Sunday, July 2, 2000		Life Ties

THE NEED FOR AN ANCHOR
By Taru Bahl

HE was my brother’s friend. Mad hatter, ‘pseudo’-intellectual, serious thinker, ‘pile-on’, brash were some of the epithets his peer group had bestowed upon him. He used to be a permanent fixture in our house. Coming straight to our place after school, he would stay till the limits of propriety allowed him to and would return home only before dusk. We knew his parents didn’t get along but there were no questions asked, no explanations sought. He perhaps liked to come over to our place because somewhere he yearned for the sounds and smells of a normal household. A voracious eater, I remember him gulping 18 aloo ka paranthas with lip-smacking delight.

Because he was always there, he was privy to major family decisions, upheavals, tragedies and moments of glory. He participated in each one of them. He screamed with us, cried with us, rejoiced with us. If I tied rakhi on his wrist, it was not because I was overpowered by a sisterly feeling but because he was always there. Since I was tying one on my own brother, there was no reason for me not to tie one on him as well. For years I remember sending him the little thread which was a reminder of our teenage years spent together.

I moved to another town. My brother joined the NDA and his friend went off to the USA for his undergraduate study. He specialised in nuclear physics and took to teaching. He fell in love with an American girl, lived with her for a while, brought her to India, and had a traditional engagement ceremony here. He then went back to the USA and got married.

On a trip to India, when he came to know I was in Delhi, he insisted on meeting for lunch, telling me over the phone: "This one is going to be my treat". Of course I was thrilled with the prospect of meeting and catching up with him. My brother tried to gently prepare me, saying: "He is no longer the chit of a guy you knew and almost mothered. He is huge, looks wild and unkempt." Despite the ‘warning’ I was still unprepared for the sight that awaited me. Right outside Nirulas, trying hard to spot the US returned imp, I was engulfed in a bear hug and war cry by a hairy ape in long shorts, a pony tail which probably hadn’t seen a shampoo for years, and ear-rings which were different for both ears. However, once he got talking, the intervening years and physical distance vanished in a trice. It was so easy to ‘handle’ him, all you had to do was listen. He took complete charge, enthralling you with his escapades. You just had to laugh with him. It didn’t matter to him that you were laughing at him, so long as you were laughing and he had your attention, he was happy. There was an intensity in him, a fire, a passion and you were glad he had found, in the USA, the right environment to grow, thrive and to be taken seriously. He marvelled at the typical American Dream which allowed an individual to chase his aspirations, stretch himself and do the impossible. He philosophised about how each one of us was an island unto ourselves.

We kept hearing about his crazy ventures and projects. Always experimenting, always seeking, he moved from one thing to another, at times leaving things mid-way. For years there was a lull. No one knew where he was till someone received an e-mail and the message was forwarded to everyone. Then we heard last month that he had got divorced. No reasons, no acrimony, just a two-line mail telling everyone that it was all over and that he was going mountaineering, backpacking with a girl he had recently met. He was hugely excited about some fossil he had found and was dying to share it with experts. He had scanned some pictures to show how serious the whole thing was.

My brother called recently. He asked me if I knew about him. I said I knew he was through with his marriage and felt certain that he would bounce back, indefatigable as he was. My brother sighed. He said: "So, you don’t know, he met with a very sad accident". My heart leapt into my mouth. For a few seconds there was silence on the phone. Then he said the inevitable. "He is no more. It was a freak mountaineering accident."

The mind was swarming with a lot of unanswered questions. After all, 33 is no age to go away. Maybe, if he had an anchor, things would have been different. He was always so restless. He had springs on his body and could never be still. Had the environment at home been different, he may not have gone to the USA in the first place. Who knows, he may have found a nice Indian girl, one who would have filled his heart and home with love and given him the home he was always seeking.

Maybe all he needed was an anchoring which comes from a deep sense of belonging. That would have given him the emotional security he craved for and could have calmed his turbulent mind which refused to allow him to mentally settle down. Perhaps he was living life in the fast lane, moving from one thing to another, not allowing any time to reflect, take stock and change track. These may be vague, illogical hypotheses which may have no co-relation with what happened, but the mind wanders.

Don’t we all need an anchor? Some of us are lucky in that we don’t have to consciously seek it because our homes provide us with the emotional security and love that we need. This translates into a healthy attitude towards life, helping us to forge ties which further strengthen that feeling of being anchored. There are others who are sub-consciously in search for an anchor, finding work to be the best antidote to their restlessness and angst.

Then there are those who keep getting into relationships, seeking that elusive something which can calm them, and make them complete. For those of us who do find an anchor, life becomes steadier, more meaningful even if it be a little sedate. For those who don’t, the emotional upheavals take their toll.

Had my brother’s friend found an anchor, would things have ended differently? He may have lived to tell the tale of the fossil he had unearthed and made us all laugh with him.