[Reader-list] Pandey Ji's Diode

[rahul pandita]

The Bus Stop is no longer there. And neither is the
huge billboard behind it. The flyover has devoured
them. Delhi is experiencing modernisation. Everything
needs to shine. With spit and polish of ambition.
There is no time to value emotions. Or to preserve
monuments of despair. Of hopelessness. Like the one,
you could see near the Okhla vegetable market. On the
yellow signboard of that Bus Stop. Before the flyover
came up. 

While crossing the Nehru Place Bus terminus, braving
the ammonia emanating from urine on its crumbling
walls, you passed that Bus Stop. You could have
ignored that, but the shining Plasma Televisions
advertised on the billboard, towering over it, caught
your attention. And then your vision slipped on to
those lines scribbled on the forehead of that bus
stand. In black grease, they represented the fate
lines of a person. The lines were in Hindi. They read:
Sab kucch adhura reh gaya Pandey Ji. Everything has
been left incomplete Pandey Ji.

For six months, I read these lines almost daily, while
crossing Okhla market in a bus. To me, these lines
signified nothing but absolute loneliness. For these
six months, I imagined this person. But he remained
faceless. Till one evening. 

A friend called me over to a pub. My friend was very
fond of quoting Kafka after a couple of drinks. After
he had done that, he rose all of a sudden and said:
Let us go. I asked: Where. He didn’t tell me. I didn’t
ask further and silently accompanied him. After some
time we reached Ber Sarai. 

Ber Sarai is a small world behind Delhi’s Indian
Institute of Technology. You have aeroplanes running
over your head every now and then. Ber Sarai falls in
the city’s air corridor. And below, young boys from
the remotest areas of India prepare for the Civil
Services. Narrow lanes, a lot of STD booths and Dhabas
with dirty tables, which remain open the entire night.
And boys, mostly skinny, wearing shabby shorts over
vests, smoking a beedi, walk like ghosts in these
lanes. 

Walking through a narrow lane, while I followed him,
my friend stopped in front of a small house. The gate
was open and the door of the front room was half
closed. My friend called from outside: Ramakant. There
was no response for few seconds and then someone
shouted back from inside: He is not here. He has gone
to eat his food. I know where he eats, my friend said
and I followed him again. 

At the end of the road, he stopped in front of a
Dhaba. His eyes scanned the place and then he smiled.
My friend had spotted Ramakant. They shook hands – my
friend and Ramakant. And then I was introduced to him:
This is my old friend Ramakant Pandey.  

Ramakant was not eating food. He was smoking a beedi.
He was alone. He ordered tea for us. They spoke for
some time, while I looked at the other tables. Boys
talked animatedly. Some of them ate rice with their
hands and some were drinking tea along with patties. 

After tea, we rose to leave. As he was approaching the
cash counter, Ramakant spoke to the owner, a
middle-aged man with a pot belly. Put this in my
account, he said. The owner was prepared to hit back.
No more on credit, you must pay. My friend intervened.
How much, he asked the owner. Four hundred seventy
rupees. He handed over a five hundred rupee note. For
the remaining thirty, give him a pack of cigarettes.
During the entire exercise, Ramakant kept on looking
at the owner with his anger-filled eyes. He almost
snatched the pack of cigarettes from his hands. 

We shook hands again. After me, he shook hands with my
friend and whispered: Thank you. My friend smiled. He
kept his hand on Ramakant’s shoulder and then we
turned back. 

In the auto, on our way back, my friend told me
Ramakant Pandey’s story. Of his Gold medal. And of his
unrequited love. 

Part 2: 

The students of Regional Engineering College, Warangal
will always remember that statement. One sentence,
spoken by Ramakant Pandey, while accepting the Gold
Medal for topping in the first year of the Engineering
course. Electronics stream. After he had been awarded
the medal, Ramakant stood in front of the mike. He did
not speak for few seconds and then uttered that
historical line: Life is a Diode. 

