I am Srikanta. I work as the national representative for a huge multinational pesticide firm. Well, doesn't it sound grandiose? It better be. That’s what a two-year MBA degree teaches you, isn’t it! To present things pompously, even at the risk of being pretentious. Let’s make what I actually do a bit lucid. To start with, I get all dressed up in the proper attire, the company logo printed over my breast pocket. My boss says it’s printed there to show us where our heart should be but I somehow feel that they brand it all over so that we can’t sell the company linens and livery in the open market.

Then I collect all kind of pesticide samples and work my brains over with huge amount of pre-furnished data regarding – How to use? How not to use? Whom to feed? What to do if you have somehow managed to consume it yourself. Then I collect my team, well again I fall to my flair for the extravagant, since my team consists of a solitary individual. The better way to put things would be that we both meet up, mount on our chariot and hop from one village to another. The reader, I guess by now, might have got used to my vanity and would have rightly guessed or at least presumed it that the chariot here is an old, rickety Yamaha RX100 motor bike, a prehistoric beast on which even the manufacturers have given up.

Once we identify a particular village my subordinate cum beater, embarks on his jungle trail in pursuit of as many villagers he can coax to be present at my demonstration area. Few come out of interest, few out of curiosity, few out of boredom of nothing good to do but most of them respond to my beaters false promise of a cup of tea and biscuits. The rascal sometimes overdoes it and tops it up with some pastry. Then I give a small lecture; sell them false hopes of miraculous productions. In short, try to sound very knowledgeable and important. I tell them the exact quantities of pesticide required for their paddy, veggies and all kind of produces. I also tell them the exact dose for their personal consumption, or should I say destruction, when their crops fails due to lack of water or incessant rains, a neighbours’ jealous handiwork or even after a bumper crop they are unable to get their due because of governmental ineptitude and the oppressive cycle of exploitation and repression prevalent in rural India.

Then we pack up, me, my chariot and the charioteer and quickly leave the scene leaving behind tired, expectant faces. Well they never seem to mind, they have been fooled, lied to, coaxed, manipulated, made false promises to, so much in their lives that they have reached that exalted stage of existence where you don’t care nor bother, you just cope and survive. 

So, this is my existence, me and my juggernaut rolling on, trail blazing a path in rural India for my most beloved multinational company to dump its wide array of third world specific products which it wouldn't even dream of admitting, ever existed, to its home market.

I must admit, neither my chariot nor my charioteer ever seem to be too pleased by my presence. Chariot’s problem is understandable. Dragging our considerable combined bulk across horrendously rickety roads, leaking through all its pores, at such an advanced age is not something any self-respecting bike relishes. But, the multinationals territorial conquests couldn’t get halted even for a second, we both have a kind of agreement on this and hence, we drag along just like husband and wife. 

Charioteer’s problem is less straightforward. It is a toxic cocktail of laziness, lack of ambition and an infinite urge of doing nothing but laze around the village tea stall staring at passing midriffs and scratching one’s loin. Well there is no cure to both and I did what great bosses always do, that is, stay unresponsive, remaining uninterested for most of the time but every now and then create an uproar over silly matters through sheer histrionics and theatrical artistry. Just to make my presence felt.

One oppressively hot and muggy day in September I found myself in the middle of nowhere, by the side of a narrow, pot-holed road cutting through the nondescript village of M, surrounded by marshlands and fish-ponds. Well, there is nothing mysterious or shady in the nomenclature of the village. It’s just my immense love for my Tolstoys and my Chekovs. I landed up here because my charioteer left his mobile phone in a sweet betel leaf (pan) shop four kilometres down the road where we has stopped for some refreshments. Instead of me accompanying him I gladly suggested that I stay here while he retrieves his valuable possession of semi-nude picture gallery and porn which he liked to pass on as a cell phone.

