You cannot connect the dots looking forward; you
can only connect them looking backwards
-- Steve jobs
I
decided on having my hair done while in Panjim at Goa that salubrious Sunday
morning. Rain had washed the city the whole of the previous night, the crisp of
new-born freshness spread over provided the city with a over-powering cheer and
goodwill. Rain always does.
We tried drinking Cashew Fenny sitting on the balcony of my suit. Fenny had that
typical pungent aroma
which did not permit drinking inside the room. Normally we drink White Bacardi.
We fitted our limbs within the space of the narrow balcony, it had a beautiful
view of river Mondavi while
we drank to each other’s health. We found it difficult when the first round was
being served, but we got used to it by the time we held the second peg in our
hands.
We enjoyed the fragrance of nature listening to the soothing hum of the river as
we plunged into nostalgia of our
happy past. Nostalgia has that mollifying effect. It was two o'clock past
midnight when my friends left. They lived in Vasco, the drive to Vasco would
have taken them one and a half hours if not more. I was aware the visibility was
harrowingly poor, less than twenty feet off the windshield, the torrent was hard
hitting.
I
went off to sleep the moment they left. I did not need to burn my conscience in
the fluffed up pillow. Louis does not drink, I had the confidence that he would
reach them safelymy head in their home. The pillow sunk the moment I slept for
in the morning I woke with shooting pain in the neck. I wanted to call my
friends and find out if they had reached. They would still be sleeping. The
wives would not take it kindly if they heard my voice. They are loving, pretty
wives, they expect the husbands to take them along for the weekend parties, they
do not approve of stag parties.
The Sunday morning was clear like pomegranate
juice, the sky looked translucent red over the horizon. The hills of Goa too had
the extra ruddiness.
Sunday is the only day I have to get my hair chopped without hassles, I do not
remember when I did my hair last, it had grown too long, the locks fell over my
brows blocking my vision, it tickled my eyes. Normally on
weekdays I scamper in the morning. Sunday is the best day for it, though I was
feeling reluctant.
I
waddled out after finishing breakfast, the complimentary buffet was served in
the spacey verandah on the ground floor. The krotons and peace lily leaves were
wet. A band was playing on the otherside the previous night, the musicians had
cleared out in the late hours, I guess. The floor
had traces of the previous night’s reverly, muddy footprints, crumbs and spills
and crumpled napkins. Stale smell of cheese rented the air.
Hardly any waiters around that morning, food was neatly arranged, the array of
the chefer dishes looked cleaner compared to the place. Not many patrons of
Hotel Mondovi were present. Except for a family of six hogging all the way.
They were the architypical Goan tourists, dressed for the beach, back-pack bags
hung from their shoulders while they
helped themselves moving from dish to dish. Typical and boisterous Mumbaikar
crowd entitled for share of fun and relaxation. Most of them were speaking in
Marati. The tall, lanky kid had forgotten to wipe his mouth, tiny particles of
bread crumbs were sticking under his lips. His mom kept offering him the napkin
and he kept refusing until he himself finally rubbed it off with the back of his
hand. Another one was busy with a tooth-pick, he was trying to extract the meat
fiber from his molars. Nothing much was in offer except poha, bread toast and a
variety of sausages which didn’t look appetizing at all, they must have been
from the previous night. There were cut fruits which had released water and
looked like about to rot.
Within a hundred meters after stepping out, I noticed the Barber shop, it was
located in an inconspicuous by-lane adjoining the Panjim fish market facing the
main road. The river Mondovi ran parallel to the main road and I was not sure if
the smell came from the fish market or from the river.
The morning was indeed picturesque, but the view made me sad. The river was
nearing its end emptying itself into the uninviting expanse of the Arabian Sea.
The river would soon lose its individuality.
The bank was lined with tall trees under which wrought iron chairs were placed
at intermittent intervals. I was certain one of the trees were the country
almond, for the green fruits littered the ground along with its herbaceous
vegetation. There were also the gulmohur and its yellow flowers, but there were
more varieties than one could fathom. Every time I stayed in the hotel, I vowed
to google the names of those trees, but ended up drinking.
A
cruise boat was anchored next to the bridge, its deck designed to host parties.
It was a major attraction for
the tourists. The skeletal members of its crew were busy loading crates of beer
into the cellar. Hardly any other activity at 9 o'clock in Panjim, being
weekend. Goa never sleeps, but on Sunday mornings the sweet little town makes an
exception.
In contrast to the general apathy and languor, the fish market was buzzing with
Government employees in weekend mode along with the procurers for the hotels
bargaining for price. Most of them were chattering in Konkanese demanding the
fresh catch be brought out of the Therma-cool boxes under the table behind the
chopping board. This shrewdness was expected on the part of the fishing
community. To hive off the previous day’s catch before setting new arrivals on
display. Unlike the fish markets in other towns and cities, there were no ice
blocks. Some of the fishes were still trying to breathe, the gills were opening
up and closing.
I
didn’t want to lose family time in Kolkotta attending to the mundane, recurring
inevitabilities
such as styling of hair. Wives do not appreciate husbands spending weekends in
barber shops. Hence I thought today would be fine, I’d rather get it done while
the hangover gets cleared. The check-out time at the hotel was 12 noon. I have
ample time for a leisurely bath before setting out.
I
promanaded into the empty lane.
The shop was open, the barber was a burly man, he was shifting cosmetics from
one end of the shelf to the other. It looked like he was dusting the shelves
with hog-grunt. I stood watching him wipe the shelves, rearranging back in neat
order.
I
leaned on the lamp-post which restrained free passage of cars inside that narrow
lane. The day was bright, I could not see clearly beyond my own reflection on
the full-length window panes. In the feeble light inside, the barber was
struggling to stand in one place. His eyes were puffed up and was bleary, he had
thick eyebrows which lent him beef appearance.
His jowls were ridden with three day old white stubbles. Ugly grey hair showed
over the chest under the unbuttoned plaid linen shirt he had on. It looked like
he had slept with the shirt on. I was disappointed, I like my barbers clean.
My visit to Goa was a marketing assignment, my flight
from the Manohar international airport was scheduled to take-off only at 2.30
noon. Being a man from Kolkotta and used to waking up early, I had got up as
early as 5.00 am,
the wait had become inevitable.
Panjim is expected to come alive and reverberate
only by the afternoon.
Louis was scheduled to arrive not before 11.30 am. Louis is my regular cabbie,
he usually picked me up at the airport, carted me around on my business calls,
wherever
I wanted to go, before depositing me at the airport. The barber noticed me
standing outside indecisively, it might have attracted his attention.
He came out eager to ambush a prospective client. He called out in a loud voice,
“Bom dia meu amigo”. His
tone was friendly. But I couldn’t figure what he meant, it was enough to know it
was a form of greeting in Portuguese.
I
lied cordially, “Waiting for the fish to be cleaned.”
I pointed in the direction of the fish market with my thumb.
