Mountains; I was seriously lost. I don’t have a map or compass or GPS. I lost my friends. They were staggering behind; I climbed ahead but took the wrong route; lost, hungry, cold…I walked alone; mixed emotions; the pleasure of walking alone; the worry of being gossiped about by the compatriots.
Down the valley, a handsome young army officer, somber, his eyes to the snow sat on the bonnet of a huge artillery equipment. I went to him. I took a careful look at the well-framed painting hanging down from the barrel of the huge gun; the painting of a Bharathanatyam artiste in a lord Shiva stance; the female form emulating the cosmic dance.
“Why do you walk around like a jehadi?” he asked me.
“I’m a jehadi,” I replied.
He pulled out a cable from a hatch in the modern gun and pinned it into his lap-top and switched it on. He logged onto rediffmail.com. He asked me, “Have you ever seen all this?”
“Yes! In Tora-Bora mountains I was in charge of this…e-mails,” I replied.
“Whom do you mail and what?” he asked.
“Secret…professional ethics,” I replied.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” he said.
“You should not have asked,” I said, “I don’t ask you what are you doing here.”
“I sit here because this is Indian territory,” he said, “My duty…my beloved motherland.”
“What do you mean by Indian territory?” I asked, “23,000 years back there was no India and 23,000 years from now, there will not be any India.”
“If you don not believe in Republics or their ‘soil’ then what are you basically trying to do?” he asked me, “What is the purpose of growing this long fuzzy beard and roaming around snowy mountains with a Kalashnikov rifle in your hands!”
“Livelihood…see, I don’t believe in ‘forefathers’, ‘freedom struggle’ or ‘grudge’…Human beings cannot live without work…Dr. Bimal Jalan works for the Reserve Bank, Shakeela used to work in movies, Roberto Carlos works up and down the left flank of Brazilian soccer. Human beings have to do either of this or something, to be alive.”
“To be alive!” the young army officer said, “Work?”
He started to compose a mail.

To : [email protected]
Subject: yet another mail….

hi! rekha
this is the 95th mail I send u but there has not been any reply…now I feel that u r not at all impressed my writings whatsoever or don’t u check ur mails…
I know that I’m fooling myself but I don’t mind coz I ve got enough time…it’s terribly cold, rekha…it’s snowing..it’s so difficult to type in with these gloves put on…this jehadi sitting by my side is not wearing gloves…I don’t know why…
Rekha, I dreamt u again…it’s the same old story…so I’m not narrating…do u find this funny or are you getting bored?
I remember the moments I saw u dancing on-stage…u ve got such a finely sculptured figure and when u dance I ve this illusion that our eyes exchange a glance…there is a sparkle in your eyes…so beautiful.
In the train I met a girl lakshmi gopalaswami…she lectured on thillana and varnam…and her blind devotion for infant Krishna…I remember her amused smile when I told her about the infant jesus of Prague…she smiled…
What else, rekha? Do u still dance or r u engrossed in studies?
It’s terribly cold rekha… it’s snowing…I worry I will be washed out in an avalanche…pray for me…I hope these mails r not bothering u…
mail me soon
love
capt. tony mundackal

He clicked on the ‘send’ button and logged off, contemplatively. He closed the lap-top and said, “She will not reply.”
“Why? Is she afraid of making spelling mistakes?” I asked.
He laughed and said, “No…no…Indian girls are educated.”
After giving it a thought the young army officer said, “Maybe, she is suspicious of me…my intentions…or she finds me boring…or there is someone else…or simple, she does not have any reason to mail me.”
“It’s confusing,” I said.
“It’s so confusing and painful,” he said.
He had typed in like this… ‘I know I’m fooling myself, but I don’t mind…it’s terribly cold, rekha’…My eyes filled. I don’t know what was that for. I fought back tears so that this ‘enemy’ will not get a wrong impression that I’m delicate.

A tall well-built Lieutenant General came with his ‘yahoo chat-friend’….a very young woman…probably 25…27…she turned out in skimpy cyan sweater, tight-fit denim and knee boots…she was not wearing a cap…very short hair, so smooth that snow-flakes flow down to the shoulders. She had a copy of ‘The Letters to Sartre’ by Simone de Beauvoir in her hand. She looked at me carefully.
Typically, the neo-bourgeoisie supergirl.
She came towards me. She stood over me and asked, “I’m going to Cochin. Are you coming with me?”
“Where is Cochin?” I asked.
“Cochin is in South India…a harbour city…you can see Chinese fishing nets…if I’m not mistaken you will not see Chinese nets even in Shanghai,” she said.
“Are you a native of Cochin?” I asked.
“No…my maternal grand-mother was brought up here,” she said.
“What are you going to do in Cochin?” I asked.
“In Cochin, there are walls with inscriptions and symbols denoting male-female segregation…I’m empowered to erase these symbols and paint the walls white inside-out so that boys and girls can get along together.”
“Ideologically I don’t agree with you, but I will come,” I said.
She winked at the Lieutenant General and he smiled.

We took off to Cochin. Oh! Boy…I didn’t even say bye to Capt. Tony. He would be left alone in front of that tall well-built Lieutenant General.

