लग्नाचं आमंत्रण

त्याचं नाव ‘महेश कुलकर्णी’ हे लग्नपत्रिकेवर वाचलं तेव्हा मला कळलं. जेव्हा आम्ही जिममध्ये पहिल्यांदी बोललो तेव्हा मला वाटतं आम्ही एकमेकांना आपापली नावं सांगितली होती. पण जिममध्ये काय तो सकाळचा एक तास काढणार. माझ्याच वेळेला नियमित येणारे चेहरे बरेच असतात. काही स्मित करतात, नंतर रेस्टरूममध्ये गप्पाही होतात. पण सहसा नाव विचारायची कुणाला गरज वाटत नाही. आणि वय वाढतं तसं नावं लक्षात ठेवणं हा स्मरणशक्तीला मोठाच व्यायाम असतो - जिमच्या उपकरणांवर करता न येणारा. 

  

“माझ्या मुलीचं लग्न आहे. तुला पण एक मुलगी आहे ना” महेश म्हणाला. “तू, बायको, आणि मुलगी सगळ्यांनी यायचंच हं.” त्या पत्रिकेवर श्री व सौ आणि पुढे माझं नाव छापलेलं होतं. पत्रिका दोनशे पानांच्या कादंबरीएवढी जाड होती. वर गणपती तर होताच, पण एक रिबन बांधलेली होती. आम्ही जिमच्या बाहेर रस्त्यावर उभे होतो. महेश अतिशय प्रेमाने हसला. मी काही तिथे रिबन सोडली नाही, मात्र पत्रिकेच्या वेष्टनावर जिथे लग्न होतं त्या पंचतारांकित हॉटेलचा पत्ता स्पष्ट दिसत होता.

जिमपासून माझं घर दीड किलोमीटरवर आहे. ते अंतर चालताना मी फोन करतो नाहीतर विचार करतो. महेशचा निरोप घेऊन घरी चालायला निघालो तेव्हा मी विचार करायला लागलो. कधीकधी आपल्या नकळत नवे मित्र मिळत असतात. कुणाशी आपल्या वेव्हलेंग्थ जुळतील ह्याला काही गणित नाही. महेशला मी दीडदोन वर्षं बघत होतो, क्वचित बोलत होतो, प्रसंगी हसत होतो, पण आपल्या मुलीच्या लग्नाला मला बोलावण्याएवढी जवळीक त्याच्या मनात होती. निव्वळ एवढंच नाही, तर माझ्या कुटुंबाला बोलवून त्याने मैत्रीचा हात पुढे केला होता. मला भरून आलं. हल्लीच आमच्या एका ओळखीच्याने मुलाच्या लग्नाला स्वतःच्या भावाला आणि विधवा आईला बोलावलं नाही हे माझ्या कानावर आलं होतं. त्यांचं पटायचं नाही म्हणून. आणि इथे केवळ जिमच्या तुटपुंज्या ओळखीवर महेशने माझ्या कुटुंबाला पंचतारांकित हॉटेलमध्ये यायचं आमंत्रण दिलं होतं.  

मी घरी गेल्यावर बायकोला पत्रिका दाखवली. जिममधल्या मित्राने मुलीच्या लग्नाला आपल्या सगळ्यांना बोलावलं आहे, ताजमध्ये, मी म्हणालो.

आधी कधी ह्या मित्राचं नाव ऐकलं नव्हतं, बायको म्हणाली.

महेश चांगला माणूस आहे, प्रेमाने बोलावलंय. मी कधी त्याच्या मुलीला भेटलो नाहीये, पण लग्नात त्याच्या कुटुंबाशी आपली भेट होईलच, मी म्हणालो. महेशशी ह्यापूर्वी नुसती ओळख असली तरी भविष्यात चांगली मैत्री होईल ह्याची मला खात्री होती.

एवढ्या पंचतारांकित हॉटेलात बोलावलंय तर मग महेशच्या कुटुंबाला काहीतरी भेट द्यावी असा विचार माझ्या डोक्यात आला. खरं म्हणजे ‘आपली उपस्थिती हाच आमचा आहेर’ अशी ओळ पत्रिकेत होती. पण महेशने एवढ्या अगत्याने आम्हाला तिघांना बोलावलं होतं, ह्या हॉटेलांत जेवणाच्या किंमती काय असतात ह्याची मला कल्पना होती.  