“Isn’t that a lie, Sir? I am sure you are in need of hair-cut. Why don’t you
just step in?” He spoke unaccented
English, his bow was unforced and courteous. His eyes seemed astute under the
wrinkled lids.
“No customers this morning? People don’t get up early, do they?” I countered.
“Your hair is a bit long Sir, you look like a high-ranking official”, he goaded
me to avail his services.
“You are right, but your shop doesn’t look ready either. Busy tidying up eh!”
“I make the shop spic and span when I get
a chance, usually I am busy you see. That’s what I do amigo.” He lifted his
checkered cleaning cloth to illustrate.
“That’s good, getting the shop spruced
up on the weekend!” I said. “No harm in pleasing the barber.
“The boy who helps me is not regular. I have to depend on my own hands.” The
barber lifted his hands and showed the fat fingers. I noticed one extra finger
jutting
out of the little finger. He saw I’d noticed.
“Well”, I said. “The folks cannot be trusted to come for work in time, Goa is
known for the culture of Sossegado. If I stay long enough in Goa, I too would
turn out like Goans.” I chuckled expecting encouragement from the burly
barber.
He was not forthcoming. “In Sealdah, I can’t dream of walking at this hour
without hurting my toes against the heels of the man in front.”
I
tend to boast about my hometown although there was nothing to boast about
Sealdah. I was messing myself
into an unwanted conversation with an unknown stranger whose service I had not
decided to avail. Not yet.
I
wanted to head back instead, disappear from his sight. The front set of his
upper teeth was large. Can’t say it was protruding, but monstrous that it looked
like it could crush the bone of a goat if put in front of him on a plate.
The man shook his head sideways, staggered a bit before going inside as though
he had forgotten something. He was throwing his hand sideways in disgust. I was
relieved
that I am no longer under obligation to engage in his services. I might, if he
returns after wiping his face with a clean cloth.
The by-lane, lined mostly with two-storied buildings
on either side, made the lane appear narrow,
the architecture was fashioned after Portuguese cities.I happened to study
paintings of an obscure Portuguese artist I had admired in the streets of
Lisbon. The buildings looked ancient, Goa was a Portuguese colony until 1964.
I
looked up without straining my neck, for a while removing from memory the
unclean barber with a large set of teeth. The sky looked like a blue dupatta
between the crenelated building tops. The house on my left was painted pale
yellow,
dark brown and the green stains of rain ran down its fluted columns.
A
young woman was leaning out over the window opposite from the second floor, she
spoke cheerfully but in
whispers. Her tresses tumbled down joyfully, she had apparently applied streaks
of auburn. In the sunshine, it looked like it was on fire.
The young man on the opposite window kept responding to her in cacophonic
giggles, obviously in appreciation of whatever she said from across the lane.
The narrow
lane made it possible. The young man’s building too was yellow but not pale,
recently done up perhaps, no streaks of stains tracking down to the entrance of
the barber shop. The barber’s shop was at the bottom like the hoof of a horse.
I
could easily decipher it was some kind of love talk though I could not listen to
the exact contents, probably the language employed between them was Portugease
or Konkan or both. It was not Hindi or Marati or Kannada. The young man stood
like Samson of Samson and Delila story, his hands on the sidebars of the window
frame. His hairless chest was visible, the six packs were on display, perhaps
more clearly for the girl’s benefit. In the morning sun, which fell directly on
him, the chest gleamed.
From where I stood fascinated by the couple, he appeared naked. The couple was
too preoccupied, to be troubled by this invasion of privacy, they continued with
the exchange of short sentences followed by giggles. That’s what is most
exciting about youth, one gets carried away over nothing. The couple were not
young, but young enough to laugh without valid reason.
Goa is a conglomeration of villages which lends it its native charm, you can
avail simple luxuries in Goa like hiring motorbike taxis. They lug customers
from one picturesque hamlet to another, or from one beach to the other for the
cost of nothing. Every beach in Goa looks different, water sports and activities
the beaches offered varied, it depended on the rock formations and
aggressiveness of the sea in that spot. A motor-biker taxi was taking out his
bike from the interior gully, the engine exploded disturbing the quietitude. The
bike made noise that could wake the entire neighbourhood.
The bike-operators morning clients generally would be foreigners out on trips
for fishing. The biker wasn’t wearing a helmet, though two helmets were fastened
to the rear fender like tender coconuts. The helmets knocked against each other
as he vroomed past. For unknown reason he looked keenly at my face as he passed,
it was a Bullet 350 Classic with an impressive looking fuel tank. Plenty of
macho stickers stuck on it.
I
looked up again after he turned left, the enthusiasm above went on unabated, the
couple was unmindful of the thud thud the bike created, they were continuing
with the cooing as before.
I
felt awkward eaves-dropping, I shuffled my feet, and stepped into the barber
shop quietly. The inside of the shop was dark since I’d walked in from bright
sunlight. I found frightening images of myself from numerous angles, which was
unsettling, fancy mirrors at freak angles made me appear so. I was still groggy
from the previous night’s booze, I sensed my limbs trembling, I held the
back-rest of one of the two barber’s chairs to steady myself. Ran my eyes around
searching for my probable hair-stylist, I expected the burly man to be there.
I
wanted his services now despite my own reservation about the state of his
hygiene. He had disappeared somewhere inside the shop, the vacant shop was even
more traumatizing than the one with his presence. Legs trembled, which made me
sit on the chair revolving it in my direction, the backrest looking away from
the mirror. The back-rest slid back smoothly and slanted as I put my weight on
it. I rested my head and closed my eyes. I do not know what came of me, I think
I must have dozed.
When I came awake, the clock showed 9.45 am, there was another clock on the side
wall which showed 7.15 am. It might have shown the time in Riyadh or Sharjah. I
could smell rain outside. I craned my neck to see, my inference was correct. I
blew out air from my mouth expecting the bad breath to vanish. A large
rectangular mirror affixed above to the ceiling showed my own image from the
top, in the reflection my cheeks appeared sagged and ghastly. I never realised
there were so many folds on my neck and the warts were beginning to show. I
wanted to get back in Kolkotta at once. Even better lie on my mattress and close
my eyes.
One of the mirrors on the wall was not aligned properly, it seemed to hang out
of place. The image of me in this mirror looked horrible. I wondered if the
mirror might come off from whatever it was secured with and crash on the floor.
Instinctively I stepped out of the chair and bent in its direction. The mirror
moved towards me suddenly and swung away, so did my reflection, I absconded for
a moment before I discovered the reason.
Flourish the barber! He was wiping his hands with a small handtowel as he moved
towards me like an EMU. Image of myself and the barber swung back and forth
until the door reached the original position, I suspect probably a door-closer
was attached to it. The door gave access to what I presumed was his house for
the awesome aroma of Fish Vindaloo wafted from within.
