Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Insert#1
The world's oldest hospital was established, for the care of those who
were considered mad, in England more than seven centuries ago. This
is the Bethlem Royal Hospital in London. It was founded in 1247. The
word bedlam is derived as a corrupted colloquial version of Bethlem.
Madness, perhaps, belongs to the forest that can heal it because most
madness in our world seems to have origins, at least partly, in the
ruthlessly competitive consumerist civilization that looms large over
the entire planet, the only habitat of homo sapien sapiens--our race.
#####
Madness in some persons and in some forms is not only tolerated but
it is actually appreciated at times. There are people who are said to
have been possessed by benevolent spirits who speak through the
person they possess. They are asked questions about the future and
their answers are taken seriously.
#####
They were right. My shooting script was not exactly what the
screenplay was. They thought I had gone mad because I insisted on
their doing what I told them to and I discouraged discussion. I was
seeing the film and hearing it with great clarity and in fine detail.
They were right in thinking I was mad because my thinking was
inexplicable. They as well as I worked under severe tension. I became
autocratic, even dictatorial, but I got them to do exactly what I
wanted to see on the screen.
Insert#2
For the last three years of his life, Ashay chose to live like a recluse
mostly shut in his own room in our two bedrooms flat in Pune. We
heard from his room his favourite music. Sometimes it was Bob
Marley, Jimmy Hendrix, the Beatles, Carlos Santana, and sometimes
Ustad Vilayat Khan, or Pandit Ramnarayan, or Nikhil Ghosh. Of late,
he had taken to listening to the mercurial- voiced Nusrat Fateh Ali
Khan, the Sufi singer from Pakistan, or the female singer Abida, or
our own home grown Marathi Varkari bhajans by unknown pilgrims
to Pandharpur.
Then at times we heard him play his bongos, his favourite drums
since his adolescence. When he was in Iowa City, he actually played
them as a semi-professional at a bar called The Mill with a group
known by the name Los Latinos. He was the only Asian Indian
member of that Hispanic American graduate students group and he
was just a high school kid then.
Burt Blume ---a Program Assistant at the International Writing
Program of the University of Iowa who looked after the Visiting
Fellows---was a special friend to Ashay. They shared a love of Jazz,
the Blues singers, and Afro-Latin American music----the whole 1970s
mood in music.
Ashay's musical taste and interest was influenced, from his infancy,
by my own.
It received further boost from his childhood idol, my friend Bhola
Sherestha who was a composer of Hindi film music: and from my
brother-in-law Arvind Mulgaonkar, Ashay had inherited an
uncompromising taste in Indian music, especially its rhythmic
component. The popular film singer Kishore Kumar and the
composer R.D. Burman were his favourites, too.
####
Ashay was isolated and distanced within his own family and circle of
friends. Though deeply unhappy and despondent as he had become,
Ashay craved for human company. He was not unsociable or anti-
social. Communication was a vital component of life for him. He also
felt the urge to tell his story to a world that seemed to have forgotten
Bhopal and moved on.
####
Ashay did not suffer from something physically obvious that people
hide for the fear of being stigmatized---such as. For example, poor
victims of AIDS (though that infection is non-contagious except
through sexual transmission, anyway) or from something such as
advanced leprosy that makes its victims physically fearsome or
repulsive and yet unable to hide their lesions from the world.
People meeting Ashay after the Bhopal disaster did not know that he
was haunted by his experience of a trauma that--- in one night---
snatched away from them of thousands of human beings their entire
future. It continued to agitate and pain him.
He was seldom violent, except with those who were in his close
circle. However, if he was stopped from bringing up the subject of
Bhopal, he became furious. He remained obsessed by that one
experience that separated him and other victims of the Bhopal
tragedy from us and the rest of the world.
First, the Bhopal catastrophe made Ashay a victim: and later his
entire close ones including I made him a victim--- with the exception
of Viju, his mother. The rest of us tried to distance ourselves from
him. He must have perceived this as though he was being shunned.
He felt increasingly alienated from our normal lives and us.
#####
The 'Sambhaji Brigade' and its guiding lights among politicians and
the media led to the vandalization of B.O.R.I. The vandals claimed
that they perceived some scholars (identified by them as Brahmins by
caste) had helped a foreign, American scholar--Professor James
Laine.They were his co-conspirators in casting doubts about the
parentage of a historical figure lionized by the whole of Maharashtra.