आमच्या घराजवळ एक सिरॅमिक पॉटरीचा कारखाना आहे असं बायकोच्या कानावर आलं होतं. तिला अनेक दिवस तिकडे जायचं होतं. आपण जाऊ, आणि तुझ्या मित्राच्या मुलीच्या लग्नासाठी काहीतरी भेट घेऊ, ती म्हणाली.

सिरॅमिक पॉटरी खरोखरच सुंदर निघाली. हा कारखाना नसून एक कलावंत बाई स्वतः भट्टीत वेगवेगळे सेट बनवत होती. ही हस्तकला असल्यामुळे बनवलेली प्रत्येक वस्तू वेगळी होती- जगात एकमेव. अर्थात त्यामुळे किंमतीही मजबूत होत्या.

‘ही प्लेट सुंदर आहे, मोठी आहे, फळं ठेवता येतील.” बायकोने सुचवलं. मी प्लेट उलटी करून पाठचा स्टिकर बघितला.  

“सहा हजार रुपये किंमत आहे.” मी म्हणालो.

“आता ताजमध्ये लग्न म्हणजे चांगली भेट द्यायला पाहिजे. छान आहे, आवडेल तुझ्या मित्राला, आणि त्याच्या मुलीला उपयोगी होईल.”

ती पॉटरीची मालकीण क्रेडीट कार्ड घेत नसती तर कदाचित मी ती खरेदी रद्द करू शकलो असतो. पण तिने कार्ड घेतलं. चांगल्या पॅकिंगचे आणखी दोनशे रुपये भरायला लागले.

दुसऱ्या दिवशी कामाला सुट्टी होती.

‘मला लग्नाला घालायला शर्ट नाहीये.’ मी बायकोला म्हणालो. तसं म्हटल्यास कपाटात वीस-पंचवीस शर्ट आहेत, पण त्यातले पंधराहून जास्त मला आवडत नाहीत, त्यामुळे मी ते कधी घालत नाही. एक-दोन बरे शर्ट आहेत पण त्यांना शोभतील अश्या पँट नाहीयेत. आणि जे शर्ट मी वारंवार घालतो ते आता जुनाट दिसायला लागले आहेत- ताजमध्ये नक्कीच शोभणार नाहीत.

मग आम्ही तिघे फिनिक्स मिलला गेलो. एकदा दुकानात गेल्यावर संयम राहत नाही. म्हणून मी माझ्या बायकोची आणि मुलीची प्रत्येक खरेदीला परवानगी घेतो. बायकोने आग्रह केला म्हणून एकाऐवजी तीन शर्ट घेतले.

‘आपण का इथे नेहमी येतो, आलोच आहोत तर घेऊन टाक.’  

मग मला अपराधी वाटायला लागलं. खरेदी हा बायकांचा व्यवसाय. मी बायको-मुलीला घेऊन आलो, आणि शर्ट मात्र मला घेतले. हे अगदीच चूक होतं. मग पुढचे दोन तास बायको आणि मुलीने खरेदी केली. मी काही बायकांच्या सेक्शनमध्ये जात नाही. तिथे ब्रेसियर वगैरे लटकत असतात, मला संकोच वाटतो.

सगळी खरेदी संपल्यावर, एवीतेवी फिनिक्स मॉलला आलोच होतो, म्हणून आम्ही इंडिगोमध्ये जेवायला गेलो. इंडिगो तसं खूप महाग, पण आम्ही क्वचित इथे येतो. त्यामुळे आज मेन्यूच्या उजव्या बाजूकडे न बघता ऑर्डर द्यायची असं ठरलं. जेवण झाल्यावर लगेच घरी जायला पाहिजे होतं. पण जेवताना माझा पाय टेबलाखाली बायकोच्या पायावर पडला.

‘तुझ्याकडे चांगले बूट आहेत की नाहीत?’ माझी सँडल फार लागली नसली तरी त्यामुळे तिला माझ्या बुटांची आठवण झाली.

‘आहेत ते ऑफिसचे काळे.’

‘आज घेतलेल्या त्या लिनेनच्या शर्टाखाली ते ऑफिशियल शूज चांगले दिसणार नाहीत. तुला नाहीतरी इनफॉर्मल शूजची गरज होती, आज घेऊन टाक. सगळीकडे हे सँडल घालून जातोस. चांगलं दिसत नाही.’