I aimlessly paced for a while, lit up a cigarette and drew a few deep breaths, made few smoke rings then rolled up my sleeves and settled on a spot near a fish pond. A slight breeze was blowing giving some much needed relief. I took out my kerchief and patted my arms, neck and forehead to get rid of the ever present moisture. It’s this kind of a setting which forces a man to observe things around him which he otherwise would have just passed on. A cluster of water lilies clumped together at the far end of the pond, bright pink petals looking more luminous in this balmy, fading evening. A cormorant balancing itself on a bamboo pole perhaps envisioning one last dive before the sun goes down. A duck and its duckling swimming nonchalantly in a straight line almost like a programmed robot, such economy of motion, such perfect coordination. I thought nature does everything so effortlessly, with such grace and balance, programming everything with clock like precision except, perhaps the man. 

Just imagine the same scenario with a human being. Will the little one follow its mother as obediently as the duckling had waddled after its mother? There would have been a cry, a moan perhaps, fright, persuasion, positive reinforcement then a big splash in water all arms and legs a shriek here, an exclamation there, of fright, joy, enjoyment all jumbled up. It won’t be as picturesque as these two ducks here. But, that’s what God created man for, to be— a disruption, to be bold, to be adventurous, and to challenge, to wrestle with and ultimately defy nature and its perfect synchronizations, to mould everything as per his own wishes and requirements.
 
My reverie was broken by heavy steps behind me. I turned my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a silhouette just behind me in the fading light. As, he came closer I stood up. I was staring at a man in his late fifties, short and stout with muscular arms and a pot belly. Somebody who had done his fair share of hard labour but now is going easy on life. He had a pair of kind eyes a stump nose and thick bushy hair pushed backwards. He was smiling at me and trying to tell something, open mouth giving way to a grotesque dental arrangement, a missing canine, a broken incisor and all burnt sienna due to relentless chewing of pan and raw tobacco. For a moment my survival instinct kicked in. Was this someone who had bought our new product for blight prevention in paddy? If that’s the case I was pretty sure his intentions would be anything but noble. But, I was relieved when I heard him say-

“Babu, the sun is about to go down. It’s not wise to sit here near this water body, lots of poisonous insects around. Let’s go and sit there."

He finished by pointing towards a shack nearby, barely identifiable save for the dim light coming out of an oil lamp perhaps. Well Babu roughly translates to gentleman or coarsely Sir. That’s one good thing the Brits did to our Indian psyche, a man in a shirt and a trouser with leather shoes and a leather belt is guaranteed some form of respect anywhere even though he might be a convicted felon. I nodded in affirmation and followed him towards the shack.

The shack in question, like most shacks in India, was an ensemble cast of mud, bricks, a little plastic sheet here and a coconut thatch there, topped by baked mud tiles and corrugated rusty sheets. Termite infested bamboo poles somehow kept the structure together. These shacks somehow always make me think of this country. An ensemble cast of humanity which has been able to stand the test of time. Seen spectacularly glossy days and have also plummeted to the lowest of nadir but somehow has always managed to keep itself functional, keep itself relevant, and has always served the purpose of its teeming millions. Improvised benches were made out of beaten bamboo strips hammered into vertical wooden legs. A decent crowd was already there enjoying their cup of tea and the village gossip in equal measure.

My host’s presence drew everybody’s attention- a quick look, a respectable nod and a lingering smile. This told me two things- my host was not only well to do but also knew how to use his surplus cash. This particular reverence, in rural India, is reserved for those who are always there for you with a generous line of credit at a draconian rate of return. The lady in charge of the establishment, whom everybody called mashi, roughly elder sister, came a few steps towards us with a deferential smile. She even outdid the others by bowing herself a little as she moved forward and pointed us towards an empty bench. She had brought two palm leaved hand fans with her which she handed to us. My host asked about her well-being as we settled down which she answered politely. Then he ordered tea, no sugar for him, and few salted bakery biscuits, uttering the word diabetes to me with such deep felt pain and anguish that I felt sorry for him. I had no such scruples, if diabetes was my ticket to meet my maker, so be it, “A cup of tea and two cream rolls for me”, I said.

