Pranav Kumar is:
a) An advertising executive.
b) An aspiring writer.
c) An anarchist.
d) A fugitive from the Mumbai Police.
e) All of the above.
Pranav Kumar has had enough. He's sick and tired of being a corporate drone convincing people that their lives are meaningless without the newest product he's peddling. He hates that commercialism is the new mantra and that people actually believe that you are what you own. Pranav Kumar wants to change the world.
But how does one man make a whole country question the way we are when no one is interested in listening?
Pranav and his frinds decide to capture the eyeballs of the nation and shake up the system. Their methods are unorthodox, their message unique. They take over a TV station, expose an environmental scam, strike out at patrons of brothels, sabotage a glitzy fashion show and paint-bomb a local train.
But as the Anarchists of Mumbai ignite sparks of a much larger movement, they realize that doing good comes at a price, that the means are as important as the ends, and that being hunted by the Mumbai Police is perhaps better than being hunted by contract killers.
Bold, fresh and darkly comic, The Diary of an Unreasonable Man is an exceptional debut.
Cover design by The Grafiosi
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE DIARY OF AN UNREASONABLE MAN
Madhav Mathur is a banker by day and a writer–film-maker by night. He divides his time between Delhi, his hometown, and Singapore, where he lives and works. He means well but doesn’t sound like it.
THE DIARY OF AN
UNREASONABLE MAN
Madhav Mathur
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
UK | Canada | Ireland | Australia
New Zealand | India | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
This collection published 2009
Copyright © Madhav Mathur 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-143-06813-6
This digital edition published in 2016.
e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75157-4
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For my Baba and Nana.
Thank you for sharing your love of the written word with me.
I miss you both.
‘The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.’
—George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman
CONTENTS
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
2. THE BEGINNING
3. THANK YOU FOR THE COFFEE
4. IF ROADSIDES WERE BEACHES
5. REVERIE
6. THE FIRST ALTERNATIVE
7. THE PUBLISHERS
8. STEEL OUT OF A LIFE OF LARD
9. REMEMBER WHEN THEORY MET ACTION?
10. INCEPTION
11. DUNG CITY
12. THERE IS SUCH A THING AS GOOD TELEVISION
13. THE FIRE PRIOR
14. JAMES BROWN KNOWS THAT I FEEL GOOD
15. GREEN IS THE COLOUR OF LOVE
16. THE AFTERGLOW
17. BUILDING MY ‘CAR’MA
18. TOXIC VEHICLE
19. THE KHAKI CONFESSIONAL
20. RETRIBUTION
21. FROM THE STREET UP
22. DOUBT
23. A MODEL SOLUTION
24. SOME REUNIONS ARE BEST AVOIDED
25. THE SILO
26. MY FAVOURITE CELL
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Avanija, my supportive and gutsy editor, and Pushkar, my cover designer and good friend, who’ve given The Diary of an Unreasonable Man its final form. I would also like to thank Rachna, my resourceful and creative publicist. Thanks are also due to my sister Shivani for her patience and honesty, my parents and Dadima for their guidance, and, of course, my friends for tolerating me. A very special thank you to Anurag Kashyap for all his support and for his generous praise for the book.
1. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
This could have been a good ride. This could even have been perfect. But the knife-like elbows of my neighbour, digging into my sides, coupled with his inordinate love for flatulent indiscretions made it otherwise. Almost half the compartment turned to glare at him. He smiled sheepishly and twiddled his thumbs. They were opposable, I checked.
I watched the people who shared the moving tin box with me. My fellow sardines, mildly salted for the vicious piranhas that they worked for. Expressways were jammed with more worker ants crawling over each other to begin their day’s labour. Familiar sights that had now become associated with getting to work adorned the ever-changing canvas that was our compartment window. The same trio of children taking a dump on the side of the tracks, the same girl fighting in various degrees of agitation to board our iron ark, the same billboard in disrepair, I knew them all. I had made them an important part of my day today, even though there weren’t any piranhas waiting for me. Not any more.
Looking around at the people in the compartment with me I was struck by how dejected and morose some of them looked. Bored faces, mirrors of minds dulled by repetition, sat before me, staring. Some were barely awake, looking out of the window expectantly. A few were lost in their dreams, holding on desperately to those five extra minutes of sweet vital slumber. Others read the morning paper, the ‘V’ of their eyebrows pointed in an air of distinguished concentration as they strained their eyes to read the articles before them, looking for anecdotes that would serve as fodder for their lunchtime discussions and bitching sessions.
