Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  “A green tiger?”

  “It roared and it roared, sir (we were so afraid). But then his mother called him in. It was dark, it was late—it was time for him to eat his food. It was dark, it was late—it was time (was it not?) to pull on his ears: to pray, to pray.”

  ***

  The days passed. The behavior of the boys, it was widely discussed. The teacher spoke about it, the other teachers spoke about it. The other children spoke about it—they spoke as well.

  But do you think it helped?

  The boys came in—they told their stories. Each day they came. Their supply of stories, it seemed, was endless. Their supply, it seemed, would never end.

  One time the other children said, “Where do these stories come from?”

  The boys did not answer.

  “But these stories, they must come from somewhere.”

  Silence.

  “A story,” said the children. “Another story.”

  The boys would suddenly smile. They would go stand on a mango crate (or on the top of the steps). They would hold hands, they would gesture. And they would tell a story. Another story.

  The sun would rise in the sky. The sun would move to the west, near the Quaker Center; the shadows would grow long. And there the boys would be (the two boys): they would still be telling a story.

  Some said that the stories came from a bag, some said they came from a tin box. Some said that they came from a tin trunk—from a tin box inside the trunk. But wherever they came from, the boys brought these stories—these stories without end.

  Sometimes the boys would perform the story as well. Munnu would begin the story, Shunnu would encourage him along. He would nod his head, he would cry. At the appropriate place, he would clap; he would begin to shed tears.

  At some point Shunnu would pick up the story. Now Munnu would do all the things that the other had done.

  The other children would listen, they would watch. They would listen to the words of the first, they would follow the actions of the second. Sometimes—many times—the other children would be moved. They would clap. They would cry. Sometimes it was such a good story—they would do both. Yes, they would clap and cry at the same time.

  “There is sadness in the world.”

  “Yes yes.”

  “There is shame in the world.”

  “Yes yes.”

  They would clap and they would cry—they would do both at the same time.

  ***

  But the things of the world, they do not last forever. The things of the world—do they not come to an end?

  And so it was—so it was here as well.

  One time the boys did not come to school—not come to school for several days (or was it even for a whole week?). There was no note for their absence (how could there be?), there was no letter or phone call from home.

  Then one day they came walking in—the same dark skins, the same shaved heads—they walked in as if nothing had happened.

  The teacher was curious, he asked them where they had been.

  The boys were silent.

  Again he asked them.

  The boys were silent.

  And then:

  “We were with our father, sir.”

  “Your father?”

  “He was teaching us, sir—he was teaching us about the world.”

  “He was teaching you—what was he teaching you?”

  But the boys were silent.

  “He was teaching you—what was he teaching you?”

  But the boys were silent.

  And then:

  “There are ants in the world, sir, there are so many ants.”

  “What is this?”

  “There are trees in the world, sir, there are so many trees.”

  “What is this?”

  “We must go away, sir (is it not so?), we must go away for a few days.”

  “Go away—where will you go?”

  “We must go away, sir, we must go away for a few days.”

  The brothers did not come to school—they did not come for several days.

  One day they came back.

  Again they did not come for several days.

  One day they came back.

  And then one day—was it not inevitable?—they stopped coming to school. They stopped coming altogether.

  Some people said that they had seen the boys the day before (only the day before). They had walked out of the gate, walked into the distance. They had grown smaller and smaller—and then they were only a speck, a speck on the horizon.

  Was this really possible? Could it be?

  Some people said that the boys were the children of God—they really were—and now they had returned to their Father.

  Was this really possible? Could it be?

  Some people said that the boys liked to tell stories. They had moved to another town (that is all); they were now telling their stories there.

  Was this really possible? Could it be?

  But whatever really happened, one thing was clear. The boys were gone. And would we ever see them again?

  The brothers were gone, were gone. And would we ever see them again?

  ***

  It was a cold afternoon, there were clouds in the sky. It was a grey afternoon, there were birds there as well (a sparrow, a crow).

  And there we saw them—was it in our imagination, only there? There we saw them—was it for the last time?

  The dark skins, the shaved heads. The white pajamas—the pajamas as well.

  There was a mango crate, they stood on the crate. There were some steps—they stood on the steps.

  “A story, sir, is it not a good thing?”

  “A story, sir, is it not the best?”

  “A story, sir—one more story (just one).”

  Munnu was there—he shook his head. Shunnu was there—he joined him.

  “A man has been found, sir, a turban on his head. He says that we all have to die. He says that one day we all have to go—go to the other side.”

  “The other side?”

  “A woman has been found, sir, she is blind in one eye. She has lived on air for three years, on water for five. She says she has seen many things. And now she is ready—ready to go to the other side.”

  “To the other side?”

  “A woman has been found, sir, lying dead on the sand. She wanted to go to the cricket match, see the great players. A lion came, sir, he took her on his back. He took her away.”

