Fiction pick: When a multinational company’s employee joins protests despite discouragement

Illusion is the convenient belief by which we discard the truth. Venkat is not a hero, his mind is mired in fault lines. News tires him. He refuses to read the news online, he prefers a real newspaper, the crisp feel in his hands and the certainty of newsprint. It is the best way to digest horror of real news with the sprinkle of quotes every morning. Venkat loves quotes; he has a storehouse of them tucked away in his memory. Say Oscar Wilde and he will flick his fingers and tell you, “I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.” Or, say Thiruvalluvar, and his brow will rise as he spouts the Kural, “Those who pretend to know what they don’t will be thought ignorant of even what they know.” It offers him the assurance he normally doesn’t have, all neatly embedded in his memory. Whichever way he looks, at the sunset, or in the grocery store, in the company bus or, inevitably, when his mother calls him about somebody’s daughter he should meet. Inevitably, Socrates challenges him with a mustard smile. “By all means, marry. If you get a good wife you will be happy. If you get a bad one you will be a philosopher.” At 34, Venkat Subramanian was fast becoming a philosopher even without such help.

People draw lines everywhere but truth has so many contours, he tells his colleague, Sriram, in the company bus. Venkat’s mind has fault lines that sometimes touch a trigger of light but he buries them under a crumbling debris of doubt and anxiety and not much else. Yet, make no mistake, Venky is no brain fluff. He relishes the speculations that fill the daily news-columns. Always, there is a disaster at hand, or else, a threat with dire scandals and brutal truths. Without them the morning papers grow dull. When a full-blooded story peters away uneventfully, it leaves behind a faint whiff of disappointment. But things were changing for the world. Injustices stored away were forgotten after a few days but now they stared him in the face with redoubled power.

Under the shower, Venky ponders truth sullenly. Billion dollars disappear to buy and sell truth and allow the business of war to flourish. The perfect world, with safe drinking water, spa-holidays in forests, free tickets to rock concerts and designer clothes is fast growing distant. Venky steps out of the shower and buttons up in his office clothes. The doorbell rings and on cue the newspaper boy slides the morning paper under his door. He looks down at the headline and draws a sharp breath. This war will not go away, the bombs crush every hope and the death toll is savage. He does not want to look at the numbers. He looks out of the window as he brews his coffee. After each war there are conferences, objections about this and that, name calling and disagreements in the halls of the UN but even that is passe now. Venky picks up his briefcase and lets himself out of the door. Newspaper tucked under his arm, he takes the lift down and walks a hundred meters to the juice corner where the company bus will stop for him.

He unfurls the paper to page 3 and scans the top right corner for the daily quote and stands still: The conditions in which men live upon earth are a result of their state of consciousness. To want to change the conditions without changing the consciousness is a vain chimera.

The bus honks him out of his trance. Venkat grabs his briefcase and clambers up, but the newspapers slips off his hand. He has missed the name of the author of that quote. Inside, Sriram is waiting for him. Venky puts down his briefcase and flops beside him heavily. What word was that? Consciousness… Venky’s brow puckers.

Sriram is an informed gent, a hobby activist, he swears by organic food, e-cycles on weekends, and is a member of several NGO groups. Sriram joins protests frequently: globalisation, environment, saving trees for peace. He loves young Greta’s guts. It’s a non-violent strategy he had once explained to Venky. The idea is to oppose, object, reject and vilify until they do what we say. It’s totally non-violent.

“But people keep getting beaten up. So what’s the point?”

“Justice.”

Venky nods. “And who will you fight if there’s an earthquake?”

Sriram grimaces and checks his messages.

“That’s not the point.”

“And the war?” Venky prods again. “Are your NGOs still busy saving trees? Even young Greta has moved further.” That is a mistake. Sriram launches into a long justification about eradicating terror and how everything would be rebuilt sustainably. Rebuilt for whom? Venky is about to growl but he leans back and closes his eyes. Mark Twain rises with a sneer in his veins: Truth is the most valuable thing we have. Let’s economise it…

At 34, Venkat Subramanian is a successful systems engineer; his five-figure salary is touching on six. He owns an air-conditioned apartment, a car, a computer, a music system, a microwave, and a coffee machine. All the basic necessities. Not married, but his mother is looking for a girl which is why he keeps his land line unhooked. Thank goodness she hated mobiles.

A week later, Sriram walks into his office all fired up.

“Morning Venkat! Listen, this Sunday you must join our rally. We’re protesting the war. You’ve got to come. Don’t chicken out, okay?”