‘अग, मुंबईच्या हवेला हेच सोयीस्कर असतात.’ मी म्हणालो. मात्र मग क्लार्कचे शूज आणि दोन जोड्या घेतल्यावर तिसरी फुकट होती म्हणून मोज्यांच्या दोन जोड्या घेतल्या.  

‘ती आपण सिरॅमिक प्लेट घेतली ती ब्रेकेबल आहे का ग?’ मी विचारलं.

‘अर्थातच.’   

ती प्लेट ब्रेकेबल आहे हा विचार मला अस्वस्थ करत होता. कारण माझ्या डोळ्यांपुढे लग्नाचं दृश्य आलं. ताज हॉटेलमध्ये लगीनघाई, स्टेजवर अनेक लोक वधू वरांना भेटायला रांगा लावून उभे. माझ्या हातातली भेटवस्तू, मोठी, महाग, चांगली दोनशे रुपये देऊन पॅक केलेली, बघून महेश म्हणणार, अरे कशाला आणलीस, आहेर नको सांगितलं होतं. मग मी म्हणणार नाही रे हे केवळ टोकन म्हणून आहे. मग त्यात काय आहे हे माहिती नसल्यामुळे कोणीतरी ते पार्सल मागे फेकणार.

ही सगळी भीती मी बायकोला बोलून दाखवली.

‘लग्नात नक्की गळबटणार. एवढे लोक येतात. कुणाला कशाचा पत्ता नसतो. नंतर कुणी चोरून नेली तर तुझ्या ह्या मित्राला कळणार सुद्धा नाही.’

आम्ही फिनिक्स मॉलहून घरी पोचेस्तोवर मी ठरवलं होतं की आज संध्याकाळी महेशच्या घरी जाऊन भेट द्यायची. घरी द्यावी म्हणजे दिली हेही कळेल आणि सुरक्षितही राहील.

महेशचा पत्ता आमंत्रणपत्रिकेवर होताच. घराचा नंबर ४५०६ होता. त्या इमारतीच्या चौकीदाराने प्रश्न विचारले तेव्हा महेशचं घर पंचेचाळीसाव्या मजल्यावर असणार हे कळलं.

‘कृपा करून इंटरकॉमवर त्यांना फोन करू नका. त्याला सरप्राईज द्यायचं आहे.’ नशिबाने पत्त्यासाठी मी माझ्याबरोबर पत्रिका आणली होती. माझ्या बोलण्यावरून मी सभ्य माणूस असणार हे कळून चौकीदाराने फोन न करता मला सोडलं.

जिममध्ये सगळेजण टी-शर्ट आणि शॉर्ट घालून असतात, त्यामुळे कोण किती श्रीमंत (किंवा गरीब) आहे ते कळत नाही. महेशने घर उघडलं तेव्हा तो महाल वाटला. आत गेल्याबरोबर एका बाजूला अरेबियन समुद्राचं डोळे दिपवणारं दर्शन होतं. एवढ्या उंचीवर असल्यामुळे अख्खी मुंबईच जणू काही दिसत होती.

‘अरे, घरी आलास?’ नाईके शूज न घातलेला महेश पहिल्यांदीच पाहिला.  

‘रविवारी लग्नाला तुमची खूप गडबड असेल. त्यामुळे ही... हे... म्हटलं आज घरीच नेऊन द्यावं. त्यानिमित्ताने भेटही होईल तुझ्या घरच्यांची.’ मी सिरॅमिक प्लेटचं पार्सल त्याच्या हातात दिलं.  

‘अरे हे कशाला? आहेर नको म्हणून लिहिलं आहे.’

‘हे काही नाही... नुसतं टोकन आहे.’ म्हणून मी ते महेशच्या हातात कोंबलं. तो आत नोकराला पाणी आणायला सांगायला गेला तेव्हा मी ते पार्सल अलगद सोफ्यावर ठेवलं.

‘तू काय घेणार? चहा, कॉफी, ज्यूस. आज कुणीच घरी नाहीये. संयोगिता मैत्रिणींबरोबर बाहेर गेलीय. आशा पण खरेदीला गेलीय. रविवारीच लग्न आहे ना, त्यामुळे पळापळ चालू आहे.’ मी बसलो होतो, महेश उभाच होता.

