The Disease

Friday, July 28, 2006. Maryland in the United Stated of America. 10.18 in the night...

Madhav, a retired professor, was gazing into the darkness through the window from the third floor of an apartment. It was raining...raining cats and dogs. Even in the torrential rain a large number of cars were seen running at a speed ­of at least seventy miles an hour making deafening sounds. The tail lamps of the vehicles looked like a flood of fire flowing in one direction of the six tracks...and the headlamps in the opposite direction beamed like a river of lights. More than anything, the vehicular traffic in the heavy deluge splashed high dusty dew by the tires...the terrifying incessant noise of the tubeless tires was like the dance of death.

So many people...even in the night...so fast as though some one was chasing them. Where could they all be going, and why? Work...endless work and the incessant race...endless earnings...hunt, a hunt for the Dollars...bank balances... a Dollar being equal to forty six rupees or so...the multiplication, factor by default...migration for the dollars...the migrations all being a hunt for the Dollars...one imitating the other and so on...the race for the H1 visas...the brain drain...the migration for wealth, status, comfort not knowing what exactly was required. The roar of the cars, endless flow, incessant rain, and the darkness that fast embraced them all.

The University of Maryland, the School of the Languages and the local Telugu association organized a meeting jointly in his honor. He was reminded of the speech he had made for an hour followed by the speeches of Prof. Brooks and Mr. Sudhaker Reddy. The speech in which he shared sixty-two years of his experiences as an engineer and a poet with about fifty and odd audiences present in the hall. He was reminded of a typical experience when he recited the last part of a poem he had written earlier:

The father used to tell
The birds that migrate in search of comforts
Return to their native countries when the hardships are resolved
How nice it could’ve been, my dear
Had you too returned at least like the birds!
By the way,
Do you migrate in search of livelihood, or
Do you live for migration?
What’s it exactly, my son?’

A youth sitting in the front row suddenly started sobbing. He attracted everybody’s attention in the meeting hall. Everyone was dumbfounded. Silence surrounded when the youth had abruptly left the hall wiping off his tears with his handkerchief.

It was raining incessantly then too...an endless rain outside the hall, in the hall and in the hearts of everyone! The man seemed to have forgotten living a meaningful life, making introspection, peeping into his soul from time to time...Migration altered him into a machine that makes money. Otherwise, why was he inundated in sorrow when the reality seemed naked before him?

Madhav ceased to look through the window. His attention was then drawn towards the packed luggage in the room ready to be carried. Everything was ready in front of him including the suitcase and a cabin bag. His return journey to India from the International Air Port, Dulles, Washington DC was at two ten in the night.

It had been a trip of fifteen days. In the eyes of the people, he was going to India after a trip to his son, Bharat, who lives in America. But, for him, the purpose of the trip was to make an intimate study of the lives, the diversities and the good and the evil. As an engineer, a writer, and a poet, Madhav intended to examine the phenomenon of the agonizing immigration in the United States. There was nothing over there except their conviction that any human being in the world was just a commodity...from the air bound journey...from the yearning of whipping of the dollar to commanding the world with wealth...our culture was to pay and use and use and throw. One had everything over here, and still had nothing.

What was it that one found there? The love of the paper-flowers...the knowledge of the Dollar...the hunt for the dollar...the run after the comforts...his own comfort, his own happiness, desire...the life that belonged to himself, a life that was bereft of the minimum human relations with the neighbours...what was to be found over there except the stench of the Dollar?

The resonance of the rain in the heart as well as outside on the parking garage...a typical echo...the rhythm of the sound of this rain was so haunting to him. In fact, every crucial aspect of life had been full of rain. The heavy downpour that resonated the sound of the drums in the thickness of the darkness...the dance of the rain drops.

Madhav was reminded of the diaries that he had brought from India for re­reading. It had been an electrifying experience to make introspection into time by retracting the experiences of the past. He took out of the cabin-bag a diary belonging to the year, nineteen seventy-four. He turned the pages of the diary rapidly. The pages smelled antique like the aroma of the yester years.

That day too, it rained heavily...a continuous rain intercepted by the heavy down pour in between. There was water everywhere around. It was one o’clock in the night at the Railway Station of Warangal. He was sitting alone on the solitary wooden bench in the only platform of the Station. Except the sound of the rain, and a red signal in front, there was a total emptiness enveloping around.

Madhav was waiting for the train that should have already come by then, and was not sure as to when it would arrive either. Every time it rained, there was a soul search, a peep into the self, turmoil and mayhem. That night too was a night in which he was decisively awakening from the uncertainty of a man standing at the cross roads, and was unable to choose a path in the rainy night.

II

June 6, 1974.

