How many steps do you walk?
During the peak of the Persian empire, a royal practice took hold and it was followed rigorously by the consequent empires in the region. Every significant matter, pertaining to policies, were discussed twice – once sober and once drunk. Records were maintained meticulously for both the events. This practice might sound progressive, to use a modern word, but it basically tilts its hat at our species’ age-old association with alcohol. People often forget that alcoholic beverages are as ancient as bread. It’s no mere coincidence that despite everything, wine and beer and ilk continue to flow across geographies. Although I am committed to teetotalism, I’ve got nothing but an uneasy admiration for this bond.
Different languages have different words for the spirit of their choice. Fermentation plays a massive role in almost all of these beverages and it’s a given that they are supposed to stink during their production. To be fair to the ‘faithfuls’, there is a degree of devotion attached to this association—or addiction, depending on one’s depth of consumption—but I don’t think any language can do greater justice than Tulu. Throughout my life, the word we used at home for alcohol has been gangasara. To break down this usage, alcohol is equated with the holy river Ganga’s water: Ganga being Ganga obviously and sara is the source of water; the same root (sar) applies to places like Amritsar and Sargodha. Which might explain why my dad has never criticised gangasara even once in his entire life. Everybody else is at fault but the water that fills the glass is innocent. And holy.
Speaking of my incorrigible father, he can be difficult to communicate with. When a man crosses a stage where he doesn’t owe anyone anything anymore, he can just be himself. Zero filters. No pretence. But this doesn’t necessarily mean that he would make complete sense. Nope. On the contrary, he is bound to say stuff that would make you want to cut the call but you don’t because you are a caring son who stays miles away from home.
Me: “How many steps did you walk today?”
He: “Over 10000 steps for sure."
Me: “How do you know?”
He: “I counted.”
Speaking of which, my ajji used to say that a person should walk till their last day on earth. As far as my earliest memories go, she was always walking here and there in the farm. Lean old busy machine, she was. And true to her word, she indeed walked till her last day too. However, the tragic part is it didn’t mean that she departed peacefully. Unfortunately, she died with a lot of audible agony. Nobody could do anything for her as she started groaning in her sleep and after several loud expressions, indicating immense pain, she passed away after three in the morning. For the longest time, amma said that ajji passed away in her sleep, as poetry suggests. It was much later I got acquainted with the horrific details of her passing as people stood by her bedside—helpless. I wonder what would have happened had she not kept walking till her last day on this planet.
In a lot of cultures, blood relationship is accorded more importance. Understandably so. DNA trumps all other connections. Yet, we’d agree that there is no bigger magic than two strangers bumping into each other and building a relationship that lasts for a considerable amount of time. Just two random strangers who never knew that the other person existed in this world for the longest time and then, one day, by a stroke of coincidence, the other person becomes their world, so to speak. It’s amazing. Of course, this doesn't always have to be romantic in nature. Sometimes, a friendship lasts longer than most partnerships. Sometimes, a hug lasts longer than an orgasm. Either way, strangers proving that blood can be overrated restores my faith in the universe.
If you were a school-going student during the last millennium, you’d be aware of teachers who ordered the class to “put your head down”. Which meant that all the students were supposed to stay quiet and rest with their head placed sideways on their desks. When this activity took place, it meant two things: the class period was invalid and the teacher was tired. She mostly sought a break from the chaos of teaching little idiots. I remember being a disciplined boy who did as the teachers instructed: pressing my ear on the desk and tapping my fingertips on the desk lightly, astonished by the amplified sound playing in my echoing ear. I don’t miss those days to be honest but I do miss that agility. If I were to place my head on the desk like that today for half an hour, I’d get up with a sprained neck.
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