The Millennial Moment

As Rustom Chanawala woke up from his bed early in the morning, fumes entered his nostrils. He peered outside his one-room house and saw a truck passing by. Rustom Chanawala, a young twenty-eight year old lecturer, was thin, bespectacled and was born a Parsi. But it didn't really matter. He had renounced his religion years ago. Eleven years ago, he had had his navjote. He had agreed because his family had made it out to be some kind of a challenge to remember those verses. He, like his two cousins, had chanted Kem na Mazda and some other things which he had forgotten. Rustom was always torn between this tricky issue of religion. For him personally, it did not matter. But the way, those people had looked at me, it did frighten me. I was stunned. Rustom said his thoughts aloud. Rustom had always experienced some kind of an identity crisis. He had a Parsi father and a Muslim mother. He could never comprehend the rabid dislike among the Hindus and Muslims in his country. He had always been some kind of an agnostic. As the chirping of the sparrows entered his ears, he woke up from his reverie. The past vanished and the everlasting present returned to haunt him.

He looked at the small watch near the bed. There's still time. I can again go to sleep. Catch some thirty or forty winks. He returned to the comfort of the bed. Rustom was awakened after some time by an argument. He woke up, looked at the clock. It showed six-thirty. Gosh! 6:30 A.M., I must hurry up. Before Rustom could brush his teeth, he again heard some shouts. He opened the door with groggy eyes and unwilling feet.

"You are a liar! This happens everyday. You people don't know how to be fair. You cheats..." This burst from his neighbour caught him.

"Babuji, I poor man. I do nothing. I get you milk vaat my buffelo give me." The other was the milkman who spoke in a silky voice and faulty language. However, as Rustom realized, most people were quite unmindful of the language they used. Rustom always became acutely conscious of the language being used as he taught English in a University.

They had been fighting for over ten minutes. The milkman was a cheat. He always mixed water into the milk and diluted it beyond measure. Bhaiyya's milk could not be called milk. It resembled the watery milk, which the tea stall owners used to sell hot, sweet, ginger-tea for two rupees a cup. Pandey, the neighbour, was a chubby, bearded fellow who worked with an advertising agency. The economy was in a depression. There was unemployment all around and youth could be seen roaming the streets. The government was unmindful of the agonies suffered by the masses. The depression had affected the advertising industry adversely. No one could afford to spend an extra rupee in these days.

Rustom sympathised with Pandey. But he knew that Bhaiyya, Brother, too had his compulsions. Fodder had become expensive. Moreover, the milkman had to supply free milk to local politicians. It was a vicious circle and there was no escape from it.

"Don't give me such talk. I don't like these sweet-sweet things you talk. You give me proper milk." Pandey was slowly losing his temper and things were flaring up.

The milkman was a local and he knew lots of goons.

"I say babuji babuji, you not listen, you bastard, I hit you." The milkman had started abusing the other. Rustom knew he had to act fast. There was no time to lose. After all, a good Parsi was supposed to help his neighbours.

Rustom virtually separated the two physically.

"Pandey, you go inside..."

"I won't. I will set him right today."

"You me set right....No, I hit you."

"Brother, please be quiet for two minutes," said Rustom.

"Saheb, you are good man. You not come between." The milkman was shaking with rage.

"Brother, listen to me. Cool down. I am telling Pandey to go inside."

"You Rustom Saheb...nice man. But I hit fatso in butt. I kick him hard. Bastard, he is telling me!"

"I will kill him. How dare this little man insult and abuse me?"

"Pandey, GO INSIDE!" Rustom shouted and pushed him inside the house. Pandey went into the house. Then Rustom placated the other party. The milkman was still shaking with anger. Rustom brought him some water. The milkman calmed down. But there was a frown on his face, which Rustom did not notice. Both Pandey and the milkman went their ways.

Rustom entered his one-room house, looked at the small clock. Shit! It's already 8:15 A.M. I need to rush. Rustom looked alarmed. The cause of his alarm was unknown. He heated up some water on the gas, brushed his teeth, drank a glass of water (as there was no time even for a cup of tea) and entered the bathroom. He took a quick bath and rushed for the bus stop.

