P.G. Bhaskar - The Silliest Autobiography in the World

The Silliest Autobiography
in the World

P. G. Bhaskar

HarperCollins Publishers India

This book is dedicated to everyone who figures in it. Thank you.
Without you, there would have been no book.

This book is also dedicated to Chang, Wang, Smith, Jones,
Williams, John, Kim, Lee, Ali, Mohammed, Ahmed, Gonzales,
Lopez, Shah, Gupta, Patel, Desai, Mehta, Modi, Bhat, Shetty,
Patil, Advani, Dsouza, Menon, Rao, Pillai, Kutty, Singh, Iyer,
Iyengar, Malhotra, Jain, Kapoor, Chopra, Saxena, Agarwal,
Yadav, Sharma, Khan, Roy, Bose, Banerjee, Mukherji and others.
Without them, there would be no sales.

Contents

It wasnt easy getting this book published. Not just because there are too many writers in todays world of too few readers. Its also because publishers have become rigid and terribly fussy in their approach. They are paranoid about what will sell. And who can blame them? Its just the way the world operates these days nervous, edgy and increasingly risk-averse.

I met my first potential publishers over breakfast two years ago. I happened to be on a fruit diet that week and stuck to watermelon, while my guests there were two of them tucked into eggs, sausages, hash browns and doughnuts. When I told them I wanted to write my autobiography, they laughed loudly. Whats funny? I asked them, a little peeved. You are, they chorused and continued to chortle, giving other each a high five.

Autobiographies are supposed to be written by celebrities, one of them told me. Leaders, revolutionaries, game changers. You are not Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. Again, they laughed merrily, for reasons I could not fathom. They seemed to be in a good mood.

I bristled. Theres no harm in experimenting, I told them, stiffly.

The new-age revolutionary! said one to the other, smirking horribly and waving a deprecating hand in my direction. Perhaps he thinks he can change the world. Who knows, he might turn out to be Indias twenty-first-century Gandhi! He dug his companion in the ribs with his elbow to show that this was comedy.

I stared at the man curiously. One does not normally associate humour with publishers. (Naturally. They cant help being dour when they turn down so many manuscripts a day). His partner, meanwhile, displaying incredible wit, replied, Well, then maybe he can name his autobiography My experiments with fruit.

They guffawed uncontrollably, both of them, holding their sides and gasping for breath. Shortly after that, taking the high road, they left, still looking back at me from time to time and emitting hacking, mirthful sounds, leaving me in a state of febrile stupor.

For a while, I just sat there, fermenting inwardly. Then, I walked homeward, immersed in thought. The trick, I told myself, was to start and just get into the loop. No revolution could ever be brought about without revolving. My lips were set in a firm, determined line. I changed into my pajamas, placed my laptop on the broad armrest of the sofa and started typing.

1963

In the aftermath of the Chinese aggression on India, there were several reasons attributed to it by our countrymen. Some felt the Chinese were getting back at India for hosting the revered Dalai Lama following Chinas invasion of Tibet. A few wondered if the Chinese had misconstrued Jawaharlal Nehrus slogan of Hindi Chini bhai bhai as Hindi Chini bye-bye, concluding that the Indian PM was signifying an end to Indo-Chinese friendship. Others were convinced that the Chinese had taken umbrage to north Indians referring to them as Cheen ke log believing that the Indians were being abominably rude and calling them chinky log or chinky people.

A few months later more specifically, on 26 April 1963 a series of Chinese-sounding cries rang out in the city of Peking, as Beijing was then known. Thrashing his hands and kicking his legs, a brand new baby boy was born in a country already bursting at the seams with close to a billion people. The crying, thrashing and kicking were a portent of things to come. In fact, the baby continued to cry, thrash and kick for the next several decades earning name and fame for it. He grew up to become Chinas martial arts hero and film star. The name was Li. Jet Li.

Across the border, a couple of thousand kilometres away, in the coastal city of Madras, India, another baby boy was born, also crying, thrashing and kicking. But unlike Li, this baby stopped thrashing and kicking shortly thereafter. He did not go on to make a career of it. He realized early on in life that he would never be much of an athlete. With this baby, Indias population touched the momentous half-billion mark. Or thereabouts, give or take a few millions. This baby was me. As I entered this world, birds flew gaily in the sky, the sea breeze blew musically and wave after wave joyously caressed the Marina coast as if in celebration. They usually did those days in Madras. Relatives fluttered around excitedly and noted the time of my birth. A nurse smacked me on my bottom though I had been perfectly well behaved. I cried. Everyone else laughed.

Two epoch-making moments in two giant Asian countries. Two magnificent babies. One would go on to become national wushu champion multiple times, an international actor and director with a significant fan following across the world. The other well, the other will write this book.

But what does bloody Jet Li have to do with my autobiography? Nothing, really. I just thought Id mention it since he was born on the same day. Very few really famous people have been born on 26 April anyway. And Im not just talking of 1963. Shakespeare and Sachin Tendulkar missed the landmark by just a couple of days or so. Most other important people missed it by several weeks, even months. So, basically, it was just Jet Li and me. The first screamed and kicked his way to fame. And the other mostly sat silently and stared into space.

Shortly after my birth, I checked out my family. My dad turned out to be a serious-looking chartered accountant dude, arguably the first human being to get hit on the face by a bouncer while playing cricket. Six years before my birth, he had lost two front teeth because of this. (The bouncer, I mean, not my birth.) My mum was a pleasant, soft-spoken, sensitive, saree-clad homemaker. Mum and dad had been married a good nine years or so before I put in my appearance. Two ready-made sisters were already at home. They were much older and bigger than I was. They wore their well-oiled hair in plaits and wore long skirts with blouses that were usually slightly crumpled.

It was a Tamil Brahmin family that I had stepped into. They lived in Mylapore, Madras (where else?), and were sturdy middle-class folk (what else?). So, thats how my story started with this family of now five. Mum, dad and the three of us.

Two plus three makes it five

And this is how humanity does thrive
One meets another one

And has a bit of fun

And along comes a baby, kickin n alive.

Traditionally, the Tam-Bram community has had a unique system of naming their eldest (or only) sons. To them, it seems a simple enough thing. But it has always left the rest of the world completely confounded. It works like this, sort of.

A newborn boy is given the name of his paternal grandfather. That name is usually preceded by a letter or two. If there is just one letter, it would stand either for his fathers name or his native village.

All reasonably clear so far? Right. To give an example, K.N. Narayanan might stand for Kadayam Narasimhan Narayanan. This would refer to Narayanan, the son of Narasimhan and the son of the soil of Kadayam village in Tamil Nadu. And if Narayanan happens to be the eldest (or only) son, you could bet on his grandfathers name also being Narayanan.