“Looks like you had a good sleep boss?” he said, placing his palms on my
shoulders affectionately as if we were good old friends, his fingers began to
massage my shoulders passively as if taken over by conditioned reflex. The
massage sprung me back to alertness. He silently unhooked the barber’s apron, it
was hanging on the wall below the clock which showed time in gulf, he slid it
over his bulk with studied methodicity before turning to me. The apron was made
from faded jeans, it had multiple pockets stitched all over.
The man was whistling the tune of some Konkanese folk song. He pulled out the
tackles brusquely from the shelf in front of my chair and started inserting the
tackles into the pockets provided for each. He tapped the pair of scissors on
the comb, he was about to commence the haircut. He didn’t wait for a nod. I
removed my specs and placed it carefully on the desk in front, I am generally
wary about leaving my specs there or anywhere. I slid my hand into my hip-pocket
to check if my wallet was in place. I was under obligation to make payment at
the end of the show.
He understood what I was doing, He said in a huff, “Don’t bother brother. Sit
quietly, if you haven’t brought your wallet, I can pick my charges later the
next time you visit.” Then he took several steps backwards to the extent the
limited space would allow. Two large cushioned sofas were behind, placed close
to the wall, it was meant for the customers waiting their turn on a busy day. On
the side table were newspapers and old magazines. Pictures of skimpily clad
actresses were on the covers. Someone had made an effort to hide the cleavage of
one of the pretty models with markings from his felt-pen.
I
ran my palms upwards through my nape while he was still continuing to ponder how
best to improve my head. The reflections of the burly man performed everywhere
the same things he did.
Finally when he approached he was like a raging bull, he inserted his fingers
into my locks in front, combed it backward using his fingers. He spared the
trouble of asking what style I wanted, usually all barbers ask that cursory
question. He didn’t even ask whether I wanted it short or long or medium. He
simply went ahead, starting at the back above the nape, moving to the right.
Then to the left.
The scissors were like a cow grazing in a meadow, it went everywhere along the
sides until it was done. The hair at the top which needed attention remained
untouched. He carried the bottle with a spray nozzle and studied the level of
water it contained. Finding it inadequate, he opened the lid and went to the
corner where the faucet was. He let the water collect untill it was half full.
He put the lid back and sprayed water on my head until the hair at the top
became wet and pliable. He held the spray close to his chest and stepped back.
Then uttered more to himself, “I am a good barber, this is a noble profession.”
He lifted the comb and scissors to emphazie what he meant.
“I am glad you got to like your job, people who don’t love their profession do
not excel in life.” I said.
“Sir, it’s a very broad statement. It doesn’t work all the time. Like you said,
I had a chance to migrate to the Gulf.” He gave a long pause to see if I had
anything to contradict.
Then he said, “If there was anything I ever wanted, I wanted to be a barber in
those Gulf countries, there barbers earn a lot by only trimming beards, the
barbers who manage to migrate are the lucky ones.”
My brows knit at that point, I worried about getting to the airport on time.
Looked
at my wristwatch discreetly without meaning to hurt his feelings. He was not
hurt, he asked what I do for a living.
“I market steel. Steel products. Special steel”,
I explained.
He was not impressed, he waited for me to complete and reached out for the
brush. He silently combed my hair backwards. I continued, assuming he did not
understand the sifgnificance, “Special steel, the steel which is used in
manufacturing of the scissors, the like in your hand. Ordinary steel wouldn’t
chop, get rusted easily.”, I said. He was amazed. He looked at the scissors he
was holding in his hand as if it was a piece of marvel, he ran his fore-finger
gently over the inner edges.
“This is very good”, he sounded convinced. Then he looked at the finger if it
had made a cut.
I
told him, “I have a flight to catch at 2.30 pm. My driver would be waiting
outside the hotel to take me to the airport. The driver’s name is Louis, he
drives a Maruti Omni. He too loves his profession, you know, he likes to drive a
BMW. But he settled for the Maruti Omni.“ The barber seemed lost in thought for
a moment.
“But he thinks that his car is a BMW”, I said, ensuring no hint of sarcasm. To
end the conversation on a pleasant note is always a good thing.
The Barber reciprocated by putting out his hand for a handshake. Said, “My name
is Jamie. I could have migrated to Dubai, where you earn ten times more for the
same job I do.” He lifted the pair of scissors and hacked the air for emphasis.
“I had to forget my dreams for the sake of my son.” He pointed his finger up
with a sense of disillusionment. ” His eyebrows were raised as he said. His
hands went up again.
“I like it shorter”, I said pointing to the hair falling on my forehead, even
though after he made the first cut it was continuing to block my vision and I
said it blocks my vision. He worked on it with the seriousness of a surgeon.
There might be a time when robots style hair in saloons, the day is not far off.
Jamie would just switch on the button and lean back.
Jamie had no idea what was going on in my mind. Jamie did not speak anything,
nor did I probe further. Didn’t want to get involved anymore with his life. In
Goa teen-age boys get into all sorts of trouble, drugs, booze and the like, they
get carried away. Often, we hear news of boys getting washed ashore in
unconscious condition, boys from Goa, boys from other places like from Mumbai,
Bangalore, foreigners from Africa, from the Scandinavian countries, from US,
everywhere from the world over. No steps are being taken to curb drug
trafficking, to arrest the drug lords, things happen in India. There was general
apathy towards controlling narcotics or maybe plenty of money was involved in
the racket. Everybody knew it, everybody kept silent.
I
remembered Grace de Souza in Mumbai. I came across her first at the bus-stop in
front of Tata Institute of Social Science in Chembur, she had forgotten to bring
her wallet along in the dainty handbag she was holding, which she was digging
into. She saw me watching her with sympathetic and kind eyes, she didn’t
hesitate to ask me to lend her 500 bucks.
She said her sister was
unwell, she had to rush.
I
didn’t know her name then, she did not look like a person having wants in life.
Grace De Souza was very elderly, perhaps eighty plus, wrinkles in her skin
smoothed over by sufficient mascara and other cosmetic creams. She wore lipstick
appropriately though it was gaudy, her costumes suggested that she is from upper
ecleons of the Chembur society. Mumbai has all types of population.
She seemed in a real hurry, her eyes seemed troubled, I was in no mood to
refuse. I trusted her to be telling the truth. I handed over the money
considering her age. She loaded my mobile number in her instrument assuring that
the money would be returned. She left when the taxi stopped by to pick her up.
I
forgot all about it, till one day towards the end of December I received a call
two days prior to Christmas. The caller was Grace, the elderly lady. She said
she had messaged me her address on my Whatsapp, also mentioned that she has
invited me for Christmas-eve if I was favourably disposed.
She requested me not to disappoint her.
I
did not know her well to warrant such an invitation. I was curious and wanted to
meet her. All she owed me was 500 bucks.