Venky says yes, the war consumes everyone and there is no way to chicken out. But remember, Venky is no hero. He can’t get any work done at the office after that. Reading the papers is his manner of public duty, nursing rage or indignation at the state of affairs and keeping track of the business pages. Beyond that, reality remains a riddle. His long, thoughtful index finger reaches his nose mid-ridge, pauses a fraction, then pushes his glasses up nervously. He goes to pee seven times that day; even the secretaries began to giggle as he walks down the corridor to the Gent’s. Fortunately, Venky doesn’t prod him again on the way home, but at night, he cannot sleep. He switches on the TV and watches the late-night news. The war keeps proceeding with terrifying certitude as the powerful men strut their right to kill. They would win, they assure, beaming at the cameras, bigger budgets had just been approved. Venky switches off and stares at the darkness. Against this arsenal of belief, Sriram’s protest is laughable. It would barely make a dent. Venky sits up with a start. What would make a dent?

The phone begins to ring. It is his mother calling from Coimbatore.

“What happened, kanna? You haven’t called us for over two weeks now! Your father is worried. Do you have a fever, stomach upset? Did you take any medicine? Are you eating properly? Shall I come to Chennai? You like athirasam, I’ll bring you some.”

No, no, no, he says to everything. I’m all right Amma, no need to come all the way. You take care of Appa, he needs you. I just needed some time to think.

“Think about what? What is there to break your head thinking? Something is wrong.”

“No Amma, I’m fine, really. Just need a break. Maybe take a weekend off and go somewhere.”

“What break? Here I am breaking my head trying to find a girl for you. And I’ve found one, that’s why I am calling Kanna. She’s from a good family, cooks well, a graduate, okay looking. It will solve all your problems.”

Venky puts down the receiver, takes the line off the hook and lies in bed shivering.

Sunday arrives. He pulls himself out of bed and stares at his face in the bathroom mirror. His chin has a two-day stubble. He decides to keep it, good for attitude, but his eyes are uncertain. Venky goes to the rally wearing his dark blue t-shirt and a check lungi to do his duty.

Whatever you do is insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.

Mohandas Karamchand himself. So, there he is, standing next to Sriram, yelling his lungs out for an end to the war, for immediate pullout of troops, for peace. All seems to be going well when suddenly an unexpected counter-protest group arrives, just as they reach the Secretariat building and rushes at them head-on with their sticks. There is absolute chaos. Were they protesting war or in a war? Venky stops in his tracks. Police sirens were blaring, tear gas was lobbed very near to where he was. The crowd began to push. Stampede… Venky freezes. It happens very quickly. Someone kicks him forcefully from behind, Venky doubles over, his glasses flying. They smash to pieces instantly as feet trample over him. Before Venky loses consciousness, he has a blurred impression of Sriram’s frightened face as they lift him into an ambulance van. I’m going to live forever, so far, so good… Or something like that, Venky passes out in a daze.

What he doesn’t know is that he is rushed to a hospital, taken to the Emergency Ward, given anaesthesia, a blood drip and moved to the operating theatre. Twelve stitches on the head and a cast around his rib.

The next morning, the front page headlines splashed his face, bleeding and limp on a stretcher. Next to it is a triumphant headline: Great Powers Successfully Conclude New Arms Deal. Peace Process Set to Restart. Venky turns his bandaged head away slowly, so as not to puke on the nurse. A raging impotence begins to claw through his digestive system, respiratory system, nervous system and his alimentary canal. He swallows painfully, his eyes red and running. What will make a dent? A nurse walks in briskly with a syringe and knocks him out for the day.

Sriram comes to see him in the evening with a new pair of glasses. “So you can read the papers,” he says sheepishly. Several media men and women were waiting outside for a statement. They wanted a sound bite from the bleeding, bandaged man for the next day’s headlines. Venky tells Sriram to keep them at bay and say whatever he wanted to say, but not in his name. Soon, they lose interest in him and the hospital corridor grows silent.

Venky lies sweating in his cast, glowering at the still ceiling fan. Power cut.

A letter arrives from the head office granting him medical leave and firm counsel: employees were advised not to get involved in overt protests or partisan politics. It was bad for the multinational company’s image and could harm his future prospects. He would have to meet his own medical expenses. Venky swallows. The girl from the good family’s parents had called off the marriage proposal in the wake of his photograph in the front page. At least some respite. But now his mother was contemplating a heart attack.

What would make a dent?

Sriram visits him guiltily every evening, bringing medical supplies and office gossip. Venky has forbidden his parents from travelling to Chennai. Sriram deliberately avoids discussing the news, instead they eye the lovely young intern who does the evening rounds at the ward. It is the one thing to look forward to. Venky eyes her with despair, even as words of wonder swell in his breast, only to be hopelessly thwarted by the cumbersome cast. Yet, he smiles full of hope as she walks into his room that evening. The young intern approaches his bed with a particularly zesty smile.

“Good evening, Mr Subramanian. Let’s see, did you pass stool today?”

He shakes his head, smile weakening.