Every person seemed to have his own planet to save and everyone’s world was close to crumbling. A sea of a million Atlases in office attire, lined the walls. Blue shirt, white shirt, pink shirt, white shirt … Bag, bag, bag. It was an undulating monotony of pigments differing from one another only slightly. They swayed gently, like a cheesy Republic Day demonstration with hundreds of young people waving cuttings of fabric, as the characteristic tremble of the carriage rocked us all to the same song.
There were schoolchildren chattering endlessly to my left. The more ill-behaved ones chose to play a game of hide-and-seek in the middle of the compartment, screaming, teasing each other, using other passengers as pillars to hide behind. The rather large lady in front of me tried shaking them off. The little gentleman engulfed in the drapes of her sari was undeterred. He found her to be his best and most effective means for concealment. We all watched as the little marauders kept themselves busy. Their disgruntled parents seemed to have given up on order. They sat scratching themselves, waiting for the next stop, much like proud lions wallowing in their magnificence on one of those National Geographic shows. Watching their regal offspring make short work of the surroundings. This was their kingdom, was it not?
A few seats down, young women on their way to college sported the latest in trendy campus wear. I’ve never understood fashion, never quite been on the cutting edge of glamour myself. I don’t understand the need to blend in yet stand out and all that carefully crafted drivel. These days a nose ring, hair colour or tattoo expresses who we are. It’s pointless to argue because Rohit Bal said so.
I had a couple of choices back then.
I could easily have become the dejected Devdas, Saratchandra’s immortal character, the embodiment of unrequited love, the figurehead of a life wasted, drowning my woes in alcohol. A cigarette and booze-totting spokesman for surrender introducing my only two friends Philip, Philip Morris, and Glen, Glenfiddich to one and all.
Abandoned by hope and joy, I would be destroyed by disease and dissipation. I would have spent the better part of my days building cigarette butt Stonehenges in the middle of my drawing room wasteland, monuments to commemorate and celebrate my nothingness.
Or, I could have chosen to become like the loud, energetic, hormonally driven ‘worldly’ white boy, a desi Stiffler straight out of a Mumbai version of the American Pie trilogy. Chasing skirts and living in the moment. Accepting the superficiality of my existence and doing all that I could to juice it and extract a shallow momentary sense of happiness.
But that too was not for me. I needed more.
I couldn’t be defined by past failings or by the much-touted ‘moment’. People of note often talk about the ‘moment’ and all the potential it has. To me, if you live in the moment, you’re likely to waver in terms of purpose and meaning. Call me foolish, but I needed something larger in my life, something to live and die for. I needed a plan. Sure you do what you have to in the moment, but it should all add up to something larger. I was tired of merely feeling strongly about the things around me. I wanted to act for my cause. I could no longer walk in circles, pontificate, pay rent, buy cheese and resume my romp in the endless arc.
I wondered how many faces in front of me stopped to think about what they were doing and why. More importantly, what or who was making them do that.
Fortunately for me the choice had already been made. It became clearer to me as the days went by. Justified and clarified by life’s ‘fuck you’ quality. With billboard-like visibility and hypnotic recall value.
I had decided about a year ago that my life had to mean more. That the drive and idealism of my schooldays would not die.
I quit my job.
Beethoven’s 9th became louder and I couldn’t contain my excitement as the train slowed down by the platform. Hawkers fried tikkis outside. Kids ran along the platform with the train. People pushed and shoved to position themselves for the optimum angle of approach to dive into the carriage. Fruit-juice sellers were peddling their jaundice, as magazine men palmed off the intricate details of film stars’ chinaware. The station was untamed and alive.
‘Dadar Central,’ the electronic woman said over the intercom.
I got up and started for the exit, crowds of people were entangled in an uncontrollable mass now, pressed into each other near the doors. I squeezed out and started walking. It was right on time. Of course, I had accounted for the four-minute delay that crept into the system every morning.
The bomb went off with a thunderous clap.
The compartment shook violently as the thick liquid made its way in every direction, plastering everything and everyone. Fountains of paint flew angrily and the screams that surrounded me grew louder as I walked away calmly. Some of the glass panes gave way and fell out behind me.
‘Bomb!’
‘Fuck! It’s a bomb!’
‘Oh god, it’s a bomb!’
‘Get out! Get out!’
‘Run!’
‘Get the hell out now!’
A flurry of shouted commands bounced around liberally garnished with expletives. Ironically, the sounds of the expletives mingled with the screams of people calling out to god. To each his own, I guess.