The message said, “7.00 PM, for sweets and fruit juice”. The address seemed like
the gated community I knew. My wife had gone home to Kolkotta, Kolkottans love
visiting Park Street during Christmas and the New Year. I was alone, held up in
Mumbai due to work exigencies. Otherwise I would have followed her suit. I used
to work for an industry which makes fragrant perfume used for the manufacture of
medicines. Particularly Syrups.
Grace de Souza was perhaps living alone, the way she showed herself to be tense
and uncertain the day she borrowed from me, I felt like cheering her up.
What harm would it be if I pay her the visit, it would be nice though I waited
for twentyfour hours before sending her reply in the affirmative. I had a party
planned out later in the night at Parel, I could always catch up later. Our
parties would go on till 4 am, therefore it was alright if I spent some time
with Grace and later caught up with my friends.
On Christmas Eve I visited Grace De Souza with a bottle of Vodka as I didn’t
want to give her anything that would be of no use to her. A person on the
threshold of heaven does not need anything other than your ears and your
affection. But Vodka would be fine I assumed.
Grace was a complete stranger to me as I was to her. I had my own trepidation. I
had informed my wife about the invitation and my intention to pay Grace a visit.
She laughed at the idea and ragged me stating I was going on a date. She
reminded me to kiss the lady’s cheeks before taking leave as that was the
English custom.
Grace seemed assured of my arrival, expecting me eagerly, though she belonged to
small section of beautiful women in the world that no one could refuse an
invitation. She perhaps was aware of that, but received me with modesty and her
courteousness made me comfortable at once.
She was pleasantly taken aback when I presented her with the Vodka. She was in
fact delighted, and appreciated it saying it's a thoughtful gift, and that she
didn’t expect such a nice gift. I breathed ease, for that was the first time I
was in the company of high-brow women. She took it in her hand and held it to
her chest as if it were a child.
She said chirpily, “Okay then, let me offer you a drink too as promised. I had
kept a bottle of Sprite, but you brought me Vodka, so let me host you with
something better. She ran up the stairs like a child. The stair was constructed
with lumber, the stairs led to the attic kind of floor which looked more like a
cavern. Her footsteps made thud as she ran up.
In the meantime I made a cursory inspection of the ground floor. It had kind of
palatial living room blending into the dining space which led to the kitchen and
the service area and the backyard. Clusters of pink Hydrangias showed up over
the backyard windows and over the blossoms violet streaks of evening clouds.
I
heard from upstairs the cranking sound of the metal wardrobe being pulled open
and shut in random. The action was repeated, I did not know to what purpose.
Maybe the wardrobe had more doors than one.
I
went around the room like a cat without raising suspicion. It would be a breach
of privacy if I stepped out of the room where I was made to sit in. On the
mantle were pictures of her and her family and next to it a bouquet of assorted
flowers arranged in vases. The first photo on the left was Grace in her teens, I
cannot be mistaken. She looked beautiful and dreamy in that picture. The next
one was from her marriage album. She was standing next to the groom at the
church altar, the couple facing each other eagerly before the priest said “You
may kiss the bride.” In the background was Jesus on the cross, he looked sad. In
the next picture Grace was carrying a baby wrapped in a towel, I could not
figure out how many months old the baby was, she was holding it tenderly. Then
the next one with her complete family was quite winsome, taken in an airport, in
the background were aircrafts, all looking in the same direction. The vertical
stabilizers of the aircrafts stood up, they were of Indian and overseas
airlines, I could make out it was taken in one of the Indian Airports. She was
standing next to her husband and grown-up son.
The husband was wearing crisp white full arm shirt with straps on the shoulders
exhibiting three golden pilot epaulets. I said, “My” and moved on.
At the end of the row was her husband resting his chin on a golf stick. The
stick was plant on the grass and he was seated on a cemented bench painted
green. The caddy boy stood behind carrying on his shoulder a tubby golf bag with
several gold sticks. The boy too smiled as if he was the one posing for the
snap.
By the time Grace De Souza came down, which didn’t take much time really, I was
back in my seat. I was waiting for her, she rushed down the stairs propping up a
bottle of whisky as if it was a trophy though the brand was an unfamiliar one.
She was panting, said in a huff, “No, no I want to offer you something better,
this is not for you.” She didn’t wait for my consent or otherwise, she ran
upstairs again. I could notice her legs were weak and they trembled.
I
felt sorry, an old woman in a frock, made to run up and down like a flustered
chick which could not find its mother in the barn. I rushed to the bottom of the
stairs. My palm on the blob over the newal piller, I pleaded her to return, I am
good. She didn’t respond. My voice echoed against the narrow walls.
I
called her again, I could hear opening and closing the doors again wherever she
stored her things. When she came down minutes later, she was carrying an
unopened half bottle of Chivas regal. She said she knew it was up there, she
apologised that it took time to locate.
“You must be given the best drink“, she
said apologetically leaving the bottle on the centre table. She ran into the
kitchen and brought a single crystal cut whisky glass. Maybe Yera brand, I donot
know the other top brands, i could not distinguish if there was. I was more
puzzled that she had brought just one glass from the cupboard next to the
kitchen. There were beautiful ceramic plates stacked next to glasses.
She said, “You must finish it before the end of the day. Okay?”
I
could not figure if it was a challenge or mere affection in the tone. I looked
at her face and at the solitary glass now next to the half a bottle and at her.
She said, “I drink only rum. I don’t have my Old Monk, so forget it, I can’t
give you company. Enjoy your drink.”
It was incredible. She poured herself the sprite into an ordinary glass which
was already there.
“Why not Whisky?” I asked.
“I don’t drink whisky any longer, only rum.” she answered politely with definite
tone.
“Why hoard bottles of whisky then?” I asked. I do not know what other drinks she
had up in the attic.
“My sister likes whisky. She died last month, remember I borrowed money at the
bus stop. She was very unwell, she died in my arms the very same day.”
“Sorry Grace, I didn’t know.” I genuinely felt sad. I have no sisters but I know
that sister’s fondness for each other beats sibling rivalry.
“Now onwards this old goat has to go it alone. Till I get the call from God
myself. Thank you for coming, else it would have been a terribly lonely
Christmas. A very lonely Christmas.”, she said without rancour or bitterness. In
face she was smiling when she said.
“What about your friends, neighbours, members of your Parish? Don’t they keep
you company? You have been here for years?”
“I don’t like to go to anybody’s house. They think I bring bad luck” she said,
gesturing to me to help myself to the drink. My friends were waiting at a bar in
Parel. One drink with Grace would not spoil my evening. Or two perhaps. But I
didn’t want to drink alone, it would be a pity.
I
said, “Rubbish. I can’t drink alone on a Christmas evening with you watching me.
Are you sure you won’t drink Chivas Regal?”
“Sorry, only Old Monk for me. I have diabetes.” she spread her hands and
shrugged.
“Will be back in a minute, please wait, won’t you?”, I said. I knew a liquor
shop near the Govandi Railway station, not far away. I headed out and brought
her the Old monk before she had a chance to restrain. It would have been a sin
to drink without her joining.
