Out of the Woods Yet

It was late-afternoon when I saw the overhead hoarding tell me the distance to Madikeri. It was another 80 Kms from Mysore. I had grossly miscalculated the driving times. My plans were stymied by the crawling traffic along sections of the Bangalore-Mysore highway. It was another crawl to Kushalnagar where we stopped for tea. Now all that remained was the climb through the ghats. The earliest I could hope to reach was seven in the evening, even if the traffic held up for rest of the way.

You could liken marriage to a lot of things - Rohit says it is a bit like running a project - Everybody else seems to be doing a better job of it than you. You often fantasize about life without it. And when one ends, you feel insecure and hounded till you get into the next one.

I would not know about the last part. Anjali and I had stayed married seven years. Some people stay married because they think it is worth preserving, worth hanging in there, for the children or for the parents. Others divorce because they think nothing in this world justifies keeping up this charade. We kept up the charade because nothing in our world justified breaking the illusion. We weren’t even the ideal candidates, the types that lead stress-filled lives flitting across continents and time-zones, and sexless marriages.

We were bored with life and therefore bored with each other. We were also smart enough to figure it was not the other way around. So we didn’t even blame or hate the other. By extension, we had forgotten what it was to be animated, to be engaged, to care. Our marriage reminded me of the old days of a cricket test match petering out to a pointless draw on the fifth day. You still had to play out the mandatory overs.

I worked for a large IT company in Electronic City. One evening, as I was packing for the day, my eyes set on an intriguing post in the electronic bulletin board, “Wet weekends at Hermann’s Palace”. It seemed to be a nice open farmland at Madikeri, in Coorg. The post carried the address and a map as well. I took a printout and called them during my long drive back. Anjali and I rarely disagreed on anything so in two weeks, we were on our way to “Hermann’s Palace” on a wintry afternoon in December.

As we crossed Kushalnagar, the slanting rays of the evening sun cast long shadows across the road. Stick-thin farm workers were on their way home after their days work carrying firewood tied around with strips of tree bark. Dark skinny children trooped behind them, the older ones carrying traces of their own hard day’s work while the very young scampered behind in their insouciance.

Was that why some people had more children – that it made economic sense to have all these hands around? Was that why Anjali and I never wanted children – just so we could afford a larger home loan. If you have a good pension plan, is there any reason to have children at all? Can I answer that without having children of my own? Is curiousity enough reason to have a child?

Clouds started to swirl around the vehicle in the dying light. Strands of mist bunched together to form streaks of vapour. In the distance, all I could see was a smoky screen of grey. Vehicles were swallowed into the wall of mist leaving no trace behind. We were crawling in first gear up the hill, inexorably sucked into the dense miasma. Small droplets began to streak down my windshield cutting lanes in the fine coating of dust. A gigantic truck passed dangerously close, in a clouded vision of yellow lights and a Dopplerian whoosh. It was near thing. Anjali was quivering. I ran my hands over her sleeveless arms to settle her, smiling about how incredibly sexy I used to find them. The tiny moles were still there, and the mark of the vaccination, the first scar of all our lives. She smiled too. What part of me did she find sexy? Did she ever tell me?

I was very cautious now as the cloud cover got denser. At zero, it made no difference to the visibility but the clouds turned a more shimmering white. A small mistake now, an oncoming vehicle could spell disaster. I could just about make the markings on the road below and stayed to their left. After about twenty minutes of driving, the haze slowly receded. The last shafts of glorious sunshine broke through the cover and lit the road and the moutains in yellow streaks. We had made it across simply by inching along and taking no risks. I was really pleased with myself. Lessers drivers had literally fallen by the wayside. We passed numerous families waiting by the road side eating their picnic sandwiches seated on the milestones while their vehicles stood blinking, impaled into the boundary wall that marked off the road from the valley.

It was past nine when I finally made the last turn from Madikeri police station and towards Galibeedu village where, “2 Kms after the post-office and immediately after Holy Infant Flour Mill”, I found the green gates to Hermann’s Palace. As I parked the vehicle past the gates, the lights went off. We stepped out into the starriest night I had ever seen in my life. Over ten thousand stars and planets twinkled in the sky, forming fantastic shapes and patterns that have fascinated people for millenia. Three men walked swiftly across. One of them – wiry and taut – was a firang. He held out his hand in a friendly handshake. A thick Bavarian accent (I did not know at that time) revealed his Germanic origins. We were too tired to ask any questions and retired into the mud-brick cottage that he led us too. A bright fire greeted us inside, lighting up the split level cottage with its flickering flames. Vasu, the caretaker brought in dinner. We ate quickly, speculating what a European was doing in the middle of India’s coffee country surrounded by miles of plantation and rainforests. Soon we fell asleep, the long journey finally exacting absolute surrender from its spent victims.