‘नाही तुझी घाई असेल तर राहू दे, मी सहज आलो होतो. रविवारी आपली भेट होईलच.’ मी पाण्याचा ग्लास ठेवला आणि उभा राहिलो.

‘तुला कुठे सोडू का?’

मी नाही म्हटलं. महेश खूप चांगल्या कपड्यांत होता, आणि मी सँडल आणि माझ्या नेहमीच्या वापरातले विटके कपडे घालून आलो होतो.

दुसऱ्या दिवशी सकाळी मी नेहमीप्रमाणे जिममध्ये होतो. महेश दिसला नाही, माझी तशी अपेक्षाही नव्हती. दोन दिवसांनी मुलीचं लग्न असताना त्याने जिमला सुट्टी देणं स्वाभाविक होतं. फक्त तो आला असता तर कदाचित त्याने मुलीला आम्ही दिलेली सिरॅमिक प्लेट आवडली का नाही हे सांगितलं असतं.

नंतर ट्रेडमिलवर पळून झाल्यानंतर शरीराभोवती टॉवेल गुंडाळून मी रेस्टरूममध्ये बसलो होतो. अचानक मला कोपऱ्यातल्या टेबलावर पत्रिका दिसल्या. रिबन बांधलेल्या, वर गणपतीचं चित्र असलेल्या जाडजूड पत्रिकांचा एक जुडगा तिथे होता.  बाजूला जिमचे दोन ट्रेनर बसले होते.

‘ह्या पत्रिका इथे काय करताहेत?’ मी त्यांना विचारलं.

‘तो मेंबर येतो ना, काय रे नाव त्याचं, महेश ना, त्याने ठेवल्याहेत, जिममधल्या सगळ्यांना वाटायला सांगितल्या आहेत.’

‘अरे व्वा’ मी म्हणालो. ‘तुम्ही जाणार का?’

‘काय नाही. माझी काय तशी ओळख नाही. उगाच कुणी बोलावलं म्हणून आपण जात नाही.’ एक ट्रेनर म्हणाला.

‘अहो, हल्ली काय आहे माहिती आहे का? एक मेंबर मला सांगत होता.’ दुसरा ट्रेनर बोलता झाला. ‘मुंबईतले हे लग्नाचे मोठे हॉल असतात ना, त्यांना मिनिमम नंबरची गॅरंटी लागते. म्हणजे तुम्ही कमीत कमी दोन हजार लोकांचे पैसे भरायचे, मग दोन हजार लोक आले काय किंवा आठशे आले काय. मग हे ह्या मेंबरसारखे लोक खिरापतीसारख्या वाटायला लागतात पत्रिका, कारण तो नंबर व्हायला पाहिजे ना. हे सगळे उसने लोक त्या मोठ्या हॉटेलला जाणार, जेवणार, त्यांना वाटतं काय खर्च केलाय ह्या माणसाने आपल्यावर. पण ते खरं नसतं. ह्या नंबर बनवण्यासाठी बोलावलेल्या लोकांसाठी त्यांना एका दमडीचाही वेगळा खर्च येत नाही.

रवी 

Addas vs Electronic Screens

My father, Shankar Abhyankar (I call him baba) is 85.

Every morning, at 06.45, he goes to Shivaji Park. Shivaji Park is not exactly a park, it has just a little grass in the monsoon. Shivaji Park is circular, surrounded by a parapet for people to sit on. With a circumference of 1.2 km, two thousand people can sit on it at a time, and on weekends, nearly that many do. (See the clip). Baba meets his friends there. Each group has a historically earmarked place. They discuss anything and everything until they feel it’s time to go home. This is his morning adda.

The evening adda  

I sometimes take a morning walk at Shivaji Park, when I usually meet friends, familiar faces and soon-to-become friends. On one such morning, I met a couple of young boys. One of them I knew, and he introduced me to the other.

 “I am Ravi Abhyankar.” I shook his hand.

“Oh, do you know by any chance Shankar Abhyankar, the sitarist?” he asked me.

“As a matter of fact, I know him very well. He is my father. How do you know him?”

This boy must be about twenty-five.

“Your father and I are good friends. We drink together in the evenings.” The boy said.