There was no bus in sight. Today, I am a dead man. He lamented on an empty stomach. Rustom still felt groggy. He had slept in the wee hours of the morning about four hours past midnight. Rustom had been translating a text into English. He had got this particular assignment from the National Academy of Letters. It had to be submitted soon. Rustom's palpitations grew as no bus came. It was now eight-forty. I must reach the University by 9:00 A.M. Today, they are conducting the Annual Examinations and I should not get late. If I am late, the vice-chancellor, who is a real terror, will throw me out of my job. Rustom was lost in pondering about his immediate future when an autorickshaw came and stopped near him.

Rustom awoke from his reverie with a start.

"University?" He asked the driver.

"Get in," the other replied.

"Brother, please rush," Rustom spoke in a dialect familiar to the driver.

The driver sped fast. The vehicle rattled on. It was an old model. After the rickshaw had reached South Extension (Rustom lived near All India Institute of Medical Sciences), he glanced into the metre. Rutom was aghast at the metre reading. The distance from his home to South Extension was less than two kilometres. But the metre showed a reading of four kilometres. These fellows are cheats! How will I ever end up transforming them? I can't even fight with him now. I must rush to the University.

The rickshaw sped fast.

There were other vehicles on the road. The traffic was heavy but the driver manouevred well. As Rustom saw the continuous stream of buses emitting dark fumes, the numerous rickshaws, cars of all sorts and the scooters, nausea overwhelmed him. He could sense a void within him.

Amidst the fumes and the noise all around, Rustom felt his eyes droop. He hadn't enjoyed a good sleep. Pandey and the milkman had woken him up earlier than usual. Beneath the painful shards of the cacophony, Rustom could discern another movement. He strained his ears. The sounds were light for his ears to comprehend them fully. However, he knew that a different movement was taking place. There was a subtle shift in the air. But Rustom couldn't fathom whether the shift was an improvement in the present conditions.

Rustom found that the fumes had been transformed into a halo. He felt a haze envelop his eyes. As the smoke became thicker, a new pattern emerged. Quietly, designs were getting shaped in the haze, which confronted his eyes.

Rustom heard the sounds clearly. He knew the light rhythms of Tchaikovsky's ballet The Nutcracker, which percolated into his being. Rustom's ears were finely attuned to the dancing rhythms of Pyotr Tchaikovsky.

As the rickshaw rattled in the midst of heavy traffic, miles away, the mice in Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker had launched the offensive. The sounds came in a continuous stream. There was a small detail, which perplexed Rustom. Even though the rhythms bore the unmistakable stamp of The Nutcracker and the little piece being played out was reminiscent of the march of the mice Rustom seemed a bit worried. There was a nagging worry, which plagued him.

Somewhere he knew at the back of his mind that there was something amiss. Rustom recalled Tchaikovsky to his mind. His soul awoke to the folk and the fairy tale elements of the great composer's music. Rustom could feel the rhythms enter his body. His ears swayed to the sounds. These sounds were interspersed with the cacophony of the whirring wheels.

They reached the University at three minutes to nine. The fare in the metre: seventy-five rupees.

Every day, it comes to thirty-three rupees. Rustom took out thirty-five rupees and gave it to the driver. Rustom always gave thirty-five as he also understood that the driver would have to return without any passenger for some distance. The driver, with nonchalance, looked at the metre. Then took out the chart.

"Babuji, eighty rupees."

"Brother, this comes to seventy-five and I come every day. The fare should not be more than thirty-three rupees. Your metre is very fast."

The driver was a huge, bulky fellow who seemed to belong to one of the lumpen political parties in the country. The lumpen fellows are marching all over the place these days. This has happened due to the politicization of these hoodlums. Rustom pondered on the state of the nation and how it affected him barely for a minute. He finally paid the driver fifty rupees. There was a blank, cold gaze in the driver's eyes who immediately sped away.

