Fiction, Subramani Mani
New York has its Central Park and New Delhi its Buddha Jayanti Park. Not every city has its green canopy, acting as its lungs. A city yearns for such green spaces while painting its ethos on its historical and cultural canvas, the soul of any city. The city’s street performers and plaza musicians sometimes showcase their talents there and make the park come alive. They all leave their footprints and thumbprints as memory tracks in the sands of time like fossils within rocks.
I had a memorable encounter with a street performer a couple of decades ago in New York’s Central Park. It didn’t seem funny on the first take but I quickly came around to appreciating the performer’s talents. Like Zampano in Fellini’s La Strada he was setting up shop to perform some timeless tricks. These performers gather people by slowly building up suspense and expectation. The hope is that by arousing their curiosity they would be motivated and persuaded to wait patiently for the start of the show. But a few among the gathered folks usually become restless and start walking away. The performer then naturally takes aim at them giving the gathered crowd a good laugh at the expense of the deserters. It also serves as a not-so-gentle warning to the people who had shown up to just stay put. A family of four, the parents and their two grownup children, a son and a daughter, were trying to make a move. The performer’s voice rose above the street din—Look at that nice thriving family over there. I am sure they are from the Indian subcontinent—India, Pakistan, Bangladesh or Sri Lanka. The parents come here because there isn’t much food over there for everyone. They come into this country, eat all they want, grow sideways, and fatten themselves but they can never grow taller. However, if you observe closely, the children will always be taller than their parents because they were born here and food is aplenty in our country. Everyone roared with laughter at the expense of the family. Suddenly, an old man with a characteristic gait then started walking away. The performer immediately responded—See that duckwalk on that far side. Saying this he started imitating the old hapless man; another loud bout of laughter.
By this time, I was becoming a little restless. It could take many more minutes for the performance to start. And I was in a hurry. I headed to the periphery taking care to exit as quietly as possible knowing very well I would be targeted, telling myself to take it easy, and not turn back. Look at that guy’s funny head, and he continued when I instinctively turned towards him—See the helipad? I am sure a helicopter recently landed on his head and took off suddenly, creating the nice and shiny landing pad and the long runway bisecting his head. Owning such a funny head he could become a circus clown or even a street performer. Fixing his gaze firmly on my face he continued—You won’t be as good as me; go back to your city and try your luck performing in a park there my dear friend. A big roar of laughter and applause followed and I saw more people getting attracted to the show. I slowly walked away, grudgingly admiring the street performer’s sense of humor, talent, wit, and crowd management skills. When I think back to that day, I always wish the episode had happened in my city, where I grew up. These performers enrich the life of a city in various ways.
Trivandrum has its Museum and Kanakakunnu palace on the two adjacent hills serving as the left and right lungs of the city. Kanakakunnu loosely translates to Golden Hill but I prefer the shortened Hill. Both the Museum and the Hill are islands of preserved biodiversity with hundreds of giant centuries-old trees standing firmly rooted amidst various flowering plants and shrubbery. Kingfishers, sparrows, warblers, eagles, snowy egrets, and butterflies add color and charm to the place.
These days whenever I happen to be in Trivandrum I go for a jog and walk in the Hill and the Museum. First, early in the morning, I jog to the Hill and complete a couple of rounds there. At that time the Hill is mostly filled with people engaged in games and wellness activities—badminton, yoga, walking, jogging, and various types of freehand exercises.
In the Museum, also, I saw many walkers and joggers. I also found some young people exercising with yoga mats spread out underneath. But what caught my attention the most was the stunning biodiversity of the place and its added charm. I had no hesitation in thinking that of all the urban green spaces the Museum was the chosen one with its wide variety of tropical green life.
During late afternoon and evening, the sociology and demographics of the twin green sanctuaries underwent a dramatic transformation. All the nooks, perches, benches, and corners of these spaces were populated by amorous young lovebirds engaged in meandering conversations and other expressions of love. In the Hill there were mostly these couplets; singletons were rare, and families with children were totally absent. It seemed the Museum had some inadvertent zoning schema—some spaces with a preponderance of young couples and others catering to older citizens and families with kids. But one feature was clearly palpable, especially so for a person getting to explore and know his hometown after being away for decades at a stretch. I could not see any same-gender couples in love, none at all.
In democratic societies there are geographically delimited constituencies and the constituents, that is, people living in that demarcated area above a certain age elect their representative for office. The elected officials typically stick to the same constituency but sometimes may move around and change constituencies. Likewise, some individuals prefer to occupy the same seats in performance venues and restaurants. The museum lovebirds too had their strange preferences—many of them picked the same perches but a few liked to move around. When I was a lovebird, an unrequited one as it turned out for that matter later, I preferred to hang out in one or two locations in the Museum.