Cochin is so hot and humid. It’s sub-tropical climate.
Malayalees cast a spying eye on couples. In the red buses so many heads turned to take a look at us, a man and a woman…so annoying…as if bothered, the supergirl asked me, “Why don’t you shave?”
People are neither busy nor friendly. Schoolgirls stared at me suspiciously; I was strikingly tall. You find blank cold stares everywhere. Policemen seemed to have an active role in the society. Some of them took notice of the kalashnikov rifle in my hand and tried to give a threatening look at me. Red eyes, thick moustache, potbelly and thin legs.
Women looked so dignified; very well dressed. Even though they don’t wear a burqa or purdah, they are fully covered from neck to ankles; so civilized. This supergirl who stood by my side was not so impressed by this civilized aspect of dressing up and what she loves kumbhmela. She conducts some anthropological studies on it. She said that she is an associate professor of linguistics in some American university. Nevertheless, she looked stunningly young. I love her look; she looks like Winona Ryder as in ‘Reality Bites’.
We crossed the street to reach a newsstand and she bought ‘The Hindu’; violence in Gujarat. She went through the Letters to the Editor and what the concerned senior citizens like Kuldip Nayar and V.R.Krishna Iyer wrote in opinion columns. She threw the newspaper into a waste bin.
She put on her sun-glasses and spoke to me, “Imagine, you don’t have this rifle with you. A girl of minority community, in fact community does not count…she is being raped by 14 men, serially…you know, one after another…you don’t have this rifle with you…What will you do? Will you run away? Or will you try to save her somehow? Or will you be one of the on-lookers to see her being raped…to derive some kind of…pleasure.”
“I will run away,” I replied.
She smiled, pensively and said, “Don’t tell lies.”

Rekha (pavlova_5) and her friends made their way into a restaurant…a treat(!) or something, to enjoy themselves…a treat! The supergirl wanted me to accompany her to the restaurant because she wanted to talk to these girls. The supergirl was doing some kind of research on the childhood experiences of the modern Indian woman.
We sat around a table. Seeing me these girls looked each other and giggled. The supergirl opened the conversation like…mother, love, care, convents, holidays, uncles, cousins, internet cafes, cars, buses, trains, married friends, dreams…The girls spoke very seriously. They never knew that I understand English. The supergirl was least concerned about my reactions.
I asked Rekha, “Rekha, do you know Capt. Tony Mundackal?”
She looked at me for some time and said, “No.”
The conversation continued. The supergirl told them about Mira Nair; the Golden Lion of Venice. The girls were so impressed by this prolific associate professor of linguistics. Before leaving, Rekha asked for my e-mail address.
I told her, “I’m a primitive man. I don’t have an e-mail address.”
Then Rekha said, “But you told Capt. Tony Mundackal that you have been in charge of e-mails in Tora-Bora bunkers.”
I banged my kalashnikov rifle on the floor and walked out of the restaurant. The supergirl came, running after me. We walked along the marine drive pavements silently; the situation was very cold and prejudiced. She looked towards the Wellington Island and said, “You don’t know how to impress girls…you looked so stupid in the restaurant…very impulsive behaviour.”
I felt like smashing her face. I looked at her and forced a smile. She smiled. She put her arm around my shoulder, so sweet. We had got used to the inadvertent stares of the Cochin folks. We strolled along together.
Her touch had an effect. I was like I found a friend, at last. This woman touched me promising a gentle-womanly companionship without asking me to protect her (or her offsprings) because she knows how to take care of herself. We went along together. I felt so comfortable with her that I decided to open up.
“Do you know what I think of you,” I told her, “ I see you as a ‘supergirl’.”
She smiled, bewildered; an American mannerism of nodding sideways, disagreement? Smiling! We walked together. I don’t know what was she thinking. After some time, when I turned to ask her something, she was still smiling.
“What did u get after talking to those girls in the restaurant?” I asked her.
“See…inferences in humanities can’t be made immediately…” she told me, “But there is something I’m sure of…Malayalee girls place so much value in marriage.”
“So what?” I asked her, because I felt that she didn’t like the girls’ perspective.
“Why are you asking me ‘so what’!” she shrugged, “I just made a statement. That’s all.”
“Will you marry some day?” I asked her.
“I don’t mind getting married…but I don’t believe in it. Somehow, I dislike the custom,” she looked at me and said, “And where I live in marriage is not mandatory to be socially acceptable.”
She continued, “You know something, marriage-anxious girls will hesitate to be in a natural relationship…they will not surrender to feelings,” she added, “I don’t know what Capt.Tony Mundackal is up to. Maybe, he is mailing the wrong person.”
The supergirl is so beautiful. She plays the piano. She seems to be very intelligent and her knowledge, her fame and reputation among the Linguistics scholars as a promising young professor…yet so humble. What impressed me in her is that ‘humility’. She insisted a lot so I shaved, trimmed my hair and removed the turban. I would have looked so good as she kept on looking at me, savouring.
“”My dear neighbour,” she addressed me like a true Christian, “The best part of you is that you don’t pretend to be civilized.”

Nightfall and we slept together. Next morning, she took me around to the churches of Cochin, old and new. She exposed me to different faiths, concepts, values.
I sat under a tree. The supergirl stood in front of me, her eyes wandering around. All of a sudden the luminous sky cracked into two, uncovering the black void Einsteinean space beyond. Supernovae, angels descending down, Latin, Latin everywhere…It was time for the ascension of the supergirl…a thunderbolt; Hail! Mary, Full of Grace…the supergirl looked skywards and a naval salute…sitting under that tree I saw the cosmic pyrotechnics, silhouetted against the branches…supernovae, their sparks glided down slowly and vanished above my eyes…The supergirl was slowly pulled up by the magnetic levitation field of the plasmic anti-protons, almost 23 million light years atop…the supergirl slowly swayed in the breeze, absolutely weightless…

Abruptly, I was shaken up from a delightful dream and the supergirl said, “Come on. Let’s go.” I went after my friend.

                                                                                              Fine                                                                             March, 2002.