“Nothing?’ Her eyebrows arch with disapproval. Make an effort, sir, you’re getting a laxative, aren’t you?”

Mr Subramanian fidgets and blushes, more out of frustration than shyness as she goes on with the check-up. Sriram steps outside discreetly. The wonderful intern stuffs a thermometer in Venky’s mouth before he can protest, wraps his elbow tight and pumps to check his blood pressure. All hopes of making an impression are stilled. Thermometer in mouth, Venky’s eyes her glassily as she studies the report hanging by his bed. He makes a last-ditch effort to imagine her willing and tender in his arms. As if on cue, she turns to the night nurse.

“Double the laxative for him tonight.”

Venky’s sigh erupts in shreds. He remembers that famous suicide note left behind by a hapless suitor who had once given up in frustration.

All that unbuttoning and buttoning…

No, Venkat turns his eyes away firmly. Not worth it after all.

Flat on his back, Venky stares at the ceiling for another week, pushing, pushing, pushing… Of God’s ability, he has no doubt but his justice is crap. Where is Truth in all this? He lies in sweat shaking with rage. The morning papers come and go. Intelligence has to be ramped up the Great Powers say. More soldiers. More arms. More spies. Better spies. State of the art. Elsewhere, important men are cleared of charges despite fleecing the country, while youth are arrested for speaking up. Did Sartre know all this already? Like all dreamers I confuse disenchantment with truth… Elsewhere, rapists were going free, the bride burners, the dowry mongers, the child abusers. Venky throws the newspaper on the ground and Orwell jumps at him. During the time of universal deceit, telling the truth will become a revolutionary act…

Which truth? Everyone swears by that word.

The next day, a package arrives from Silicon Valley, from his older brother, Ranjit, castigating him for his immature action and advising him to stay away from trouble and meditate twice a day using the kit he had sent. It had a manual in colour, an exercise and diet plan, a special meditation cushion, a yoga mat, incense sticks, an incense holder, meditation music and aromatherapy oil. It will solve all your problems…

Venky’s chest screams inside the cast. Ranjit anna, you dead-wit, your comfort truth won’t do. Don’t sell me your cosmetic peace while your company donates its profits to the war. Venky slumps, agitated and tense, his chest itching. The cast is coming loose. He tries to sit up straight, but it is an awkward, sliding mess. The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off!

I’m Very Pissed, Gloria Steinem! Venky screams at the walls of his hospital room. I Will Not Go Gentle Into The Night!

A nurse comes running in.

“What are you staring at?”

Venky glowers. “Help me sit straight.”

“But sir…?”

“I was just talking to your pet cockroach, that’s all.”

The nurse sits him up, backs off quickly and leaves.

I want a strong hand that I can hold inside my heart, Ranjit anna. Do you understand? Something I can grab onto when I am thrust over the chasm, like the whole world is, right now. This world has been robbed of its enchantment. I want a perfect world too, but not some artificial multi-million dollar yoga enterprise to tranquillize people. Do You Understand! Venky stops, his breath sharp. I need to get out of here. What was that word he had come across as he got into the bus that fateful morning? He had lost the paper. Consciousness. How does that work? What kind of power will change the conditions of this broken, idiotic world? What will enchant it again? Can it make a dent? Does it have the power to divert the destructive current of the world, something that can heal everything and this earth? Venky sits perfectly still, perfectly silent, for hours. The morning passes, the long afternoon, the night. Another day rises and falls and passes with the sun but Venky sits propped up against his pillow, absolutely still. A concentrated point of light breathing with the world.

When the lovely intern breezes in the day after, she is in for a surprise. Venky eyes her quietly as she enters, the question eager on her lips, her pen poised to fill the status report of his bowel movements, but Venky beats her to it.

“When is my cast coming off? The damned thing itches horribly now.”

The lovely intern’s eyebrows lift several notches. “We will need an X-ray first, sir.”

“So, what are we waiting for?” Venky raises his eyebrows higher. “Why not take that X-ray now?”

After a few phone calls, he is trundled off to the X-Ray room.

An hour later, the room is full: his doctor is there, the intern, the nurses, and Sriram has rushed in from the office to hear the report. The news is excellent, in fact, a complete surprise. His ribs have healed perfectly, almost ten days in advance. Most unusual. His doctor congratulates him.

“Amazing, Mr Subramanian! But how did you do it? Do you have a secret?”

Venky is equally surprised but something inside makes him smile.

“I think I enchanted myself, doctor… When can you take this thing off?”

“Enchanted yourself, hahaha! A fine sense of humour, Mr Subramanian! But…” he paused, eyeing Venky, a little warily, “you must be a special type, hmm? So, shall we say, the cast goes out tomorrow morning? You can leave after the check-up.”

