Being Daddu

 

Of all the blokes I would meet in Europe, I must admit that the one with most character (euphemism intended) had to be Daddu. With a few strands of grey hairs that did give him a dash of handsomeness, Daddu earned his moniker not just for being one of the most senior guys in our group, but also for the sense of avuncular eruditeness with which he tried to wrap the world in front of you. Born consultant material you would say, except that Daddu also had a Jekyllian child in him, whose curiosity and demeanour would more often than not, get the better of the consultant.

Sample this. We are totally lost in the labyrinthine streets of Prague. In pre-Google days, we had to travel old school style with cumbersome paper maps that would fail to list all hostels. Ours was romantically named Alhambra (after the Moorish jewel in Spain as we would find out later) but it was not on the maps. There were very few people in the afternoon, nor was it easy to ask of the locals who could not understand English. We asked a few ramblers but they kept walking justifying their ‘bohemian’ nature. Next, we asked an ice-cream vendor – he looked immensely disturbed as if he had to choose between the Moors and the Austro-Hungarian empire. He became flustered and gestured he had to shut his shop. I began wondering if Alhambra was some sort of a druggie’s den, but we had to find it at least! We were exhausted from our long train-ride and needed a bed even if it served opium for breakfast. Finally Daddu managed to stop a passer-by – in classis Gregory Peck style, Daddu stylishly whisked his hair, held his head high, and looked straight through his spectacled stare. The Czech gentleman had obediently stopped and nodded on hearing a ‘hello.’ We all thought, Daddu might finally eke an answer. Instead he asked the gentleman, ‘Where is the Dancing house?’ (It is a landmark of Prague with a contorted cylindrical tower that makes it look animated, true Ghibli style). The gentleman could not understand, so Daddu tried to describe with raised hands and legs, how contorted the building looked. The gentleman started looking scared (while others were holding me back from bashing my bag onto Daddu’s head) and as he tried to dash away, Daddu followed him, now asking where was the Lennon Wall. The gentleman looked for shelter (but the ice-cream parlour was already shut) and thence he ran. Daddu came back with the conclusion that the Praguers were totally useless and unresourceful, leading to their downfall since the days of the majestic Moravian empire. When Map-Boy Nishant took over to find the elusive Alhambra, Daddu decided to expend his faculty in making Czech jokes, reminding us how their history was all ‘Chequered,’ how soviet socialism had ‘check-mated’ the economy, and how the country would fail even if EU had given them a blank ‘check.’ Finally when we arrived at Alhambra, Daddu smugly concluded, ‘Now check this out’

In another instance, Daddu and his protégé were out-quizzing each other while passing through airport security. Of all questions, Daddu had to turn around at the exact moment that an officer was padding him, to ask his question. It was around the world’s most feared terrorist outfit. The officer straightened up with a wrinkle on his brow. Daddu’s protégé was one step ahead. He not only answered it correctly but asked a question of his own. This time it was on another terrorist organization. Daddu did not care one bit about the environment. He answered the question,  thoroughly enjoying his display of knowledge, and even high-fiving his protégé at his success. Next minute, both brainiacs were back in the queue, removing their shoes, socks, belts, glasses, and sweaters. That they were not strip-searched that day was a wonder! That day, it reminded me a lot of Mr. Bean’s arrival in America but later on, on introspection, I did realise this was the child-like nature of our grand old man, who was just refusing to grow up! 

But the best instance of Daddugiri had to be at Munich when we were frantically searching for a connecting train to our home base in Paris. Our train from Amsterdam was pulled up when some guys were found peddling cocaine on the train (Netherlands, space cookies anyone?)

The delay meant we had missed our planned train to Paris and we had to find the next one. Daddu, sauntered again in his stylish bravura, and caught hold of a helpless looking German station master, who in all probability understood a zilch of English. But Daddu had him cornered. Knowing Daddu, we were wondering if he would start ranting of Netherland’s narcotic nuisances and how we were delayed as a result. But Daddu started way back in Paris, and started talking of all the trips we were making in Europe. After 10 minutes of Euro-tripping, he finally landed in Amsterdam and then Munich, finally asking if the train behind him would take us to Paris. The station-master, already sweating by now, stared blankly. Daddu pestered again, eking a response. The poor guy nodded his head and quickly wiggled around Daddu, realising it was his only way out of the sesquipedalian session.

Daddu proudly came back to us and announced he had got the solution. Protégé boarded the train the very next moment while Beaucoup and I stared at each other, half convinced Daddu was wrong. While Daddu tried convincing us this was the train, Map Boy arrived and asked us to rush to platform 6.

