Tolstoy in Belgaum
I had a hostel room on the second floor overlooking a deserted yard. At some distance, beyond a ditch, what appeared to be a straight street had a few lamps flickering in the night. Lying on my bed at night, I often heard voices discussing cattle and sheep down below my window. I wondered what had necessitated these men to hold such parleys, so regularly. On holidays the hostel was mostly empty. I walked every day to Thilakwadi where a new ice-cream parlor had come up. Mostly an empty road and you saw only a scooter or a public bus now and then pass by. Walks were very nice and refreshing. It was even more interesting when it rained. Often I came back late at night to the empty hostel. For the purpose of economy and trouble of maintenance - bulbs in the corridors were never replaced. Sometimes I had to walk up the stairs in pitch darkness, guided by the walls. While I stumbled along to open the lock, I always feared that someone could be hiding behind the doors like in a thriller novel. It was about three decades ago, and my memory has faded. I am only half sure, but few things still linger fresh in my mind.
At the end where the railway tracks crossed the road, there was a library with a copy of Tolstoy's War and Peace. I had heard so much about Tolstoy in school, when I saw it I was overjoyed. The book was the librarian's reason for existence or raison d'être, like the French say. So I thought, going by the look on his face once I asked him for the copy. He gave me the book under protest. I took it to the first floor and would read it everyday sitting at a sprawling teak table that ran the whole length of the floor. He came under many pretexts to ensure it was safe with me. It took him a month to get over his anxiety. I didn't understand the novel much in the beginning; Well, throughout. I added so much of my own to the story as a result, now I am all confused whether what I know is what Tolstoy wrote. Whoever came close looked at me with a suspicion and that only increased my resolve. After a few days I bought a small pocket dictionary. It was so little, I could have auctioned it for a million USD if I had kept it until now. Slowly, I started understanding it more and more.
War and Peace was a huge book. It was as fresh as newly bought. No one had read it there. Librarian came and showed me how to keep the book on the table and turn the pages (so as not to spoil it). He felt ashamed later and made it appear like the part of his duty as government employee acting in the interest of the nation. On Sundays the library would be mostly empty. In that empty large hall, sitting all alone across the large table ranging the wall, I often imagined myself as Tolstoy's heroes. I was in Moscow at the palaces and mansions in some Russian villages. I was invited to parties of the rich, spoke with most beautiful princess in French over a drink standing behind majestic pillars. I wanted to own a palace like those guys with so many balconies and gaze at the sinking sun or the rising moon. My host count Benzuhov (Maybe prince Andrey, but this count is exclusively my friend) was happy to see my carriage coming in pulled by magnificent black stallions. Owning a horse like Prince N and riding it around my village looked fascinating. How happy my parents would be to see me like that! It was not right for Andrey to presume things and act so insensitive. I was upset with this man. He wanted to leave his pregnant wife with his father and go and kill himself in the war for honor. I thought Pierre (not sure if that's his name), the illegitimate son of some count, was more considerate and wise. Sure he was caught in the wrong circle of friends. Most frustrating was when I had to look up the dictionary in a row. I had just seen that word a little while ago. Often it would be when Natasha or Natalia had told me things that were full of meanings and hinting at a possible rendezvous. As it was, it was hell complicated even if it were in my own mother tongue. Added to that were the names of people; count Ivanoenckzavich(?). Hello, couldn't Russians name their children with easier names?
Belgaum in the late eighties was a quaint town. There were two eat outs and a dental clinic at the cross. It was about a kilometer walk. On Sundays I went there for brunch and dinner. I had carried my father's old unused Philips radio with me. He won it in a lottery at central bus stand Sirsi, my hometown. The lottery was won on my mom's name. That radio with white front and blue borders always fascinated me. I had seen my dad changing the batteries; he unscrewed the back of the radio with an old copper coin. This radio now stood next to the reading lamp on my table. At night, I tuned in to radio BBC and some strange international stations - Russian, Arabic, or some other. Anyone looking at me then would have thought either I was born a native of Russia or simply mad. I loved it. For hours I listened staring at patches of light on roof, lying on my bed, lost in discussions with the characters of War & Peace.
For the sum of INR 320, the official college mess served us two unlimited meals—one at 10 in the morning, and dinner started at 7 PM. Month end Sundays many juniors went hungry for want of cash for they learned to control expenses only in their advanced years. The canteen was run by two brothers Shyam and Krishna. Nice guys; Sometimes due to banking delays if we could not pay in time, they gave us a credit. Shyam parted his hair in the middle, hoping to look like Amir Khan, but he was older and had a small paunch unlike Khan. Because Shyam asked for money they owed, students said his younger brother was a better administrator. When the power went off, a gaslight was lit and placed in the center of the hall. Only Shyam knew how to start it but he spilled much of the kerosene on the floor and blamed the assistant. The lantern-like lamp had a hand pump and hissed loud. You could hardly hear anything. Then it felt like you ate chapathi and rice with kerosene. Smell clung to our shirts also and often when this happened I walked for a while in the open air before going into the room. Next day I was constantly looking out in the class if anyone sniffed kerosene.