He notices the young intern as he is wheeled out, standing by the door, clutching a file across her chest. Her eyes are on him, a question flickering, as though she was beginning to understand something, see something, he had not. “What?” he wanted to ask but turns his head away, embarrassed.

The day goes by in a quiet, burning silence. He sleeps well. When the nurse walks in the next morning, she draws the curtains aside and leaves the morning paper by his bed as usual. As soon as she walks out, Venky aims the paper at the wastebasket and bingo, it goes right in. Venky sits up and looks out of the window. The sun is rising. He watches it, as if for the very first time in his life. An unspoken glory, a splendour, calm and light, starts to fill his limbs. There was nothing else in the world now. Just that warm orange disc, looking in through the window, at him. It is a level regard, a full regard and very personal. Can the sun get personal? It had happened to Tagore once but Venky is hardly a poet. He looks at the golden orange orb, his heart open, his body finally silent: Can you stop the war… Venky whispers to the disc glowing through his window. Can you? Can you change me? It comes close. Incredibly close. With a warmth that is almost too personal. Venky gasps, exhilarated. It knows me! It knows I’m here! The sun lifts gradually, spreading through the clouds, a masterpiece of gold and blue. Literally, a world headline. And then the cry of birds, the traffic outside, the hospital staff.

It knows me… It knows I’m here… Like the touch of God…Venky whispers, hands on his heart, an immense wave of gratitude flooding his body.

The cast comes off smoothly, the check-up confirms that everything has healed well. “You have remade yourself!” the doctor exclaimed and shook his hand. He could leave, even rejoin work right away. As he gets out of the hospital bed Venky notices the young intern again, watching him curiously. He nods in her direction. She waves and leaves.

Venky straightens his back slowly. All good. Swings his arms around, goes up and down on his toes a few times then changes into his day clothes. The morning sun tugs at his memory. For a full minute Venky holds himself in a pause. Inside it, he senses something strange, as though the world was also remaking itself, just as the doctor had said about him. The nurse hands him the discharge papers and shows him out.

Sriram is waiting in the lobby, looking strangely restless. “We’ll have to leave from the back entrance.”

“Why, what happened?”

Sriram looks embarrassed. “Our group made a call to demand a resolution to stop the hate. Stop supporting the war and…,” he looks around nervously.

“And?”

“Many interns from this hospital have joined.” Sriram points outside. “Including Smita. She asked me about our organisation, she has been asking about you…”

“Smita?”

“Your intern…”

“She’s out there?” Venky goes still for a gigantic second, then starts walking rapidly towards the entrance.

“Venky, careful!” Sriram yells but Venky moves ahead, determined.

The front door is closed. He bangs on it and shouts to the doorman to let him out.

“Come quickly, sir.”

The sun is high and blindingly white in the sky. Venky looks out at the vast array of people, searching for a face. There are hundreds in the driveway, maybe thousands in the avenue outside. Suddenly, a white placard juts up, catching his attention.

STOP THE HATE! THE TRUTH, NOT THE ABYSS!

Venkat Subramanian looks across in disbelief. There she was, his bowel movement goddess. An uncertain happiness springs in his heart. Had something beyond his understanding made a dent? His prayer was surely one among the thousands, standing there crying out to the sun. Would it make a dent? Could it last? Could the world hold out against the endless treachery or would it be betrayed again? He glances back at Smita. She holds up her placard and steps forward, smiling now. From the corner of his eyes, Venky spots a group of men, carrying large sticks, pushing their way aggressively towards the crowd, yelling wildly. Not again! Venky rushes down the steps, grabs Smita’s free hand and pulls her towards him. The men have started hitting people with their sticks, shouting and pushing through the crowd. Someone would get hurt, just as he had.

“Get inside!” Sriram yells.

Venky puts a firm arm around Smita and pulls her inside quickly.

“What about the protest if we all run away?” Smita is distraught.

Arm still around her, Venky sighs, “Something much more is needed for the world now,” he tells her. “A far greater power.”

Smita looks at him. Her eyes are steady. “All can be done if the god touch is there. That was the quote in this morning’s paper. Did you see it?”

The touch of God…! He swings around to look outside.

Smita pulls Venky back to the door. They sense a stillness as they step outside. A massive silence seems to have descended on the protesting crowd. Venky gapes. Such silence… Surely only the gods can hold this, whatever their caste, creed or colour. Nothing moves. Each one seems engulfed by it. He can almost hear them all. A quote jumps at him. The loudest noise in the world is silence… Thelonious Monk. Venky takes a deep breath. People are signalling the disruptors now, a prayer on their lips with the great name that lives inside. It is like watching the wheel turn. One by one, the men begin backing off. Would it last? Smita squeezes his hand and says softly, “This silence, this moment, if it is genuinely inside, brings what you need.” She smiles up at him, “Rumi.” Venky’s heart glows, all boundaries broken.