The liquor shop was over-crowded, the usual Christmas crowd. I had to squeeze
through to approach the counter. Young girls, hardly past eighteen, were waiting
ahead of me in the crowd closer to the counter. One of the girls volunteered, “I
will get it for you uncle, you won’t make it otherwise.” The other girls
laughed. “Tell me what do you want?” She put out her hand for the money.
Her face fell when she heard me. A bottle of Old monk. But she bought it anyway
along with crate of the requirements of her gang, which was mostly beer and the
breezer. The crate got passed on overhead and came out. The boy who looked like
her boyfriend was hugging two bottles of Black label as he elbowed his way back.
He muttered “Shit, can’t let the bottles break in this hungama.” He wondered for
whom the Old monk was for he looked around where the rum went.
I
collected my Old monk with gratitude. I too had to hug the bottle as people were
jostling from behind. The girl didn’t have change to pay me the balance, she
expressed disappointment.
I
told the girl, “Next time.” She giggled. Said, “Uncle is generous.” All of them
giggled. Even her boyfriend.
I
greeted them cheerfully, “Merry Christmas! Have fun!”
“Merry Christmas, have a Single malt uncle. Don’t be stuck with The Old monk,
not on christmas” She hollered. I didn’t bother, I hurried back.
By the time I returned, Grace had moved the things to the dining table, had
neatly arranged everything, the munches in a bowl, water and a bucket of ice
with tongs among other things like napkin, coaster and a hand towels. Intuitive
lady. Next to the crystal cut whisky glass stood the typical Old Monk quirky
glass shaped like the man on the bottle labels.
She saw what I had brought with admiration. Said, “Nice of you to get me the
Monk. The good old man. I forgot I had run of stock.”
I
told her the shop was mobbed. She said, “That was expected on Christmas eve.
Usually a friend of mine from the defense takes care of my supplies. His wife
passed away last month, poor girl. She was suffering from accute colitis. I
didn’t have the heart to trouble him.”
“Oh! ? How sad”, without really feeling sad.
“
I assumed that you may not come, let me confess. Now I am here ready for the
go!”, she said full of enthusiasm, ironing out the skirt below her ribs with her
palm.
She looked prettier than the first day I saw her at the bus stop, her eyes
seemed to gleam, eyeballs were deep blue like royalty. I noticed she has changed
her attire as well in the meantime, the skirt was deep maroon in an attractive
way with little pink flowers scattered over. The sleeves had frills and the
laces near the neckline made of silvery thread. She wore a slender gold neck
chain at the bottom of which was a diamond pendant. Perhaps a Solitaire. She
opened both the bottles one by one with expectation, the act made her clear her
throat.
There was a single 500 rupee bill under one of the coasters, she pulled the bill
and handed it to me with deference. I accepted it out of politeness. Told her,
“Thank you Grace. It was not required.”
We drank that Christmas trying to recall and explore into each other’s past,
mostly hers. She was quite frank like the way frankness ought to be.
A
heart to heart conversation ensued bordering on kinship, not that of friends but
one of aunt and nephew. I got to know many things including the history of the
community of East Indians, I thought initially they
are equivalent to the Anglo-Indian community one comes across elsewhere. She was
an East Indian herself, she said. She noticed my ignorance about the existence
of such a community and went on to clarify that East Indians are an
ethno-religious Christian community that originated in the Seven Islands of
Bombay and the present Mumbai Metropolitan Area. They are also known as East
Indian Catholics and speak a Marathi dialect with Portuguese words interspersed.
They claim to be the original inhabitants of Bombay, Thane, and Vasai. She
didn’t mention anything about racial mix based on conjugality of Indian blood
with portughese or English which is what the case with that of the Anglo
Indians.
The East Indians of Mumbai were primarily Agriculturists or fishermen and
celebrated Christmas by baking cakes and cooking Marizpans. The community, she
said is 6 lakh strong as of now, descendents of the Marathi rural population who
converted to Christianity way back in the 2 nd Centuary after St.Barthalmew
landed in India and went about spreading the form of Christianity as understood
then.
She refuted the theory that East Indians had anything to do with the advent of
Portughese and that the Portughese religious officialdom benefited by the
presence of Christiantity as it helped them to widen the ambit during 15th
centuary after Vasco da Gama set his foot on the Indian soil and the settlers
established the colony.
The East Indians subsequently adopted themselves to English ways when the seven
islands that is now Mumbai was given away as dowry to the British. Their dresses
and customs had gradually transformed accordingly, but the remained ethnically
Indians, particularly Marathis. Grace was fair and I thought she had white blood
which she dismissed instanteneoulsy.
I
enquired about Grace’s husband, whom I quickly infered was no more. I showed a
glum face as I helped myself to a spoon of namkeens in one of the three dishes
in front of me.
She explained at length how he died, it was vivid and detailed, she displayed no
bitterness. He died in the air crash in 1978. Air India passenger Flight 855
Mumbai to Dubai, Boeing 747 plunged within minutes of take-off into the Arabian
Sea, 3 Kilometres off Bandra. ”
She said it was New Year's Eve that day, when her husband died, he was flying
for a business visit to gulf country.
“I thought he was a pilot”, I said pointing to the photograph on the mantle.
“Pilot, he was. He was grounded because of his excessive drinking. It was then
he started the factory and made big money. I didn’t expect him to succeed with
his waywardness. But he succeeded, this house was bought after he turned a
businessman.”
I
let the information seep, when she admitted shyly “When he was a pilot, I used
to be an airhostess. I used to fly with him sometimes, that’s how we met.”
“Was he an East Indian too?” I questioned.
She put my doubt to rest saying he was. Many East Indians were pilots she said.
A
framed picture of Jesus Christ with the sacred heart hung above the window
through which the pink hydrangeas showed their pretty faces. Jesus in the
picture looked benign and compassionate. I prefer pictures of happy Gods to
angry or sad pictures. I told her so. Grace waved me aside, carefully poured me
another peg. She had what the neurologists call the elementary tremor, her hand
was shivering, but she managed to fill the peg without spilling. I took the rum
and poured one for her.
She smiled, said, “I am now too old to be drinking more than one peg.” But she
did not object when I finished pouring. She said, “You have to finish the Chivas
Regal before you leave. Okay?”
We were drinking exactly one week before her husband’s death anniversary. Would
she invite me on the anniversary date I wondered, she was so lonely and wanting
someone to keep hercompany. My friends were waiting for me at Parel, somehow the
urge to join their party was gradually receding. I decided to ring them up and
tell them I would be late. They could go ahead without me. May be I could join
them later by midnight. In fact I was tempted to inform them that I won’t be
able to join in the festivities. I felt it was more important to give company to
the old lady who was perhaps continuing to grieve.