The mind was fully poignant. He was undergoing a dreadful fear realizing the unaffordability of engineering education on the one hand and the yearning of his father, who wanted that his son should emerge a successful engineer from one of the prestigious engineering colleges. He had learnt from his father only one thing...honesty and leading a meaningful and responsible life. The meaning of life is any way relative, isn’t it? Everyone perceives that a comfortable life is meaningful life. But I’m unable to think in those terms.

My mind has been full of turmoil in this week when I was about to come out of the prestigious Regional Engineering College, Warangal...to begin a life of my own. An introspection into the toil for obtaining a seat in this College, completing the degree by working hard for five years, topping the Mechanical branch, taking the entrance test for admission to the PG course, fellowship, struggle with the books, considering the books as the world and the library as the universe, a penance...put together getting a job as a design engineer in a prestigious company in Saudi Arabia, the world’s biggest refinery. A salary of thirty-two thousand American Dollars a year. A big job indeed! Everyone, the fellow students and the professors alike, congratulated me profusely my success saying that it was a matter of luck to have secured such a big job. But, I couldn’t react with equal amount of enthusiasm. I consulted in the night my father, who is my teacher, saint and above all, a friend asking him for his counsel.

He said, ‘I’m of the opinion that you are capable of taking a decision by comprehensively analyzing this society, country and yourself. It’s good that one takes a decision about one’s own life. Choose your own path.’ What does one mean by the meaningful and responsible life? Making about thirty two thousand dollars a year may be a comfortable life, but would it be a meaningful life too?

What about my parents, my college, my professors, this society and my country that spent lakhs of rupees on my education, who’re all responsible for my education? Am I not accountable to them as a citizen? Without the cooperation of them all I wouldn’t have become what I’m today. Is it not my responsibility to pay them ? Is it not my responsibility to shape the next generation as they did mine? Is it appropriate to grow and flyaway ignoring my responsibility towards my country and social responsibility just to earn my salary, my comforts and luxuries?

An endless contradiction day in and day out. This is the most important moment of uncertainty that belongs to me alone. I underwent so much of psychological conflict so as not to take a wrong decision whatever it is - right or wrong...

At last, I took an appropriate decision this morning. It amounts to cheating if I run to a foreign country in the pretext of getting a job and earning money. I don’t require so much of income just for my comforts. To migrate is to cheat this country. I’ve got certain responsibilities towards my country...I can’t ignore them.

Hence I took the decision. I’m not going to join the Company in Dhahran. I’m just starting today to join Osmania University, Hyderabad to guide the youth and the society as a lecturer. This decision may sound foolish to some and radical to the others. But I’m clear in my mind that my decision’s certainly the right one. It stopped to rain. The signal changed from red to green. There it comes, the train that I’ve to board.

III

As a father, I tried to rear my son in the best possible manner, and got him educated as my own father had done to me. Right from his childhood, Bharat had been doing well in his studies. Having obtained a district rank in his S.S.C., Bharath could secure the sixth rank in his EAMCET, third rank in his degree from the I.I.T., Bombay and again the third rank in his GATE leading to his Master’s from the I.I.T. of Kharagpur. This had been his track record in his academics. However, he is no match to me in respect of the objectives of life. He is always interested in himself and his own comforts.

He claims that this is characteristic of the present generation. He called it, a ‘global thinking.’ He keeps arguing that there is nothing wrong in going to a place where there are opportunities for the talented when the same is lacking in one’s own country. When asked about the expenditure of approximately twenty­-two lakh incurred on each of an IITian, he says that it’s the responsibility of the country to cater to the academic needs of the meritorious students.

Then, ‘What’s your responsibility towards your country?’

There’s no reply.

Is it not a betrayal on the part of those IITians, who are settling abroad while being educated at the cost of the Indian taxpayer? When so many people are ready even to sacrifice their own lives for the sake of their country, some are climbing up the ladder of the IIT to reach heaven. Is it appropriate? The other day, when Bharat came into my room, our conversation went on:

‘Daddy, I’ve been selected for the Microsoft yesterday in the campus selections. They arrange for visa and every thing. The salary is 120 K. Life would be extremely comfortable...they’ll provide an a.c. apartment, a.c. car and good perks. My dream has come true. I’m boarding my flight on the sixth of this month. Bye dad...’

‘Bharat, how much salary would you be offered if you choose to work in some company in this country?’

‘At the most, a paltry twenty four lakh,’ he replied.

‘That amounts to two lakh a month. Isn’t that sufficient? Why are you mad about making money? What about this country? Bharat; what’s going to happen to this country if every one is going to leave this country like you? I asked him.

Dad, that’s all a rubbish talk. I told you already, be a global man.’

