Adieu Mangalore

About two decades back, as a school boy, I had passed through this city a couple of times, to the temple of Mookambika, then once to the ladies hostel of Kasturba Medical College, Manipal, where my cousin was a student. I vaguely remember a beautiful girl who got into the bus during one of those journeys. She, along with her family, boarded the bus from a place where lush green fields astride, in sharp contrast, the jet black asphalted road. I fantasized that we would fall in love with each other and live happily ‘till death do us part’. I don’t say that she was haughty - I want to maintain some objectivity you know - she was not. But she didn’t even bother to have a look at me at all despite my all- the- way- drooling. Yup, such a connoisseur of beauty I was even at that age. Sorry for beating around the bush. Ah! The female of the species, such huge distractions they cause.

Never would I have imagined then, may be too young to think about career and such stuff, that one day I would find myself in love with this city. It was a call from a friend during one of my ‘out-of-work-and-at-home’ stints that directed me to Mangalore. After the first visit that lasted for two days, interview and formalities, I was told that I would be informed to join soon. Then, there wasn’t any reply for sometime. After a month or so I got a call from them asking me to join immediately.


So I backpacked and left home for Mangalore by Parasuram Express one evening. That night I stayed in a lodge where I had stayed when I came for the interview. Next day I joined the office and was provided accommodation at the company’s apartment along with a couple of others. Thus began my sojourn in Mangalore on 10th March 2008.


I stayed in the apartment for the first few months before finding a room for myself. It was quite fun staying there, but then something was missing. And with the help of a colleague I found a room in a secluded, calm place and moved in. In the new room I fall asleep listening to the screeching crickets and wake up to the symphony of chirping birds. My room was in ground level and on the first floor stayed a retired Engineer from BSNL and his wife, who became Uncle and Aunty later, the only other occupants in the compound. Ah the Mango Payasam they gave me last time, heavenly!


Wherever I go there are two places that fascinate me more than anything else; bookshops and bars. For the first few months I was clueless where the bookstores were. Bars were everywhere, but bookshops I couldn’t find. Then I was told about one. I went there to buy a copy of ‘The Curious Incident of a Dog in the Night Time’ and ended up buying ‘The Reluctant Fundamentalist’ by Mohsin Hamid. I got ‘Curious…’ as they had promised, later. Both were excellent reads. After the initial visits I stopped going there. The owner, a middle aged stout gentleman with rosy chubby cheeks, was enthusiastic about books. But there was a fundamental difference between us. My idea of a book has nothing to do with the so called self help books. And for him books meant only that; ‘how to be a dash dash’ books. But thankfully there were enough well stocked bookshops in the city other than that one.

I didn’t inform Rathnakar that I would be leaving, probably I wouldn’t. Okay, you don’t know Rathnakar. He is a waiter at The Food Palace, a bar near to my office. There are a lot of other waiters in the 20 plus bars and one pub I visited who are quite friendly.But this man deserves special mention for he once joined me in my search for the ‘lost’ key. Time was around 9.30, I had paid the bill and was about to leave the bar when I found the key of my room missing. Watching my frantic search under the table, chair, table cloth… he came and asked what happened. As soon as I told him he joined the search, but it was all in vain. After that I asked his name; ‘nimma hesiru yenu?’ And he replied Rathnakar. Cursing myself for losing the key, I headed to my room. Uncle had closed the gate. The athlete in me took control of the situation and I found myself inside the compound. There, there…ah my joy knew no bounds! The door was just latched and on it were the lock and key, winking and smiling.


What’s it that come to your mind when you think of Mangalore. Has it got anything to do with violence, a group of men chasing and hitting girls? It was a blot on an otherwise tolerant and liberal city’s image. No, I’m not ignoring the communal tensions. It’s there, believe me. But still, the city has a humane side. People are more concerned, at least in comparison with other cities. Not that I’ve lived in a lot of cities, but I did enough to sense the goodness of Mangalore. But the pub attack was a blow. (I recently saw the pub, Amnesia, closed now, where it all happened). Mangalore all of a sudden became everybody’s favourite whipping boy and was portrayed viciously and with contemptuous wrath. A certain Mr. Muthalik became the ‘darling of damsels’ overnight and chaddis rained in Mangalore, pink in colour. Whenever I went back to my hometown, I felt that peoples’ interest in me had exceeded all my expectations. I was dragged into discussions about the pub attack even by those I barely knew. I doused all their curiosity and interest by brushing it off as ‘media hype.’ Let me reiterate, I’m in no way justifying or trying to brush the incident under the carpet. I had indulged in a heated exchange of words with a colleague of mine over this when he justified the attack. But, this city has a lot more to it, to be highlighted than, of course the highly condemnable, pub attack.

There are a lot more to be zeroed in on. The culture, the festivals, pristine beaches, delicacies especially seafood, cockfighting, the felling of hundreds of trees including sprawling banyans in the name of road widening…But I feel a lump in my throat. I know everything is transitory, and it is just another phase, and change is the only constant, but still…

Mangalore is changing rapidly. I’ve seen it from close quarters during my 21 months-long stay here. Malls are coming up everywhere. Traffic is becoming chaotic. But still I hope the city will retain its character despite a thousand and one challenges. I may not be able to love any city the way I loved Mangalore. I may not get a chance to come back and settle down here. I may end up in soulless cities acquiring their characteristics. I may get lost forever in concrete mazes. But still, along with home this city provides a beacon of hope to me for lifestyle here still suits to my laidback attitude.

When I began I didn’t think that I would end up this piece in this manner, but some where along I got so mushy mushy and all. Adieu Mangalore.