I
vaguely remembered reading about the crash in the newspapers and the court cases
that followed in India as well as in the US, the relatives suing the Boeing
Company stating that the equipment malfunction has led to the aircrash. It was a
long drawn court battle.
The fritters and nourishments to the drinks that Grace kept offering were more
or less equivalent to a full-fledged dinner in terms of calorific value. French
toast, Pasta and the like. I wanted to divert the topic from the sad incident. I
wanted to cheer her up, so I started to talk about her son.
Her voice started whining abruptly, “He was a nice boy, studious, getting ready
to take over the factory from papa, he was in Goa to complete the program in
Chemical engineering. BITS, Goa, you know its a reputed organization, it was not
easy to get admission there, but he did.”
“Where’s he now?” I inquired.
She looked at the back of her hands. The blue veins crisscrossed under her
wrinkled skin. Then she let a deep sigh out. “We did not hear about him until
four days later. He usually rings me every night before sleep. There were no
calls, he was to return home for Christmas. Two years after his father died in
the crash, it was not the same Christmas, but Christmas all the same two years
after my husband died.. I was worried.”
I
corrected my throat to say something assuaging, no words came out of my mind or
mouth.
She continued, “I was agitated, so I had to lodge a FIR with the police in Goa.
I did it through a friend living there on the fourth day. I was preparing to fly
to Goa. I had friends in Calva who would take me around.”
I
looked at the clock, the sky outside the window was hazy and gold filled out by
the illumination from the sodium vapour street lamps. The time was nearing about
eleven, my belly almost full. I felt kind of lazy and sleepy. Frankly I was
inebriated but in a pleasant way. I made a decision not to go to Parel, I was
through with my drinking.
The security guard knocked on the door to wish her happy Christmas. He had the
same ingratiating smile as he had in the evening when he let me into the gated
community.
Grace slid into the kitchen area and puttered around, gave him a piece of
vanilla cake on a paper plate and some cash. He peeped inside to see if I was a
threat to the old lady and surmised I was not. I was so grateful to him for
that.
He went away.
“The cops called me from Goa, you know they speak in a funny accent. The cop
said, they have found a body of young boy washed ashore in the Calangute beach.
The description of the corpse mentioned by the cops seemed to match the
description of my kid. To me it was clear the son had gone in search of the
father into the Arabian Sea.” Grace pulled out a small white handkerchief from
the frock pocket and wiped her eyes. “I could not attribute any other
justification for his presence there in that condition”, she said blowing her
nose into the hanky.
Grace got up at that point and trotted up the stairs, I thought she was trying
to hide her emotions. I felt like following behind Grace de Souza in order to
console. But I stayed behind out of discretion, I remembered the face of the
security guard who viewed me with suspicion before giving me the benefit of
doubt. Grace owned and lived in a property that was worth several crores.
What was in her tiny world upstairs I could not visualize. The pair of
sucker-mouth catfishes in the aquarium swam to the top surface, they were trying
to suck air directly.
I
must credit Grace for her mental strength and resolve. She came down in five
minutes and took a deep gulp from her glass, then she poured herself another
stiff drink and held it in her hand. She found my glass was empty, she said,
“Come on, have another peg. You have to finish the bottle before you leave.”
My glass was a little less than half- full. I had not been sipping from the
moment she commenced narrating the part of her tragic story relating to her son
going missing. My apartment was more than half a kilometre from her pretty
villa, it was located in the main road where revellries would start, it was
already on from what i could hear, bursting of crackers, loud music and things
like that. The revellers would soon be speeding recklessly in two-wheelers.
Grace read my thoughts, said “You can sleep here on this settee, leave tomorrow
morning. I will have to go for the mass by 7 in the morning, I no longer attend
the midnight mass. I will keep coffee for you in a flask and duplicate key of
the main door. I promise you that. Make sure you put the flask and the cup in
the sink and lock the door before you go. ”
I
nodded my head in agreement and looked for blanket with my bleary eyes. I was
sure she provide, another one of her run upstairs to fetch me one would do.
I
sent a message to my friends that I won't be joining them tonight. There were
half a dozen missed calls and few dozen abuses.
“What about the key? Where do I leave the key?” I asked.
Grace looked at me with equal measure of adornment and affection which made me
assume the gory tales she narrated were untrue. Spin of yarn to keep the evening
going,I thought. I leaned across the table towards her, held her by the hand as
I could not say anything sober to suit the context. In the process my act
toppled the large jam bottle kept on one side of the table, it was kissan,
nothing spilled. If it was honey, it might have. My mind too was coagulated. I
took my glass and drank it bottoms up.
She looked at me appreciatively but got her hands released. She brought some
vanilla cakes, she pointed to it and stated plainly “This is what I baked for
this year’s Christmas. I didn’t do the icing, usually Edward does it.” I could
not deduce who Edward was. The husband or son. Most probably the husband, the
pilot who turned businessman.
Nothing mattered, we drank again. We drank a couple of drinks more.
The door with the mirror loosely hanging burst open like a cork popping out of a
Champagne bottle, I thought I heard clearly the fizz following the pop. The
woman’s entry was unannounced and was perhaps meant to be so. A plump lady with
grey hair appeared from behind the door like a dam burst open, it was not just
the texture of the grey hair of the women that startled me, it was its
coarseness, wiry and ugly like the strands of a discarded scrubber used in
cleaning kitchen vessels. The strands speared out behind almost pointing up, the
ones in front were relatively tamed and concealed her wrinkled forehead.
She dissected me with sharp, disdainful, untrusting eyes, then she sneered at
him, “Oh, you really have a customer after all, Jamie. I didn’t believe it, not
at this hour.”
James chuckled, he was holding my forehead with a firm grip using his left hand,
he inserted the scissors between the hair falling on my forehead and the skin. I
prayed he does not let the blade touch my skin.
I
lifted my eyebrows, thinking I must tell James at the end of the hair cut to
chop off the lone grey strand on my right eyebrow. It’s something I am unable to
do without causing hurt to myself.
I
liked the smell of the metal, I always liked it, the smell of steel. I closed my
eyes, inhaled the over-powering fragrance of Eau-de-cologne. Apparently
emanating from his chin, although he had not completed his shaving. The pepper
and salt stubs were there as a reminder of his unhygeine, and the warts. I
wondered where they came from, the warts.
My dad too had warts, plenty of them. Whenever I used to mock their presence
around his neck, he would say I too would acquire them in due time as if it was
a goal to be achieved in life.
The woman with a repugnant shock of hair receded back through the mirrored door
in the same manner in which she had approached. Shockingly the odour receded
too. Gosh! Was she the one using Eau-de-cologne, the question incarcerated in my
mind and stayed put.
Jamie, overcome by the stress caused by the woman, patted the comb on my head
with gentle affection and said “Ok brother, that’s my wife, if you could not
guess, that is. She thinks I drink throughout the day, she thinks I am using
this chamber for my secret excesses. She complains I don’t screw her properly
because of drinking. At sixty-five how can a man screw?” I considered the
statement sympathetically, even if he was ten years younger it was impossible to
fuck a woman like that.
