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Gangajal, Or One Day In The Life Of An Unknown Indian

Discussion in 'Snippets of Life (Non-Fiction)' started by ojaantrik, Jul 29, 2017.

  1. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    I went and joined the tail end of the serpentine queue leading up to the Speed Post counter at the post office. The queue was long and about to spill over to the pavement along with a generous supply of patience spilled out by the queuers themselves. I braced myself for an indefinite wait. Not that I wasn't mentally prepared. I had earphones plugged to my ears. And now that internet providers have turned over-generous towards Indian customers in their battle for market shares, I concentrated in peaceful boredom on my smart phone playing out the audio version of the Economist, listening to the pros and cons of Germany's trade surplus, Donald Trump's latest spell of insanity, Cornelis' prize-winning vegetables in Ngabang, Mr. Hapilon's shelter in Marawi and so on and so forth.

    Peace, however, was disturbed unexpectedly. Luckily so as well, since I could have fallen asleep otherwise, which, in case you are unaware, is unsafe if you are standing at the end of a queue. Violence had arrived in the shape of a youngish looking tough guy with fire spewing eyes. He was snarling at me I observed, but strangely enough I couldn't hear a word he said. I wondered for a split second if I was in the midst of a surrealistic dream. You know, the sort of dream sequences that great film makers, such as Fellini or Bergman weave into their movies for the sole purpose of making you feel insecure about your intelligence.

    I stared at him open mouthed till I realised that the earphones had turned me deaf to happenings two feet away even as I was hearing about events occurring at the other end of the Antarctic both loudly and clearly. I removed my hearing hurdles therefore and switched my attention to the young chap's grievances.

    "You have taken up my place," he accused.

    Somewhat surprised, I looked behind me and found that I was still the solitary person guarding the rear of the queue. Then I looked back at him.

    "But I am at the end of the queue! How could I have possibly usurped you?"

    "You have," he replied haughtily. "I was the last person in the queue and now you have taken up my place."

    He sounded as though he was trying to establish a territorial right and not the last position in the merit list. Being peace loving, I moved back a few inches to accommodate him. He was less peaceful though and warned me not to disturb the order. "You are behind me," he hissed. "Remember this." Saying so, he disappeared wherever he had appeared from. I continued to guard the rear, quickly closing up the few inches gap I had created for his use. But I was uncomfortably conscious that the rear that I appeared to be guarding was not exactly the rear that I was meant to guard. Which rear was invisible at the moment, but could pay surprise visits whenever it wished.

    I plugged back my earphones and went to the smart phone. A woman with a perfect British accent was chanting about sex workers in Colombia. I decided to switch gear and shifted over to YouTube to listen to the Schubert Serenade as I watched the faces that surrounded me.

    One in particular, caught my attention. He sported a sparsely vegetated, large round head and rushed around a matching round table, clockwise at times and anti-clockwise at others. A large stack of papers lay on the table as he took short breaks to work feverishly on them. A grumbling crowd chased him, some clockwise and the rest anti-clockwise. I wondered what the round chap was doing for his followers, but he did seem to be much in demand. It occurred to me that I had never been sought after this way, not without a tinge of jealousy.

    Schubert continued to entertain me in the meantime.

    And then I noticed posters on the walls. One said that you needed to link your postal savings bank account to your Aadhaar number, or else unknown things could happen to you. I happily recalled that I possessed no such account. Yet another said that it was the speed post service that was keeping the country together, but that it wouldn't remain open after 3 PM. The news was disconcerting, I mean the announcement that the country was getting ready to fall apart after 3 PM.

    Schubert took leave as this new piece of intelligence invaded my mind. Worried as always, I quickly checked my watch. It was ten past one. Life has its pleasant surprises too I thought. I still had close to two hours left on earth. I was not intelligent enough to ask whether there was any point in sending a speed post parcel if the country ceased to exist after 3 PM. However, peace returned along with Schubert. I live in a fool's paradise I suppose.

    When someone behind me patted my shoulder. I looked around in alarm. He was a shortish chap, once again pretty young, but not snarling. Obligingly, I removed my earphones. Schubert began to vibrate inside my trouser pocket in agony. And the man who didn't snarl, actually smiled at me. I smiled back too with an amiable "Ah! How are you today!" expression, but had no idea who he might be. He responded audibly. "I am behind you," he observed. There was much truth in his assertion. Before I could agree with him though, he too disappeared with an "I will be back here later" message. This undoubtedly meant that should anyone else come and stand behind me, I was in charge of informing him that even though he was standing behind me, he was under an illusion. There was an invisible another person who was standing between him and me.

    I don't think I had ever found myself sandwiched between two persons ever before in my life, both of whom were invisible. It was a case of disappearing front and behind in Perry Mason language. The situation was unenviable. I went back to Schubert, however, and continued to watch the visible waves of perspiring humanity inside the post office. There were wooden benches where people were dozing. I had no idea why you needed to walk over all the way to the post office to enjoy your siesta. Then, suddenly, I thought that I vaguely recognized one of them. I stared at him trying to recall where I had seen him in the recent past. The man returned my gaze and smiled. The smile was unmistakably familiar. Who could it be?