While growing up, I remember reading a travelogue written by an American journalist after her maiden visit to Kerala and Trivandrum. The article concluded with these lines—The charming land of Kerala is populated with beautiful young men and women. They wear bright clothes and radiate a joyous outlook. I saw many groups of adolescent girls and women giggling and talking loudly amongst themselves walk by. I also witnessed young men engrossed in political chat. Never even once did I encounter, during my travels, an amorous couple in the open, and that seemed like a blot on the otherwise beautiful, enchanting, and colorful spicy coast of Kerala.
Decades ago, to be more precise, more than forty years earlier, I was dating a nursing school student. I had heard that carbon dating was much more common in the conservative environs of Trivandrum in those days. You could only think of two public places to hang out—the Shangumugham beach and the Museum. We felt that the beach was too open and picked the Museum as our place to chat. Biodiversity has many uses; trees provide shade and cover to lovebirds also.
We had been probably chatting for a couple of hours, not even holding hands or indulging in anything that could be construed as amorous activities, when a cop suddenly appeared out of nowhere and asked us to move out of the canopy shade. There used to be a lot of moral policing in those days, to what avail I do not know. I also didn’t see any other dating couples in the vicinity.
A lot had changed over the last four decades, but some things remained the same. I was happy to note that the biodiversity and greenery in the Museum and Hill was well-preserved. Based on my recollection I would venture that the biodiversity has even improved. The birds are all still there, singing and dancing, feeding, cavorting, and going about their lives as only avians can.
The cellphone and social media revolutions had also done their part in engineering and accelerating societal changes by turning upside down established norms of social interactions and behaviors. Meets, greets, and beyond were easily enabled. In earlier times even placing calls over landlines was difficult and phone penetration was quite low. Change was everywhere—the hawkers were still there; they had not become extinct. There was a new breed of food delivery folks—a Swiggy delivery person stopped me and asked, where exactly should I deliver this? He was carrying a bag of popcorn; the delivery bill said, Rs.105, and Napier Museum. I asked him to go around the Napier building to locate the recipient. I was left wondering—in this day and age, you could be sitting with your love interest on a park bench and have popcorn, cone ice cream, snacks, coffee, or even a full meal delivered right there; even a bouquet of flowers.
One evening, I was at the front gate of the Hill a little early. The entrance gates are left ajar and held in place by chain links to allow pedestrians but not vehicles through. I saw some young pairs going through the gate destined for their blissful perches for conversation and more. I also saw many young men and women near the gate, mobile in hand, calling and texting their mates frantically to join them. I passed through the gate to continue my walk. Stealing a glance towards the young couple sitting on a nearby bench, a thought suddenly crossed my mind—A few stags and single deer would be left without their partners showing up. Would any two of them just pair up on the fly?
I had a general sense that habitat is key to life, existence, health and well-being. Habitats channel the joys and sorrows of life, and their destruction, even a minimal disturbance, distortion or perturbation, can lead to disastrous consequences. I learned this in a strange way recently.
The International Film Festival of Kerala brought in many thousands of delegates to the city. One of the main venues for film screenings was the Hill which has a large open-air auditorium with a roof. To my surprise and dismay, when I went for my regular evening walk on the Hill, I found that most lovebirds were missing from the scene. I saw a few couples scattered here and there looking distressed. I realized that they were adversely affected by the invasion of their private spaces by the huge influx of IFFK delegates, mostly outsiders. The festival lasted for a week and during this time the egrets, kingfishers, and warblers were also hard to. sight.
Nila and I had dated intermittently, on and off once in a few weeks. We always met in the Museum complex under the care and cover of a giant tree, some days sitting on a bench, or on the patchy grass. We also found a perch on a stout tree branch that grew horizontally parallel to the ground forming a living bench in the process.
Nila would talk about the abuse she suffered from her father starting in fourth or fifth grade. It was painful to hear, she narrated these without any emotion, and while listening to her I noticed that her face went blank. There was no emotion, no trace of any pain, and it unnerved me. I hugged her in a consoling manner but her frame felt wooden, and her eyes dull and vacant with a gaze focused at a distance. It felt as though she was looking through me, using me as a pair of reading glasses or binoculars to make sense of the world around her, both near and afar. I sat beside her and listened, looking into her eyes but didn’t know what to tell to ease her pain. Nila had a sister two years younger, I had never seen her, but their father never touched her inappropriately. It all felt like a macabre puzzle, one with thorns that pierce your hands if you hold it.
I had romantic feelings for Nila but she remained aloof and detached. Sometimes she would lie on my lap with eyes closed saying nothing. It was obvious she liked to spend time with me, many hours, but it was also clear the relationship was not progressing in the direction I desired. I was looking for an early commitment, but was willing to give Nila sufficient time given her traumatic past.