I
did not want to say anything discourageing. A shelf reserved exclusively for the
cosmetics for ameliorating the texture of hair, and of the health of the skin,
and even of the finger of nails was present in a corner. There was even an
ointment for warts. I tried reading and memorising the name in case I may need
it later in life. Why is James not using portions of these items on his woman,
his life could’ve turned out better. If his fuck was good, she wouldn’t be
complaining so much about his drinking.
I
looked around with a little more curiosity than cursory. To my right as well as
my surprise I discovered stacked were row of liquor bottles among othr barber
shop things, unopened, partially opened, half consumed or almost empty except
for a residual portion which could not qualify to be a peg. Not the expensive
variety though, but those that passed for my taste. I had not taken note of
their presence earlier although I had been there for over half an hour.
“Are these for the sake of customers or meant for your consumption?“ I couldn’t
help chuckling. In Goa one can expect the unexpected. Jamie put his tackles back
into the pockets of his apron with what appeared like an elaborate drill. He
proceeded to the liquor cabinet like a cat, his hands half lifted reaching out.
Thereupon he examined my face for compliance. It was a Signature Gold, the green
hexagonal bottle with gold colored label pasted on one side.
I
tossed Jamie an inescapable amiable smile to which he responded quickly by
producing o two plastic glasses from behind the row of bottles, he had a stack
of the same carefully stashed.
Jamie was adept like any good bartender, the drink looked inviting, it glimmered
under the ceiling lamp. He poured a normal peg for me and one for himself more
than a large, and looked at me with suspicion.
“Can I pour a Patiala peg for you too?” He nodded his head encouragingly, his
chin propping up. “You know by now, I am under compulsion to gulp it down, wife
won’t come in another hour”, he said clucking. He tried to thrust the drink into
my hand under the polyester
cape I was made to wear before initiated the haircut. I brought my hand outside
the cape and accepted, lifting the glass I mumbled a whisperous “Saude!” which
is Portughese version of cheers, these are the things one is tempted to learn
quickly.
He returned the cheers.
We took the sip at the same time looking into each other’s eyes, we both seemed
to exercise caution out of understanding, the fear of the re-entry of his
abomminable wife seemed to lurk in our mind. The previous night’s liquor churned
in my stomach.
Jamie downed his whisky in one go, ran the tongue over his lips like a hungry
lion satiated by the taste of blood. Then he studied his glass for traces of the
golden yellow. He noticed some drops were left, lifted the glass again until the
last of the drops emptied into his mouth. He crushed the glass with disdain and
threw it into the garbage bin.
The bin was filled with chopped hair, torn razor wraps, even white lather
sticking to napkins and other rejects that you usually see in barber’s saloon.
He shook the bin and tapped it with his leg until the plastic glass got buried
under the previous day’s rubbish.
He turned to me and said, “Actually the last drop tastes better.” His eyes were
watery as he pulled out the comb and scissors from the apron pockets. I was
reluctant to give my head, felt stupid sitting in a barber's chair in Panjim
sipping whisky in plastic glasses on a Sunday forenoon, giving my head to the
drunken Jamie to finish off what he had set out to do with a clear head.
Jamie patted my shoulder blade with the scissors, “Enjoy it brother, a drink in
the morning is good for health.” I measured the level in my glass every time I
sipped, it felt good to learn liquor was still left in the glass.
I
didn’t want to give Jamie an opportunity to pour me another peg. There was still
time to get back to the hotel, it was quite closeby, just a few hops. Take a
shower, get dressed, settle the check with the hotel and board Louis’ car.
Louis always brought me cooked prawns to take home with me to Kolkotta, dry
fried with onions and tomato. My wife loves it. He would pack it in a disposable
plastic container and hand over to me before I walked into the airport. As
additional precaution he would have the container wrapped in a polythene bag so
that contents do not spill. It was his habit, though I keep refusing but
accepting nevertheless.
He never charged me for the dish, but he would expect a big tip. That way the
tip would be his and the efforts of his wife would go unrewarded, a secret he
shared. He was frank under the wicked grin. I had considered doing away with
Louis’s services, hire another cabbie, but never had the heart. Louis is a
chatter-box, he made quick friends wherever
we went, with the hotel employees, with the airport security, even with the
sanitary staff of every customer I visited. I had no idea how he managed, but he
did it as if it was his duty.
Jamie cleaned up the place once he was done, he snapped the cape untieing and
pulling it off my shoulder. He swung it wildly. Strands of hair flew around
before settling on the floor, it ccaused me to sneeze. Then he turned towards me
and asked, “Do you know I sell hair Sir?”
I
didn’t know, I conceded my ignorance. “There are all collection agents for the
hair, it seems they manufacture protein from the hair. My son mentioned it to
me. The collection agent does not know what happens to the hair, he just moves
from barber shops to barber shops, collects it and sends it to Pondicherry where
the factory is located.”
I
knew the plant in Pondicherry, they produce amino acid from the hair.
The place had become warm by then, the sun shone bright outside. His wife
appeared again and interrogated him with her eyes. Her eyes were everywhere, she
was less intimidating this time. She sniffed around, held James by the shirt and
questioned him, “Did you drink Jamie, swear on Jesus.”
I
pulled out the money from my wallet. Jamie was businesslike, said two hundred
bucks.
I inquired,
“What about the charges for the liquor you served me Jamie?” I looked at the
woman, I wanted to imply I was the one who drank, sort of deflecting from the
target of her interrogation. Jamie shrugged, said, “Booze is always
complimentary Sir. That’s why I keep,” he pointed at those bottles. “Customers
visit my shop if they feel like it, even if they do not feel the need for a
haircut. They come for a head massage which of course is chargeable, have the
drink and exit. See you next time when you are in Goa.”
I
paid James a generous tip, patting his back. The payment was in smaller
denominations, it looked like a wad. He kissed the bills, plucked a part of the
payment as if it were a loaf of bread, and handed it to her. The woman with the
coarse hair took it. If there was any interogation from her side, I didn’t want
to be a part of it.
I
pulled the door shut behind upon coming out. Didn’t want any more to be part of
anyone’s family drama. In an involuntary volition I looked up, and the lad was
still chatting with the damsel. He was rubbing his chest with his hand. He
resembled Jamie or the wife both.
Once I reached the main road, I could hear River Mondovi murmur, though the
current was mild. I found Louis’s red Maruthi Omni standing by the curb on the
opposite side of the hotel entrance. The slide door on the rear was open, Louis
was standing on the pedestal and cleaning the hood with a wet piece of cloth.
Louis is short to the point of being noticed, no more than four feet seven
inches, he made it up with immaculate dressing sense. He was in white full arm
shirt with starched, buttoned up sleeves neatly tucked inside the dark brown
pinstripe trousers. All that was missing were the suspenders. The shoes were
polished black, it gave the impression he was a company executive of some
standing. His shiny hair had been creamed and combed backwards like in the
pictures of Spanish matadors, his mushtache dyed brown in contrast to the black
mane.