The smile became hard to contain now. Ear to ear, they could’ve clicked me for a corny toothpaste commercial, had I not pulled out a cigarette and lit it in celebration. Leaflets flew all over the place, as though it were raining paper behind me.
A chaos ensued as men and women examined themselves for wounds. Taken by surprise, some cried as they couldn’t believe what was happening. A couple of men ran out shrieking. Some held back others in protective gestures of heroism. No one was hurt. Shocked and anguished they crawled out of the compartment, covered in my favourite blue, mixing with the dirt and muck that encases and embellishes most of our train stations.
‘Am I dead? Am I dead!’
‘Calm down, sir, please …’
The paint had spread evenly all over. Wiping the emulsion of tears and paint from their faces crowds of startled men and women huddled together. Cries got louder as the police reached the scene. The window of the carriage was smeared with paint, accidental modern art. The shirts too were now all the same colour. A mother held her children tightly as they wept in her arms. A despondent-looking man stood staring at the ground, shaking in tears.
A stream of Persian blue flowed out from the compartment, forming mini tributaries that crept forward. A man followed it out, sticking to the ground, paranoia marking his face. The crowds that had lined the sides of the compartment had backed up. The only people reluctantly coming to their aid were the brave men in uniform at the station. A hysterical lady was flung out at their feet by the impatient mob.
‘Are you hurt, ma’am? Can you breathe?’ they frantically enquired.
Not many could hear them, the blast had blocked out their capacity to hear. It was like a forced sense of clarity, demanding attention towards only the sights around them.
‘No one seems to be injured, sir; they are all in shock …’
‘What about this glass?’
‘It’s from the train window …’
‘Get me a fucking doctor!’
The havaldar followed orders and stepped away from the fray to ask for a medic, only to be interrupted by his boss.
‘Is this blue chemical poisonous? Get on it! Find out if this stuff is poisonous …’ enquired the horrified senior officer as he cupped his mouth and nose in sudden desperation.
The woman he was comforting began trembling even more now, her eyes were bloodshot and her mouth was wide open.
‘Ambulances are on their way, ma’am, please don’t worry …’
‘Please stand back, secure the area, I want everyone searched and checked.’
‘Fucking terrorists, what kind of new trick is this now?’
The men who had shrieked earlier, pushing women and children aside to clear their passage for escape, now donned quixotic enthusiasm and stepped forward.
‘Terrorists! Goddam terrorists!’
‘Why won’t they leave us alone?’
They gave speeches and pointed fingers.
Everyone had so much to say. To be heard over the noise, in a concise, clear and memorable way, you need skill. You need a strong and consistent ‘campaign’. Unfortunately too many people believe that you need to take lives in order to be taken seriously. That was not my intention. I choose not to slay, merely to remind and reform. To shake us and to crack through the seemingly impervious membrane that engulfs us in our disgustingly elaborate acquired zones of comfort. I was never going to hurt anyone.
Half the things I did would have been attributed to Osama and his mama hiding in the Bahamas. That’s why I left them the leaflets.
They fluttered around until people gained their senses and picked them up. It was a beautiful sight. I paused for a moment to make sure they realized who it was from.
An old blue man lifted the paper and began reading.<
br />
I thought a simple title like ‘Your Score’ would be sufficiently dramatic.
This is how it read on what was meant to be the front:
Your Score
This near-death experience was brought to you by the
Anarchists of Mumbai.
What if this was really the end?
What if this explosion had ended your life?
What if this had been your last journey?
Start anew.
Clean Yourself.
Love and prayers,
Your Anarchists
The old man flipped the piece of paper over slowly.
We are all headed in the same direction.
Quit the magazines. Forget your television.
Re-evaluate!
You are not a consumer, citizen.
You are not a statistic.
Think about what you do.
Think about your reasons.
Love and prayers,
Your Anarchists
They caught on. A policeman reading over the old man’s shoulder yelled.
‘It’s the Anarchists again!’
He bent down to pick up another leaflet and read it again. He then looked back at the crowd of people soaked in paint. He shook his head furiously and started running towards the crowd, shouting out to his men.
‘Seal off the exits; no one gets out of the station!’
It was time to leave.
Every month, there’d be a new Reader’s Digest magazine delivered at my doorstep. The cover, without fail, would boast of intriguing, inspiring tales of shark attacks, grizzly bear assaults and light-aircraft-related near-death experiences. These experiences changed the lives of the people writing in. Would there be one titled ‘I thought I was going to die in a train compartment’ next month? We sure hoped so.
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