It was almost dark now. The breeze had picked up and the water bodies around made the air quite pleasant, as pleasant a muggy September evening can be. By, now I was assured my charioteer would make it as late as possible so that I won’t venture for any fresh errand. So, I sat there relaxed, enjoying my sugary syrup, which everyone in India calls tea, and listened to my host as we started the annoying and highly protracted part of any conversation between two individuals known as: “Getting to know each other”.

My host’s name was Radhamohan but everybody called him Dada, elder brother, that’s one more queer thing man of money and power, he is always called Dada, even though he might be thirty years your junior. He was from a family of established land owners. He spread his hands like a traffic sergeant to indicate his ancestral, agricultural land, which to be honest almost engulfed the entire village and its surroundings. In his life time he has further ventured into poultry farming and fish farming and had made a considerable fortune. He stayed in his crumbling ancestral manor, which again he pointed to, God knows why as it was pitch dark, with his wife and an army of domestic helps. He had a daughter and he spoke about her with great warmth and pride. She was a scholar currently doing her PhD in some German university, she was well mannered, kind, very pretty, and he kept going on. Suddenly my heart stopped. Was Dada fishing for a groom in this balmy September evening? I have to admit the idea felt both self gratifying and highly improbable at the same time. Surely a good looking girl doing her PhD in Germany was not going to get her bumpkin father do groom shopping for her. I was pretty sure Dada’s son-in-law will be handpicked, tried and tasted/tested and delivered to him requiring no intervention at his end. My chain of thought was broken by something Dada was saying. I just caught little bits of it.

“WhatsApp” He was saying.

I asked him “What!!”

“Do you use WhatsApp?” Dada asked.

“Yes. But what will you do with WhatsApp” I replied somewhat astonished.

He explained. “Well it’s my daughter you know. I call her at night. We talk. But, she doesn't like it. She says I stay awake till late, this might affect my health. We here sleep early you know. Sleep early, rise early. That’s what my father used to tell us. Also, ISD charges are high and I have so much to talk. All nonsense! I say. But she is adamant. She says with this thing we can always write to each other and we can call too and what’s more we can see each other over calls too. Isn’t that great?”

“I suppose so. But, you need...”

He stopped me abruptly gesturing with his hand and took out a brand new smartphone from his pocket.

“I need this. Isn’t it?” He chuckled with a mischievous smile and held the phone towards me.

I took it. It was expensive and probably bought today or yesterday the network wasn’t even up. I laughed and pointed the same to him indicating the nonexistent mobile network tower on the screen. Dada’s features became hard and he waved at a young boy sitting nearby.

“Go to Gopal’s mobile shop and ask him to come immediately.” The fierceness in his eyes was enough for the boy to start running towards the village market without asking any questions.

“Bloody fool. I will feed him to the catfishes. Told me everything will be functional within 2-3 hours and its evening now. How the hell am I going to call my daughter today? She will be really crossed. These youngsters today are plain hopeless”. He was fuming with rage.

I tried to comfort him. “Don’t worry he might have forgotten or there might be some technical problem.”

His rage subsided a bit and we again commenced on our ongoing conversation. I poked him a bit. “Dada, it’s all great you buying this mobile but you still don’t know how to use the application. Have you thought about it”

“Babu, this Gopal has promised me that he will show me everything that is to know about WhatsApp but now I don’t trust him. He is so irresponsible. His father used to plough our lands, such a simple hard working man. Just to imagine this scoundrel is his son. Let him come. I will cane him proper just as I used to cane his father. That will straighten him up”

“You are getting agitated for nothing. It’s very simple anybody can use it. But, if you take my suggestion you should avoid this thing like plague. This is the biggest menace facing modern world today”

Dada was sceptical. He thought I was making fun of him. Feeling bit hurt he replied, “Babu but my daughter say everybody nowadays is using this. People all over the world are getting connected and big institutions and companies use it to. How can it be a menace? If it isn’t too much of a bother to you I will be really obliged if you can teach me how use this thing”