Rustom rushed to the Examination Centre. He was five minutes late. The reporting time was 9:00 A.M. The exam begins half an hour later. I hope the Head of my Department is not there, otherwise he would create a fuss. Why does he make a big fuss when something concerns me? He is a prejudiced against me.

Rustom entered the Centre.

After exactly ten minutes, he was inside the Examination Hall. The other colleague in the room was a certain gentleman from the Arabic Department. He sported a beard which quite resembled Ho Chi Minh. This particular gentleman also had the habit of eyeing young ladies in the room. Dr. Abdul Hafiz was twenty years senior to Rustom.

Why do they send such impotent, old fellows? They are a blot on our profession. If at fifty, he acts like that with girls old enough to be his daughters, it's a shame. I can't tell him to get out of the room. I will complete my duties in such a way that he does not get enough opportunities of eyeing girls.

The room, which he had been allocated to, had students from his department. There was a girl there whom he had always fantasised about. Jamila, with the auburn tresses, and brown luscious lips sat in the front row. They had been good friends before Rustom started working as a lecturer in the English Department. He had studied at the same Department and she was five years junior to him. He knew her first when he had entered M. Phil. She was somewhat uneasy.

"Jamila, I know there's something wrong. Tell me what is it?" He couldn't stop himself from asking her.

"Sir, I have got a painful boil on my right hand and can not write." Jamila called him 'sir' ever since he had started working there. She was the one who ensured that the other students took him seriously.

"Should I get you some medical attention?" Rustom was alarmed. He had always liked beautiful Jamila.

"No. It will soon be all right."

But Rustom was worried. He finally took out his handkerchief and tied it around her boil.

Ho Chi Minh had observed the whole exchange with a hawk's eye. He was already eyeing Jamila. Rustom found it quite odious. He went to Ho Chi Minh.

"Sir, that girl had some problem, so I thought I should help. After all, our job is also to help out the students." Rustom clarified and the other nodded. The matter ended there.

When Rustom was busy doing his duty in the room, he heard some faint music permeate his ears. I can not place it anywhere. He pondered. It seems familiar to me yet there is something about this music which I can not catch. Soon, the soft strains were replaced by a staccato beating of drumbeats. This was certainly perplexing to Rustom. The sounds refused to go away. They tapped at his ears and mind. He felt as if his head were going to split. He looked at Jamila, her auburn tresses, her luscious lips, and her inviting eyes. He tried to think of her to divert his mind from the sounds pounding at his eardrums. He looked at Ho Chi Minh. He saw the other ogle at some girl in the examination hall. Rustom didn't manifest his reactions. He just watched the events taking place near him in the examination hall. There was a boy who was trying to cheat in the exams. Rustom gazed past him but the boy got conscious and sat straight.

"Oh God! I should have got it earlier," the thought struck him out of the blue. Rustom realised that the sounds were from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker. But he also understood that there was something amiss about the whole symphony today. He was also unable to fathom why they were playing this symphony so close to the millennium. Why didn't I get it earlier? Yes, this is not the same Nutcracker. They have changed the story of the ballet. The instruments are different. I can even hear the sound of cymbals. Why cymbals of everything else? They resemble tridents clashing against each other. The cymbals have introduced a jarring note in the music. There is something ominous about the whole thing. I hope that my fears are unfounded. Cymbals, tridents, clangs, all jarring sounds. Painful are the sounds of violence.

Rustom was unduly getting worried. He was true that there was something different about the symphony. But how can a changed musical note lead to violence? Probably, it was lack of sleep, which had caught up with Rustom. Normally, he was a levelheaded young man. Rustom looked at his watch. Only thirty minutes to go. Then he would be free to go home. The sun was right above the earth. Rustom glanced at Jamila. She was busy writing her answers. All other students represented a similar scenario. However, there were a couple of them who wanted to cheat but Rustom was known as a strict teacher. They would rather not risk it. Rustom then observed Ho Chi Minh. Dr. Abdul Hafiz, Associate Professor, the one with the Ho Chi Minh beard, would not mend his ways. He was busy ogling Jamila's ripening breasts. His eyes showed that he was trying to gauge their cleavage. Then his eyes moved a bit further. Rustom could not control himself. But there was nit much that he could have done. He could not have reported the man to the higher authorities. The system was such that the girl concerned had to file a report of sexual harassment against Dr. Hafiz with the Proctor. However, her report would not have been taken seriously, as he had not laid a finger on her. Miscarriage of justice is a common occurrence in many parts of the world. In many lands, justice survives because it miscarries.

