Stephen Kelman - Man on Fire

With time only for brief meditation period it was on to the second record attempt of the day. I performed a final stretching, removed my trousers and climbed back onto the stage where a seat had been constructed for me from iceblocks covered with a towel to prevent any numbing effect from entering my groin area. My student Vijay Four accompanied me to deliver the fateful blow (Gopal Dutta was disappointed that I had not given him the nod due to his ongoing battle with enlarged tumour, but he swallowed his pride to attend at front of stage, dressed in his customary bandhgala for appearance in spotlight).

We had practised for many hours the correct speed and trajectory for a perfect swing and were confident that the slabs would be broken in the single action required to satisfy the record limits.

I took my seat and maintained a steady breathing while Vijay Four placed the three concrete slabs, each weighing 18kg, in a layered formation between my legs.

Here you may be asking why the Guinness people would allow such a dangerous event when they had refused to recognise my similar achievement of being kicked in the groin repeatedly. Really there is nothing to it: a record of two slabs already existed, and when I enquired of their support for this activity they were happy to confirm that as the concrete slabs would absorb most of the energy from the hammer’s impact before it reached my groin the risk was considered acceptable.

As luck would have it I was able to secure a supply of slabs of the right dimensions on which to perfect my technique. My student Mehtab was construction foreman and he provided me with quantity of used slabs for my heart’s content. Only expense incurred was the sledgehammer, and he advised on the right selection. Vijay Four made himself available to my needs and over many happy evenings in the yard below my apartment we hit upon the ideal method. The attraction proved so popular that I had to decline several kind offers from neighbours keen to lend a hand. Therefore I was quite comfortable when the moment came to put my practice into full effect. Needless to say, the outcome was as expected. The three slabs were broken with no difficulty, Vijay Four making a perfect swing on first attempt. Storm of praise greeting me when I lifted the broken pieces to confirm my success.

The enjoyment was felt across the world. I must say that this is a Guinness history, as I broke these two records within a span of ten minutes, a feat that had never been achieved before or since. But the main thing was this: I had proved that I could overcome major injury and return stronger than ever. This was all the confirmation I needed to march on with extra confidence through every obstacle which may lie ahead.

It is here that my story reaches a strange turning point. The attention I received nationwide after the AXN event introduced many shocking elements into my life for the first time. Think about it: one day you are a freelancer in Navi Mumbai, living a simple life with your wife and young son, doing your work so that you may have your two square meals per day and a roof over your head. You practise your martial arts and teach others the skills you have learned for their wellbeing and successful spirit. You follow your record-breaking journey alongside your daily trials because the almighty has planted the dream in you. It is a dream which you share with the common man and for no selfish motive. You do not seek money or fame, only to inspire the world through simple actions of duty and suffering. Your only reward is to know that you walked the path laid down for you from beginning to end.

But no man can be sure enough of his path until temptation blocks his way, and my temptations came all together like troop of monkeys to my door. If I welcome them or turn them away, this will decide the ending of my journey in darkness or light.

Thank you.

Having fixed the radio Harshad had turned his attention to the portable TV that had sat silent on the counter since my arrival. He wanted all lines of communication open before the rains came. His clumsy-looking hands were calmed into surgical precision by the importance of the task. He snapped a part into place on the circuit board and the LCD screen jumped to bold black. He took a blind sip from his glass in celebration.

‘Now we are back in business,’ he purred. ‘A new inverter is all it needed.’

He replaced the TV’s cover and found a channel. More on the Mangalore plane crash. The news anchors’ suits were shiny and out of date and their producers had added Hollywood strings to the location footage and pressed the slo-mo button to keep the viewers interested. Wailing survivors tore their hair out and banged their fists on the ground, trying to dig themselves down to the centre of the earth where their lost ones were waiting for them.

I checked on the mural in passing. The snake was finished and the figure of Harshad wore slip-on shoes. Laces were too fiddly to paint.

The old man was sleeping soundly, curled up on his tarpaulin. His army of gods stood guard over him, watchful for whatever dreams might leak out from the many holes in his head. I stepped round him and carried on walking towards the spot he always looked for when he was awake.

Bibhuti had given me a day off to heal. He had reports to type up and I was craving a rest from voices that demanded answers of me. India for the unassimilated was too many people and no time alone.

Airoli’s main strip was all falling-down food places and spilling-out tat shops, once bright colours faded from the sun and savaged by the dust kicked up from the dirt pavement. Men in shirtsleeves lined up at the tap on the corner to wet their handkerchiefs and wipe the sweat from their necks. I went into a bazaar that sold cartwheels and moulded plastic tricycles hung from the ceiling by wires. I bought a beginner’s football for Jolly Boy that I hoped would entice him away from racquet sports.

The shopkeeper asked me if I was here on vacation. I told him no, I was here to help someone break a world record. I was going to hit him with a baseball bat until it broke. I was going to keep doing that until we ran out of bats.

He knew all about Bibhuti and he suspected it couldn’t be done. He wished us good luck all the same.

I crossed the road frogways between the buzzing scooters and the auto rickshaws dangling legs and trails of headscarves and bright flowing skirts. I went to the station to be quiet and to watch the trains coming in. I sat on the platform floor, hugging the football to my chest and revelling in my loneliness.

The trains weren’t steam-powered like I’d imagined them to be. Still they spoke of a time when things were simple and built to a looser standard. They came in slowly with people hanging out of the open doors, jumping off before they’d stopped with a careless heave, as if they’d been pushed from behind by something big and invisible. Their god of the day was an impatient one who wanted them all out in the open where they could be counted and assigned their latest portions of luck. Behind each arriving train a gang of stealthy vagrants would creep in, crawling out from the plywood foxholes at the side of the tracks. Men my age, sometimes a young boy or two in tow, dust still in their hair from the last inbound trip. All crouching and bent with their bags of turning fruit. When they got up close they’d spray out like wings and ease on board just as the train was pulling out again, swarming the carriages in the hope of unloading their bananas on the drowsy general bogies.

It was cool and dark under the terminal roof. I could be anyone and I didn’t need a reason to be there. I could just sit and watch the trains come and go and the people they carried, brown faces all poised and shiny with the places they had to be. The waiting men shuffled in cocky circles round the edge of the platform, spitting on the tracks with unhurried finesse. I dozed off. The new weight of my obligation pulling me comfortably down, I felt myself spread out like a burn and I was gone.