A Flaw in the Plan 0/8 - The Vanishing Glass

“Every dead body on Mount Everest was once a highly motivated person.” - Folk wisdom

We have all heard of rags to riches stories. The ones where, curiously enough, our fathers or forefathers struggled long and hard to gain fame and fortune in society. People, whose unrelenting endeavours and irreproachable work-ethic made them a living legend amongst peers and secured a legacy for generations to come. The world encourages us to appreciate and applaud such men.

 

This isn’t a story about those men.

 

We have all heard of stories from our uncles or grand-uncles (why are we still talking to them?) about the land purchased by someone who knew someone who knew them, and they became rich overnight. Or that cool teenager who bought bitcoins when they were launched and now drives a Rolls Royce off cliffs in Los Angeles. Or the bum who bought Infosys shares during the IPO and forgot about it for the next 30 years. Strokes of luck? Genius? Something to be pursued? Should I write a blog series about it? No. This isn’t one of those stories.

 

In 2015 I graduated business school to join the ranks of financial wizards who make the world go round. If you’ve ever seen a dark-suited plump bald man with a permanent expression of being late for something, you know who I’m talking about. In their youth, they had passions and hobbies but no money or time to pursue them. Then they all read Ikigai and turned all their hobbies into professional side-hustles. Who said the devil doesn’t devour souls anymore? He has simply taken the guise of capitalism. But again, this is not a story about the evils of capitalism. But we’re getting there now.

 

I chose to pursue my career in a niche branch of finance called “stressed assets management”. Interestingly, when we talk of “stressed assets”, the asset itself is not stressed – it is the investors who are stressed. But saying that out loud will deter new investors, and we investment bankers don’t want that. Stressed Assets essentially mean that if you invested in (or were duped into) “some-thing” and the “thing” part stopped working (or disappeared or was blown up in a war or the world shut down for a few months or the USA elected another stupid leader), you have yourself a stressed asset. Common examples are the abandoned half-constructed buildings typically found in every Indian neighbourhood; or the investment some fellow made in shares and lost everything; or the wedding and the inevitable divorce that bankrupted the groom. All of these were conscious decisions taken by well-meaning people, hoping to elevate their quality of life. Some money was spent. Some memories were created. And then everything came crashing down. All that remained was ruins of a beautiful dream that never saw reality, often infested with snakes – literal or figurative. Optimism? Over-optimism? Irrational Exuberance? Or just bad luck? But again, that is not what our story is about. But you can now see where we are headed.

 

Once upon a time in a village, there lived a farmer. He was poor. He had four sons. All four of them were poor. He also had a wife. She was also poor. There was even a grandmother, and you guessed it – poor. The whole family was poor. They lived off the land, which means that they grew stuff on the land, and made a living. The farmer grew old, say about 80 years, it doesn’t really matter, nobody cares. The sons were all 40-55 years old. As the farmer approached his death, he called his family close to him. For one last time he saw the people who had loved and cared for him his entire life. With his last breaths, he summoned the strength to say his final words. He told his sons that hidden within his field, there was a treasure. If the sons tilled the soil and cultivated the land, they would find the treasure chest and would never want for anything in their lives. With these words, the poor farmer drew his last breath and died.

 

The sons were confused. But with an unsaid agreement, did not speak to each other again about the treasure. These might have been the mad rumblings of a dying old man. Surely no one in their right mind would have kept their family in abject poverty while a treasure rested in the ground they had harvested their entire lives. The sons performed the last rites of their father and never spoke of the treasure again – for a week. Of course curiosity burned in them and they were having difficulties in performing regular bowel movements. The youngest (why is it always the youngest?) son could take it no more. He took a sickle and started tilling the land at the exact spot his father had mentioned. And before sunset, the sickle hit a chest buried deep in the ground. The chest was carried up. The boys (men?) couldn’t believe their eyes. The senile man had been right after all. He did bury a treasure in the ground. That old fool! But all was forgiven now. The sons could live the rest of their lives out of the poverty that had suffocated them for so long. The lock was opened and the box was opened. To find it full of Rs. 1,000 currency notes.

