Memoirs of a Misfit

A square peg in a round hole is a popular quote implying a state of existence that is not in harmony with the surrounding reality. The vast majority of humans experience a disconnect with their lives at one time or another which is often resolved through compromise within and through adjustment with external circumstances. Given a choice between excercising free will and yielding to the temptation of attributing their lot to the dictates of destiny, most will choose the latter option. It is certainly convenient to delegate responsibility to another agency for situations that are essentially of one’s own making. Life is nothing but a series of experiences, some being the outcomes of conscious efforts while others are the results of circumstances beyond one’s control. This is the tale of Satyananda, a misfit existing in a state of perpetual denial. He was endowed with a split personality to match the fusion of two sanskrit terms, Sathya (truth) and Ananda (bliss), given to him as his principal identity. Although in the course of his adult life Satyananda had often heard it said that there is only one universal unchanging truth he had never fully understood its import. From numerous unpleasant experiences very early in life, he had come to realize that at least in his case, speaking the truth seldom resulted in bliss. As a result, he rarely lived up to the spirit implied by the first part of his given name and consequently seemed to be eternally in search of the state of being implied by the latter half. Satyananda was born in a small room in his maternal grand father’s home in Bailoor which was then a very small town located in the South Canara district in the southern part of India. Since that eventful day, the town of Bailoor was immortalized in his birth, school leaving and college certificates and ofcourse in numerous editions of his passport. Satyananda had been called upon to explain the location of this place numerous times. Strangely enough, over the course of his life, he had visited Bailoor much less than the number of times he had been asked to describe its geographic location and size. The first cry of a new born is variously interpreted by scholars as a gasp of breath or a cry of pain or something to that effect. Spiritual Masters may perhaps opine that the child’s first cry is an expression of indignation on being disturbed while in deep communion with the creator. It could very well be that the child is unhappy on being compelled to surrender the comfort and security of the mother’s womb only to be ejected into a world of suffering. It appears that even a new born is capable of recognizing an unjust barter. Then again, we are told that the ego does not express itself until the child attains the age of five. If such is the case then the child could not care less whether it is in or out of the mother’s womb. Be that as it may, it appears that when Satyananda finally chose to arrive, he did not conform to the law of natural entry. To the extreme discomfort and anxiety of the midwife who delivered him, this baby did not cry at birth. Now, we all know that midwives are most comfortable when there is a lot of hustle, bustle, anxiety, groaning and moaning in the delivery room ending in relief that comes from a sudden release of tension at the climax. This is a moment of glory savoured by medical professionals. They can take credit for what is essentially an act of God. In Satyananda’s case however, a silent entry into the world ensured that the midwife earned the credit. Therein lay the genesis for his future life as a social misfit. The seeds of situations that unfolded subsequently in his life were perhaps planted in the delivery room of that obscure house in a very small town. Fortunately for Sathyananda the midwife was a level headed individual who preferred to experiment with the therapeutic effects of complementary medicine instead of injecting some drug into his helpless body. The treatment prescribed to counter this problem was to brand the child with a red hot ember, not once but many times leaving behind scars as a constant reminder of an unusual experiment. The family resided in a rental apartment in Mumbai during Satyananda’s early childhood. The neighbourhood was infested with gangs given to settling scores between themselves periodically in their attempts to widen their spheres of influence and expand their nefarious businesses. The income from operating gambling dens and bootlegging illicit country liquor was apparently lucrative enough to sacrifice human lives. The grapevine would faithfully broadcast news on the latest arrest of infamous members and their subsequent release from custody. The soda water bottle containing carbonated drinks was a favoured weapon; the local version of the cluster bomb. Innocent onlookers would often be injured in the cross fire. Having learned to interpret subtle signs of imminent trouble, the occupants of buildings in the neighbourhood were wise enough to keep out of harm’s way. There was also the danger that one could be questioned by the police, as a witness to these senseless acts of violence. The consequence of this would be worse than physical injury, as such an individual could be a target for torture by these gangs. The members of these gangs were also adept at escalating minor skirmishes during public protests. They profited from looting local shops indiscriminately when political and social issues were settled on the streets of Mumbai. Many were shot and even killed when the army was called in to restore normalcy. To their credit, these otherwise ruthless characters had a soft corner for law abiding citizens, especially those who donated generously to the cultural events organized by them during religious festivals. When his hard working parents had saved enough to purchase their own apartment, the family moved to a safer neighbourhood. The apartment complex comprised three large buildings and the paved ground between these edifices was utilized as the parking lot for those residents who could afford the luxury of owning vehicles. The residents had organized themselves into a cooperative society. In accordance with the rules, periodic meetings of this society were held in the parking lot. A pattern emerged after a number of such meetings had taken place. As the meeting progressed the parking lot would be transformed into a platform for the uninhibited expression of a variety of emotions, particularly those resulting from suppressed anger, jealousy and hatred. A typical meeting would proceed normally, until a particular item on the agenda would evoke strong criticism from one group followed by a sharp rebuttal from the opposite camp and before long a physical altercation would ensue and the meeting would end abruptly. Everyone’s vocubulary of unprintable terminology would be upgraded at each meeting. Needless to say, records of decisions were never maintained since the proceedings were unworthy of being commited to writing. There was seldom any constructive action and matters languished for painfully long periods until they were miraculously resolved on their own. Codes of conduct and etiquette were never put in place since a concensus prior to implementation would be impossible under the circumstances. Although the cooperative society was technically run by volunteers, there were certain perks for those holding positions in the management committee, one being kickbacks from approval of tenders for repair work. The potential for profit was the driving force behind the immense competition for positions on this committee.