There are no happy endings.
In 1989, one November evening, I was lying in bed in my room in Bombay reading Dostoyevsky's The Insulted and The Humilated. Suddenly, something stirred in me and I decided to travel to Calcutta without a specific plan. I didn't think it was prudent to tell my parents about this inspired lunacy, so I was quite resourceful in inventing a lie. The next day, I set out to Calcutta by Geetanjali Express with all the money from the National Talent Scholarship (another minor detail my parents knew nothing about).
Much of that journey I have blocked out from my memory except I remember vividly the pink cover of the Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance I was reading on the upper birth of the second class compartment. It was a miracle I was able to get an RAC birth on the same day of travel. The booking system was newly computerized and the VT booking office was granite and glass. My fellow travellers were Bengali goldsmiths who worked in Parel and going home for their annual holidays. I am sure these things are very different these days, the last time I had the pleasure of Indian train travel was in 1990 I think.
I always looked forward to the last segment of the trip from Kharagpur to Howrah when you could look out and see village fishermen fishing with wide nets in shallow mud pools. At Kharagpur, a lot of hawkers filled the compartment selling everything from glass bangles to coconut water. Bengal cam alive for me at that time.
The cab lines outside Howrah station were always long, right after geetanjali comes onto the platform. By the time, I was on the bridge, it was dark.
Does anyone remember how the leafy courtyard looked in Oberoi Grand those days? There used to be a beauty salon to the right and a coffee shop in the back. This is before the renovation. In those days, Chittaranjan Avenue was fondly called the Chittaranjan Abyss because of the protracted legal challenges to the metro extension.
There are no surprises, just bad timings.
There were tears and confessionals. There was a slow trip back to Bombay.
Why do I remember that today?
Marrakech is not Calcutta, I am told, but I just bought a ticket to go to Morocco this weekend. I am running away from all sorts of chores, such as functionally equipping my corporate apartment after I move into it day after tomorrow. But spending another weekend like last Sunday is not worth it. And all I have to finish reading is the complete history of reformation. So coming Sunday, you will see me walking the narrow streets of the Medina.
Oh, and I am told today that people of subcontinent remind others of roaches. These pesky little creatures that crawl through the more ordered parts of the world bringing disease and filth. Inside my suit, I felt like Jeff Goldblum in the fly, busting out at seams as I transform myself into a giant filthy roach. Or for the literary types, a Kafkaesque vision as in Metamorphosis.
Nice.
Earlier that evening, I had waited for a cab outside my office for 15 minutes. The shoulders and sleeves of my jacket were getting wet from my attempts to look onto the traffic. The cabbie was not too happy about the short ride. He was probably Lebanese and he played Arabic music in the cab. I couldn;t find any chewing gum in my bag. I walked down to the empty bar by myself and looked around in vein for an empty chair.
On my side, there were 3 Arabs sitting, one of them dressed in black shirt, black jachet and a gray tie and for his age, he had unusually black hair if you know what I mean. Behind me, two middle-aged British women drank their alcohol quietly. There was delicious cigarette smoke all around me. The waiter recognized me today. The Maître de circulated the room smiling and silently noticing everything. Outside, it rained incessantly. The hotel is quiet these days, most of the Arabs have gone home. The steps behind me led to a wall covered with ugly light turquoise blue wall paper. The olives had pitts in them. These details are important.
I shall never again drink a gin and tonic. I don't want to be sad. I don't want to be second best, or third act, or the fourth guy from the center in a yellowing photograph. I don't want the silence that screams inside me once the rooms and corridoors are emptied.
So, enough self-pity. Back to work. Nothing to see here. Mind your business, move on. Clear out. (Now say that with the same expression and accent of Eric Idle) And of course, don't let the door knob ... :-)
[Bad Poem deleted]
