When i was only about six months of age, my parents decided to go vegetarian. For a variety of reasons, health being primary among them. They decided, however, that I could eat anything I wanted and when I was old enough, I could make the veg/non-veg choice on my own.
The decision to quit all things non vegetarian was not an easy one for my Dad, by no means. You see, he grew up in a typical north Indian family, where "mutton-sundays"* and "kaleji-contests"** were as deeply woven into the local tradition as, say, marrying off one's sons for money or,say, losing one's entire life savings in a night of gambling.
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*Mutton sundays: A North Indian tradition invovling gorging on huge quantitites of delicious home made mutton for Sunday lunch. It was usually followed by a long and snory slumber session next to the family mutt, who would be stoned for the same reason.
Due to the security risk that the tradition created by putting entire cities to sleep, Mutton-Sundays were outlawed by the governments of Madhya Pradesh, UP and Bihar in 1979. However many towns in these states still secretly maintain the tradition but reduce the security risk by increasing the number of vegetarian policemen on duty on Sundays
**Kaleji-Contests: Annual contests in many North Indian states. They typically involved local stalwarts competing with each other to see who could eat more "Kaleji" (liver) before passing out. The Indian Health Journal (1982) found these contests to be the cause of 73% of heart disease cases in the states of Punjab, UP, Haryana and MP combined.
]
To my Dad's credit, he never faltered in his resolution, not even once. To this day he is meat free since '87. But for years after he'd quit, he grieved over his irreversible loss.
In this torn state he did what any decent, God-fearing parent might. He lived his dream through me. That's right, I became his little race-horse. Or perhaps his race-pig.
Ever so often in my early years, he would take me out for an untimely meal and get me to sample some timeless declicacy that he happened to be feeling nostalgic about. He would sit with me as I ate it, savouring the aroma of his lost love. I was a good pig too. I sampled eagerly and ate well. Indeed, I even asked intelligent questions. He answered them right back, always.
When i look back, I can remember innumerable long chats with him at the local Chawla's-Chic-Inn or in the narrow south-ex lane that housed Qureshi's Kababs. The discussions were deep and solemn, and they always revolved around non-veg food. I would quiz, he would lecture. Things like, "How many different types of animals can be eaten Pop?", "Paa, have you ever tasted deer?" or "Does fish make you intelligent Papa?" formed the meat of our discussions.
It was on just one such occassion that I asked my Dad, "Whats the tastiest kind of meat you've ever had?"
His answer was prompt, without a second's hesitation. "Rabbit, of course," he declared, "just melts in your mouth."
"Wabbit!!!!", nine-year-old-me asked incredulously. "Where do you get wabbit???"
"Well, not at a restaurant or a pickup like you kids are used to. If you want something as delicious as rabbit, you have to go the jungles and get it yourself. It's a do-it-yourself kinda thing, just like anything else that's important in life."
What followed was a thirty minute discourse on a hunting trip my Dad's "Forest-ranger-uncle" had taken him on when he was eleven.
Apparently catching a rabbit wasn't such a big deal once you got to the depths of a jungle. All you had to do was park your truck with its headlights on and very soon a few rabbits, fascinated by the wonder that was the headlight, would come stare at them. What's more is that the headlights would throw them into a trance-like state and then it was the easiest thing to go and pick up one of them. Following this the rabbit was usually quickly converted to dinner. And if my Dad's taste-buds were to be trusted, a delicious one too.
Now, my Dad's a great guy. Honourable, honest, upright etc etc. But like any true Arora he's been guilty of stretching a story sometimes. I mean, any real Arora knows that the price of a good story is probably greater than a fib here or a lie there. The rabbit story may well have been one of these "slightly stretched" ones. Nine-year-old-me, of course, was oblivious to any of this and lapped up the story like a hungry cat.
Years passed by. I grew out of nine-year-old oblivion and started recognising my Dad's stories for what they were: interesting anecdotes often reworked in his head for effect. With time I began rigging stories of my own and gradually dismissed my Dad's stories as having no real truth in them. The rabbit story being one of them.
But I was wrong, and it took a Suddu to prove it to me.
Which, of course, brings us to the question of who Suddu is. Well, Suddu is a friend of mine in college.
And what is Suddu doing in this story?
A lot actually. Firstly, he looks like a rabbit (see picture for proof). Secondly, this is HIS story.
So we skip forward many years from the time I heard about how rabbits were supposed to be caught and we reach a point in Lokhandwala market where we find our Suddu driving his Mom and little brother home.
