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How does it feel To be without a home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? Bob Dylan (Robert Allen Zimmerman; 1941- ) Like a Rolling Stone ====================================================================
Just returned from a week long trip. I shall launch in to the story right away. Have been dying to write, but was largely unconnected to the world wide web. Needless to say, this recent travelling has kind of unsettled me. I realize that it is a time to move on, change coordinates. There will be more on that soon, but for now the story...
This part might contain dialogues, something that I have avoided the use of for quite some time. Please bear with me.
(Continued...)
So he sat there as imaginary words formed themselves on a worn out board, each piecing together a memory, of a time long gone- of a woman, he thought he once knew. They were beautiful dreams and he not often given to such indulgences, for once dropped his unyielding defenses. Life was good then- not that it wasn’t now- but well those days were different. He was feeling lazy, and didn’t have it in him to fight the memories, and well there had always been this part of him that had never wanted to. We all have our days, and today was one such day.
Outside a sharp October sun had come up, and was already blazing. He lazily thought of the plan for the afternoon, a lunch date of sorts with Sree. He smiled to himself, wondering how even now, he could flit one woman after another out of his chain of thought. That- the brevity of his attention span- had always been one of his problems- and probably at times a great strength. Narcissus had made feeble attempts at recovery, from Echo- and he smiled once more as he thought how surprised some people who thought they knew him well would be at knowing that he had had to recover from Echo. And Sree had been one of his few such failed attempts. He wasn’t sure what had caused these failures, but it always seemed that some thing or the other had gone wrong. He liked to attribute it to his short attention span, his lack of intent, his lethargy. But he knew that it wasn’t so.
He had been in many a relationship, since a very young age, and at times it had seemed that it was impossible for any woman who he had fancied with some seriousness to turn him down. Then he had this electricity about him, which was impossible to deny, a certain quality, which made him un-put-down-able, like a gripping novel- on, on whatever rocks your boat. Later on when he was to think about the series of his attempts, he realized that each one of his relationships had taken some part of him away, like he had given up something every time he had he had loved. Remarkably, every one of those women had inevitably settled down soon afterwards, in relationships of their own, cozily and purposefully and he had always been left wondering why. There had been a pattern which, he was later to regret having not noted. A mind trained to spot trends in arcane numbers which was commonly called financial markets, it was a rare failing on his part. But after Echo, he felt strangely drained. Later on he had realized that it had been the final blow, it had been his undoing, and he had not much left to give. He was in a certain way vacuous in that respect. Since then he had come across to most women (and God only knew how they could tell) as shallow- lacking in content. There was a lack of intent, which was perhaps almost obvious despite his best efforts. Emptiness is usually hard to hide.
It was a “sort” of a date, because the lady in question was much married, recently "mothered" and extremely content in that respect. This was the first time he was to meet her after her first child- a bouncing baby boy. Even on their first date he couldn’t miss the connection (and not to mention the great legs), and she went on to announce that they were long lost twins, but he mostly attributed it to the stars- I am a Sag- you’re a Scorpio- so we get along- kind of thing. However, she had given up on him remarkably early and he attributed it to her astute sharpness of which he had been aware from date one. She must have sensed his emptiness, his lack of intent. What had amused him then was her reason- lack of chemistry. It was a first and well, one never forgets a first- any first. Anyway, he had made one more attempt- and tried to impress upon her, with deliberate verbosity, the virtues of connections, but had had limited luck. He realized very soon that she, like him, had mastered the art of having control over a relationship, and very often could dictate terms, with words or with silence, as the situation demanded. Thereafter he had given up, realizing that their temperaments were not exactly suited to co-habitation.
He got up, shook off the garb of laziness and launched into certain ablutions which were absolutely necessary before such meetings. Bathed and everything else, he summoned Florin, his maid of many years and in many ways the one constant woman in his life and left her in charge of the paint job. From the looks of it, it seemed that the activity would take up a fair part of the week and saw no reason why the reins should not be handed over to her at this early stage.
At this point of time, one would need to step back a bit a reconsider Narcissus lest the reader begin to form certain impressions. The phrase most often used to describe him was “hard as nails”. He even at a very early age had displayed immense amount of maturity in matters both professional and personal. He was known to have an extremely keen observation and a very strong sixth sense. He had taken half chances and struck gold. Like wise on many a occasion he had walked away from the brink of success to let others pass him by, only to find them blown to bits on a mine field. At most times his discipline, timing and judgment was immaculate. Most importantly, though irascibly debauched, his control over greed was considered rare at his age and more importantly in his profession of choice. Frequently, friends and co-workers had sought his advice in dealing with their problems. On most occasions, his opinion had turned out to be right, although it was not often the easiest to follow.