Wrist and tongue workout  

This is baba’s evening adda. Its age range, as you may guess, is from 25 to 85. I am told the group gathers each evening at a bar. At the table, everyone has a glass in front of him. They talk and drink, drink and talk. The waiter keeps refilling. Whenever a person gets up, the waiter gives him his individual bill, which he pays off. I don’t know how long this tradition has been going on, but baba has been going to such an adda for the past thirty years. Obviously, some members pass away, and new members join. There is no way the twenty-five year old boy I met has been part of the group for long.

Conversation replay

Last month, on 13 April, I had thrown a party for my Moscow friends. Every time I visit Moscow, we have a meet-up. We talk, we eat and drink, we hug and kiss before parting for another year, until my next trip to Moscow.

I have similar gatherings, sometimes called reunions, with my school friends, college friends, relatives and ex-colleagues.

A few years ago, I bumped into a college classmate, A.S..

“I live just here. In that building. Come, come.” He fondly invited me to his house. We chatted for more than an hour. We recalled our classmates, one after the other, and shared whatever information we had on them. Some were successful CEOs, many had settled abroad, a couple had passed away.

Two years later, I happened to meet A.S. again at the same spot, and he invited me to his house again. After spending an hour there, an epiphany struck me. We had repeated our conversation from two years ago. Almost word for word. I decided not to visit him again and never have.

Electronic screens: man’s best friends

In the past, I would go to a travel agent to book my tickets. Mukesh, my neighborhood agent, knew everything about my family, and I knew about his. He started running after hearing about my marathons. I haven’t seen him for more than five years now.

Many years ago, I would visit my bank regularly. Take a token, wait in the queue, fill forms, and go to the teller. You talked to the other customers. You knew the bank staff personally, and they knew far more about you than just your bank balance. I don’t need to personally go to my bank any more.

I don’t visit bookstores any more. Not just books, Amazon delivers most things without me leaving my computer desk.

This internet magic results in a massive saving of time. One assumes we use this saved time to meet friends, spend more time with our families. But as technology makes our life more efficient, we seem to have less and less time. What happens to all the time that was saved?

The extra time is now devoted to electronic screens. Smartphones, tabs, Netflix, WhatsApp, Facebook, Messenger, Instagram, Twitter.

Electronic screens are now man’s best friends. People are seen typing in their Smartphone at the traffic light, or if desperate while driving. The young generation has its neck permanently bent down, and ears shut with white plugs.

Virtual can’t be reality

Technology has now allowed us to remain connected. If we are connected, why meet in person?

But technology has managed to capture only two of the five senses. What we see and what we hear can be recorded, but not smelt, tasted or touched. On SKYPE, the girl’s image at the other end may be of a very high resolution, you still can’t smell the perfume she is wearing. The deliciousness of the bright yellow Alphonso mangoes can’t be tasted on the screen. And touch, human touch, can’t be replicated on a screen of any size.

Human touch is known medically to have health benefits. Hugs increase the levels of oxytocin bringing blood pressure down. Kissing a child makes us happier, otherwise why would we do it? Even in conservative societies, handshakes are accepted.

If the virtual world could substitute reality, we could have simply watched different destinations on YouTube. Why travel to other countries and face the long flights, jet lag, packing, unpacking? Because what we experience in the real world simply can’t be compared to the video clips on internet.

But if we accept travel can’t be substituted by watching those destinations in films, how are we happy degrading our personal relationships and friendships to text messages? Why is the practice of a group of friends (or people drinking together) meeting daily getting outdated?

In 2016, I went to Moscow four times. As usual, I called a wholesale party of my friends in January. On my second visit in April, I discussed the idea of another party with two friends.

“But you had a party only in January. It is too soon. Nobody will come.” Both were convinced. That year I didn’t call another party.

Nostalgia meetings

Annual reunions are formula meetings usually for the sake of nostalgia. Rarely will they have intellectual arguments or passionate debates. Mostly, people will recall the past when they were together, if curious find out what the others do, and hasten back home because kids (or now grandkids) are waiting.

Some of my friends stay a few hundred meters from my house. I haven’t met many of them for more than a year. Because they have no time. (Why bother to meet when there is what’sApp?). How are some people short of time when everyone is given exactly 24 hours a day? Should I continue to call them friends? Or ex-friends?