Rustom went near Hafiz and drew him aside. He engaged the other in small talk. As the students were busy writing their answers, they talked in whispers. Rustom was happy that he had stopped Ho Chi Minh in his pursuits.

Rustom chanced to see outside the window. He felt that he saw a familiar figure. But he was unable to place him. There was something familiar about the bulky figure that Rustom saw. I know I have seen him somewhere. He resembles one of the goons that one sees every day. The sounds of Nutcracker came clearly to Rustom's ears. New sounds had been injected into the music imbuing it with the colors of violence. There was a particular episode in the ballet, which was being emphasized while it was being played. Rustom could not fathom where it was being played. But The Nutcracker seemed to be all over the place. Rustom had heard it in the morning while rushing for the University. Now, he again heard it. He grew suspicious for he knew that such a thing had never happened earlier. He just glanced at his watch.

"Sir, should we collect the answer scripts from the students?" Rustom asked Ho Chi Minh who was still busy with his favourite pursuit. The other fellow just nodded.

Rustom collected the answer scripts and went to the superintendent to deposit them. Soon, he was walking out of the examination Centre. However, all along, there was a felling which nagged him as he walked out of the campus. Something tells me that I should not venture out of the campus. My life would be safe in the precincts of the University. Rustom was enveloped by fears of all sorts.

As Rustom walked out slowly from the Center, he saw a huge menacing fellow stare at him. The fellow is familiar. Where have I seen him? I have seen him recently. He was unable to place the person. However, the other fellow seemed to have recognized Rustom. He stared at Rustom as if he were going to kill him. Then all of a sudden, the other fellow went away. He vanished as soon as he had come into Rustom's vision. Rustom felt relaxed. However, his heart still palpitated. After some time, he calmed down. But as soon as Rustom had calmed down, he again heard the crystal clear sounds of The Nutcracker playing in the city. How have the city councillors discovered a love for Tchaikovsky? I thought they always had an aversion to classical music, often deriding it at all platforms. But today, they seem to be playing good old Tchaikovsky everywhere. This is clearly unfathomable. I don't have a good reason for their erratic behaviour. There must be some design behind the whole show. Rustom pondered. He found the whole idea of The Nutcracker being aired over all the channels of the radio strange. It was strange, so to say, but then governments and political groupings have been known to act in stranger ways.

Lost in thoughts, Rustom took a cycle rickshaw to reach Escorts Heart Institute from where he would catch the bus, which would take him home.

As Rustom Chanawala reached his destination, fumes entered his nostrils. Even as the old millennium approached its end, there was no solution to the problem of pollution, which plagued the streets of Delhi. He looked around and saw a truck passing by. Rustom Chanwala, the young, bespectacled lecturer was going home. Fatigue had caught up with him. The day seemed to have come full circle. Rustom espied a familiar face. He was surprised to see the milkman there. Rustom told the cycle rickshaw fellow to stop. He called out to the milkman, "O Brother, how are you?" The milkman gave an ugly look, spat in his direction, muttered something and went away. Rustom found it quite offensive but was unable to do anything. He swore not to patronise this milkman any longer.

As Rustom continues homeward, he saw that the roads were getting crowded. There were people who resembled the autorickshaw driver and the milkman. Their ilk seemed to be on the rise by dozens. Rustom pinched himself but the spectre refused to go away. Rustom reached the Escorts Heart Institute, which was close to the University. When he reached there, the music reached his ears again. This piece by Tchaikovsky, which was written for children, sounded apocalyptic to Rustom. Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker had undergone a distinct change by the afternoon. In the morning, they were only tinkering with some sounds. Now, they have effected a major change in the story. Rustom could comprehend that there was something afoot.