Yohul was most upset when I was given 24 hour armed police
protection and Viju had to explain to him that both as a writer and as
a friend of Jim Laine, I could not tolerate the vituperative campaign
against the book, and the government's ignoring the vandalistic acts.
I was stressing the point that in a civil society acts of vandalism in the
guise of protest, and the manhandling of scholars by a bunch of
people who could do with better education, were a dangerous thing.
Yohul just shrugged his shoulders and said something to the effect:
don't forget I live with you too; and I don't like to have armed cops at
our door all the time.
Insert# 4#####
The great French thinker and writer Voltaire has said, "Madness is to
think of too many things too fast, or of one thing too exclusively."
The second aspect of hypomania is to think of too many things too fast.
When I was taken to hospital in this state, one of the reasons was that
people around me observed in my speech a torrential outpouring of
apparently disconnected sentences that seemed to jump from one
context to another with awesome speed. More sympathetically
observant among them may have glimpsed in it my creative process
that makes my poetry, fiction, filmmaking, painting, and discursive
essays very original and unique to them.
######
For many weeks before my condition was perceived as a crisis
needing medical intervention, I was indeed obsessed with my
personal agenda: transforming the chaos in Ashay's room emptied of
his bodily presence forever. A creative project would liberate its
author; create an object that others may share as a work of art--- not
necessarily as madness. I still feel they could have dealt with it
differently, not acting scared and become panicky, and taken care of
me at home as I vehemently insisted on. However, my behaviour was
testing their threshold of tolerance.
I am not blaming Viju, Yohul, Sameer, Ashwini, and Dr. Aiyyar, Ajit,
Rohit, Babu alias Sandeep, Sandesh, Bunty, and Zuber for thinking
that something was driving me towards mental collapse, something was
making my behaviour excessively obsessive and it was going out of my own
control and probably leading me towards a disaster of a far greater
magnitude than I would be able to admit in my increasingly vulnerable
state. I needed to be treated by experts, not at home but in a hospital.
####
I knew that I needed medical intervention. I needed to be treated by a
very cautious physician-psychiatrist who would not destroy or harm
my artistic projects or my own rational agenda. I work on many
things at many levels and have handled them more or less
successfully for about forty years.
I had fallen in love with Viju but the prospects of our marrying each
other seemed threatened by uncertainties. We enjoyed sex whenever
we found the opportunity to be intimate. However, it was usually
fiercely passionate as though it was the last opportunity of being
together.
Ashay would not be born without this medical history. After his
birth, we decided to have no more children.
My second creative period began in Ethiopia after Ashay's birth.
During this period, for the first time in my creative career, my writing
took on a hopeful hue, a brighter tone, even though the Marathi short
novel I wrote then does not show it as it ends abruptly with the
protagonist's monologue on suicide. I started translating for Marathi
readers the European and American poets who seemed to announce
new poetic agendas with long essays on each. The seven poets I chose
were Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Rainer Maria
Rilke, Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, and Hart Crane.
What saved me through all these traumatic ups and downs were the
translations I worked on of Tukaram and Jnandev, the Marathi poets
now revered as saints, who made their deity their witness and
confessor, friend and guide through the experience of terrestrial life.
They were able to see life on earth as life in a notional paradise
despite its sorrows. They were unlike anything I encountered in the
West after the disappearance of God there in the 19th century.
####
Insert#5####
Non-conformist behaviour is not always pathological, criminal, or
sinful. If you do anything unacceptable to conformists, puritans, and
moral fundamentalists that dominate a tradition-governed culture
and society such as ours, you are promptly stigmatized as a pervert, a
deviant, and an abnormal and dangerous human being.
Patriarchal tyranny does not stop at judging you too harshly and
condemning you without a second thought. It pressurizes you to fall
in line, or else. It oppresses you, exploits and threatens you with the
classic weapons of ostracism, excommunication, alienation, exile, or
even extermination.
########
#Insert6#
Our lives are intermeshed with the lives of people from every part of
our own life. In India--whatever our faith---we are born with a large
kinship network---that Western people find difficult to imagine.