Corporate adda vanishes

I believe that personal human interaction is one of the greatest sources of happiness. Just as we are expected to interact with our family on a daily basis, historically,  people would interact daily with their friends and neighbours.

Earlier the workplace allowed you to interact with your colleagues on a daily basis. In the early 1980s, I worked for A.F.Ferguson & Co., chartered accountants. We worked with pen and paper. The partners dictated the audit report to their secretaries, who typed them on  typewriters. We chatted almost all the time while working. This was the corporate adda, if you like. It also allowed you to ‘kill time’, a major requirement for an office worker.

In a similar office today, you would see most people wearing glasses while immersed in computer screens. The office is like a graveyard. Screens have conquered the workplace as well.

Adda: an ancient tradition   

Addas are informal voluntary personal gatherings, ideally on a daily basis, for intellectual discussions. In ancient Greece, Socrates and Plato created their deep philosophical arguments through such dialogues.

In India, Bengal and Maharashtra are considered among the top cultural states. They have produced some of India’s greatest authors, singers, composers, musicians. Theatre is strong in both the states. Bengal and Maharashtra are the only two states that produce special Diwali magazines. But also, the adda culture is best developed in them. Bengal was a communist state, so Bengalis argued much and had no shortage of time. But Maharashtra is not far behind either.

The ultimate aim of life is happiness. Money and work satisfaction may be priorities for some, but if they don’t lead to happiness then what’s the point?

Having a group of friends whom you meet every day and talk to intellectually without an agenda seems like a simple recipe for happiness. My father is living proof of this. It is my dream to form a similar adda for myself. Possibly in this city of 20 million, I may be able to find five or six people who prefer real humans to electronic screens.

Ravi

Mother Tongue and Other Tongue

Last Saturday, 20 April, I was invited to speak at a book launch. Thousand Thoughts written by Larysa (Laura) Savinska is an unusual book. It has Larysa’s original poems in English, in Russian and as if bilingualism is not enough, three poems in Ukrainian.

Linguistic theory says you can write poems only in your mother tongue. Because poetry is about feelings and emotions. Our strongest sentiments are attached to our mother tongue, our first language, the language we learn naturally, without having to cram grammar books. Larysa proves that theory wrong. She writes her poems with equal passion in English and Russian.

*****

Jean-Marc Dewaele from the University of London has spent a substantial part of his academic career investigating how swearwords and taboo words, the F language, affect multilinguals. (Incredible the kind of things academics pick for research). His paper begins with the drunk and angry Captain Haddock. Tintin and Captain Haddock are surrounded by armed Arab bandits in the desert. (The Crab with the Golden Claws, Hergé, 1940). When captain Haddock’s whiskey bottle is shot to pieces by the bandits, he releases a mouthful of oaths in French, his mother tongue. The swearing, of course, is only as strong as the kids’ books can swallow. Anyone fond of Tintin is familiar with the ‘mille milliards de mille sabords’ (billions of blue blistering barnacles). The Captain’s swearing is so powerful, the bandits run away.

The conclusion of Dewaele’s paper is more interesting. His research finds that swear words in our mother tongue offend us more than those in languages learnt later in life. This emotional force in mother-tongue applies to both the giver and the receiver of the swear words.

Those of you who can use swear words or have been sworn at in various languages can verify how true his research is.

*****

In the discussion on multi-lingual writing, Nabokov’s story is quite telling.

Vladimir Nabokov, the Lolita fame, wrote an autobiographical memoir called Speak, Memory in 1951. (In the USA, it was called Conclusive Evidence). The book essentially covered the period of his childhood and adolescence. As a child, Nabokov grew up in Saint Petersburg, in Tsar’s Russia. After the communist revolution, his family fled Russia and emigrated to England. Nabokov enrolled at the University of Cambridge. After graduating, he moved to Berlin. In the Second World War, once Hitler’s troops began advancing, the family fled again, this time to Manhattan, USA. That is where he wrote Speak, Memory, a memoir in English.

The following year, a Russian publisher approached Nabokov and requested him to write a book for the Russian readers. Nabokov offered Speak, Memory; now to be published in Russian language. Nabokov, being Nabokov, a prolific writer, didn’t want to translate. He began writing the same book in Russian.