Bharat left the room without expecting a reply from me. Then I looked through the window...it was raining heavily...raining heavily in and out resembling cyclone. But one thing was clear. What was required was a long-term treatment to Bharath.

IV

‘Daddy, shall we start?’ said Bharath.

Madhav was startled. Bharat was loading the luggage in the car. It continued to rain. Madhav had come to the garage having inserted the diaries into the bag.

‘Sit in the rear seat, dad.’

Both of them sat in the car. The luggage was in the front seat. Suddenly, there was a roaring thunder. The car started. The road was most bereft of vehicles. It’s eleven o’clock in the night. The car reached the Inter-State 27.

‘We’re going to be at the Dulles Airport in about forty minutes,’ so saying Bharath switched on the light inside the car handing me over a piece of paper to read. Madhav started to read the paper. It continued to rain.

‘The rift between us started when you had asked me to address you ‘nana’, while I liked to address you ‘dad’.

‘You’re interested in leading life meaningfully and responsibly. I’ve been interested in leading a life irresponsibly, and to make money. I’ve been observing for eight years, ever since I reached the States, the minute details of the conditions of the life of the Indians and others living in the States and the socio-economic and political conditions of India. Every Indian living here migrated in search of wealth. Everyone is looking for the dollars. Everyone’s aim’s to make maximum wealth in minimum time. Every one lives in is own world comprising himself, his wife, children and his bank balance. They find a little time, they relax and enjoy. A few form cultural trusts, collect donations, appropriate it, and enjoy rubbing shoulders with the fake babas and film personalities and so on. A big farce. A dubious life. At times they visit their old parents home with small gifts. A big self-deception...cheating and so on.

‘There’s what is known as a sense of possession. However great it might be, be it one’s good-looking wife or a precious object, when one possesses what one desires, one loses interest in it...starts detesting it. I am trying to understand life in this light. Once, I used to think of returning to India to do something purposeful over there. But what’s left over there now, dad?

‘Everywhere, there’s an abuse of freedom, liberty, anarchy and a break down of value system. The ones who became deliberate defaulters of the bank loans in huge sums end up becoming ministers in the government. No one questions. When the common man who deposited his savings in the banks commits suicide, no politician, not even the naxalites find fault with the defaulter. There’s no sign of action when Mr Gurudas Dasgupta came out right in the Parliament with evidence to a scam of three hundred crores; there’s no action against the culprits. Those staying in the forests claiming to struggle for the liberation of the oppressed massacre the tribals. The ones who became willing defaulters include two DGPs. An arrogant film hero kills the sleeping beggars driving over them on the footpath, and is seen on the screen dancing again, uncaught. The liquor mafia in Andhra Pradesh runs, hundreds of engineering colleges, which are more than all the engineering colleges put together in the US. There are the pseudo writers and intellectuals, who send their children to the US, and speak against the globalisation. The Lashkar-e-Toiba can easily access themselves into the airport. The fundamentalist heads of a religion issue a fatwa against admitting one’s children in those schools where Vandemataram is recited. There are messages in the films encouraging the teenagers to elope. The youth is buried in the pornographic messages of the SMSs. The entire capital is orphaned offering the tracts of the land to the leaders of the mafia.

‘What’s all this? What’s happening...where’s the society heading? It’s being decaying many ways. Dad, I’ve been following various speeches you made on the platforms during these ten days. But...this society, which’s like a bicycle that has lost its chain, the seat, the wheel, the handle, the light, the pedal, the bell...everything’s lost. The system’s irreparable.

‘The entire establishment needs to be overhauled. What’s left to be done by the people like us in this society full of insecurity? Is it possible to repair it? You are not just my father, my teacher too. Dad, everything is hazy.’
Yours,
Bharath.

The intensity of the rain increased. Having completed reading the letter, Madhav thrust the letter into his pocket. The car entered the parking slot of the Dulles Air Port.

V

The checking at the Air Port had been completed. When the boarding pass was given, Madhav started to address his son before the farewell. ‘Bharat, certain diseases are cured by the short-term treatments. It’s inevitable that the present disease requires long-term treatment. Let this letter be with you. There’s an answer in your own letter. Search for it. Explore’, so saying Madhav started to walk. Bharat then felt the intensity of the rain when he looked at his father who was leaving.

He realized for the first time the rain could be so dreadful. When his father had left, Bharat opened the envelope containing his letter addressed to his father trying to search for an answer. He read the letter again and again several times...he could find an answer. ‘The system is irreparable.’ He felt that the entire society needed to be overhauled. The letters in the letter were crystal clear meaningfully. It was still raining...went on raining endlessly... both in and out...

Translated from the original in Telugu by Dr. K. Purushotham, Asst. Professor in English, Kakatiya University, Warangal.