Viju and I have changed locations more often than an average Indian
couple. After we got married in 1960, we spent nearly three years
each in Addis Ababa and Asella in Ethiopia and In Iowa City, Iowa,
USA. Ashay was with us then, as an unborn child, as a toddler, and
as an adolescent. He must have been a peripheral observer of the
strangers who became his parents' friends. When he came of age,
some of them had become, independently of us, his friends as well.
#insert# Anne#
######
Today, in the context of American globalisation of
the entire economy of our planet, this is what the clash of
civilizations is about. It is not just a case of medieval
Islam clashing with a 21st century capitalist hegemony
represented by an un-Christian nation-state such as the
USA is with its techno-military super-muscle.
#HEMANT#
#NIRMAL#
#Gunther#
#BARODA#
I developed equal interest in the sexual act and its vivid real
life variations that one could only peep at, unnoticed by the
actual players.
Later, this role of a secret spectator turned into the writer, poet,
painter, and filmmaker I became. Nevertheless, that needed a
long leap, and mature reflection on love and death in terms of
science and art.
Death and Sex are polar opposites in the human psyche. Sex
represents the desire to possess another human body, unite
with it, and then separate. We had seen animals and birds
copulating. We knew about reproduction and how intercourse
served nature's purpose by making males and females attract
one another. However, we already knew about homosexuality
and lesbianism, as most of us were excellent spies and peeping
toms. We all knew masturbation and even held masturbation
championships.
Sigmund Freud, who was born 150 years ago, realized the
importance of the death-drive and the life-drive in their mutual
and respective roles as he wrote his last works. Though Freud's
ideas and methods have since been increasingly questioned,
differing with Freud and going back to Nietzsche was fruitful
for Michel Foucault in writing his Histoire de la Folie. Jacques
Lacan's psychoanalytical approach and psychiatric practice are
only slightly out of Freud's gigantic shadow. Foucault and
Lacan were both French; and the Viennese Freud was Jewish
and German, and happened to do his best work after the First
World War and Before the Second. Today, among the post-
Freudian therapist-theorists the names of Aaron Beck and
Albert Ellis stand out. Beck is associated with Cognitive
Therapy and with the definition of what he calls 'Borderline
Personality Disorder'. Ellis is credited with 'Rational-Emotive
Behaviour Therapy'. Both grudgingly acknowledge that Freud
was one of the giants who shaped 20th century thought with
his vision and insight.
#MUMBAI#
The western part of Dadar faces the Arabian Sea that separates
India from Arabia and East Africa.
You may recite the Hindu Song of the Lord and say," this One
is not to be pierced by weapons, this one is not to be burnt by
live coals;' or " the Self moves from one body to another much
as we change our clothes."
#ETHIOPIA#
#MUMBAI#
#IOWA CITY#
#MUMBAI#
#BHOPAL#
#PUNE#
#GERMANY#
#REMEMBERING MADNESS#
You talk and try to communicate with those who surround you, but
they all seem to be too slow---dumb. The increasing distance
exasperates you, as though there were light years lapsing between
your speech and their responses.
You are obsessed with the one thing you exclusively focus on. They
don't see that thing except peripherally.
You think they are marginalizing you. You think they will sedate
you, drug you, and bundle you up. You think they'll do even worse.
They may give you electric shock therapy or anaesthetise you and
then perform a lobotomy on your brain to take your very selfhood
away. This would be done in order to manage you because you
created chaos in their world.
They want to tell you it is no longer your world. Your world was
contained only in that lobe of yours. Theirs is in their connectedness
to their consensually imaged world. You couldn't accept it. You
violently attacked it. You broke its rules. You are mad. Your place is
among the mad. Alternatively, your place is in your own monadic,
disparate, and discrete self.
But what was I doing that frightened Viju, Yohul, Bunty, and Zuber
who had till then seen my bizarre shopping sprees costing thousands
of rupees, my staying shut behind the door of Ashay's room, driving
nails into walls and panels, placing adhesive hooks in the bedroom
and the attached bathroom, classifying Ashay's personal things into
objects for my intended museum and gallery in his memory? I did
strange things such as putting an assorted lot of soiled clothes and
other things into the washing machine and actually running it to
launder them? I was making notes, preparing lists, creating a mental
model of Ashay's room, as any visitor entering it would see it in a
sequence.
