Sunday Stories

Saw Lage Raho Munnabhai last weekend… My roomies resorted to a tactfully conjured concoction of bribery, blackmail and sheer muscle force to make me wake up on time for the 11.30 am show, the fact that it was a Sunday morning not to be missed in the fine print. Finally yielding to sustained pressure from multiple dimensions, I agreed to comply, provided they didn’t mind taking me along, without a bath. On my part, I offered to spray a copious amount of deo and perfume upon my bodily self. Thus the deal was struck and we set out on our flight to fantasy.
Not a brilliant movie in terms of technique, but a pleasant watch and of course with lots of take-home wisdom.
Sometime back, somewhere near the latest blast in Mumbai, I left a comment in one of the blogs I read on and off. The write-up was on the spirit of Mumbai which rises above the embers of violence, everytime and on the commendable job of the NGOs in a moment of crisis. It was a fairly good post which spurred me into thought. All that brouhaha about the spirit of humanity is fine with me, but why in the first place should the threat spring up from within? What makes a man kill so many innocents? Personal vendetta garishly mixed up with ideological megalomania could create an explosion that reverberates far beyond its times. The collective memory of the masses is phenomenally short lived and is perhaps what we dub as “the spirit” of the human race.
Life goes on. Because no one cares, as long as it doesn’t happen to them. And if it happens to them, they would go and perpetrate it to some one else. And thus the vicious circle sustains. No one bothers to find the starting point of this maddening race and no one wants to end it where it started. What makes a man who is capable of immense love, harbor lethal hate? Why don’t any of the world bodies spend sufficient time and money on studies into a terrorist’s psyche?

Well, the comment I left on that post, was somewhat on these lines. I ve always belived Gandhiji to be a myth. Someone glorified beyond reality by his admirers. Or someone not so relevant to the current state of affairs. Though I have deep respect for the “myth” of Gandhiji, the lurking doubt in the corner of my mind never vanished.
Lage Raho Munnabhai, is a simple story, spluttered with stray incidents from real life. The solutions provided weren’t very realistic, nor did they reach deep within. But there were essayed in such a manner, that they created little ripples which had the ability not only to reach far and wide, but also permeate beyond the petty superficial prejudices. In the heart of the plot, lies the spirit of the Mahatma, seen by the hero as a hallucination. The capacity to forgive, the strength to tell the truth, the patience required to wait for it to bear fruit, the stamina to take the straight route are simple lessons that when learnt in spirit and practiced in essence could solve many a burning issue. Above all having a constant view of the bigger picture, would show how small and insignificant our problems, hopes and dreams are, and yet how potentially constructive or destructive they could be.

Though all this sounds incredibly unrealistic and impractical, if when imbibed in the little things we do everyday, life tends to be a lot easier, for us and for the world.

I am still not able to dispel the doubt I have about Gandhi, the man, but the movie did clear a little bit of the haze that clouded Gandhi, the philosophy.

That evening, we went strolling in the lovely Bangalore dusk, and stopped by a roadside shop to have some snacks. An old man, probably in his seventies, picked up a conversation with one of us. The others were in a mixture of suspicion, mild amusement, and complete detachment. The “uncle” ended up inviting us for tea with “aunty” the following weekend, and even pointed out his house to us. The old man looked dignified, spoke flawless Urdu (according to S.N) and his house was a tastefully done brick and plaster upper class residence, all of two storeys.
We bid a polite goodbye, promising to keep up the appointment. As we were returning to our home, the myriad of emotions were given voice. The doubts, appreciation, and dispassionate musings were raised.
S.N, the lady who had engaged in the conversation recounted above, said “ He seems to be a nice man, even reminds me of my grandpa, and it is so rare in these days that someone invites a stranger to their house for tea. But still, we can trust no one”. Letting out a feeble sigh, she continued “Too bad we live in such times”.
And all the chatter died a natural death.