It was a wonderfully lazy three days. Vasu and his family served hot meals, which we ate in the porch in the day and under the stars in the night. The days were spent taking long walks through the plantation through the tea plants and coffee bushes. On the last day, after breakfast, we drove out to the Tibetan monastery nearby. It was cold and nice to have ourselves warmed by the occassional beam of light filtering through the trees by the roadside. We reached the monastery just when the morning prayer was underway. Monks in orderly lines were chanting in perfect unison. Little boys, like miniature Buddhas, sprinted across the courtyard in splashes of yellow. We went in respectfully, to the magnificient temple where three huge statues of the Buddha stood in perfect tranquility. Anjali wanted to try some Momos so we walked up to the canteen.

It struck me how utterly defeated they all looked as they went around doing their own business surrounded by a pathetic replica of the majestic mountains they had been exiled from. How many years before this community inter-mingled into oblivion with the neighbouring villages? This was defeat of the worst sort. The one that degrades, dehumanises before it destroys. Even America fears an economy that has been growing 15% for 15 years. All these people had was their shawls and hymn-books.

It was late evening when we returned. Hermann invited us for drinks outside his cottage. It was a long time since I had a drink without having to either drive or to clean up afterwards. Hermann had a landscaping business in Hamburg that he sold. He washed ashore in India as a late-blooming flower-child before ending up a gardener in Auroville. In time, he set out on his own with this 22-acre organic farm in Coorg growing coffee, cardomom, pepper and rice. We threw back a couple of drinks each to the accompaniment of Vasu’s fiery chilli fritters.

“I too was rushing around trying to prove a point. It impressed no one and left me a wreck. Someday you will all realise the futility of running around. Someday even you will want to get off, settle down”, he said.

“What about the futility of settling down? What is the cure for that”, I asked.

“There is no futility in settling down. This is the end point – the point where it all ends. After this there is just peace.”

“It seems no different from death”, quipped Anjali. I laughed loud. She could be brutal in an innocuous remark.

“No, No”, said Hermann, smiling in defeat. “What I am saying is that, as you all try to become more Western, you are taking the worst of that culture. The restlessness, the manic energy and constant need for stimulation. You have lost the ability to still your senses, to let them hibernate for a while.”

I looked on impressed by this man who had seen the light. Anjali still had that dubious look she carries when she is not convinced. It is this transparency that I will love to my grave. You could read her like a book.

“But why is this soporific life better than life of the hyperkinetic”, she asked.

Hermann sighed. “You have no idea how much hard work this takes. This is a completely organic farm with no chemicals sprayed. The pesticides are made from bio-ingredients. What we take from nature, we return with gratitude. The modern ethic grabs resources from the planet, sucks it dry and leaves it a wasteland that will lie fallow for years”, he said.

“Hmmm, Lets examine your point. You are just three of you here and you occupy 22 acres of land. You cultivate organic produce that only a few rich people in the city can afford. The only way they can afford that is to earn money by being hyperkinetic and resource heavy. So where do you get off, eh?”

“This is not correct. I cannot tell others how to live. I can only choose how I can live”, he slurred.

“True. But your choice won’t keep you alive without the support of those whom you despise”.

“No!”, he shouted emphatically. “I am trying to make a difference. Even if one of us attempts to make a difference, it is worth it. Why is that so difficult for everyone to understand?”

“You owe no explanations. But the world too owes you no empathy”, Anjali said, calm as ever.

He stood up, visibly worked-up, “One day you will realise that each one of us has responsibilities. Duties that we cannot shrug off. Respect for the planet is one of them.”

Anjali dismissed him, “Respect for your fellow human-beings is another. You need to get off your moral high-horse to do that”.
He continued shouting, slurring his words and desperately seeking our admiration and concurrence with his choice. I would have given it lightly. Anjali was unforgiving and we walked away. We left him alone with his fritters and his scotch in the darkness. This was no monarch watching over his realm but an outcast peering through the bushes.

Neither escape nor exile looks pretty. It is best to stand your ground and fight. We drove back in the morning. The road was still foggy and treacherous. But when you have been over it once, it is not so difficult.