###GODAM#
Bhau Padhye, the Marathi short story writer and novelist, was one of
my role models as a writer. He was about eight years older than me
and I had known him since I was sixteen. Marathi fiction developed
through magazines aimed at the Marathi bourgeoisie and from the
start it was led by writers who played to the gallery. Bhau was a
serious writer of fiction and Dostoyevsky and Camus, no reader-
friendly or popular writers, set his own standards. Bhau's world---or
universe as I would prefer to call it ---was the life of the middle-class
and the working class of Mumbai.
Bhau has compassion for them all. Their author loathes none of them.
Their tragedies are understated. The absurd humour in their
mundane manipulations is brought out in warm colours and with
gentle irony. They are real. The history of Mumbai becomes real
through their small trespasses and violent destinies.
Before coming to Iowa City, Ashay read more English books than
Marathi. Though what he read in English were often translations of
Russian, French, Spanish, or Hispanic American books. Ashay had
the habit of reading all the books by an author he liked. In Iowa City,
Ashay read all the available works of my older contemporaries and
friends, Bhau Padhye and Hamid Dalwai.
He rated them as high as some non- Indian writers---particularly
Julio Cortazar, Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and
Carlos Fuentes. Being surrounded by the writers at the International
Writing Program, he could check on the writers whom my Hispanic
American colleagues knew a lot more about than our hosts. Bhau
Padhye's fiction reads like a racy screenplay written in slang. Ashay
dreamt of making films on some of them.
In 1980, when I decided to give up everything else and just sit down
to adapt Bhau Padhye's Marathi short story Gudam and write a
detailed film script based on it, Ashay was very happy. At that time,
he was working with Govind Nihalani as an apprentice
cinematographer. I was writing a screenplay to take part in an annual
competition instituted by the Union Government sponsored National
Film Development Corporation. The prize for the winner of the
competition was a gold souvenir, Rs 10,000 cash, and 100% finance to
make a film on the winning script. The 100% finance attracted me to
the competition.
This should have shattered my marital life and that it did not is due
to Viju's cool. Ashay was upset to see this aspect of my behaviour;
and he rightly worried about the impact of this on Viju, his mother.
My Chinese girl friend attempted to commit suicide during a party
we attended at my friend, Burt Blume's house. She went to the
bathroom and slashed her wrists, but failed to cut an artery,
Nevertheless, this added to the various rumours about the sick turn
Sino-Indian relations were taking in the Garden of Eden of World
Writing that the IWP reputedly was.
After Ethiopia, Iowa was the place where a very flamboyant sower of
wild oats hidden in me came out of my skin. The trio of Chitres
made a study in contrasts:
Viju's poise and grace, the classic features of her face, her calm and
gentle verbal responses contrasted sharply with my heavy drinking,
drunken attempts to tango and insistence in dancing with the agilest
Brazilian female dancers around, my black and mulatto friends, my
rapport with wizened East Europeans and phlegmatic Englishmen
(Daniel Weissbort and Peter Jay, for instance) made many people
wonder if I was a writer at all, and if so, when did I find the time to
write poetry.
I painted many large oils on canvas in Iowa City and sold some, too.
Therefore, I seemed more of a practicing painter than a writer even to
most of my colleagues. It would be obvious to say that paintings are
more visible than poems. However, in this context, such a
supercilious observation may be pardonable.
###
One of my close friends in Iowa City was Wm. Brown, then
considered a major young American poet and bracketed with
contemporaries such as Charles Simic, now very distinguished.
William or Bill Brown was quite a character. Conspicuously
corpulent and tall but rotund, and with a receding hairline, Bill's
chubby face had a lost-child quality.
One of them could be that Bill, who had a rich baritone voice, spoke
with prolonged and ponderous pauses that would be considered
Anti-American for his refusal to speed up when speaking. For, there
is such a thing as the minimum American speed for speaking as there
is a minimum legal speed for driving on an American highway.
I have lost track of Bill since 1985 or so. My mental illness brought
back his memories. He was a mentally ill person when we first met.
He did not hide his illness from me. I liked his poems. I enjoyed
talking to him. Viju found him rather clumsy, chaotic, and boring.
Bill did not look as though he had showered since he returned from
Paris. He shaved only every third day. He smelt of alcohol any time
of the day or night and drank straight from the bottle of bourbon he
carried in his jacket.