“Ha..Ha..Ha really. Who told you all this crap? WhatsApp has brought the human civilization to its knee. Hundred years of human struggle to move from thumb impression to pen, it has just reversed it. People with 15-20 years of education have all become bloody anguthachaps (somebody who puts in thumb impression). You laugh! Let me warn you once you get hooked to it your life will be a living hell. Your existence will become a sorry episode juxtaposed between multiple pings. Pings when you sleep, when you are awake, when you work It will always follow you. Your addiction will force you to pick up your phone every second and check and what will you find?? Good mornings at 11 AM, belated birthday wishes, best wishes for every imaginable festivals and celebrations, poor joke, naughty saucy provocations and much more and you won’t be able to shrug it off you will go deeper and deeper”

“You think this will help you communicate better. No Sir it will create all kind of miss understandings. Your daughter will write something and you are perhaps busy or asleep, she will wait first expectant then distressed, then when you reply back, she might be busy. When you call her your entire focus will on be on how you look, how she looks whether she is able to see you, hear you. Then she will show you things there you will show her things here and in the middle of all this the tenderness and warmth will just go for a toss. You will speak to her but not feel her. Your actions will be governed by a conscious head not by a yearning heart”

Dada was somewhat flabbergasted by my verbal barrage. He scratched his head full of confusion trying to fathom things. I continued.

“If you listen to me I would suggest you go back to letters. Don’t you find it an exciting medium to communicate? When you write there is no restrictions on you, nobody there to cut you short, no apprehensions about how you look, it’s just you and your unchained thoughts to express your unbound love for your daughter. Do you remember the expectant wait for a letter when you were young. The frequent and often irritating follow up the post man had to endure, running towards the gate whenever his cycle passed by and once you had received the letter the reckless urge of tearing the envelope as quickly as you could and once you had opened it the whiff of air which carries so much with it. The touch of the letter which has been where you haven’t, touched someone whom you miss every day, doesn't it appeal to you?

As soon as I had finished Gopal entered the scene along with his escort. Dada somewhat moved by my sermon hadn’t notice him first. But, once he did he jumped straight up and got hold of a handful of Gopal’s scalp. Before I could intervene sirens were ringing in both of Gopal ears, trembling, he was trying to impress upon us that it was not his fault. The network provider had been slow. He had fixed things but Dada won’t let go of him. I checked his mobile and it was really functional now. Upon my assurance Dada loosened his grip and Gopal fled the scene, initially on four and little later, on two legs.

There was a glow in Dada’s eyes akin to a young boy with a new toy. My charioteer had arrived too. Before I moved on I took his phone downloaded the application and taught him the basic operation. Dada was an avid observer and grasped things almost instantaneously. Finally, as I was about to move on he asked me for my mobile number joking that it would be appropriate for the pupil to give his first demonstration of competence to his instructor. I gave him my card and we parted with warmth and fondness. Dada duly called me around midnight. The stage was all set, he and his wife, in a swanky living room. Dada had his earphone on and was using the application with dexterity. He introduced me to his wife, pumping me up with all kind of undue accolades. I felt embarrassed and told him to stop now, paid my greetings to his wife and congratulated him on his remarkable transition into a full blown netizen. Dada’s wife was repeatedly requesting me to come for lunch some time. We exchanged few more pleasantries and then signed off. As I slept that night it felt amusing to think of this unique family union across foreign lands, deep oceans, and mighty rivers via a piece of Chinese toy and air waves.

It was December now. The early morning chill had set in. The sweaters and mufflers with their distinct smell of naphthalene had made their appearance. It was boom potato season and the multinational had declared a full-fledged war against the Phytophthora army. We the foot soldiers were going all out, a deadly fight till the last bag of stock is dumped onto the farmers. My chariot was in full action mode as we were making on an average 4-5 demonstrations a day. This morning we had arrived in village M for a big jamboree of about 100 farmers. As expected Dada was the leader of the pack. We exchanged shallow greetings and he introduced me to his comrades introducing me as his “Dear Friend”. His patronizing has getting on my nerve to such an extent that I was mixing up my presentation content. But, somehow I made him settle in the front row and started my sermon. I made it quick and fast. Later on Dada and his cronies assured me that they will take care of my entire sales target. They spoke with such conviction that it made me dread of a scenario where they might feed the pesticides to their livestock just to ensure utilization of any surplus stock. Brushing these nonsensical thoughts aside I felt reassured, WhatsApp wasn’t that bad after all.

