When legends feel vulnerable…

This anecdote is best enjoyed if you have some knowledge about the socio-economic, cultural, and political context of Pune, India, around two and a half decades ago.

Back then, Pune could still lay its claim to the sobriquet ‘Oxford of the East’ in the sense that the spurious race for academic institutions to get graded by some hyped national commission was yet to catch up. Honestly, it didn’t matter much either. Marketing of education in the modern sense was an unfamiliar territory.

On social front, Pune still had its old-world charm-those narrow lanes criss-crossing the length and breadth of the city, a select popular tea and misal (popular local snack) kattas (joints), unabashed late-night sojourns through the city, much less of cars clogging every turn as seen today, no flex and banners of ugly looking politicians and their chamchas, and of course no mobile telephony.

Basically, a greener, pristine world untouched by the ‘WhatsApp university’ intellectuals. You get the picture.

But it was certainly a cultural cauldron, with its share of true-blue intellectuals, theatre artists, writers, poets, social activists, and the like. They were an admired species, most certainly to be found at and around the serenading #FergussonCollege road and the surrounding #Deccan area.

Sadly, this space doesn’t look anything remotely like that today. In fact, these avant-garde thinkers held their courts every single day in the porticos of popular restaurants such as Hotel Rupali and Hotel Vaishali. Frequented for their South Indian fares and filter coffee. Rasam and Rice are especially served at Rupali.

It felt nothing less than a privilege to be able to share a table with them. If your people skills were above average, your suaveness could land you an entry into their circle.

As a raring to go young ‘wannabe’ in the early semesters of my degree program at Fergusson College, trying to find the right footing, I looked for ways to connect with this elite tribe, often overhearing their go-f**k yourself no-nonsense in-your-face analysis of society and its mores.

And luckily, soon enough, I got introduced to one of the scholarly souls with a Socratic persona. Vinay Hardikar. As far as I remember, he wore several hats-that of a writer, an editor, a speaker, a teacher, a social activist leading the cause of farmers’ welfare from the front, and most importantly, an avid reader. Under his ‘brief’ tutelage, I picked up some volumes of Graham Greene. Looking back, they proved to be too heavy stuff at that age for me.

Suddenly, I felt as if I had received the Midas Touch. Speaking in today’s #snapshot culture, where you instantly flaunt all your minutest achievements on every SM platform accessible, back then, you only boasted about your ‘connections’ to whomsoever was willing to listen. In today’s parlance, it was like bragging that Shashi Tharoor has coffee with you.

And my only ever sincere captive listener in those days was my somewhat docile yet loaded with sense of humour college buddy, Kaustubh Kanade. For some mysterious reason, we became a perfect fit. I believe he liked the ‘non-native’ vibe that I had acquired after travelling and residing in many cities. Our friendship was based on mutual respect. Both of us had cultivated a liking for all the little vices that look glamorous in that age. Daydreaming included.

It was then that I coaxed him into accompanying me to my evening runs to the ‘Parvati’ hill. Yes, I was on the college athletics team, and I used to do long-distance running. Blessed by a hilly terrain, the areas around Pune are ideally suited for training for long-distance events.

You see, Parvati is the hillock with its own cultural and historical importance propped up right in the midst of the city. It is a part of a ridge that runs all the way from the surrounding Western Ghats, which give Pune its pleasant climate. Alas, today this historical site is infested with unauthorized slums and construction. Pure administration apathy.

The rocky trail from the tip of this hillock swerved and sprinted through dense vegetation to two more peaks behind it. Waghjai and Taljai, respectively, are so named after the local deity.

Physical Fitness was already an obsession with a large part of the population. Even tourists, along with the regulars, used to flock to this place and test their levels of stamina and endurance.

Climbing the oddly placed flight of 103 steep stairs, going back a century in less than 3 minutes, was an unspoken gold standard. This was the only ace I had to flaunt besides my training routine.

The set evening ritual was, while I completed my miles, Vinay did his brisk walking in the woods, and later I’d join Vinay for a chit-chat and some tea. So, I wanted to be a show-off and impress Kaustubh with my new elite acquaintance.

Here’s where I played the devil. Kaustubh, if you read this, please forgive me, my friend. You see, Kaustubh was training to become a Hindustani classical singer. Of course, it would take eons to become an accomplished performer. Even he knew that.

But I guess, he too was touched by the Renaissance spirit of that period, and so only wished to come across as a sincere follower and a discerning listener.

“Vinay Hardikar is the leading figure in Pune’s literati circle, and has been a celebrated critic and thinker of our age,” I informed the awestruck Kaustubh, adding, “and an aficionado of classical music gharanas.”

The effect of my last sentence was as expected. His eyes shone brightly. It carried the sentiment ‘What more in the whole wide world does any singer want than an appreciative nod from someone who has heard the legends live in concert?’

“This could be your chance to get some profound insights from the master himself,” I innocently prodded and assured him. “He is extremely down to earth and has been so kind to help me understand complex topics.”

Though feeling humbled already, Kaustubh was all charged up for this rendezvous.

Later that day, after I finished clocking my run, I saw Kaustubh alone waiting for me. He looked unusually lost for his jovial nature. Before I could enquire about Vinay, Kaustubh spilled the beans.

After I had introduced them to each other and left, it seems Kaustubh fired a volley of questions trying to discover the wellspring of Vinay’s true genius, but not before speaking at length about his classical music journey of six months.

Notably, one remark from Kaustubh laid it all bare. “Initially, Vinay responded well, answering my curiosity with the air of an expert. Then the long explanations turned into single sentences, which soon morphed to brief pauses and finally just the sound of dried leaves crushing under our feet.”

I understood. Unaccustomed to such a barrage of indiscreet questions that actually tried to decode what made him Vinay in the first place, he was not prepared to face the ultimate, most dreaded one. “Vinay ji, where do you derive your inspiration from?”

According to Kaustubh’s version, Vinay didn’t speak for a very long time, and then he left. Just like that. Like the character of architect Querry from Green’s ‘A Burnt-Out Case’ (1961).

“Seeing his face redden, even embarrassment must have felt cringy,” concluded Kaustubh as he broke into biting laughter.

I never heard from Vinay Hardikar after that day.

#storytelling #essaywriting #memoir