

That visit with his family to the orphanage. Director Mohsin Khan. Good man. He had pointed at a thin boy leaning against a wall. The other children played cricket in the quadrangle. 

'That boy is in shock. His parents and sisters were killed during a riot. His relatives. They did not offer to look after him.' 

Ruksana covered her mouth. 'I knew his parents.'

Outside, Fatima said, 'Abba, we are so lucky.' 

'Yes. We are lucky. By Allah's grace.'  

At the orphanage's entrance, his heart seemed to expand outwards, like the petals of a flower. 

He told Mohsin, 'I would like to be a volunteer.' 

A boy shouted, 'Come, let's play football.'

(Originally published in Muse India Magazine, this is a reworked version)