There is a point in the course of life that takes you away from a childhood with no blinkers to the wondrous world around us, into an adulthood that is dead in conformism. 

The contrast is astounding. This moment there is this beautiful person who spoke of trivial things like Hindi Film Music, the cloud patterns of the day, the fun in taking the mickey out of persons in positions of power and generally being ever ready to laugh at life.

And the next thing you know he has fallen inexplicably into the melting pot of the system.

Gone are the doubts, the asides, the awareness of the foolishness of people in pursuit of success. Now he is himself an object of ridicule, a part of the melting pot. 

Like he has eagerly grabbed the blinkers.

I don’t know why that happens. Maybe in every one there is an adult lurking inside the child. Being an optimist I would believe in the opposite. The other day I was reading Shakespeare loudly to myself and why not? An attender walked in attended by a fat businessman, both of them staring at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.

That makes me wonder, when did the lowly attender transit into adulthood, and when did the prosperous businessman do the same? I have huge fun imagining that. The child attender must have been an avid little danda fan who eagerly sought to become a sport star like Gavaskar. But then very early in life he must have realised that Gavaskars in this country are made with the right connections. Gilli danda is great fun but it is cul-de-sac street. You have nowhere to go. That point of realisation comes pretty early. 

As for the businessman— his years of childhood at the carrom board and occasional forays into tennis, must have been stalled by the parent with the admonishment to man the shop where the money was flowing in through the agency of Godrej or Vimal. He must have frozen at that moment.

The attender addresses me as ‘sir’ and the Vimal man addresses me as ‘dear’. Beyond that I see no difference between the two. Both are petrified in a moment of ‘adulthood’ playing roles of ‘maturity’ though wildly different in terms of economic well being, but equally dead and uninteresting.

Turning turnip...
It does not make sense, that people grow up into patterns set by heredity and hierarchy ordained by the educational system of the country and turn out just turnips. I don’t believe in all this guff about a bad educational system. It is up to the individual to grab that which interests him and go on from there. I remember a chance meeting with a lowly employee in the Account Department of the London Transport.

We were both on a day trek on to Hampstead Heath organised by the Ramblers Club, together with a whole lot of upwardly mobile bank employees who were all huddled around the most important man among them listening to him expounding on the Bank of England interest rates.

As the stocky London Transport man trudged along with me I casually asked him about Hampshire. Maybe he read my mind and immediately started talking about Jane Austen. The little miss kept us busy all that delightful day, at the end of which, breaking out from the group we had returned to his bachelor flat for tea and more literature.

Far-sighted
He was a powerhouse on books and I asked him why he did not take teaching as a profession. “Well, this job asks nothing of me and I have all the time to myself to live life whichever way I want to.” And he was doing it grandly.

He was off to the beautiful Lake Districts next weekend. More often however one lands up with people who dry up into small talk. Like in train journeys and mandatory house visits.

I can understand why people give up into some kind of role models in the midstream of life. It almost happened to me though I had grown up learning to live with giants— the brilliant skies of Malnad, the glorious mornings and the astounding paint palettes of the all encompassing sunsets.

Then I went to England. 

The skies did not exist there or so I thought. They had smog, fog, incessant drizzle and people in grey overcoats and umbrellas passing each other with nary a smile pouring in and out of buses and tube stations. Before long I was one of them till one lazy afternoon I went playing with my land lady’s children in a council park in Tooting, the much laughed at part of London.

Having been forced on my back and needing the rest, I had unwittingly opened my visors beyond the number plates of cars, umbrellas, bill boards and traffic signs… and discovered the sky. It was I presume always there. I lay in shock. I hadn’t looked up in all the three years I had been there. And I had once lived with the skies of Malnad. I kicked myself then for ignoring one half of my life.

The process of growing up is a universal phenomenon— of forgetting totally one part, a hefty part of one’s life. I see grown up people all around me— all appear to be proud to be adults. When did they grow up? Any time. You can hardly time the occurrence. In some cases it happens at adolescence. Well, in fact some are born grown up.   

Collecting debris
The child’s mind is an uncorrupted mind. Along the ‘growing up’ way, the mind collects debris which if allowed will smother the child within. I remember one IAS officer who each time he signed looked up at the attender who would mention the date and that process repeated scores of times though the day had remained the same! 

I believe there is one way to retrieve the lost child and for that one should take the assistance of the body. Any act of communion with nature beckons back lost days— like trekking in the mountains, swimming in the sea, gliding— interestingly even golfing, for one is called upon to sight the lie of the land, the lay of the grass, the course of the winds before touching the immobile ball. The true test of the communion is that no thought outside is permitted to enter.

There is a friend who walked into my life some five years ago who looked aged beyond his years. He had undergone cardiac surgery some time ago and was told that he needed one other as otherwise he may not live longer than 6 months.

Taking a chance!
The place was the swimming pool and the raucous friends of mine talked him into getting into the water. He barely did half a lap and was totally out of breath. He did come back, more for company than the swim. And then slowly the joy of weightlessness, the soothing embrace of water, not to forget the changing skies above, caught a firm hold.

It is five years on. He swims 30 laps with ease. Even the raucousness of the friends has become addictive which rings with laughter in the changing room. The years have withered away with the debris that had piled over the child within.

So whenever you feel the deadening gathering of the moss look up at the sky— that other half of your life.