After the meeting, Dada almost manhandled me and took me to his place. The crumbling manor was as luxurious as it gets from inside. Marble floorings, comfortable sofa sets, a mammoth TV set in short it had all the things Dada and his wife could think of and money could buy. We sat on those comfortable sofas. Dada had lot of remonstrations to make. Why I had not called him? Why had I not come to his place although he had heard that I was nearby? I gave few lame excuses relating to being busy, work pressure and so on. As things stood, as soon as Dada had learnt that there will be a demonstration today he had guessed I would be there, as my card with the multinationals name printed on it was with him. So, I was in for a gala brunch. To be honest I didn’t mind a bit. My mind was relieved; the assurances of sale were so tall that it was enough to make one ecstatic and light. Dada’s wife was a great cook and I enjoyed a sumptuous lunch to such obscene proportions that it was impossible for me to proceed straight on. Dada suggested that we walk a bit so that he can show me his estate. I was more than happy to oblige.

As we walked on the brick layered narrow village path Dada’s estate was in full display. A guava orchard here, a mango garden there, rows of coconut tree, acres of agricultural land. Then we moved on to his poultry farm, a large edifice with stocking areas for chicks and hens. He went and gave his staff few instructions. Then we moved towards his fish farms. On the way we passed across the shack. We went inside and asked for pan. We stuffed the nicely bundled treat in our mouth and walked along the road until we reached the very pond where we had met at first. Standing there Dada started indicating far off water bodies.

“This is where I keep the catfishes, nasty creations those. Those there are for table fishes. That one there on the far end, that's where I grow shrimps”

We sat down on the grass as Dada explained the various nitty-gritty of fish farming. Evening was waning and the birds were returning home. The winter’s crimson sun was going down in a leisurely pace. I saw a single duckling afloat and traversing the length of the pond. It had grown a bit I felt but I could not be sure it was the same one I saw few months back. But the same robotic perfection of movement, so in sync with its surrounding, was evident. I asked Dada if he owned these ducks. He replied in affirmative but was a bit surprised. He said that he owns about 10 ducks and yes this duckling was from one of his own ducks. I narrated him my day dreaming reverie from the day we first met. I saw a shade of anguish pass over his face. He spat a little betel juice from the corner of his mouth and looked at me apologetically. I grasped the situation and gave a hearty laugh.

“I knew it was not chicken but was not able to nail it as I had never tasted duck meat before. Anyway, it was real splendiferous, your wife is an amazing cook” I complemented.

But, Dada looked a bit hesitant. I tried to lighten the mood a bit.
“Dada, the duck was part of our food chain just as the cell phone, I pointed towards it in his front pocket, is part of our evolution. We are humans; we progress that's our role. Isn’t it?"
We both had a hearty laugh over it. We sat quietly enjoying the breeze. It felt so reassuring and salubrious.

Dada reached for his pocket and forwarded an envelope towards me. It had foreign postage over it. I opened it. The letter was from his daughter. Her lack of habit as far as correspondence was concerned was clearly visible, irregular letters, oblique lines, and numerous spelling mistakes which were blackened. But, she had managed a page for her father. I didn’t go over the details and handed the envelope back to Dada. I raised a thumb up towards him and said. “Way to go!”

Dada smiled. It seems he has struck a deal with his daughter. He is going to write 4 letters every month and she is to reply at least once. Dada folded it carefully and kept it in his pocket. If her daughter’s career path is to proceed as planned, this bit of paper was the most tangible bit of her for Dada to cherish, to treasure, to get old with.

The sun was now setting making a path, of bright luxuriant crimson tarmac, in the pond just in front of us which the duckling was wading with seraphic deftness.