I had a few friends who walked with such an easy air about themselves, as if they were here on holidays. One of them was a big fan of Michael Jackson. Being a student of engineering using his skills he had made a stereo system with two mud pots and a Walkman. I heard the English songs for the first time in this engineering marvel. According to him he was very a creative and talented guy forced by fate to study engineering. His room mates testified to this. I still believe he had serious talent but in engineering itself. Like me he was caught in the being different loop. Another only son of a rich farmer was always at the cinema theaters. He had once got a bag full of hard cash totaling 50,000. It was a huge sum those days. He lived on that fortune for many months, dining well, rising late and drinking crates of beer and staying in hotels of ill repute for weeks. He thought by talking to me he cleaned up his sins. No one wanted to be dead caught in his company. I was curious to know as he was not bad otherwise like he never shot a guy dead. He in fact helped few poor students and encouraged them to read. I know this because few of them came to my room quoting him as reference. They were advised to take me as an ideal. Our warden came to know about his adventures and expelled him.
Gogte college was an ancient building with wooden staircases on either side. The principal in a full suit prowled about the corridor with a stick in hand. Our college had pretty girls wrapped in highest fashion and as a result attracted crowd of students from engineering college which had very few girls. Our commerce boys were angry with engineering as some of the prettiest girls were too friendly with engineering students as they saw brighter prospect. To bridge this injustice they had approached the college principal. I was too afraid and shy to approach any girl. My monthly allowance could not afford befriending a girl; so I thought. In the beginning I attended all the classes, later however I found the library more interesting. Prof G B Naik was someone you did not want to miss, though. He taught management and told us upfront that the textbooks were good only for exams. He explained some interesting things about real business leadership, which I found more interesting. A practicing CA taught us Income Tax. He came in a full suit, in a black Fiat car, and drove in too fast for his age.
My best place in the entire campus was the college library. It was a new discovery for me as if I discovered a new world. I sat in a corner and read some nice looking management books. I read by the cover first. They had books on Swami Vivekananda and books by Peter Drucker whom G B Naik had talked a lot about. Seeing the personalities like that inside a volume of a book was a novel experience. Peter Drucker was on the cover of the book!. So far I knew only text books and yes novels. I sat there in corner and read. I stopped going to the classes altogether after sometime. Attendance was not a problem for me as Prof.Naik had the thing for chess. I offered to play chess with him on weekends. I was the official, unbeaten college chess champion in a row. I had beaten two university blue coats who had come to our college. This gave me the fame I was badly craving.
To my bad luck, the queen of our class came to know about my chess skills only very late. She stood either first or second, won all the inter college debates, and was invited to dance her skills Bharatha Natyam at the University of Dharwad. I told my friends at our hostel that Karishma might know about my existence. It was a mistake. My friend Michael Jackson offered to write some poetry on her. He had some experience with the girls at his home-town and he said the poetry was sure shot to girl's heart. Tolstoy could backfire so I had to hide any mention of the novel I had read. He even said he could cover the canteen bills if she agreed to the fake offer I was supposed to make. He was sharing one his most advanced tricks. Most students in my time were busy on these extracurriculars than real studies. In hindsight sometimes I feel those were the best things. He really wrote poems missing his engineering practicals. It rhymed with ry and had some complicated words. When I refused to approach the girl with the poetry he got upset and refused to come to Bogarways cross with me for a whole week. If I were not serious I should have told him earlier. He and his friends called me a coward and lacked daring. Their theory was not just girls, life itself required daring. The 'shorty' Kishor who was three rooms right to mine was friends with all the pretty girls because he had the guts.
It is strange but it used to be a cultural highpoint in our college hostel. Maybe it was a generational affliction. People who could walk on the corridors only in underwear were held in high esteem. Worse still was when you could not do, you were passed off as a coward (darpok). It took me a while but I dared the ritual. There was a strange pressure to achieve this mark. I wonder sometimes if it is not the same with the other laurels we court as real men. One day the hostel warden caught me in my underwear. He left me with a warning as I had otherwise a clean reputation. He told me that as a chess champion of the college I should set a good example. In the final year, during final exams I fell ill. For the last paper or so I was shivering with temperature. I had not eaten anything in the morning, unable to walk any further I sat outside the examination hall. Two of my neighbors, who I thought were noisy loafers wasting their dad's earnings - rushed me to the doctor, brought me some bread and offered money as it was month-end. On the last night in the hostel as we were all set to leave for good, they brought beer, cried and hugged in the corridors and played music loud. Now though drunk they appeared different. They came and hugged me in my room and sobbed recounting the days passed. They said they wanted to be like me. I told them, on the contrary, that I wanted to be a real guy like them—someone who could help people in need even when they were rude.
