The Stranger in My Home

by The Stranger in My Home- Facets of a Life (retail) (epub)

  We went our different ways after school and I heard that Roy had joined his dad’s company, which surprised nobody. Within two years, however, he found a job with the government’s forest service and went to work in a remote corner of India. We exchanged an occasional letter and, five years later, we met up for a drink. Roy loved his work and lived the way he had dreamed, except that now he had a wife and baby. He said his pay wasn’t good enough for his family to vacation on the beach, but he expected shortly to save enough to be able to take his wife and child for a vacation on the beach where we had been together.

  Seven years later I had a letter on familiar hotel stationery: Roy had taken his wife and daughter to the beach where we had spent a summer together and was staying in the same hotel. Believe it or not, in the same room overlooking the sea. It had taken him some time, but he had fulfilled his project of a family vacation on the beach. I felt happy for him.

  It was a shock to get a notice of a funeral service for Roy a few days later. I called his wife and expressed my sympathy, but could not bring myself to ask her how his end had come. She volunteered it was ‘sudden’ but did not explain whether it was an accident or an unexpected health problem.

  That left me free to imagine: Roy was swimming in the ocean, his body glistening in the late-afternoon sun, his arms moving rhythmically as his ears echoed the folk music he enjoyed, his eyes on the beach he so loved, his heart peaceful and jubilant.

  19

  MAKING FRIENDS

  RELATIONS THAT ENDURE AND THOSE THAT DON’T

  AS WE WAITED TO board a plane, exhausted after running the security gauntlet with a small child in tow, I was captivated to see what Lina, our five-year-old, did. She scanned the passengers in the boarding area, spotted another five or six-year-old sitting with his parents waiting for the same flight, and quickly walked over.

  ‘I am Lina,’ I could make out her opening salvo from a distance.

  I could not hear the boy’s response but guessed that he was saying his name in response. A minute later, Lina had occupied the seat next to the boy and they were wrapped in animated conversation.

  Was my daughter preternaturally social, eager to win friends everywhere? She had swiftly realized that her parents, both diplomats, moved from place to place and the friends she made in one city were soon a thing of the past. She had learned that she had to find and make friends fast. When the time came to board, Lina came to ask me if she could sit with her new friend. ‘If you can find an empty seat next to your friend,’ I said sceptically, as I had earlier ascertained that the plane was full.

  I had underestimated the ingenuity of my child. Duly supported by her newly acquired friend, and even his sympathetic parents, she begged the flight attendant to accommodate her next to the boy. Some discussion and some adjustment later, Lina came, smiling, to tell me that she would be sitting with the other family.

  Knowing that she does not like to feel cold, and trans-Atlantic flights can get chilly at night, I asked if she wanted the blanket I had in my hand. She took it without a word, eager to return to her friend.

  Twice during the flight I checked to see if she was all right. She briefly answered me and returned to her conversation with the boy. His mother looked sympathetically at me, suggesting she hadn’t had better luck trying to talk to her son, who was too busy talking to his friend.

  The next morning Lina was having breakfast with her friend, as I was sipping my coffee on the flight.

  Four hours later we reached our destination. As we got out of the plane, Lina took leave of her friend and his family and joined us.

  ‘I am glad you had a pleasant time chatting with your friend, I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he is very nice.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Antoine.’

  ‘Where is he from?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do they live here? Are they travelling somewhere else?’

  ‘I don’t have any idea,’ Lina replied impassively.

  My daughter, I decided, had learned to live with impermanence better than her father had.

  20

  AN INCOMPLETE NOVEL

  THE HELP I COULDN’T GIVE

  DILIP WAS A CASH-STRAPPED student. He had no relations, no money, no resources. All he had was an idea.

  Somebody had referred him to my father who allowed him to stay rent-free in an outhouse we were not using. A gaunt young man, Dilip had unkempt hair and large, shining eyes. When I met him, he did not display any special deference because I was the son of his benefactor. It took me a while to realize that such worldly tact was utterly alien to his nature. Instead he told me to come and see him another time, more convenient to him, when he could tell me of an important project.

  That project, when we got to talk about it, was a novel he was writing that was to change the concept of a modern novel. He had no doubt that he had conceived an idea that was so unique that it would radically alter the notion of a novel. He had been, he said, slogging in poorly paid jobs, tutoring students for long hours, eating bread and soup and skipping meals all together sometimes, to focus on the novel, the major work of his life.

  After we had talked a couple of times, he finally let me read the initial chapters of his novel. I was shocked. I found it very pedestrian fiction, structurally loose and, contrary to my expectation, run-of-the-mill in its content. It was a mediocre, unimpressive piece of work that, in my judgement, would be irredeemable by later chapters. I could not bring myself to tell Dilip this; nor did I believe that, if I did, he would pay the slightest heed to my opinion. With a sinking heart, I realized that he was half-starving and killing himself for an effort that will not bring him the breakthrough he was hoping for.

