"Many things in the life, say."

Recovering from a sudden and completely debilitating fever (it happens here) I have a distinctly euphoric feeling of re-entering the land of living after coming out of an Indian illness. With my emerging new-found love for life and opening senses I notice that the heat has subsided, and a couple of days away from the tabla has only re-invigorated my interest in the instrument. During the afternoons I practice in my room with my friend Prabhu's daughter, Kritika, who draws next to me with my pens. It's not that she is more tolerant of the repetitive drumming (well, she is), but she is deaf and dumb - a sharp young girl who cannot speak or hear in a city without sign language. Prabhu has looked for special schools or teachers to help her learn to communicate by signing, but so far his efforts have gone unrewarded and she lives in a mute world in Varanasi. So Kritika and I often spend our afternoons together with Lucky, a tiny puppy that her brother brought in off the street (truly lucky), in a copacetic arrangement as I tap out the familiar rhythms on my drums.


I have known this family for almost six years now, and have come to love each of them for different reasons. The father was a well-respected criminal lawyer in Varanasi before he retired, the mother a wonderfully strong yet sweet matriarch in the family, Muna and Prabhu are their sons, with each of their wives and collective five children constantly buzzing around the house and chirping in Hindi at each other. Prabhu and Muna have become good friends of mine over the years, Muna more reflective and philosophical (and also my tabla teacher), and Prabhu always hatching new schemes with a more fly-by philosophy on life. Prabhu is actually one of the funnier people I know, with endless stories that take such random and dramatic twists I can't help but laugh out loud. Take for instance, the evening we were talking about the Mughalsarai train station.


"Oh, Mughalsarai, very bad place, say. One time I spend one night in Mughalsarai police station. But I was very lucky, very lucky. Police only hang me for ten minutes before my mother came, say."

And me, spluttering the sip of water I was just taking, "Yes, yes, very lucky, Prabhu! The police only hung you for ten minutes. What are you talking about?"

"It was very crazy. Police arrest me and my friends, say. We were drinking, playing cards in the house, and they barged in the door, say. They put bags over our heads, took us outside and put us in the car, but how long can you sit with bag over your head? Not very long! So I take bag off and see, 'Ah, we're going to Mughalsarai! Oh no, very bad place!' And one policeman was my uncle, but he doesn't recognize me because the bag's over my head. So I tell him, say, 'Sir, you are my uncle! You know my father!' But he just tells me everyone says these things, so I am quiet."

"So you uncle didn't recognize you?" I ask incredulously.

"Well, not my uncle. Cousinsisterbrother's son. But STILL my family, he should know me. So then I'm in the jail, say. I hear my friends in the other room where police are interrogating them... very long time, more than ten minutes. They ask them, 'Where are the machine guns?' They think we are mafia!" Here he starts giggling, and for emphasis, "they think we are MAFIA!" Again gigling. "Then I tell one many who is coming in and out of the jail to visit his friend, 'Call my parents, tell them I am here!' But this man is very stupid man. I think Muslim. Very stupid man. He tell me, 'I can't remember your number.' So I write it on my shirt and slip it through the bars. 'Please call my parents!' But this man, so stupid, he says he doesn't know how, says he can't do it. No phones. Very stupid. So I have to wait for another visitor to call my parents, it took a very long time! Then my turn comes. Policeman takes me into questioning. Hangs me by my hands, behind my back, say, and asks, 'where are the machine guns!' (giggling). But I was very lucky, say, after ten minutes my mother walked in. I only had hanging for ten minutes, my friends had much worse. Mughalsarai very bad place, very bad! But many things in the life, say."

Despite being the son of a criminal lawyer (and cousinsisterbrothernephew of a police officer), Prabhu has many such stories. Some about running for his life during the communal Hindu-Muslim riots, one about a very ill-concieved scam that landed him and his friends in Bihar at the hands of a murderous mob. He's an incredible story teller with even more incredible stories to tell, each of which always end up with some all-inclusive, general summary that makes everything ok. "But many things in the life, say." In any case, one of many moments, many stories, where I look out over this city and marvel at the intertwined lives and how different human existence can be for so many different people, and all I can do is shake my head.