Like i said, Suddu looks like a rabbit, and as the story will prove, behaves like one too (It would not be even remotely inappropriate if you referred to him as Suddu McWabbit, Sudarshan "Bugs" Bhatija, Bunny, Carrot Boy etc etc etc) .
It was about 8 pm, a time when Lokhandwala market is at its busiest. Suddu was in the driver's seat and his brother in the passenger's. Suddu's Mom was in the back.
Suddenly out of nowhere, or so it seemed, Suddu's keen eye caught sight of two "really awesome headlights" (from here on the quotes indicate Suddu's exact words when he first told me the story).Indeed, just like my Daddy told me, Suddu (and his brother too) was completely enraptured by the sight of the lights. In the trance that he was, he completely forgot that he was driving (albeit at the 5km/h that Lokhandwala market allows at that time of the evening). His car kept sliding forward and as is often the case when drivers forget their car is moving, it hit the car ahead. In doing so, Suddu set off a chain of events that the residents of Lokhandwala now refer to as the "push".
Here's what happened.
Suddu's car hit a Qualis right ahead of him. The impact threw Suddu (and his brother) out of their trance. However it was too late to prevent the Qualis from jerking forward violently and hitting a Zen right ahead of it.
An auntie was driving the Zen.
Here's the thing about Lokhandwala aunties. They're atrocious drivers. I'm not being sexist, just honest. However, every once in a while there comes a time when they're involved in a car mishap where they're not at fault. At this point the aunties of Lokhandwala take on a whole new form. A violent, lethal and extremely self righteous form. A form that screams out revenge and sends a chill through anyone who ever dared question their ability to drive.
The auntie in the Zen was no different. The moment the Qualis hit her car, she instinctively clasped her head in her hands and said "Oh crap!! Not again". Then a moment later, she realised that she hadn't suddenly hit the brakes. In fact she hadn't even hit the accelerator instead of the brakes. Indeed, she hadn't even lost track of the road because she was staring at herself in the mirror. Then the auntie, in a moment of inspiration, realised what aunties in Lokhandwala rarely get to realise: that it wasn't her fault.
Seconds later, the auntie pumped her fists, unsheathed her claws and stepped outside, raring for battle. Meanwhile the Qualis' driver and Suddu had both broken into a cold sweat. The Qualis' driver because the Qualis was a taxi and he would have to face the music from his boss. Suddu because the origins of the "push" could be traced back to him.
The auntie ran, enraged, towards the driver of the Qualis. For the next six minutes, the auntie growled, shrieked, hissed and threatened to gouge the driver's eyes out.
The driver tried answering back in his defence.
He tried telling her that it wasn't his fault. He tried telling her that the car right behind him had bumped into him. He tried telling her that he was probably worse off, since his car had been damaged from both ends.
He didn't succeed in telling her anything. In front of the raw fury of the auntie, all that came out his mouth were little timid squeaks of nothingness.
Suddu was watching all this from the confines of his car and was feeling more and more frightened by the second. However Suddu is a debater and even in this moment of crisis he came up with a logical argument to defend himself. He mentally framed what he would say when she got started with him.
Also, all this mayhem had completely stopped traffic in Lokhandwala market and numerous cars were honking non-stop, asking Suddu to move ahead.
Meanwhile, after six excruciating minutes under fire, the driver of the Qualis managed to extricate himself from the auntie's clutches and he sped towards Suddu's car. Suddu by now had a line ready to blurt out as soon as he was challenged. So when the driver ran towards him, Suddu rolled down his window about a micrometre and declared with a fake, watery smile: "Its all cool because we all have insurance".
Suddu had somehow hoped that would have been the end of it, and rolled back his window. Except the driver of the Qualis spoke no english and had no clue what Suddu was smiling about.
Suddu had been to England very shortly before this incident. Like any desi-munda, he had been impressed by the standards of traffic discipline and respect for the rules of the road there. Seeing how this little scuffle was blocking the traffic entirely, his civic sense was aroused and he rolled down the window a micrometre again to tell the driver that it was perhaps best they took this argument to the side of the road. When he told me this story, he said, "Dude, at least in England people have the decency to go to the side of the road and fight. Seriously dude."
Realising that they were obviously choking the traffic, all three parties decided to park at the side of the road and then get back to fighting.
Suddu, just back from England, waited as the two cars in front of him moved. As the Qualis in front of him moved left, a new emotion arose in Suddu's bosom. An emotion far deeper than civic sense. One that ran in his very veins. In his ancestors veins too. The same feeling that ran through the blood of anyone who ever had any connection with that part of our land that lay in current day Pakistan. It was more than a feeling, to tell you the truth. It was a voice. Yes, it was a voice, and this is what it told Suddu: "All this decency, civic sense, responsibility etc etc is crap, and you know it. Remember, you're a Sindhi. So get the hell out of here while you have the chance."