Our story is about such treasures. Long lost hopeless dreams that were 17% bad luck, 13% stupidity, and 71% lack of attention to detail.

 

During my career I came across many such stories. Where the most common response was, “this cannot be right. Is it though?” Actually that was the second-most common response. The most common response was depression. No matter if you had invested in it or not. Just knowing that human civilization had sunk to such levels of stupidity and greed makes you constantly wonder if we are past the great barrier of stupidity. And whether humanity had had its long run and now it was time to handover the planet to the birds and bees. I think they would do a much better job with the planet than humanity. If you agree, congratulations! You’re a communist.

 

In the coming chapters, we shall share stories of broken dreams, theft, bankruptcies, and plain old stupidity. Living these stories for years has helped me outgrow any surprise that the world might throw at me. After all, human absurdity knows no bounds. And I am living proof of that very fact. 

Father

“How are you different from your mother?”

“I hope in as few ways as possible.”

-        Martha and Harriet, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Episode 1X05

I made a friend recently. As a single man in his mid-30s, returning to his tier-2 hometown after 13 years, making friends hasn't been easy. So when the chance came upon to have dinner with a newfound friend, I pounced on the opportunity.

The conversation led to how men spend their youth trying to rebel from their fathers, only to end up like them in so many ways. I found this weirdly conflicting and relatable. For much of my adolescence, my father wasn’t really a person I could look up to. He was that presence in my life who was annoying me. In his mind, he might have been pushing me to live better. But the constant disappointment with everything that I did was overbearing. To the point that I really didn’t care what he thought of me. The brief interactions that we did have made me wanting less. Time and distance made it easy to naturally grow apart, and we didn’t even have much to talk about. Having reached the age of 30, father was a figure who existed, but we didn’t really have what we could call a real relationship.

Come to think of it, I didn’t really have any real relationships in my life. I had friends from three different colleges. I had colleagues that I would forget the moment I changed the job. I had dates, but never a stable relationship. But I didn’t really have a relationship that I could rely on. If I were to fall sick, I didn’t have a person who would wait outside the hospital doors. For much of growing up, I was on my own.

Covid changed that. Fate brought me back not only to Kolkata, but to the family business. I now lived at home and worked with Dad, being now witness in hindsight to his life journey, with all its revelries and mistakes. Over the years, I was the one who sat outside hospital gates as I became the person the family could rely upon. This was never the plan. But life has a funny way of disposing man’s plans.

The thing that brought me back to the family was actually the business. The mismanagement of it to be precise. My father comes from a generation of free-thinking risk-takers. This was the generation of the Boomers – the ones who had the world open in front of them and charged at it with full swing. The ones who had nothing to lose. Of course they hit some and missed some. All of them had investments that had gone sour and would have made a killing if only this or that had happened.

Going over the business, I realized that Dad had expanded the business beyond what he could reasonably manage. Coming from more sophisticated jobs, I had some idea of how to organize and manage bigger businesses, but I had never shouldered the responsibility of owning anything of value. There was still much to be learnt. And that is where Dad and I started becoming a good combination. We found common ground in managing the expanding business, and could talk like adults. No more did I have to face the constant disappointment. I would report to him as I would to a senior at my office. Over time, the reporting requirements reduced to him just being a mentor I could seek advice from, but was responsible for my own decisions. In time, I understood the circumstances in which faulty decisions had been made long ago. True empathy came when I made a few bad decisions of my own. It is impossible in this world to live without making mistakes. What is needed is someone who can look at you and say, “so this happened, what next?”

As we spent more time together, I started to cherish it. For once, I had this person with whom I constantly disagreed – over politics, religion, business, and lifestyle. Yet, I constantly found myself to be more similar to him than not. I could always rely that he understands my condition, both said and unsaid. He understood the enthusiasm of youth. We connected on our pursuit of spirituality and constantly quarrelled over the correct way. Coming from totally different upbringings, we were able to offer new perspectives on old problems. Even though we disagreed on practically everything, which continues to be a constant source of irritation and anguish for me, I know that we work on the same value systems. We have common ground. And we can talk to each other like men.