An Appeal

These precarious games we play thinking that words are all that matter, this never ending conundrum, I’ve a feeling that this will cost us dearly. Where are you? Where am I? I can’t find either you or me in these labyrinths of blame games. My friend, we have been hijacked by words. Mighty, ruthless bamboozlers are they. Please try to understand. They were just pretending that they were at our service. See what happened now? We have been held hostages. Can’t you see that they roll over the floor laughing every time we go for each other’s jugular? I’m ashamed to make use of their service, that too after all these. But see, once again… I wish a time will come when we find solace and music in our silence rather than disturbance and cacophony. Peace, till then.

Fragmented thoughts of a demented soul

“Nothing happens, nobody comes, no body goes, it’s awful”, perhaps one of the best lines that captures ennui in all its horror. I’m tired of the way things go; I’m tired of my ways of thinking. So stale it has become that nothing fresh comes out. ‘Take a break and wander’ says someone from deep inside. Nopes, too lazy to do that. I no longer believe in lasting happiness provided by others. Perhaps I’m too proud to admit that someone can just shatter me by their indifference, insensitive behaviour or lack of concern.

There was a time moods got changed so drastically that I used to think that I had bipolar disorder. Even now, sometimes I burst with energy and experience ecstasy. Despair no longer shakes me the way it used to. Even drinking has become kind of boring. It would’ve been great to sip rum sitting alone in a corner of my favourite watering hole after the end of a hectic week. But when there’s a slump I prefer to drink to overcome boredom. Now the routine itself has become boring.


“Suicide is an act of man and not of the animal. It’s a meditated act, a non-instinctive unnatural choice” says Italo Calvino. There was a time I walked around scattering such ‘borrowed wisdom.’ No longer. Even the other day I came across with that; my colleague’s husband. He didn’t wait for the bell to toll for him. Four pegs of Royal Stag Whiskey that night, an effort to shrug off the pall of gloom or my excuse to get drunk? No idea. And that person was sitting nearby, the one who is obsessed with the phrase ‘at the end of the day’. Last time he was sitting next to my table and was peppering each of his sentences with an ‘at the end of the day’ in his yellow voice. But fortunately, this time I was at a safe distance. Life teaches, life is the ultimate teacher. Across continents, decades back, in a certain market place a teenager named Florentino Ariza stalked Fermina Daza wondering why no one else’s heart fluttered the way his did at the sight of her. Oh! My…


I had thought myself as an existential hero on the lines of many Malayalam novels that herald modernism and which I devoured religiously as a teenager. Once, while talking, a friend opined how fortunate he was to have read ‘Catcher in the Rye’ and ‘The Fountainhead’ quite late in life. ‘Otherwise they would’ve fucked up my brain and ruined my life irreparably’, quipped he.


I’ve things to do. But I’m terribly de-motivated at the moment. Laziness bogs me down. Books get piled upon my table with ‘A House for Mr.Biswas’ being the latest. How much I longed, how eager I was to finish anything and everything by Naipaul as I was taken to ‘A Bend in the River’ just like the proverbial duck to water, a few months back. “THE WORLD IS WHAT IT IS.” What an opening line! And that promptly ushered me in. Hopeless romantics lay your hands on it if you haven’t yet, you may get cured. Naipaul, they say, has a cynical worldview. I think it needs to be changed slightly, to clinical. ‘The past doesn’t exist. It’s not an entity; it’s just your memories. Trample upon your past.’ That’s Indar’s advice to Salim. Can’t help thinking of Osho.

What’s it that I’m trying to do by putting it across the blogosphere risking ridicule? What it’s all about? Some may attribute it to inflated ego, psychic disorder, lethargy… ‘How fragile’, some may exclaim. Perhaps one or two may find it even interesting.

Today, as I was coming down from the third floor after having breakfast, the lift, yes the same ‘male lift’, closed in with a “tupa-tupa” as soon as I entered, yes, the very first sound one hears at the beginning of the song ‘buffalo soldiers.’


I know where happiness lies. But knowing alone doesn’t help. Perseverance is the key, the willingness to stretch oneself beyond. “Overcome thyself”, urges Nietzsche. But there are black holes, trying to gobble me down. “It’s no small art to sleep: it’s necessary for that purpose to keep awake all day.” I walk around during day time half asleep, pretending to work, and lose sleep at night, during those unearthly hours. Sometimes it’s
dreams that intrigue me. Indecipherable and unexplainable are they. Of the dream I had last night a name remains, ‘Kuppan Paappan’. I don’t know who’s that. It was a part of the sentence written on a wall in Malayalam that means “doesn’t Kuppan Paappan know that everyone will die”?

It’s one of my wishes to hover down on a feminist while she reads ‘Zorba the Greek.’ It will be great to watch her expressions change without batting an eyelid. When I said this to the friend who consider himself fortunate for not having read ‘Catcher…and ‘The Fountain… early in life he nodded in agreement with great interest. But all he wanted was to know their opinion, scrutinizing facial expressions he didn’t seem to believe in. Sane he is, I guess.

I used to smoke a lot. At one point in time I smoked two packets ‘wills’ a day. It had its toll on me, later. Still, I smoked occasionally. But nowadays, it’s come to an end, forever, I think. Zorba’s father, ‘who smoked like a chimney’ stopped it instantly annoyed at his annoyance for forgetting to take tobacco to work. It was then I saw someone overcoming himself with such great conviction.


Change, I need it so badly. It’s killing me slowly, this predictable cycle, my animal like existence. I need to get back to life with a lot of energy. I need to take myself beyond the ‘killing zones of comfort.’ Silence is golden; I’m talking about the silence one feels in one’s mind. A total absence of clamour. But often my mind is a battlefield “where ignorant armies clash by night”. And hence I know how precious it’s to have a calm, balanced mind. For sometimes, though rarely, I reach that blissful state.