Skip to main content

February’s Challenge



Two things happened this morning. One was a message from long-term friend, Jose Maliekal, who is a Salesian priest. The second was that I started reading a novel titled A Man Called Ove. Both together reminded me of the challenge I have undertaken for February: Blogchatter’s #WriteAPageADay.

Maliekal’s message was about Don Bosco’s love for keeping the boys under his care productively engaged even if that meant disturbing the sleep of a visiting bishop. Was the missionary in Don Bosco driven by recklessness or temerity? Maliekal’s message raised that question. And the message ended with an apparently wavering hope that I loved Don Bosco though I didn’t love his priests.

Ove in the novel is a 59-year-old man (just a couple of years younger than me) who is “the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s torch.” Once upon a time I was just like that. And Don Bosco’s priests and some other equally spirited people in Shillong took it upon themselves as their life’s mission to put out the torch in my forefinger. They succeeded and I became a better person. Better, according to me.

I’m grateful to all the Salesian [Don Bosco’s missionaries] and other zealots in Shillong who taught me some of the most essential lessons of life that I had failed to learn in the due course of life. Maliekal’s message this morning reminded me of all that. And Ove, the protagonist of the novel I picked up later in the morning, turned out to be just the kind of ridiculously odious person I would have been without the missionaries.

This is not to say that I love missionaries. Far from that. I’m scared of them. I’m scared that any day some of them might just force themselves upon the remaining fragments of my life just for the heck of it, if not for the love of Jesus. To tell you the truth, the missionaries of Shillong are yet to disappear from my recurring nightmares. My reading and writing are all meant to keep certain memories away. Memories are more traumatic than the tortures you endured.

“I keep myself busy in order to preserve my sanity.” I wrote in response to another message this morning. I undertook Blogchatter’s challenge for Feb precisely to redeem me from certain nightmares. The truth is I am still wondering what I will write about every day. I don’t want to write about my nightmares, of course. There are the country’s nightmares. The planet’s nightmares. To write about. Or maybe dreams instead of nightmares. Whatever. Let Feb come. I’m not scared of that, at least.

 

Comments

  1. Hari Om
    ...bring it on!!! (...Ove was a decent read, I thought...) YAM xx

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I've just started. I love its humor. As I proceed I'll love more things, I'm sure.

      Delete
  2. Looking forward to reading your words this February. Whether it's your dreams or nightmares that come forth, they'll be honest reflections of a man who is courageous enough to bare his vulnerabilities--it's rare and precious just like your writing. I hope I can visit you daily, but if I can't, I'll read a few posts at a time. You writing always, always makes me ponder deeply--truly.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I should have read A Man called Ove when my dad asked me to borrow his copy 😄
    For Feb, I am oscillating between writing a masterpiece or just some mundane observations.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You can still read Ove. It's fun. And more.

      Write a masterpiece, of course.

      Delete
  4. A Man Called Ove, I have read it not finished it. It's theme is how he changed through learning to accept the situations created by people moved into his surroundings. I should go back and finish the book.

    ReplyDelete
  5. You always write your heart out and this is just amazing .I agree, some memories hunt us down the lane and it is so painful . Keeping busy really helps . Looking forward to engage with your posts , sir. My reading and writing has gone for a toss... Life !! But , I keep trying , nonetheless ...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Life loves to throw hurdles on our way. It's our duty to surmount them.

      Look forward to your writing once again.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pranita a perverted genius

Bulldozer begins its work at Sawan Pranita was a perverted genius. She had Machiavelli’s brain, Octavian’s relentlessness, and Levin’s intellectual calibre. She could have worked wonders if she wanted. She could have created a beautiful world around her. She had the potential. Yet she chose to be a ruthless exterminator. She came to Sawan Public School just to kill it. A religious cult called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] had taken over the school from its owner who had never visited the school for over 20 years. This owner, a prominent entrepreneur with a gargantuan ego, had come to the conclusion that the morality of the school’s staff was deviating from the wavelengths determined by him. Moreover, his one foot was inching towards the grave. I was also told that there were some domestic noises which were grating against his patriarchal sensibilities. One holy solution for all these was to hand over the school and its enormous campus (nearly 20 acres of land on the outskirts

Queen of Religion

She looked like Queen Victoria in the latter’s youth but with a snow-white head. She was slim, fair and graceful. She always smiled but the smile had no life. Someone on the campus described it as a “plastic smile.” She was charming by physical appearance. Soon all of us on the Sawan school campus would realise how deceptive appearances were. Queen took over the administration of Sawan school on behalf of her religious cult RSSB [Radha Soami Satsang Beas]. A lot was said about RSSB in the previous post. Its godman Gurinder Singh Dhillon is now 70 years old. I don’t know whether age has mellowed his lust for land and wealth. Even at the age of 64, he was embroiled in a financial scam that led to the fall of two colossal business enterprises, Fortis Healthcare and Religare finance. That was just a couple of years after he had succeeded in making Sawan school vanish without a trace from Delhi which he did for the sake of adding the school’s twenty-odd acres of land to his existing hun

Machiavelli the Reverend

Let us go today , you and I, through certain miasmic streets. Nothing will be quite clear along our way because this journey is through some delusions and illusions. You will meet people wearing holy robes and talking about morality and virtues. Some of them will claim to be god’s men and some will make taller claims. Some of them are just amorphous. Invisible. But omnipotent. You can feel their power around you. On you. Oppressing you. Stifling you. Reverend Machiavelli is one such oppressive power. You will meet Franz Kafka somewhere along the way. Joseph K’s ghost will pass by. Remember Joseph K who was arrested one fine morning for a crime that nobody knew anything about? Neither Joseph nor the men who arrest him know why Joseph K is arrested. The power that keeps Joseph K under arrest is invisible. He cannot get answers to his valid questions from the visible agents of that power. He cannot explain himself to that power. Finally, he is taken to a quarry outside the town wher

Randeep the melody

Many people in this pic have made their presence in this A2Z series A phone call came from an unknown number the other day. “Is it okay to talk to you now, Sir?” The caller asked. The typical start of a conversation by an influencer. “What’s it about?” My usual response looking forward to something like: “I am so-and-so from such-and-such business firm…” And I would cut the call. But there was a surprise this time. “I am Randeep…” I recognised him instantly. His voice rang like a gentle music in my heart. Randeep was a student from the last class 12 batch of Sawan. One of my favourites. He is unforgettable. Both Maggie and I taught him at Sawan where he was a student from class 4 to 12. Nine years in a residential school create deep bonds between people, even between staff and students. Randeep was an ideal student. Good at everything yet very humble and spontaneous. He was a top sportsman and a prefect with eminent leadership. He had certain peculiar problems with academics. Ans

Nakulan the Outcast

Nakulan was one of the many tenants of Hevendrea . A professor in the botany department of the North Eastern Hill University, he was a very lovable person. Some sense of inferiority complex that came from his caste status made him scoff the very idea of his lovability. He lived with his wife and three children in one of Heavendrea’s many cottages. When he wanted to have a drink, he would walk over to my hut. We sipped our whiskies and discussed Shillong’s intriguing politics or something of the sort while my cassette player crooned gently in the background. Nakulan was more than ten years my senior by age. He taught a subject which had never aroused my interest at any stage of my life. It made no difference to me whether a leaf was pinnately compound or palmately compound. You don’t need to know about anther and stigma in order to understand a flower. My friend Levin would have ascribed my lack of interest in Nakulan’s subject to my egomania. I always thought that Nakulan lived