    The man was helpful. "I am behind you," he reminded me. The man behind me, even though not visible behind me, was not exactly invisible either. He was riding a bench, under a rickety fan, while I, his trusted lieutenant in the infantry, was holding the fort at the end of the queue.

    I looked back at the winding queue in front of me and asked myself if I should go and sit next to him and tell him that I agreed with him wholeheartedly. "Yes, you are behind me," I felt tempted to whisper into his ears. But I was not sure if that was a wise move. The first invisible man who had warned me that I was behind him might appear soon and then a commotion could arise about behinds. I mean, I didn't wish to lose track of the unique identity of derrièrs and even wondered if identity cards ought to be issued for the purpose.

    In the meantime, the queue moved forward and I submerged once again into the Schubert serenade. It was around 2.15 PM when I found myself to be the third person from the counter, not counting the invisible man behind whom I stood. He materialized though, snarling once again, by the time I had moved up to the second position and taken out the earphones, ready to confabulate with the girl at the counter.

    "You are behind me," he snarled. As with the other man, I had no recollection of his face, but I let him squeeze in without a murmur. I am a peaceful person. I think I have already said that.

    Soon, he faced the girl on the other side of the counter. She weighed his package and told him that the charge was Rs. 53. He produced Rs. 60 from his pocket, which the girl refused to accept.

    "Sorry, no change available," said the girl.

    "But where do I get three rupees from," said Snarlie, somewhat unsnarling.

    "Go out and get the change from shops outside," said the girl.

    "There are no shops outside," Snarlie had rapidly melted and was close to whimpering now.

    The invisible man behind me had now turned visible behind me and he began to share his opinion as well. "Don't delay us, come tomorrow with the change," he even suggested helpfully.

    Snarlie was back to snarling and refused to budge. The girl too remained un-budged. And I was caught between the now visible but earlier invisible characters in front of me and behind me. I looked at my watch. It was half past two. I was getting fidgety myself. But then divine help intervened. Like oil in Arabia, I struck coins inside my trouser pocket. In my left pocket to be precise. With an exclamation of hallelujah, I extracted them from the dark interior of the pocket, and offered three rupees worth of coins to Snarlie in broad daylight. Plenty of witnesses. After this, the matter was settled in a jiffy. Snarly grunted in appreciation and disappeared as was his wont.

    This brought me face to face with the girl at the counter. Except that it didn't. When I turned my face from the disappearing man towards the counter, I found much to my horror that the girl too had disappeared. The day was reserved for vanishing people. H.G. Wells might have loved it. I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes to three and no pretty girl behind the counter. I stood there dumbfounded and looked at the no longer invisible man behind me. He was equally alarmed as the seconds ticked away. Schubert too was angrily protesting inside my pocket. The right pocket, for if you remember, the left pocket was where coins tinkled.

    I turned around and looked everywhere. No girl alas who resembled the one I was missing. I noticed instead a kiosk that said "Stamps" in bold red letters. I had no idea that people bought stamps anymore these days, but there was a woman sitting inside and I hoped against hope that she was the missing girl. I peered as closely as I could only to discover that this wasn't the case. She was a middle aged woman, who was not selling stamps. It was not clear if she was selling anything at all. The mystery deepened.

    Then, to my utter surprise, I saw a type-written notice on the glass window of the kiosk right under where it said "Stamps".

    "Gangajal," the notice announced. It came in two sizes, 15 litres and 25 litres. Can't recall the prices, somewhere between Rs. 10 and Rs. 30. My eyes were glued to the post for a while. Not Bisleri mind you, but Gangajal! To wash away all your sins and ensure a safe passage to the other world. A postal route to Heaven. Probably Speed Post. Close by the ballet surrounding the round table was still in progress. A huffing and puffing hoard of humanity running behind the huffing and puffing round man in search of mortal bliss, when a pretty inexpensive route to immortality lay only a few feet away. Gangajal! No queue in front of it. No buyers. How sad.

    I began to pray. Sweet God, I will offer you a 15 litre pack of Gangajal to make the girl reappear.

    The prayer was answered instantaneously. The girl walked out of the adjacent room from behind a curtain that had last been washed around the time of the Sepoy Mutiny, followed by two over-zealous colleagues. "What medicine did you consume?" one of them queried. She whispered a reply. The man reacted, "That's the last tablet you should have tried. It makes you feel sleepy."

    Absolutely so,I thought to myself. Especially so when super-potent Gangajal was so easily available. Postal employees might even be getting it for a discount.

    I didn't have to wait much longer. My Gangajal prayer had worked wonders. The girl handed over the receipt to me with somewhat somnambulently and I rushed towards the Gangajal kiosk to stick to the promise I had made to God, only to discover that the lady in charge of Gangajal had vanished herself! The kiosk stood in darkness, its door locked.
     