Viju's cooking did not take long, but Bill's note taking often stretched
Viju's patience. In the event, Viju gave Bill several recipes. We got
them professionally typed as well by a graduate student we knew.
However, nothing came out of it. Bill went to California and he did
not come back until we left for India,
He wrote letters to me in India though, and one of them was about
his getting a translation fellowship to go to Yugoslavia to translate
the poet Vasko Popa. It was I who had him fill up the forms for that
fellowship and got him two referees as well. I had faith in his ability
as a poet and a translator of poetry.
Was the propsed cookbook only a ruse on Bill's part to get two Indian
meals every week, watch the preparations and see the dishes emerge
through those special processes that make Indian food so difficult to
reproduce?
Bill loved Viju's plain dal and its varieties changing from one legume
to another, the 'tadka' dressings with their aromatic magic, the crucial
difference a pinch or two of asafoetida or a spoonful of garam masala
made?
I played a few harmless tricks on Bill during this period. Bill was
dating a single woman whom he invited for a meal to his apartment.
This was a serious and a crucial date for him. His confidence in his
manhood, though, was at a low tide. He had not slept with a woman
for months. When Bill conveyed his trepidation to me I allayed his
anxiety by waxing eloquent on the aphrodisiac properties of
asaphoetida.
Bill told me later that the young woman was so thrilled to eat the dal
he cooked as a first serving instead of a soup, she asked for a second
helping. Moreover, Bill gave the 'tadka'---poured the still-smoking
hot oil dressing with asaphoetida and black mustard seeds---with
flourish into her soup bowl. The result, he said, was magical. She
washed the dal down with pink California Chablis and glowed with
pleasure. Therefore, to bed they went for pleasure of another kind,
with asafoetida---or 'hing' as we call it in India---playing the role of
Ananga or Cupid, take your lexical pick.
Viju had some reservations about Bill because of his alcoholism. He
steadily and constantly drank all through the day. He was never
aggressive as many alcoholics are; neither was he a self-pitying slob
as some others become. He was lugubrious in his looks, like
someone's forgotten dog and with the same kind of forlorn appeal in
his large but myopic eyes. He will not improve, Viju would insist,
until he drank more moderately.
I found Bill even less menacing than a huge teddy bear looking out a
Christmas decorations window. He was in distress. A top New York
shrink challenged his self-image as a poet. In such a situation, whose
side do you think should I be, I asked her. Poets are so rare, they
need to be protected. In December 2005, if myself had not controlled
me, wouldn't I become Bill Brown, or worse?
I wonder why.
###
In my early poems, sex and death were interlinked themes and after
experiencing an authentic orgasm in the year 1956 at the age of 18, I
was convinced that the exquisite rapture of an erotic climax was
something that led to the deepest relaxation one has ever known.
Even before I read the works of Wilhelm Reich---The Function of the
Orgasm in particular---I was convinced of the therapeutic value of
orgasm. I thought that a natural death would produce the same
profound calm as coital climax does.
Sex can be just as violent as death---a gang rape to its victim would
be just that kind of living death, destroying the fine line between
pleasure and pain forever; and frigidity or the inability to experience
pleasure or pain is a numbness foregrounded by childhood
experiences stamping upon us categories that we cannot be easily
made to reconsider.
The drive to live and the desire to die are both transcendental; and
they are rooted in the same self. As long as they resonate, our
awareness is in a state of grace, as it were, liberated in life and its
affirmative experience that includes death rather than vainly
attempting to exclude or distance it from ourselves.
###
It is now 150 years after Sigmund Freud was born. I was born in
1938---just a year ahead of the Second World War that enveloped the
whole planet in the bad odour of charred human flesh and signalling
the advent of nuclear warfare that could take humanity to levels that
are more abysmal and forms of self-destruction.
Murder and suicide are also self-destruction when the killer and the
killed are of the same family, the same species. The 20th century's
leitmotif was self-destruction and it has carried over into the 21st. We
are all now potential suicide-bombers in a global game of terrorism.
We all suffer from an anxiety about human nature. We have ceased to
trust it. When my doctor prescribes a latest anti-depressant to me---a
new psycho-pharmacological substance to restore my serotonin-
dopamine balance---I wonder whether a quick profit motive on part
of the pharmacy industry is experimenting with whatever quality of
mind I was born with.