He jumped off once he saw me, greeting me cordially and said, “The receptionist
at the hotel said you had been out since morning. Clara was worried.”
Then he noticed my head, “Wow, Sir has had a hair-cut!” I was happy to find
someone getting excited about his customer getting his hair done in Goa. “Which
barber shop?”, he asked as if it were a matter of concern.
“Out there, inside the lane after the
fish-market.”
“Oh my! I see you have been to Jamie’s shop.” He noticed I was groggy and
standing with one hand on the Omni’s door knob.
“Jamie’s wife and my wife are step-sisters”, he volunteered without asking.
“Oh great”, I said and marched towards the hotel.
I
could have a peaceful bath, peaceful bath is something all Bengalis enjoy.
Change into travel clothes without having to hurry, time was adequate for all
that. Clara was cordial at the desk, she announced the arrival of Louis. She
accepted the settlement of the bill, the bellhop didn’t turn up despite her
summoning several times. She apologized. I restrained her stating I am yet to
have my bath and pack my things. She seemed relived.
When it was over, I came down the stairs, I did not use the lift, and walked
towards Louis dragging the suitcase behind. He came running and took it from me.
Louis was full of praise for Jamie, his wife’s brother-in-law. He praised
Jamie’s patience and devoteness towards his family.
I
always sit in the front seat of the omni, it has a bucket-seat and that way I
could listen to Louis’s stories. He continued where he had disembarked “Jamie’s
son Gregory is a bright lad for a barber’s son, he passed degree in engineering
and works for the Washing machine manufacturing company in an industrial estate
called Verna that I used to visit.” I knew the company well, it had a big brand
name, they are my customers. I didn’t know Gergory worked there. In fact I
didn’t know Gregory till sometime ago.
Louis continued as he drove, “Gregory has been in love with a Hindu girl for
seven years, almost seven years I think. She lives in the same neighbourhood. My
sister-in-law is against Gregory marrying a Hindu. What is wrong Sir ji. What
has religion got to do with marriage? Jamie loves Gregory, my nephew lives on
the second floor where the barber shop is, Jamie would do anything for Gregory.”
Louis got into melancholic mood immediately after giving out so much
information. It was uncharacteristic of him to remain melancholic. We didn’t
talk much except about the new police commissioner being tech savvy and being
able to book the drug runners based on tracking phone calls.
At the end of the journey we neared Manohar International airport, an Indigo was
moving slowly and the sea was dark blue behind the runaway. Louis offered the
box of prawn dish which he always did, he had kept it in the door side pocket.
The container was tightly packed as usual, it was done properly to undertake the
flight without causing stains on my clothes.
When he parked the car in front of the Manohar Parikar airport departure gate, a
handsome looking CISF jawan smiled at Louis and instinctively stepped towards
him. But the jawan withheld as the security personnel are not supposed to get
friendly with the civilians. The jawan waved hesitantly.
Louis helped me put the contrainer with prawns inside the suitcase. The cops are
required to be suspicious at airport premises, when you do something like that.
Two jawans hovered over to inspect.
Manohar Parikar was the chief minister of Goa, known for his simplicity despite
his education in Ivy League, a very simple man. One of the jawans greeted Louis,
he checked with Loius what it was he had given me. I was stooping to tie my
shoelace, it had come off.
I
overheard Louis explaining to the Jawan, “The saheb has a terrible wife, when he
reaches Kolkotta he has to give her something she loves.” The jawan insisted on
knowing what it was she loved. It didn’t make any sense, I heard Louis
answering, “Saheb’s wife has terrible hair, it seems. She is a drunkard who
wants him to take her hash everytime he comes down to Goa.”
Oh shit, I thought. Louis has gone overboard I thought. The jawans laughed as if
it was a joke. I passed through the gate, the cop stepped back and saluted. He
let me in without checking my id or the ticket. I could have been anybody, it
could have been anything. I ambled through the group of fat women on the way to
the counter to check in my baggage. They were laughing and seemed to belong to
another world.
The airport was relatively less crowded. I noticed the jawan with Louis until I
completed the check-in formalities and later disappered from their sight through
the security booth.
The weekend in Goa was incidental, not planned as I would like to believe. I got
stuck up in Goa until the afternoon because the flights to Kolkotta were far and
few, and the business meeting the previous day had got delayed till late in the
evening the previous day, hence it had led to partying in Panjim.
Events led to events and I ended up in the morning at Jamie’s shop.
I
wanted a break from my routine, my office routine and my domestic routine. I
wanted to relax, all men want a break-away from all chores now and then and
that's what I eventually ensured that weekend. In life such opportunities rarely
occur, to do something out of the way. That is what I precisely tried doing
including coming across Jamie the barber and his wife the old live-wire. Jamie’s
son the bare-chested and his girlfriend, the giggly girl.
Life is not a linear progression as we are led to believe. It’s a kaleidascopic
picture of changing images consisting of a myriad of stones and reflections. Of
rewards and retribution, of succulent fruits and inedibles laid like pebbles
along the path of destiny.
I
like to think of the past with a dash of nostalgia, you can always make the past
look different, the past never poses threat nor anxiety. Nostalgia is so
subdueing. You have the option of recollecting it differently, the way you want
it to be. The thoughts about the future offer no such cushion.
I
always book the window seat whenever I fly. I sat in the Airbus A320, I was one
of the first ones to board, the flight may take a while to take off. I looked
out, the porters were loading the baggage, an emaciated porter was pulling out
of the trolley what looked like my bag and pushing it on the loader. It went
silently up and disappeared in the underbelly of the aircraft. My worldly
possessions.
I
requested the airhostess girl not to offer me refreshments during the flight, as
I was proposing to take a nap. She appeared to be from the Northeast and had let
her hair flow around the neck unlike the others among the cabincrew.
What would life have been like for Jamie’s son, the engineer, had he married the
Hindu girl? The two were blissfully happy over the little air space between the
windows! What if Grace De Souza had gone to the beach in Goa and found the
drowned boy was not her son? How nice it would have been had the commander of
the Air India passenger Flight 855 detected the trouble in the Boeing 747 and
safe-landed the aircraft in Santa Cruz in 1978.
What if the girl at the counter of Govandi liquor shop I met on the Christmas
Eve, who helped me buy the Old Monk, had invited me as well to their party and I
had accepted not considering that I was not of their age? Nothing would have
changed, I would have remained as old as I am, groggy and preparing to sleep
through the flight, cooked prawns prepared by Louis’s wife meant for my wife
tucked away in the airtight container sheltered inside my baggage among baggage
of other passengers in the underbelly of the flight about to take off, the stuff
loaded by the emaciated porter about whose life I am yet to know!
You cannot connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking
backwards.