A strange thing happened. Memories, associations, smells began to flood his mind. He recalled several stories he had completely forgotten when writing in English. The Russian memoir Drugie Berega (Other Shores) was published in Russia in 1954. Initially meant to be a simple translation, it was a very different book than the memoir in English.

Nabokov’s first two decades of life were spent in Russia. Apparently his memories, emotions, feelings from that period were closely associated with the Russian language. Though he was fluent in both languages, it was a mistake to try and capture the Russian period in English.

After the publication in Russian, Nabokov became restless and began translating the Russian version, which he considered to be authentic, back in English. In 1966, the memoir was published in English once again. Now called: Speak Memory: An Autobiography Revisited. In its preface, Nabokov acknowledged his difficulties in trying to fit the Russian memories in English. “This re-Englishing of a Russian re-version of what had been an English re-telling of Russian memories in the first place, proved to be a diabolical task….” (Pp.12-13)

*****

In 1980, our flat in Bombay got its first phone- an immobile landline. It had a six digit number – 465416. The six digit number showed how few people had phones despite Bombay’s large populace. We were among the last to get a phone. I began to memorise the numbers of my friends, relatives, and colleagues. By 1986, I was holding more than 200 Bombay phone numbers in my head. I didn’t work as a telephone operator or a spy; I simply loved numbers and was proud of my memory.

In 1986 I moved to Moscow, and began to memorise the Moscow phone numbers. Moscow had seven digits. By 1990, I could easily recite more than 100 Moscow phone numbers. The following year, Soviet Union collapsed. In 1992, Ruble collapsed. Calling India from Moscow became dirt cheap. I thought I should surprise a few Indian friends by calling them from Moscow. In my Moscow flat, I still had a dialing phone. I tried to recall the Bombay numbers, but struggled. I was confident about my Bombay residence number, but most other numbers were blurred.

However, as soon as I came back on vacation to Bombay, and put my index finger on the phone dial, all those numbers came back. Now I had difficulty trying to recall the Moscow numbers.

This was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. Both sets of numbers were stored in my head. But I could recall with ease only the local numbers.

*****

I notice something similar with the languages I learnt.

I left Russia 20 years ago. I rarely speak Russian now. But whenever I land in Moscow, words and expressions start flowing from my lips.

Since leaving Poland at the end of 2002, I have been there only twice. And still in November 2017, as soon as I breathed the Warsaw air, I could converse in Polish with the old fluency. On the third day, I was cracking jokes in Polish.

I may not have had as many lives as a cat does, but I have distinctly experienced Indian, Russian and Polish incarnations.

*****   

If you speak only one language and live in only one country, you have only a single life.

If you spend a considerable number of years abroad, learn the local language and customs, mingle with the local community, (marry a local), start talking in that language in your dreams, work along with the natives, immerse yourself in that land, more importantly love the place and the people, that is reincarnation. I don’t know how credible the philosophical or religious concept of reincarnation is, but I certainly know that people who become part of another country and culture are reborn in the same life.

This is what happened to the author of Thousand Thoughts. For the past thirteen years, Larysa has made India her home, married an Indian, at her home in Goa she speaks in English with her family. She has even renamed her Indian avatar – Laura. She works as a coach and motivator- all her clients are Indian. In those thirteen years, she has experienced emotional ups and downs that have found an expression in her poems. Her Russian poems were written in Russia, her English poems are written in India.

In her poem Golden Cage, a lovely metaphor, Larysa writes about the people who shy away from experiencing another life: (Only an excerpt here)

There was a bird in a golden cage

A tiny singing bird

I loved her songs, I sang along

Enjoyed her voice a lot

One day I thought I’ll free the bird

Allow her to fly

It must be sad to stay inside

And never hit the sky

I’ve opened the little golden gate

But the silly bird stayed in

It’s all she ever knew

She was quite happy here

I’m like that bird, the whole sky is mine

And what do I choose instead?

I’ve locked myself inside the cage

Of what I thought is my nest

I look outside, perhaps I feel

That there is more out there

But I’m not ready for the sky

It’s so familiar here….

*****

Linguistic theorists who claim poems can be written only in one’s mother tongue didn’t take into account that reincarnation in another land can produce poetry in another language.