Rustom waited for the bus to arrive. But no bus came. He waited for over thirty minutes. The roads were getting crowded. Rustom saw an autorickshaw pass his way. He hailed it. The rickshaw stopped. He looked at the driver. The other fellow's age, social background and religion were impossible to decipher. He had an expressionless face.

As Rustom sat in the autorickshaw, he heard the noisy whir of the wheels around him. He felt nauseated. Why are the events of the morning repeating themselves? Rustom was slightly perplexed. As soon as the rickshaw started, a truck passed by and emitted dark, poisonous fumes. Rustom felt dizzy. At that precise moment, Nutcracker flared up from the radio in the autorickshaw. Rustom vividly remembered the ballet.

The Battle Scene was being performed. I have heard The Nutcracker umpteen times. The Mouse-King, with a horde of mice, tries to defeat the Nutcracker, a royal battle rages, and, finally, they are vanquished It is a wonderful orchestral battle.

Rustom remembered the musical composition as Tchaikovsky had planned it.

Clara, the young girl, helps the Nutcracker and his army of toy soldiers to defeat the horde of mice. After the triumph, snow starts falling. As the snowflakes slowly make their way to the ground, there is a shift in the music....And Lo! Behold! The Nutcracker transforms into a Prince.

Rustom's eyes show that the ballet is playing in front of his eyes. In the midst of his reverie, Rustom has forgotten the music emanating from the radio and the traffic around him. He is awoken to the reality with a jolt. The autorickshaw jerks to a halt.

"What happened?" Rustom asked the driver.

"Can't you see?" The driver rudely replied.

Rustom peeped out. The sight that met his eyes was unbelievable. There was a sea of people on the opposite side of the road. On the road on which they were going, there was a traffic jam. All the traffic had come to a grinding halt. The heavy vehicles emitted dark fumes and the small cars honked in exasperation.

As the fumes hit him in the face, Rustom realized that the music was still playing from the radio. The Battle Scene was being played out. But the actual events of the story were rather hazy. As the fumes hit him in the eye, Rustom heard the sound of music enter his ears. Tchaikovsky was remixed with the clangs of tridents. The beats had changed.

The Mouse King was leading the charge. Some young men, amassed on the roads, had started converging around the autorickshaw. Some of them carried tridents in their hands. Some had bricks with something indecipherable written on them. The ballet played from the radio. The sounds of tridents had enveloped the music. Colours of violence have seeped into the ordinary histories of men. The horde of mice had crowded around the Nutcracker who seemed to be losing the battle. The toy soldiers, which he had commanded, were nowhere to be seen. The Nutcracker was fighting a losing battle. There was no one to rescue the Nutcracker.

The music played on longer than usual. Rustom felt suffocated. "Brother, can you turn off the radio?" He asked the driver. The driver didn't respond. "Brother, can you turn off the radio?" Rustom asked again with growing exasperation in his voice. The other still didn't respond. Rustom shook the other by his shoulder and asked him, "Brother?" The other simply turned his neck. Rustom froze into terror.

He recognized the other as the driver he had met in the morning. The driver's eyes manifested a snigger. At that particular moment when their eyes met and Rustom froze into terror, the crowds had converged near the autorickshaw. Rustom's face was convoluted as he recognized another person in the crowd, his milkman.

"Kill him! Kill him!" The shouts rent the air.

"He had cheated me out of my money."

"He didn't let me get the better of the other man."

"He is an alien."

"Kill him! Kill him!"

Like fumes, the shouts hit Rustom in the face.

The driver got out of the autorickshaw leaving Rustom stranded. The tridents gleamed even in the setting sun. As history heralded a new millennium, the nation went back a few centuries.

The Nutcracker has lost the battle. Rustom's thoughts meandered. He was unable to think clearly.

The driver and the milkman went closer to Rustom brandishing their tridents. The Nutcracker had stopped playing from the radio. Rustom cowered into a corner. The sun had vanished over the horizon.