Apart from Electronics, Ramakant had only one passion.
To twirl his moustaches and stare at them for hours in
front of the mirror. Ramakant was from Allahabad,
where the legendary revolutionary Chandrashekhar Azad
had shot himself in a Park, after being surrounded by
the British Police. As a young child, Ramakant had
seen a photograph of Azad. With the sacred thread
running over his shoulders, Azad could be seen playing
with his moustaches in that photograph. Like a tiger
plays with its cubs, without looking at them. That
vision stayed with Ramakant and resulted in the growth
over his upper lip. He was fondly addressed as ‘Pandey
Ji’ by his classmates. 
Pandey Ji would get up religiously early in the
morning and after a bath with cold water, he would
light incense sticks in front of Azad’s photograph. It
had been gifted to him by an uncle, who worked with
the National Archives. 

It was a gearless scooter that changed the gears of
Pandey Ji’s life. The sky was clear that December
morning and cold winds made people shiver. The
previous night, Naxalites had blown up a railway
track. Sirens of Police Vans echoed in the dry air.
Pandey Ji’s hair came on his face with the wind, but
he was unaware of it. Some cream from the morning
glass of milk had stuck on his moustache. He held a
bunch of books under his left arm. Pandey Ji walked
alone towards the main entrance of the college,
looking for a classmate with whom he could discuss the
Maximum Power Transfer theorem. As he prepared to
cross the metallic road, something hit him from
behind. Pandey Ji fell down and his books escaped from
his grip. He got up and was about to hurl abuses, when
he turned back. A girl was lifting her scooter. 

Mysterious are the ways of love. The sight of that
girl who wore a white shirt over sky blue Jeans hit
Pandey Ji like a Meteor. Peace became extinct like a
Dinosaur. A shudder rose through his spine long after
the girl was gone and Pandey Ji remained transfixed at
the same spot. His roommate’s friend finally picked up
Pandey Ji’s books and woke him up from his trance. 

By next morning, the news had spread like wild fire.
Pandey Ji was in love. For the first time in life, he
had fallen for someone. 

Informers sent to find the antecedents of the girl
came back with information. The Girl’s name was Priya
and she was from Delhi; her father a Garment Exporter.
Priya, Pandey Ji was told, was a student of Computer
Engineering. It was decided that a letter be sent to
her. 

After he had forced everyone out of his room, Pandey
Ji lay down on his bed. His heart was beating fast.
There were butterflies in his stomach. His appetite
was gone. He took out a fancy letter pad, which he had
brought from the local market and began to write:

‘ Dear Priya, I don’t know what has happened to me. In
the night, when I reach my room, I cannot sleep. Your
dreams come. Then I take my pillow and hold it. I
think of it as you.’ 

This letter was sent to Priya, through her classmate.
But she did not approve of the proposed relationship.
Pandey Ji’s love went unreciprocated. After few days,
he sent another letter. And this time, Priya replied.
She had scribbled few lines on a page torn from her
note book: Leave me alone, you Idiot. 

Pandey Ji’s friends insisted that he personally talk
to the girl, but Pandey Ji would not relent. He began
to lock himself in his room, staring at himself in the
mirror for hours. The winter passed away. Wild flowers
bloomed in the spring and then began to wither away
with the onset of summer. It was the time for final
examinations. The entire campus was abuzz with
activity. Notes were exchanged and the night canteen
did a roaring business. Boys, wearing just underwear,
locked themselves in their rooms. Smoking beedi and
drinking endless cups of oversweet tea, they went
through their notes, solving mathematical equations.
Girls also disappeared in their rooms. 
On the first day of the exams, students began to fill
their answer sheets. In one corner, towards the window
side, Pandey Ji sat on his seat, with a ballpoint pen
in his hand. He wrote nothing. Last year, by this
time, he had filled his answer sheets and had asked
for continuation sheets as well. But now, no theorem
flashed in his mind. 

After two months, the results were pinned on the
notice board. Many cries filled the air. All of them
came from those, who had seen Ramakant Pandey’s
results. He had failed in all subjects. His friends
looked out for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

In the night there was some commotion outside the
ladies hostel. Apparently a drunk Pandey Ji had tried
to barge into the hostel, hurling abuses at Priya and
was caught by the Guards. Later, he was summoned by
the Principal and was threatened of suspension if he
ever repeated the act. 