Over the years I have come to consider myself luckier than most of my friends. Many of us escaped our tier-II upbringing settling in cities like Mumbai, Delhi, or Bangalore when home became the new family that we initiate. I miss that freedom and self-reliance. I have given away a part of my life to exist for the family. In that, my world has grown. I am able to spend time with my parents which could not be possible for most of my friends. I was able to spend time with my father while he could still teach me something; and I could add some value to his life. Most importantly, I had one person in my life that I could rely upon and know that his mere existence acts as a calm over the chaos that I live through.

Over the years we have planned trips together, collaborated in legal battles, took decisions for the business and the family, and just sat across the table and shared thoughts about what we are going through. Often, I would caution him against over-extending himself, either physically or financially. But I understand that he needs to feel like the risk-taking entrepreneur that made a life for himself. I cannot pull him too far back. He is old, but he is still a man. When he says that we will climb a snow-peaked hill, I cannot refuse him simply because I see the risks more clearly. Instead, I stay right behind him. And when I stay out late at night, he doesn’t question where I was. Once Mother did try to instigate him into questioning my whereabouts. He simply said that I am a grown-up and will go where I please. He respects my boundaries. It was me who had difficulty accepting his.

And so it continues. I don’t know how much time destiny shall grant me with him. There will come the inevitable time when we will have to part. I intend to cherish every bit of it. I couldn’t discover a relationship with my father while I was growing up. But it was wonderful to meet him as a grown-up. He had to make the wait while I made the climb.

It is difficult for a single man in his mid-30s, returning to his tier-2 hometown after 13 years to make friends. But you don’t really have to look very far from home to find one.

Kashi 3/3 - Dalmandi Road

I had taken an early morning walk southwards from the hostel towards Assi Ghat. I walked till the end of the road where the Ghats ended. To venture further south I would need to walk through the town, which I didn’t want to do. So I returned north to the other end of the city. I reached Manikarnika Ghat beyond the Kashi Vishwanath temple. However, I did not happen to cross the Namo Ghat that I had heard a lot about. Someone said that it was further up north beyond Manikarnika, but boats refused to go there and there was no more road beyond Manikarnika. So I decided to walk through the city.

I followed Google Maps which didn’t show a direct path to Namo Ghat. I would need to detour from deep into the town and come back towards the ghats. It was early and I was fresh. I decided to take the journey. The path would take me through a narrow alley named Dalmandi Road. Varanasi had a lot of alleys, so that wasn’t surprising. The surprises started once I entered the alley.

I walked into Dalmandi Road through the western side and the shift was immediate. The entrance was a bustling market even in the morning close to the entrance of the Kashi Vishwanath temple. There were queues of people waiting in line for the temple, early morning shoppers, breakfast places Varanasi is famous for, or people just loitering about on a vacation. But just around the corner inside Dalmandi Road was a completely different vibe.

The place was almost deserted. I saw perhaps 10 people during the kilometre-long walk. The buildings on each side of the road were ripped away from the ground. It didn’t feel like a city anymore. I imagined this would be what war-torn Palestine or Ukraine might look like. It was also very noticeable that this was predominantly a Muslim locality. The people I saw on the road had traditional Muslim attire and beards. There were broken water pipes which still had streams of water, making parts of the road muddy. It was disturbing that there could be such a view just next to that bustling market outside. It felt as if I had been transported to another planet through a portal, and I wasn’t sure if I could go back. If an accident were to fall upon me in this alley, there was no way anyone could know or I could be found. I felt away from my home planet. These buildings didn’t seem to be demolished in an organized manner. The trail of destruction were left behind. At one point I could see what must have been a dining room at some point, still intact but the exterior wall was missing. A lot of buildings seemed to just have been dropped, without any post-cleaning. As if some bombing had occurred in the street. But why would the bombing happen only on this street, and no other streets adjoining. I wanted to Google where I was and the history of this street. But faster than that I wanted to be out of the other end. This was obviously not safe. I didn’t want to run, lest any stray dogs come after me. I knew that it was important to appear tough when you’re shit scared.