    Last edited: Jul 29, 2017
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  2. PushpavalliSrinivasan

    PushpavalliSrinivasan IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear Mr Ojaantrik,
    OMG! What bad luck! You didn't get the Gangajal that you have pledged to buy! Now my bad luck that my IPad is showing low battery and charge now!
    Will come later again,
    PS
     
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  3. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Thank you PS. I am not sure if I made it where I intended to reach. But if I keep trying, I might well land there. I don't think anyone has to tell me. I will know myself when I am there. I need to convince myself. There is a typo I noticed towards the end. Sorry about it. The edit option has disappeared.

    oj
     
  4. Srama

    Srama Finest Post Winner

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    Dear Oj-da,

    What a delightful read this made! All this from your standing in a line? Only you can spin a tale so beautifully from such a mundane activity. But then having just returned from India, I could only nod in agreement as I too had stood in that same very line albeit in a different post office and still remember the frustration. Your post brought me a different perspective.

    You know talking of the invisible visible beings ahead and behind of you, I remembered some of the cartoons that became very popular with long lines...you know people leaving their chappal in their place and coming back after an hour, a pretty woman with a long leash letting her dog stand in for her while she sits under the shade of a tree with a book. Wish I could fish them out on the net!!

    You know
    , the little rebel in me would have said "If you stand behind me, you will still have your place!" but knowing that he was a snarly, I would have perhaps spoken to myself instead of out loud.

    Now your Gangajal wish has left me curious....which God wanted Gangajal and why? Pray tell me? Aren't they all already in that place called heaven where we are making a beeline to reach gangajal or not or was that God in his infinite wisdom was trying to tell you "Look boy! Just thinking of offering Gangajal brought you to the promised land of 'what it is to get your work done the first time you stand in line'. You know the joy now."

    I was all smiles as I read through this. Wonderful Oj-da!
     
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  5. SCSusila

    SCSusila Gold IL'ite

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    This was such a delightful article about a really frustrating experience at the postoffice . They say everything becomes a happy memorable experience if seen with humour . So many times , we have such irritating experiences in public offices with grouchy customers , lathargic staff in dont-care attitude , but the way you have narrated the happenings, it all seems so hilarious and almost worth experiencing . But alas , we cant write like you .
    " sandwiched between invisible people "
    " country getting ready to fall apart after 3 pm"
    " sparsely vegetated round head "
    " like oil in arabia ...."
    Absolutely loved the way your words bring alive the situations .
    It is ok if you couldnot buy the gangajal . God will be pleased with this offering .
    Regards .
     
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  6. shyamala1234

    shyamala1234 Platinum IL'ite

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    Dear Oj sir,
    The thought of Gangajal was enough. Your work got done.
    We also stood with you in line observing quirks of human nature. Bigger quirks were seen last year during demonitisation days in banks.....waiting for the cash to arrive....to draw our own money!
    Syamala
     
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  7. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear Srama,

    Thank you for your wonderful fb. I am happy that you enjoyed it.

    To tell you frankly, it took me a while to compose this and I went through several versions before I put it up. Unfortunately though, I noticed a few avoidable typos after the edit option disappeared.

    Worse, I realised, as I always do, that I had missed the target. The target itself was only vaguely defined in my mind and I kept on trying to introduce necessary changes till I succeeded getting there, or so I thought. I put it up on my website and sent it over to a friend who enjoyed it. However, technology stood in my way. It turned into an enemy. I was editing it on my smartphone app today and committed some sort of a syncing error. The result was that all the revisions I had introduced disappeared from the phone and I was back to square one.

    Of course, I did work once more on the debris and tried to reproduce what I had come up with last evening. But I think the flow was better than what I notice now. I am trying to change my style towards that of a blogger I think. Probably the Gods don't wish me to improve.

    In response to your question, I am not sure which God had to be appeased with Gangajal. In fact, I asked the same question. What took me by total surprise was that the post offices sell Gangajal these days. Of course, it is possible that they always did and I was the ignorant one. On the one hand, we are pursuing modern technology at supersonic speed. On the other, we are selling Gangajal from post offices. If you needed Gangajal for performing a religious rite, I thought the priests brought it with them. Who buys Gangajal from the post offices? The priests?

    Best wishes.

    oj-da
     
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  8. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear SCS,

    I am truly moved by your remark. I did wish people to smile when they read it and quite clearly, you did. I wish I could make it a somewhat smaller post, but it kept spilling over. I will think if it can be shrunk in size.

    No one ever said this to me. I am truly moved by it.

    With best wishes.

    oj
     
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  9. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear syamala,

    You are very right about your comment on other quirks. Life is a long queue in any case. And jumping the queue is a common human habit. The only point I was trying to make was that not jumping the queue could also be fun. There is no end to the rich variety that life offers to you. Just watch it. That's what artists like Chaplin did I guess and produced masterpieces based on their observations.

    I am not suggesting that mine is a masterpiece by any stretch of imagination.

    Best regards.

    oj
     
  10. Srama

    Srama Finest Post Winner

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    That's a good question Oj-da
    Better not to know the answer. Your question reminded me of a book I read recently - "The End of Karma" by Somini Sengupta. Going by what she says, what you say may be true. We are after all a brave new generation, trying to go beyond the shackles of Karma carving out a life we want, mixing the old with the new trying to get that perfect blend of life!
     
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