But then, to be fair, I must record how in the 1950s and 1960s I took
every psychedelic drug I could lay my hand on to find out what my
mind was like.
From plain alcohol, my psychedelic voyages took me to bhang,
charas, ganja, mescaline, the magic mushroom, opium, the
amphetamines---none of which were prescribed to me by a doctor or
sold to me by a pharmaceutical company. The Food and Drugs
Administration banned them and like many others of that generation,
I enjoyed defying that ban.
It is a minor miracle that I survived the onslaught on myself by me. I
did not become an addict. I did not become a social dropout. I did not
commit any heinous crimes that addicts turn to in order that they get
their next fix. Nevertheless, I lost my innocence and that is a fact to be
noted if I were to put myself on trial.
The drugs that I took then taught me a lot about my mind and its
creative process. True, I trod where Angels fear to tread. I took very
dangerous risks.
My 'trip' lasted 72 hours in ebb and flow pattern, with highs followed
by lows. I was on a swing. I felt liberated. Tears of bliss streamed
from my eyes. I smiled happily. I felt I was the centre of the universe
and it was my body, pulsating and luminous. I was shorn of all
animosity and ill will, I hated nothing, I loved all that I was and I was
all things. Nothing was the Other.
He was amazed.
On the train to Dombivali, I was pensive. Viju and I did not exchange
words. She was a favourite of Tai, and Viju loved Tai very much. In
Dombivali, Tai's body was laid on a steel bed as preparations for her
funeral started. I sat by the bed carrressing her forehead. I was
silently weeping. Years later, I cried the same way in Iowa City after
ingesting the Sacred Mushroom. It was a blissful grieving, a
liberation from the polarity of pleasure and pain, Eros and Thanatos,
Shakti and Shiva, Pravrutti and Nivrutti.
Who does he mean by 'both'? Does he mean 'Viju and Dilip' or 'Dilip
and Ashay' both? And what does he mean by that strange sentence,"
Be born to him." It is not a puzzle but a riddle, an enigma, a
conundrum.
###INSERT###
I love to smoke cigars and cigarillos. Thankfully, I did not visit any
shop that had Cuban or Caribbean island cigars in the higher range. I
would not have batted an eyelid to pay a few thousand rupees for
just one or two of the best. Sometimes Bunty or Zuber would try to
stop me. However, to them I was a patriarch with undiminished
authority even if I was nuts. They would talk to the sales talk behind
my back and Viju personally returned a pile of unusable items to the
stores whose owners or managers knew us.
A stark naked man with a paintbrush in hand rushing all over the
place between the bathroom and the bedroom would be easily
noticed by my highly sophisticated neighbours and they would be
outraged by the sight. Besides, I am a well-known poet and author, a
Chair Professor at the University of Pune, and so forth.
That brush would not only paint Ashay's bathroom door but also my
reputation. The implications were terrifying. Think of a translator of
spiritual poetry, wet paintbrush in hand, dishevelled and stark
naked, facing ten neighbouring windows and scandalizing
neighbours. Viju thought on those lines. Yohul was upset. Bunty was
upset. Zuber was upset.
Then I did a crazier thing. I put many clothes, leather belts, shoes,
and even metal objects in the washing machine and ran it. The
machine withstood it and survived. However, many of the clothes
and the articles did not.
My idea was to gift the old washing machine (we still use it) to our
house cleaner Saira whose family was adopted by Ashay. Saira's
husband Salim has a drinking problem. He beats up his wife every
now and then though she supports him and their four children. My
idea was to give the washing machine and a clothes iron to Saira so
that Salim and her older son could offer laundry services to the upper
class inhabitants of our housing complex.
This was not the only grand plan I had. I offered free furniture to be
designed by me to our young neighbours Kayyummi and Anshu.
Both are young women in their late twenties or early thirties. I had
decided to work as an interior designer starting with my theme
restaurant project---mostly in my head but brilliantly thought out.
###insert###
I was alone in the well-lit lobby of the hospital. All the alternative
scenarios of the situation flashed through my mind. One: If Viju died
and the baby was saved? Two: If the baby was lost and Viju was
saved. Three: If both of them died? Four: If both of them were saved?
Though Viju and I had been married for just over one year, we had
been sleeping with each other---whenever and wherever we found a
chance---since 1956 or for five years up until then. Though we did not
use any contraceptives, Viju did not conceive until we were married.