  I avoided him for a while, for I feared a conversation would entail some discussion of his novel and I would not be able to disguise my true reaction. When I met him again, he looked even more gaunt than before and, without mincing words, he said he didn’t have enough money for food and needed a loan of a hundred bucks. I truthfully told him that I didn’t have that kind of money to spare and gave him the thirty bucks I was carrying. That was the last time I saw him.

  Five days later a neighbour called an ambulance when he saw Dilip collapsing on the street. He needed an emergency surgery and reportedly because of his poor state, he later died on the operation table.

  When the outhouse he lived in was cleared, somebody found and brought to my father the manuscript of his novel. He passed it on to me, asking if I had any suggestion about what to do with it. It was still an incomplete novel.

  I wished I could give him more than the thirty bucks that I did.

  21

  YOU DID NOT TELL ME

  A VERY UNEXPECTED TRANSACTION

  TRADESMEN HAVE A REPUTATION for cunning and dissimulation. They would, it is said, do anything for a sale. What I remember well is an extraordinary exception.

  I was working in New Delhi when I had an unexpected call from my friend David in New York. He was coming to India for a conference the following month. He is a dear friend, and I suggested that, on conclusion of his conference, he should come and stay with us for the weekend before his return.

  During breakfast on Sunday, David expressed an idea that appealed to me. He said his mother was ninety-two, with limited vision, and had some difficulty identifying the five different pills she had to take. His idea was to buy five ornamented silver boxes, of different shapes and colours, so that his mother could easily distinguish the pills placed in them.

  I thought it was an excellent idea, but regretted that most jewellery shops would be closed on a Sunday. Then it occurred to me that jewellery shops in major hotels are sometimes open even on a Sunday, and there was a large five-star hotel near our home.

  We were glad to find that there were two jewellery stores in the foyer of the hotel and these practically faced each other.

  We went into the first store, Grewal & Sons, and found the kind of silver boxes
David fancied. I asked the price and the saturnine owner said they would each cost Rs 500. When I enquired if there could be any discount on the price if one bought five of them, Grewal said tersely, ‘No discount.’ We had politely asked a legitimate question, and the response was a brusque negative. I felt flustered and walked out with David without saying a word.

  We walked over to the other store, Punwani and Brothers, and were eagerly received by the store owner. When we expressed our interest in silver boxes, Punwani produced a large and varied collection. Once again, I asked the price and mentioned that we might purchase more than one. The man said that his usual price was Rs 500, but he would bring it down to Rs 425 if we bought three or more.

  That worked for us and we identified four very different types of boxes, oval, rectangular, square and circular, each with a distinctive colour combination, such as green and gold or scarlet and silver. We were both pleased with the choices, but, try as we might, we could not find a fifth box that was identifiably different from the chosen four. We paid for the four boxes, took them and then pondered the alternatives.

  We could look for other jewellery stores, but it was by no means sure we could find an open store. David needed to leave for the airport in a few hours and he certainly needed five boxes for his mother.

  Very reluctantly, David and I returned to the other store, whose sombre-faced owner was standing at the entrance all the time and watching our transaction in the other store. Grewal knew we had returned to his store because we had not found in his competitor’s store all that we needed to find.

  I explained to Grewal that David had a 92-year-old mother who took five types of pills and, because of her limited vision, those had to be in five noticeably different boxes. We had found four boxes and now needed a fifth box that would be quite different in appearance and dimension. Grewal took a furtive look at our four purchases and immediately brought out a remarkably beautiful and unusual triangular box, with maroon and chrome filigree. He knew as instantly as the two of us that the new box was just the right thing for us. We simply had to buy it.

  Then the miracle happened. David brought out five 100 rupee bills and handed them over to Grewal, and Grewal – without a single word of explanation – returned a bill to David.

  Totally mystified, I muttered, ‘But you said the price was 500 rupees and there could be no discount!’

  Grewal did not change his hard, morose look for a second. He said, ‘But you did not tell me that your friend needed it for his old mother!’

  22

  SOMEBODY WAITED

  WHEN TO END A RELATIONSHIP

  ‘I HAD LEFT HER,’ Roy said.

  ‘I had left her for no good reason, except that one day I wanted to leave her. I was young and silly, and needed no good reason to do anything. Maybe I got tired of my life at it was, or maybe I wanted to try something new. I don’t remember what I told her, but whatever I told her couldn’t have been a good reason, for there wasn’t any.’

  He continued, ‘I had a few things in her apartment. I picked them up, dumped them in a bag she had once bought for me as a gift and just walked out. She was too stunned to speak. I didn’t offer any more of an explanation.

  ‘I gave up the small apartment I had and stayed with a friend for some days. Then I left London. Since I didn’t have a steady job, I travelled for several weeks until I settled, without much thought or planning, in Edinburgh. Eventually I took a job in a newspaper.’

  He paused and added, ‘I never wrote to her. While I was travelling, I probably sent her a picture postcard or two. I did so in a casual, careless sort of way. I didn’t say much except that I was travelling and had thought of her.