So they met over lunch and some how he always looked forward to these encounters. He found it extremely interesting to meet a woman version of him, and so was pretty apprehensive of what new connection today might throw up. Unlike his other feeble attempts he had bothered to keep in touch with Sree, even if randomly, for this very reason. He hadn’t been in touch with through most of her nine months though and a then a little afterwards- he had little patience with those who seemed weighed down with the stress of some other thing ( in this case her pregnancy). He was most demanding in claiming attention and his apathy in such times was hard to disguise. He was however surprised to note that she looked particularly bouncy today, apparently fully recovered from the stress of pregnancy, labour and everything that comes with it. He figured that the baby must’ve been turned over to a well-paid nanny and hence she had been spared to pains of most post-natal chaos. Of course not to say that he regarded this with any disdain, like most others would have. Being a person who firmly believed that life was all downhill the day your wife conceived, he perfectly understood why some one would do something like that. She greeted him like they had met just the other day, as always and instantly they launched into a conversation they seemed to have left unfinished. Surprisingly, she suddenly announced-
“Narc, I have a gift for you (with an obvious reference to him having not brought anything for her)” and reached for her Soho bag (which seemed to be the fashion of the day) pulled out a book- titled “Ellipsis”. It was a recent bestseller of sorts. And he winced- and made exaggerated contortions of his face. She pulled her extended arm back and with it the book. “What’s wrong? Off books lately?”
“Not really, though I somehow can’t get myself to go through yet another crappy love story.” He replied.
“Well, that can’t be the only reason. I have sat through many a glowing review from you only to end up reading an utterly amateurish piece of writing. I mean you’d say it’s a matter of taste, but then you know we aren’t very different.”
“Well, that too, but in this case it is quite different. I mean how can one read a book about an affair in India, written in Spanish, and then translated into English so that it sells in India. Come on, there are enough India authors trying to do that already, so why go around in circles. Of course, I can understand why it is such a bestseller in its domicile- the concept does have something very exotic about it, but I am not really very convinced about the entire translation thing. Consider this- and I have been reading lately,” he said pulling out a little book from this little bag he was carrying flipped a few pages till his eyes lit up and read,
“Ishq se tabiyat ne zist ka maza paya
dard ki dava payi, dard-be-dava paya
That’s Ghalib. This book translates it into English and that reads:
Its love
Which has made this life
Full of pleasures
And full of joy
And has given
For all its pain
A balm and a cure
And given a pain
For which there is
No balm no cure.
Ghalib intended it to be a couplet. Why? Because the language he chose afforded him the luxury of having words which meant so much when so little has been said. And look at the translation- is it not almost blasé?”
“It is beautiful and I quite know what you mean old man, but yet this is different. You forget that I read Spanish and have read the original in bits. But in this case it seems that the translation almost puts things into a better perspective. Like you always keep saying, every story could have been written by its ultimate author and that person alone. It is destiny. And in this case the original authoress undertook the translation herself. You know, it is set in Bombay and English is almost our lingua franca ” , she said.
“Set in Bombay? But of course- where else!!!”
“Don’t hush it - read it. You’ll like it. Its protagonist, I am afraid, bears a striking resemblance to you.”
“Much as I would like the compliment, I am under no illusion of my uniqueness in this city. There are hordes of people like me. Not quite, may be much better subjects. Your husband for instance.”
“Don’t start off about him now. I am much married now, like you keep saying and it is too late for you to make a case for yourself by belittling him. In any case read it, or else just let it gather dust on your bookshelf along with the others.”
They sat and continued chatting. About maternity and the benefits it offered, for instance the leave- something a man could never hope for- not in this country at least. Of course most of the conversation was steered by Narcissus and Sree merely looked on. Suddenly she asked:
“So you have been reading Ghalib? It is not a good sign.”
“Why do say so? I have been reading Ghalib all my life”, he replied.
“No, now you have begun to quote him. It is very poignant, you know. One tends to draw inferences.”
“Oh Sree, don’t talk like a hag now. Next you’ll ask me about marriage.”
“Yes, what about that? When is it happening? Any luck yet?”
“It isn’t a matter of luck. More like choice, chemistry, etc.- like you kept saying, remember? However, if they introduce a concept of a full-fledged paternity leave, it might tilt my decision. Did you know that I was sent on a course on ‘Handling Pregnancy’? ”
“You’re kidding me. Of course I have never heard of anything like that.”
“It happened after a certain manager uttered ‘Not again’ when a woman came up and announced her conception.”
“How mean and thoughtless. Tell me it wasn’t you. It stinks of you.”
“It wasn’t me, silly. For one, my choice of words would have been far more efficient.”
“You mean acerbic.”
“That too.”
“I some times start to believe in God when I consider that you have no women reporting into you.”
“Me too. Couldn’t have been any better.”
So they went on. And soon it was time to go. The baby had to be fed and Spock’s book, which Sree followed selectively, advised that the biological mother spare no effort in that respect. Narcissus started to deposit both the books in his bag and said, “Actually, the Ghalib was meant for you. But since you have begun to read too much between the lines, I shall pass.”
“Don’t be a meanie”, she said and snatched the book and it disappeared into her bag.
“By the way, I maintain the best way to deal with Ghalib, or for that matter even Pushkin, is to open a page at random and read the words.”
“I shall remember that, but don’t you think you know me too well to start prescribing reading habits?”
This time he let it pass. He knew that she was better read and had a much more refined taste than him. Under most circumstances, he was at the receiving end and was very often in complete awe of her views and recommendations. Moreover, she was much, much more accomplished in the usage of words and language, and it seemed to him only now that the reason why he had been able to get away lightly today was probably because of the weight and concerns of motherhood. It probably was the first time she had ventured this far and for this length of time away from her baby, and thus seemed slightly distracted. They exchanged pleasantries of the good-bye variety, she punched his arm, and left.
(To be continued)
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"I can't think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can't read anything, you only have the most rudimentary sense of how things work, you can't even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses." --Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There (1993)
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