On returning to the hostel I Googled and found that there was an active demolition drive at Dalmandi road. Some articles said that it was because the construction in that lane was unauthorized – an argument which lent little merit. Varanasi is an ancient city. Most of the construction in the city is unauthorized. The residences in narrow lanes predate any civic authority. Even the lanes do not always have names. The other argument was that it would enable a wide and fast corridor from the ghats to the Kashi Vishwanath temple. This was an infrastructure improvement initiative. There is a fierce debate of development vs. preservation that is intense enough at Varanasi, and we will not get into that in this article. I am sure the free and fair elections at Varanasi will give verdict to this debate. But it was interesting to note that only the Muslim locality was targeted for such infrastructure improvement, in a somewhat traumatic way.

Dalmani Road finds its mention in the throes of history. It is populated by silk-shops, brothels, and residences of Muslim shopowners whose shops were on the ground levels of such structures. It is said to be the place where the revolt of 1857 was planned. I would believe that, as the best place to plan a revolt would be a narrow Muslim Lane in a vastly Hindu religious city inside a brothel. There can be no better cover. That history is now rubble. I am sure there will be vast improvements to the Shiv temple in lieu of the destruction. I doubted if the God of destruction appreciated this violence in his name.

Kashi 2/3 - Ghat Walk

I stepped into Varanasi with songs in my heart – specifically “Tu Ban Ja Gali Banaras Ki” and “Tu Kisi Rail Si Guzarti Hai”. I had no agenda or plan on what to do on reaching. My best option was to wander around the Ghats and the lanes. Food was always available everywhere and if I couldn’t find a shop, there was always Swiggy. I walked along the Ghats to my heart’s content. I walked on every step I could find, and I walked every morning and every night.

I found a band who was performing at the Ghats and without a second thought I rushed up and joined them, singing old and new songs, discovering that there wasn’t really much difference among them. I found street food vendors whom I started to recognize and the distinct flavors they specialized in. I found a sketch-artist who made a portrait for me for Rs. 350 in 30 minutes, all while sitting at the Ghat. I walked into a garden from where I was driven away because it wasn’t “for tourists”. I later joked with a Swede couple that how even Banarasi loacs recognized me as a tourist, with no trace of white skin on me. I found a sage basking in the early morning sun surrounded by pigeons. I kept walking till the Ghats ended. Then I turned back and walked more.

There was this one instance with a guy. There’s a large painting of Shiv on one of the walls where Shiv extends his hand outwards. A guy was trying to take a picture with his own hand extended towards Shiv, as if holding his hand. He was trying to work the camera angle. It was one of those things that you pass by without paying much attention, as I would have to. I was walking thinking if Shiv is so different from Varanasi. I have often believed that a man’s home is an extension and expression of his self. If that were so, then Varanasi with all its chaos was undoubtedly the expression of Shiv. As I was passing by that man, I don’t know what came over me – magic or mischief – but I shook his hand and went along my way. I didn’t even break my step. But I will remember the look on that man’s face for the rest of my life, as I know he will remember me. He was trying to reach out to Shiv, and in the process, Varanasi reached out to him. I wondered of all the ways in which Varanasi was reaching out to me as well. Every great or small interaction I was having with the people, dogs, land, and sky of Varanasi was Shiv. Not only was this His home, this was Him.

In another incident there was a protected VIP Ghat. I crossed by it several times, nothing seemed to be happening there. Just 2 police officers sending people away who ventured too far into the Ghat. There was a small Vishnu temple there that I noticed and wanted to visit. I had never seen a Vishnu temple. It was on the edge of the river. As I proceeded towards it the guards signalled me away. I tried to negotiate that I just wanted to visit the temple without venturing into the protected place, but the guards wouldn’t budge. Ultimately I had to go climb back up the stairs. Interestingly, the stairway went right above the temple. I was walking over where the shrine must have been inside the temple. As someone who is brought up in Hindu traditions, it is unthinkable to step over a shrine with shoes intact. But I thought that’s what being in Shiv’s home is like. There is no superior or inferior, not even Gods. There’s chaos. And there’s Shiv. And that’s all that matters.

