We would spend lazy Sunday mornings at the restaurant in Cubbon Park in Bangalore, sipping cold draught beer. None of us were boozers actually - we were just social drinkers, more interested in the conversation rather than drinking. The conversation was mostly on films. In fact it was always entirely on films. I scarcely had any opinion on them, for I hadn’t seen most of the films, and further, because I had lost the intellectual equipment that enables one to have opinions. I would spend the hours lost in my own thoughts, distracted, but drawing subtle nourishment from the fact that I had someone to seek me out when I felt betrayed and abandoned by the one person whom I had put all my faith on – the person with whom I was totally honest both outwardly and from the depths of my soul. Actually, what had deprived me of all my bearings and coordinates in life was the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, I had not done her a single wrong deed ever. I had given out bits and pieces of my soul in many installments - they were devoured without acknowledgement or even the feeblest expression of reciprocation. And when I tried to give expression of my emotional starvation to a person who I mistakenly thought was her friend, her ‘friends’ entered the scene, and so did a colleague of mine. If the records of my interaction were there, if the initial ones could be scrutinized, people can see for themselves the sincere efforts I had taken to protect her privacy just in the event I was mistaken. They can see for themselves how late in the day her name was mentioned, and that too only after I had submitted myself for the possibility of slaughter by placing, as is so frightfully clear to me now, an entirely unfounded trust in the goodness of humanity.
Do I know the extent to which I had lost my bearings? Of course I do. One of the trio was singularly inept in taking care of himself. He was totally incompetent in the management of his money, in the management of his environment, and more importantly and tragically, in the management of his emotional needs. He lived in a small, dingy room, the condition of which will be described at an appropriate time (if there is anything like that). He had no relationship with his parents whatsoever. He did have siblings, but he rarely talked of them. He did have a fondness for his father which he expressed once in a very, very rare bluemoon. He never ever seemed to try to relate to women. He received no letters, no visitors to his room. No one enquired or cared whether he had eaten. No one cared whether he desired any special dishes – whether something would make him really, really happy if he were to get it. No one enquired if he felt lonely; whether he had strong, heartfelt wishes that he would have love to see quenched, having after all, arrived on this earth. And he solved crossword puzzles. He seemed to be somewhat adept at them – the one from The New York Times, which requires a fairly good acquaintance with western society and western culture. And of course, he saw films.
Did he learn anything from films? He was certainly very astute and would sensitively pick out situations that were remarkably interesting – ones that were an accurate and enlightened observation of humanity. But unfortunately, he never used those sequences as a source to attend to his emotional hygiene. He sought us out to his detriment, when in fact, if he were wise in anyways and had learned his lessons from films, he should have ditched us like he would get rid of burning ember. He should have learnt from the following incident:
One of the Sundays when we were at the Cubbon Park Restaurant as usual and he announced he would abstain from beer for that day. I asked him the reason and he confessed that he had no money. All through, each time, there was a strict acknowledgement that all of us would only go dutch. That day I offered, “Have a mug, I and ‘X’ will pool and pay for your glass!” It turned out that ‘X’ said honestly and plainly – “Sorry Boss! I can’t pay! I’m cleaned out, washed out!”
The fact is that I could have indeed afforded to pay for his glass of beer (about Rs22 or 24). But a peculiar intellectual assessment of the situation led me to take care of myself. So it turned out that Mr ‘X’ and I sat and sipped beer while this ‘tramp’ watched us over a period of an hour or two, and discussed the perceptiveness of Chaplin’s films. Now, should I talk about beef steak at The New Bull & Bush? I’d rather not! I wish to be safe and preserve myself from the angry judgment of humanity.
xxx
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