Ravi

Killing Chickens

Manas was my classmate in college. His academic brilliance was often accompanied by eccentricity in thoughts and expression. It made him an interesting company for a short while. After all these years, I am still happy to meet him over lunch or dinner, but would probably refuse an offer to share with him a day-long journey or a weeklong vacation. For many years, he has been a professor at a reputed American university. In December, when he visits Bombay, we occasionally arrange to meet. This week, we had gone out for dinner. The place was Manas’s choice. He ordered a tandoori chicken, and I  asked for a vegetarian platter.

“You should try tandoori chicken here.” Manas said. “It’s terrific.”

“Well, I prefer veg.” I said.

“I thought you were not religious. I hope your vegetarianism is not based on some religious principles.”

“No, no. Not religion. But it’s true I don’t like someone killing animals so that we can eat them.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Isn’t that unethical? Isn’t all killing wrong?” I asked. Killing anybody, even chickens, can’t be right.

“But those chickens, the broiler chickens, are more than compensated for their killing. They have got the gift of life.” Manas said.

“What do you mean – compensated? They had a life, and that life has been cut short by somebody with a sharp knife beheading them. Kill them young, so that we, I mean people like you, can eat them.”

“You’re missing a point. Their life as you call it wouldn’t exist if I was not eating them.”

“Are you trying to justify killing those poor chickens?”

“Listen. I don’t think you, as a vegetarian, know or care how the broiler industry works. There are two types of chicken, those that give eggs and those used as meat. The second type is called broilers. They’re specifically bred and raised as meat.  Do you have any idea how many chickens are raised annually? More than 50 billion. If we were not consuming them, most of them would never be born. You know if the world had only vegetarians like you, a few trillion chickens would have never existed.”

“So, what’s wrong with that?”

“We’re talking about the ethics of killing chicken. I accept the chicken is eventually killed. But that happens in one day, in a matter of few minutes. What about the two or three months of life the chicken enjoys till then?”

“Manas, what sort of enjoyment you are talking about?”

“Look, at least in the USA and Europe, the laws governing the poultry farming are strict. You need to look at the health and welfare of the broiler chickens. They are free, not in cages. Until the day they die, they enjoy company of thousands of other chickens. They are treated well, fed well. They see the blue sky, run around.”

“But at the end of it, that life is terminated – brutally. A butcher cuts its throat.”

“Listen, in the west, laws regulate the way broilers are killed. It needs to be quick and with minimum pain. But even if it was brutal and inhuman as it may be in this part of the world, the chicken has still lived its life until then. The joy of breathing, the joy of enjoying the power of senses, the joy of looking at different colours, the joy of mere living... the chicken got that good life only because somebody finds its meat tasty.”

“Manas, but speaking from the ethical point, who has given us the right to kill them?”

“I’ll tell you who. Since we the people breed them, we have the right to kill them. It’s like god. God has created human beings, and god kills them one way or another. And if you wish to compare us with broilers, God is not always a civil butcher. Look at all those cancer patients. God could have easily killed them in one minute. The time that it takes for a knife to separate a chicken’s head. But God opts to torture many innocent men and women, even children, for years before killing them. How is that ethical?

What I’m trying to tell you is that the billions of broilers that exist today, and have existed in the past were created by men, not God. In a vegetarian world, god would not send them at all. And since man specifically breeds the broilers, he has the moral right to end their life as well. And the trade-off, according to me, is fair. The chicken gets to experience life that it would not have otherwise.”

“ Manas, I think you attach too much importance to experiencing life as you call it.”

“Of course I do. Each day of life is an experience that offers unlimited possibilities for joy and creation. It has nothing to do with how the life ends. Take the case of Mahatma Gandhi or John Kennedy. Both were shot dead. You may even say brutally and unfairly. Does that diminish the importance of their lives in any way? Until the day they died, they lived life to the full. They not only enjoyed their life, they also contributed to the world. If I were to apply your argument about broiler chickens, you are saying it would have been better if Gandhi or Kennedy were not born, rather than getting brutally killed.”

“Well, I’m not sure if Mahatma Gandhi and chickens should be compared.” I said.

“If you are talking about ethics, there is no difference. I believe that the gift of life the chicken gets as a result of our meat-eating is so great that getting beheaded prematurely is a small price to pay.”

Manas then called the waiter, and ordered another Tandoori chicken. “It’s excellent!” he offered his compliments to the waiter.

Ravi