Nila kept procrastinating, time first stretching to months and then years. There was warmth and some intimacy in the relationship which kept it afloat. After a while, it started to feel more and more like unrequited love. Nila would occasionally talk about pulling the curtain on the relationship and moving on. I would just sit there and listen to her silently when she was in that mode. But she never started dating anybody else.
Unrequited love, unlike a stalker’s obsessiveness, feels appreciated and not rejected. It has many shades of gray and can feel ambiguous at times. What keeps it going is not just the hope that given enough time it will flower and be reciprocated, but the immense power it somehow seems to exert on the loved one. As time goes by it becomes difficult to close the door on the relationship for the loved one. I thought that love, even when unrequited, somehow extends a powerful protective umbrella over the loved one making it harder to break free, though falling short of exerting any magical spell to nudge a commitment.
Four years into this asymmetrical relationship Nila suddenly and finally drew the curtain on it. Walking through the Hill and seeing the lovebirds on their perches, I sensed my jaw muscles tighten and my face lengthening. How many of these survived the four-year mark, I wondered. Later, strolling aimlessly through the Museum gardens amidst rows of benches on either side, my gaze fell on the face of a handsome young man sitting beside a pretty woman. Our gazes locked and I noticed his face turn pensive. For a brief moment I looked elsewhere, and when I turned my attention to him again his expression had become really sad. He had all along been continuously staring at my face. I felt as though he was trying to decipher and excavate my feelings.
I was reminded of my visit to the Rodin Museum and Sculpture Garden a few years ago. You could feel the deep pain underneath the sad expressions on the faces of many of the sculptures. I would tear up and when I turned my attention back, I felt that their agony had increased. The face of a young woman titled deserted appeared hauntingly sad, radiating pain all around the place.
The Sun was setting over the Museum skies. The long evening rays of the Sun passing through the green and yellow shrubbery acquired lime-lemon hues and illuminated the faces of people sitting on the rows of side benches. I was in the middle walking slowly, observing each one of them. All the faces were turned towards me, their eyes reflecting back the profound sadness they all seemed to notice in my face. I felt like I was walking through an interactive Rodin sculpture garden populated by figures and figurines which came to life by capturing the inner feelings of people passing by evident in their faces. The soft portrait of unrequited love painted by the setting Sun on the collated and spontaneously curated Museum canvas of people’s faces remains etched to this day as a sad memento and memorial of unfulfilled love and longing from the past—a vast inner mural of lost love.
I spent the next few days at a beach resort to recover and recalibrate my romantic feelings which I very well now know is easier said than done. I had heard folks say that the worst day at the beach would still be better than the best day at work. But I wasn’t sure how I would relate to the sand, sea and the Sun in the changed scenario. There is turbulence in the sea but the waves have a calming effect on the soul’s inner turmoil, I reasoned. I watched the Sun slowly dipping, submerging, and then totally disappearing into the sea. Amidst the vastness of the sea, sky, and the shore, the Sun seemed small and distant, but weighty and significant. The setting scene modified in various ways by dark and white clouds changed daily. It resembled the doomed dissolution of each relationship, clouded, colored, stretched, and muddled in a unique way; each ending painted in a different palate of sad bleeding colors. Relaxing on a cot with a rusting metal frame struggling to support a sagging discolored plastic webbing, and a fading and partially torn forest-green beach umbrella standing on the side as a mute witness, I observed the rouge Sun dip down into the sea surrounded by darkening clouds. For a brief moment, wedged in by the gathering clouds the reddish Sun took the shape of a feebly pulsating heart before beginning its descent into the sea. A disheveled old man was strumming a familiar sad tune on the guitar sitting on the sand all by himself surrounded by his meager belongings which surprisingly included a few old books. Creating a poignant lonely world of his own, and vocalizing in Hindi, he sang in a raspy wavering voice—Aansoo bhari hai yeh Jeevan ki rahen—this life’s trajectories are filled with tears; unshed sorrowful tears, I added, silently to myself. Fatigue and drowsiness soon set in while scenes of the lovebirds of Golden Hill slowly started wafting in.
Subramani trained as a physician in India and moved to the US to pursue a PhD in Artificial Intelligence. After teaching graduate students and medical students at Vanderbilt University and the University of New Mexico for more than a decade, he started writing, feeling the urge to share the memories of certain life experiences and perspectives which could not be done within the bounds of normal day-to-day interactions. He believes that honest story-telling can change us, and our world for the better. His stories have been published/forthcoming in The Charleston Anvil, Umbrella Factory Magazine, New English Review, Fairlight Shorts, and The Phoenix.
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