She conceived just before we left for Ethiopia and my mother was
reluctant to let her travel with me.
She wanted Viju to stay back in Mumbai for childbirth, nine months
away then, and wait for my return in 1963. I had to quarrel with her
for my marital rights and responsibilities. My relationship with my
mother was always strained and this was one of our many bitter
disagreements.
I would not return to India if Viju died while giving birth to our
child. If she died and the child was saved, how was I going to take
care of the orphaned infant? That was the most challenging and
unsettling question. How would I manage teaching at a school and
caring for an infant?
####(June 30_18:10_IST_13779words####
I lavished on Ashay, and later on Yohul, gifts that they could learn
from: building blocks, colours and paper, sets of tools and primitive
machines, magnifying glasses, binoculars and telescopes. I taught
them to look at the night sky and identify constellations, stars, and
planets. I took them to zoos and aquaria. I bought them books and
records, letting them choose what they liked or found intriguing. I re-
lived my childhood through them.
During the last seven of his eighteen post-Bhopal years, Ashay was
slowly and painfully estranged from Rohini who found a career she
liked and whatever values it embodied. Yohul was as much
influenced by us as by his peer group and they were of that new
generation of Indian kids who are ensnared by Western consumer
culture and weaned away from some of the old world ideas of
quality of life that Ashay--and before him I--cherished.
The only world Ashay had now was the family. As his interest in
cooking grew, he would cook his own recipes---variations on classic
dishes from a worldwide repertoire---for them. He had collected
cookbooks and collected recipes from friends and relatives. He cook
make about 40 different kinds of biryanis, for instance, and even if
the basics were the same the accents on spices and herbs changed, the
dressings varied, and the garnish altered.
Ashay was particular good at handling seafood and river fish recipes,
and beef and pork preparations, which he personally preferred. Even
regular dressings such as mayonnaise were transformed by Ashay's
magic touch into something outstanding.
Viju is an outstanding cook, but Ashay managed our kitchen and she
was relieved of her cooking chores. Yohul loves Italian food and
pasta is his staple. Ashay gave him a variety of treats. Ashay trained
Saira, our household help, and into cooking routine food with his
special accents and so, she takes care of any special kitchen
assignment when the need arises.
This shows that Ashay was doing something for the rest of us even
during his spells of acute depression and private agony. It was his
way of belonging to us and all our visiting friends and relatives.
When an appreciative visitor, such as Lothar Lutze from Berlin, was
in Pune Ashay designed each meal with special regard to his dietary
constraints.
When our German friends Gert and Gisela Heidenreich visited Pune,
Ashay took wonderful pictures of them. He was a very insightful
image-maker. In Pune, Gert and Gisela were together for a
rapprochement after a marital rift. Only I knew about this. Ashay had
no clue about their personal crises. However, the picture he shot of
Gert offering a new ring to Gisela had a poignant reunion quality
about it. Ashay was then hoping for a similar new bridge built
between him and Rohini. However, that never happened.
####
After being discharged from the hospital, and having reached home,
I found no more wind in my sails. My project remained unfinished.
The storm was over; and I was in the doldrums of depression once
again. The tempest of hypomania was over. I was sad and sober
except that a vacuum gnawed at me from inside. I was back in the
throes of unspeakable mental agony.
####
Once we accept that there is a nexus between our brain and feedback
to it from external sources our idea of the aetiology of various mental
illness changes completely.
Our sex drive, hunger, thirst, pleasure and pain---so basic to our
behaviour and performance---are influenced and controlled by these
neuropeptides.
At a younger age, I could have grasped and coped with all the
information about these submicroprocesses and microprocesses that
govern my mind-and-body's macroprocesses that give me my
biological identity as an individual being. Neurology is as complex,
weird, and fascinating as subparticle and particle physics where none
of the laws of macrophysics seem to apply.
All this is just preliminary. However, it is humbling knowledge to a
victim or a patient of a bodily condition that adversely affects the
'mental well-being' of one.
Amen.
####
If it was true that it was Ashay's death that had made me ill then all
my suffering was located within me and not in Ashay's being or non-
being. I was my own disease and disorder.
The answer given by the sages of yore stare one in the face:
Tattvamasi---- That Thou Art.