I'm not kidding, he actually heard that voice, or he would never have done what he did next. He saw the empty space in front of him and sped off, leaving the other two parties gaping.
Of course, there was this one problem. The fact that "speeding off" in Lokhandwala market basically means revving the engine till you reach a speed of 10km/h and then have to stop abruptly.
So Suddu and family should have been less surprised than they were when the Qualis' driver caught up with them on foot. He started cursing and created a racket banging on the car's windows. The mood inside Suddu's car was already volatile and an enraged guy chasing them, swearing while he was at it, tipped it beyond the edge.
Suddu's little brother could hold it back no longer, and began wailing uncontrollably. Suddu's Mom, meanwhile, started to get hysterical, and can you blame her. Luckily Suddu instinctively locked the doors of the car, and continued trying to force his way through traffic.
After a while, Suddu did manage to get out of Lokhandwala market and a little while after that Suddu and family reached their apartment complex.
Suddu's brother got out of the car teary eyed. Through his tears he noticed that the car's front number plate was missing. Suddu, hoping that it was the tears that were blocking his brother's vision, stepped up to check the plate and realised, with a great deal of disappointment, that the plate was indeed gone.
Suddu looked up at the sky and sighed. What a world, he thought, and what luck. Of all the things he could have accidentally left before he sped away so cheekily, he had managed to leave the one thing that could easily be traced back to him, his number plate.
With another sigh Suddu realised he would have to go back. He realised he would probably have to face a very angry driver and an even thirstier wildcat (aka the Lokhandwala Auntie). He submitted himself to fate. Leaving his mom and brother at home, Suddu solemnly drove back to the scene of crime.
He parked some distance away and sneaked out of the car. Silently peeing his pants, he figured it was best to scout the area before returning directly to where the "push" had begun. He observed from afar that the Zen seemed to have left the area. That was good, definitely good. He also noticed that the Qualis was still there but the driver was nowhere to be seen. Suddu decided to observe from the other side, to see if the driver was inside the car. So he approached from the other side and realised that the driver wasn't in the car either. However, there was someone in the back seat. This hitherto unseen character was staring out of the window listlessly.
Suddu wondered if this person had caught a look at him during the "push". Probably not, thought Suddu. Suddu had been in his car all along and so had this person, making it virtually impossible for the two to have seen each other.
However, Suddu thought it was important to "establish this beyond any reasonable doubt" before making contact with the person.
So Suddu decided to "play it cool". He walked by the Qualis a couple of times, whistling loudly and tunelessly, so as to "seem unsuspicious".
When the person in the car showed no signs of recognition, he approached him cautiously. "Bad hit eh?", Suddu asked him.
"Yeah, some bastard rammed into us from behind" was the reply. Suddu flinched a little, but continued to "play it cool".
"Oh that's bad, that's bad", said Suddu, "You managed to catch a look at his plates?"
"No. The sunabitch drove off before we could do much. Wouldn't mind wringing his neck if I saw him though. I'm getting late for my flight and now the taxi driver has gone to get another vehicle, all 'cause of that bastard."
Suddu felt distinctly dizzy on hearing this, but still, he knew he couldn't show it. He tried a fake laugh, "Oh, Oh hoho, hoho....I don't think he'll be coming here again. Hoho, Oh hoho."
The man looked at Suddu, slightly worried if all was well with this talkative stranger.
At this point Suddu realised that if he stayed any longer, his cover would be blown. Besides, the driver of the Qualis wasn't going to be away forever. So Suddu politely said goodbye to the man in the car and thanked God that he had no clue of his car's number.
Of course, the plates were still missing. Suddu thought of investing a few minutes in their search, just in case the Qualis' driver found them on his return. He walked around the spot where his car would have been, trying to act casual while searching for his plates. No sooner had he started looking than a "typical Lokhandwala dude" came up to him.
"Duuuude!! Aren't you the guy who slammed his car into that Qualis up ahead?? Awesome dude, awesome. Look here I picked up your number plate as a souvenir. I guess you want them now don't you? Here you go...", and he held out Suddu's license plate.
Suddu, overcome by emotion, hugged the "typical Lokhandwala dude" and gave him the most rabbity smile in his repertoire.
That's how it happened.
That's how I realised how my father's stories were more than just entertaining exaggerations.
That's how I came to acknowledge the wisdom of experience.
That's how I learnt that if you'r headlights are awesome enough and you keep them on long enough, the rabbits will come, they always do.
All thanks to Suddu McRabbit.