  ‘That was that. The relationship had ended. Those postcards were the last vestige. Nothing remained after that. I never wrote to her again. I did not call her. It was the end. I lived in Edinburgh for nearly two years. Though her thought occurred to me occasionally, I never so much as considered getting in touch with her.

  ‘I had a few fleeting relationships. They meant little to me or to others. The work in the newspaper office kept me busy, but it never enthralled or excited me. It was pleasant enough, and I had a few friends. I continued for almost two years, though it had already dawned on me that it was not work that I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

  ‘I gave notice and bought a ticket for Spain. I had a cousin in Madrid I could stay with for a few days, and it would give me time to relax and decide what I would do next.’

  Roy took a deep breath this time and continued, ‘The night before I was to leave, I packed my few belongings in a suitcase and a couple of books and toiletries in my handbag. I sat in the empty apartment and suddenly felt very empty. What had I accomplished in life? Very little. What did my existence matter? Very little again. Nobody cared what I did, or even whether I lived.

  ‘As I said this to myself, it occurred to me in a flash that I had once mattered to one person.

  ‘Did she care now? I did not know. Would she care to speak to me now? Perhaps not. I had this irresistible urge to speak to her. I wanted to hear her voice.

  ‘I called her. Three rings. She picked up. I said my name and added, hesitantly, that I wanted to speak to her.

  ‘An audible intake of breath. She said, “Please go on.”

  ‘I said to her that I realized that my life had been a waste. I had accomplished nothing and made no difference to anybody’s life. I simply didn’t matter.

  ‘She asked me to stop. Then, without a warning, she started whimpering. After a while she whispered, “You mattered to me.”

  ‘I explained that I had resigned from my work in Edinburgh and was leaving for Madrid the next morning. I had no particular plan. I was just leaving.

  ‘She was silent for a while. Then she asked if I was passing through Heathrow and, when I confirmed, she said, “Don’t go. You know I live reasonably close to Heathrow. Come and see me. Then you can decide. Just come.”

  ‘My departure was in the evening, I told her. Also, my ticket permitted a stopover. I would come and see her, I said. She said she would be waiting for me.

  ‘The next morning I arrived in London. As I waited in Heathrow, I walked to a phone and jingled the coins in the pocket. I remembered her number perfectly. But I did not dial it. What would I say to her that was not a lie? What could I possibly tell her that had a smidgen of truth or credibility? Why did I offer to see her again? I waited, drank endless cups of espresso, and then, as the shadows fell, I boarded the flight for Madrid.’

  ‘How could you?’ I asked, anguished. ‘You kept her waiting!’

  ‘It was shameful,’ Roy conceded, ‘But it was the right thing to do.’

  Then he nodded and commented, ‘It was enough for me that somebody was waiting for me. I could go on and leave her in peace.’

  23

  THE OUTLIER

  THE ONE I NEVER DECIPHERED

  A VISITING PROFESSOR AT De La Salle University in the Philippines in the late 1980s, I invited my students home for a party every Wednesday after class. The students were working executives attending evening classes and the parties gave me an opportunity to know them better. It had a practical angle: I was teaching Organizational Behaviour, and the more I knew their problems the better I could address them in the class.

  It had a personal angle too. I believed in knowing and understanding my students. Besides meeting their intellectual curiosities, I could personally support them and provide guidance. A few of the students, who kept in touch with me later, indeed said that I seemed like a caring mentor.

  What I remember, however, is the time I failed.

  Roel Caniza wasn’t easily noticed. He was effortlessly self-effacing. He didn’t speak often. When classwork required him to, he spoke briefly as if observing an inviolable limit on his airtime. It was the unfailing cogency of his comments that made me pay attention. It was also what made me go out of my way to invite him to an after-class party at my place. I doubt he would have joined
otherwise.

  Once in the party, he impressed me with his social skills. He immediately made himself useful. He served the hors d’oeuvres the cook brought in, helped with the drinks very competently, and circulated gracefully among his classmates. He never talked or smiled much, but there was no mistaking his faultless role as a partygoer. With his good looks and neatly pressed clothes, he could have passed as a true party animal except for one thing: he quietly maintained a boundary around him and did not really belong.

  My wife, who came in briefly at these parties, happened to sit next to Roel and was struck by his charm and intelligence. She told me that he was a wonderful conversationalist but seemed guarded in talking about himself. She had gathered only that his parents lived apart—a common practice in a Catholic land where divorce was not on the books—and he had little to do with them or other relatives. He lived alone in a city apartment close to his work.

  Since he didn’t turn up in the next two parties, I made it a point to invite him to the third. He came readily and reverted to his role as the perfect partygoer who helped with everything and looked after other guests. I asked him to join me at the bar, ostensibly to get his assistance, and engaged in a private chat. Did he enjoy the course? Was it a burden, in addition to his work, or was the university a pleasant social experience for him? Since he lived alone, did he feel lonely or did he enjoy being on his own?