‘What about this one here on platform 3?’ fought back Daddu, then going on to give a recap of his wonderful conversation with the station-master when Map-boy snapped him with one word ‘Bratislava – Platform 3 for Bratislava, 6 for Paris, take your pick.’

Daddu hesitated but Map-Boy knew him too well, ‘It’s a TGV, Daddu, come on hurry up!’

And Daddu forgot all about his German goof-up. For Daddu had a weakness for rolling-stock, and his Achilles heel was Europe’s fastest train – the TGV (Train a Grande Vitesse). Many of our trips back to Paris would end up on a TGV, much to his satisfaction. And having seen a couple of architects on one such trip, working intently with sprawled documents on a large table on the train, Daddu got his inspiration. On every trip back to our base, Daddu would take a large table and sprawl all our bills to split and allocate them, accurate to three places of decimals, the accountant in-person form of today’s split-wise.

But after all the jokes are made, I have to admit Daddu had a heart of gold. There are people who break groups, and then there are those who act as the pliant glue to keep everyone together. Daddu’s place was firmly in the latter. Almost all groups from our Institution had easily fragmented, with sub-groups and rival groups sprawling everywhere within weeks of arrival in our exchange program. Our group stayed together till the end, until the last day (when we collectively arrived at Delhi and spent the last evening of our Euro trip sojourn at India Gate). And the main adhesive force was Daddu. With his child-like smile, sometimes awkward, mostly genial, he could easily connect with anyone and everyone (including nitwits who understood not a word of what he said, examples galore). That connection, laced with simplicity and humbleness, made it easy for people to listen to him and for him to, in turn, convince the world. Despite his seniority and heightened levels of knowledge, there was seldom signs of condescension. In perfected division of labour that would make Adam Smith glow with pride, we all had areas of focus to sustain ourselves with a limited budget abroad. Cooking, groceries, travel planning, school homework – we all had our niches. In the kitchen, Daddu ended up doing the dishes for everyone, every day. I did not hear him complain one single day. He was also our 12^th man for any extra help anywhere, often acing better than the opener. But he never gloated. I guess it comes with age and maturity that we young cocky ones never fathomed then. Daddu despite his intellect was never a bourgeois. Privy to more savings from his years of pre-MBA work, he could afford an elite Eurail pass that the rest could not. And yet, he chose to ignore his plusher seats and free mochas to sit with us commoners, enlightening us of Napolean’s mistakes or of the Ostrogoths in Rome.

The sessions on these trains were unforgettable. Without social media’s distractions, we talked, gossiped but most importantly connected. (The most hilarious was Daddu recollecting whatever he could remember of his pub crawl the earlier night at Prague with another friend who had joined him. The rest of us were sitting tight-lipped, forcing ourselves not to laugh, while Daddu spoke with deep melancholy how he and his friend had thrown up at the fifth pub, how his protégé had run away at the first sign of distress, how he was forced to clean the mess with a long broom by an angry manager – who didn’t speak English - while his friend had passed out…at the end Daddu solemnly concluded that unlike publicised by the pub-crawling team that it would be the ‘best night in your life that you will never remember’, it had turned out to be the ‘worst night in your life that you will always remember’). These connections would further strengthen at our hostel Cite Universitaire’s basement where we would play Fuss ball. And finally at our dinner table. Late at night, after others in the hostel would have packed up, we would sit around our rectangular table and partake of a simple meal, while discussing the entire world, from Paris to Portugal, Versailles to Venice. And Daddu would sit there, shivering in his T-shirt and shorts (but never bothering to put on anything heavier), revelling in the latest factoid he had learnt.

As Map-boy would say, at one of those dinner nights - the strength of a friendship is tested, if we think about our friends - where they are, how they are faring, even years after we have left them. Immediate short-term proximity is super-ceded then by long-lasting impact. Even if that impact itself lasted three months – the tenure of our Euro trip. Here am I then, reading about language barriers and immediately thinking of Daddu and the gang.

I can rant on, but then, as Daddu – 12^th man, opener and above all, the finisher would constantly say, ‘Khatam karna yaar…’ Just get over with it. I look back and still see a guy with a few strands of grey hair, rummaging through the archives at the Pompidou Museum, digging out a Parisienne paper from 1975 reporting of India’s emergency under Indira Gandhi.

…and then catching hold of the old monsieur next to him, to explain how the greater Gandhi had started way back in South Africa. If only the poor cornered and trapped Frenchman could say… Khatam karna yaar!!!

 

1^st July, 2023

Cover image: Astronomical clock, Prague; Author's archives