After this incident, Pandey Ji became quiet. He would
not talk to anybody and could be barely seen attending
the classes or have his meals in the hostel mess. Dark
circles appeared around his eyes and he grew fat.
Chandrashekhar Azad lost one of his disciples.

Finally in 1996, Pandey Ji managed to complete his
engineering course after seven years. He had failed
thrice. Then he came to Delhi.  
 
In Delhi, Pandey Ji decided that he would now prepare
for the civil services. With this dream, Pandey Ji
rented a room in Ber Sarai. Where aeroplanes flew over
your head, every now and then.

But call it his bad luck or his destiny, Pandey Ji
could not pass any of these. Then he heard of the IT
revolution – the way young Indian software
professionals made it big in the Silicon Valley. In no
time, he enrolled himself in one of the software
training institutes and would often visit some of his
‘successful friends’ who had carved out a niche for
themselves in the software industry.

Early in the morning, Pandey Ji would travel in a bus
to the institute and spend rest of the day, brooding
over Oracle and C++. Meanwhile, he applied for
positions in various organisations and even attempted
to walk in during various walk-in interviews. But
nothing happened. He did not get a job. Frustrated
after receiving answers like ‘We will get back to
you’, Pandey Ji went into a bar one evening. It was
evening and as the sun began to set, dust storms rose
and the clouds turned grey. By the time Pandey Ji had
settled in the bar, it started pouring heavily. He
ordered large Rum and time slipped away. People came
and went away, but Pandey Ji remained seated as empty
glasses piled up on his table.

It was in the bar towards the night, when suddenly
someone called ‘Priya’ and Pandey Ji turned around. A
family was sitting for dinner. In a heavy Sari, Priya,
the love of his life, was turning her eyes over the
menu. He got up, struggling to support himself on his
feet. He walked towards her. ‘A sweet corn soup...’
she was about to complete it, when Pandey Ji held her
wrist. The man sitting opposite Priya, probably her
husband, rose and punched him on his face. He landed
on the floor with a thud. His head banged against a
table. A bone china plate kept on it crashed into
pieces. The Guards rushed in, caught him and threw him
out. 

Pandey Ji was drenched in rain. He could not see
anything. He boarded a bus and got down at the last
bus stop. He had reached the Nehru Place Bus terminal.
He lay there for sometime, shivering under a tin roof.
When the rain stopped, it was already night. The
traffic on the road outside the terminus had lessened
to a large extent. He took the road towards the Kalka
Ji temple. He was hungry and ate some morsels of food
outside the temple, folding his hands again and again
in uncertain reverence.

Pandey Ji touched his nose and saw blood oozing from
it. He thought of himself. What had happened to him?
He tried to see himself in a poodle of water. Rugged
hair. Bloodshot eyes. Torn lips. And a bleeding nose.
He smiled. ‘Life is a Diode’, he muttered to himself.
He looked at the bus stop. There was a box of grease
there. He dipped his finger in it. He wrote on the
yellow board, awash with rain: Sab kucch adhura reh
gaya Pandey Ji. Everything has been left incomplete
Pandey Ji.

Pandey Ji decided that Delhi was just not meant for
him. He went back to Allahabad, where he started
living in the Ashram of a holy man. One of the Sadhu’s
more enterprising Bhakta, who ran a computer learning
institute in the city in the Civil Lines area,
recognised Pandey Ji’s capabilities and employed him.
Pandey Ji, it has been learnt, taught students there
for six months. 

One of Pandey Ji’s successful batch mates tells us
that he is back in Delhi now; teaching Computer
engineering architecture to a bunch of students in a
computer institute. By the time, this story was
written, Pandey Ji had written a mail to his friend,
telling him about a job opportunity that existed in a
reputed computer organisation, that he could clench if
he managed to show some technical projects to them.
Below the mail, as a footnote, he had written: Life is
a Diode.


 


Rahul Pandita 
  www.sanitysucks.blogspot.com
  Mobile: 9818088664



		
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