Kashi 1/3 - Arrival

I landed at Lal Bahadir Shastri International Airport, Varanasi, on a Thursday morning with a suitcase and backpack in a sleep deprived manner. I was not sure why I was there. It was mostly to get out of Calcutta for a while. I have nothing against Kolkata. I mean I do, but that’s not the point of this story. I was basically in need of a vacation. A change of scenery if you please.

Once the thought had hit my mind, it automatically transferred from brain to Instagram without waiting for my consent. For the next two weeks, I browsed through all kinds of trips from solo-group travels (a true gen-Z invention), IRCTC Bharat Gaurav tours (they aren’t that bad), Spiti Valley-like places (the usual), African Safaris (sure to get popular in the coming years), and even an Antarctic expedition! I didn’t like any of them. Each of them seemed to have a different constraint. Till I realized that the real constraint must lie with me. True, I was in a terrible mood. Terrible enough for me not to take any action to come out of it. This was all the more reason to go for a vacation. I decided that if I didn’t like anything in the next two days, I will travel to Varanasi.

Why Varanasi? Because it was logistically feasible, the bookings were convenient, and being a single Hindi-speaking man, I couldn’t go wrong in a touristy place in north-India. Besides, Shiv has a certain allure. Two days passed. I didn’t like anything else. I booked flights and a hostel in Varanasi for the weekend.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Part of me wanted peace. Part of me wanted to talk to someone or many people. Part of me wanted to go somewhere new. Part of me wanted to go somewhere familiar. Varanasi somehow satisfied all those requirements.

As soon as I exited the airport I was huddled by cab-drivers whom I ignored on instinct. I was no stranger to north-Indian touristy places. And I’d done my research. There was supposed to be a bus stand close to the airport that where I could take a bus that would drop me right in the centre of the city. But I saw no buses or bus stands outside the small airport. On some searching I realized that the bus stand was a 1 km walk from the airport. Sleepy me wasn’t going to start my trip with a 1 km walk in the hot Sun. Later during the trip, Varanasi would make me walk a lot. But thankfully she didn’t make me start the trip with that. I ran into a cab-driver who was going on my way for his own work, and would drop me on the way. The fare was considerably less than the other drivers in the vicinity. So I went with him.

You cannot have a conversation with a Banarasi local and not touch upon local politics. I don’t know which of us started, but he gave me his perspective on the local political climate. Banarasi people love to talk. I didn’t have to prod him much for him to go on a full-scale monologue on why his party was good and the other one was not. I tried to play the devil’s advocate which in most cases, only leads people to argue their point more vehemently. But I was beginning to get a sense of the city. I also wondered that if this truly is Shiv’s city, then I should accept whatever I stumble across as Shiv’s blessing, even if it be a blabbering cab-driver.

I had booked a hostel in the deep alleys of Varanasi close to the ghats. It seemed like a vibrant place with a lot of community space. I quickly realized that they had somewhat oversold their community places by brushing them up for Instagram. I also realized that Varanasi was not going to socialize during hot summer days. I was going to spend a lot of time indoors during the days. I planned on sleeping a lot, and roam around in the nights.

As I was checking into my room, I came across Manoj Kumar P’s The Silence Beneath Kashi at the hostel’s bookshelf (singular). The cover seemed to have that familiar allure that had attracted me to Kashi. The book promised great revelations, and I approached it with great expectations. I was quickly disappointed. The author had written the entire book using ChatGPT – very engaging, no real content. The style and shifts were repetitive. The book didn’t make any particular point or led anywhere. I wondered if this was also a blessing from Shiv or whether it was a sign of Kalyug where it had been predicted that even Kashi would run dry. Between musings like these, I fell asleep.

Varanasi had that vibe. There is a lot of lull and a lot of chaos. It didn’t quite get anywhere. But it moves and shifts, often outside and often within you. You can’t really place it in any category. It is not a strictly religious destination. There’s spirituality but there’s also any kind of deviance that you might want to explore. There’s freedom to do anything you want. No one judges. Everyone and everything is Shiv, including the dogs that might block your path. Anger and love aren’t expressed differently. Civility lacks civility, and there’s a lot of it. It is a weird city. I was going to be here for the next few days. I was sure to run into some interesting incidents.