  “He took her away?”

  “To the Red Fort, sir, to the Jumna River. To the special place, sir—the special place where stories are made.”

  “The special place?”

  “It is a nice place, sir. It is a nice place.”

  The teacher asked the children to tell him about this place.

  But they would not say.

  Again he asked them.

  But they would not say.

  It began to rain—so hard it rained. It began to pour—how hard it poured. But the boys did not stop (how could they?).

  “A story, sir, is it not a good thing?”

  “A story, sir, is it not the best?”

  “A story, sir—one more story (just one).”

  Munnu was there, he shook his head. Shunnu was there, he joined him.

  They were here, they were not. They were in the other place (they were not). But one thing was the same (always the same).

  “One more story, sir.”

  “One more story, sir.”

  “One more story, sir. Just one. Just one.”

  The Dance

  There was a dance. It was called the “Sway.” There was another dance. It was called the “El Paso.” There was a short woman with greying hair. She was about fifty-five years old. She introduced herself. “I am Edna,” she said. “And this group, it is PWP—Parents Without Partners.”

  She asked me if I was a parent. I said no. She asked me if I was looking for a partner. I said no. She asked me why I had come.

 
“There was a flyer,” I said. “It said there was a dance at the fire station. I came to see what it looked like—the fire station.”

  “You came for that—the fire station, not the dance?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She was surprised at my words, and perhaps a little peeved. I was being flippant and she could tell. I was lonely, lost, no better than the others there. I was just pretending to be better.

  Edna was the head of the organization. She spoke to people and she answered a lot of their questions. It was important work—or at least it made her feel important. My answer seemed to make light of all that.

  Someone was in line behind me. Edna turned away from me to that person. “Welcome,” she said. “I am Edna,” she said, holding out her hand. “And you?”

  ***

  Edna did not want me around. I left her and walked a few feet. There was a door there, a man sitting at the entrance behind a wooden table. “Seven dollars,” he said.

  I reached into my pocket, took out the seven dollars.

  The man gave me a blue paper stub. “Don’t lose it,” he said. Then the man took a rubber stamp and pressed it on the back of my left hand.

  I continued on my way. There was a long hall with simple aluminum chairs and a few small tables along the edges. In one corner, to the right, was a long table with a plastic tablecloth and with things on top. I approached the table, noticed there were refreshments. Beer: two dollars. Punch: one dollar. Wine: two-fifty.

  A man brushed against me from behind, apologized. “Peace be with you,” he said. He was a tall man, nicely dressed in a tan jacket and a tie. I thought that the man was joking but then I was not so sure. I had been to church a few times. I had heard the words in church.

  “Peace be with you,” I began to say as well. But the man was long past me and headed to the other end of the hall. He was a handsome man. Perhaps he was a successful man as well. He had places to go, people to meet.

  I bought some punch. They served it in a white Styrofoam cup. The cup was small and the punch overly sweet. But I did not say anything. I stood in the corner and I observed the scene. There were grown men and women, all there for a social gathering. The youngest were in their thirties, the oldest even more than sixty. Most of the people had made an effort to look nice for the occasion. There were no jeans or tennis shoes. The men wore collared shirts, some of them wore jackets and sometimes even a tie. The women wore dresses or nice slacks, often white or tan. Many of the women wore high heels—it must be hard to dance in the high heels but perhaps it was more important to look nice than to dance. Or perhaps if you did not look nice to begin with—that is, you were without the high heels—how would you even be asked to dance?

  The room was dimly lit with some strobe lights flickering against the wall and the floor. Speakers were spread throughout the hall and the sound, coming from some machine in the corner, was of reasonable quality. Not good, not bad.

  A man came and stood beside me. He was a tall man with white skin. He looked pale to me—perhaps too pale. He was balding as well, with some brown hair spread across his scalp. The hair belonged to one side but he had combed it all the way across so it could cover most of the head. If they turned on a fan, the man would be in trouble.

  The man wore pants that came almost to his chest. He wore a blue short-sleeve shirt. He said that he had lived in Richmond, Virginia, for ten years.

  “Richmond?” I said. I asked him what was special about Richmond.

  “Rich people live there,” he said. “It is their world—their monde. That is French, you know.”

  I nodded at his words, I acknowledged them. “I never knew that,” I said. “I never thought of it that way.”

  The man was impressed by his words. He was impressed that I was impressed.

  We went to a nearby table and sat there to rest our feet.

  “You like this place?” he said.

  “My first time.”

  “You like to dance?”

  “I’m not very good.”

  The man began to speak again but the music came on, the new dance began. It drowned out his words.

  ***

  The man had brought some kind of thermos with him. He opened the thermos, poured some liquid into a cup. He began to drink.

  “Soup,” he said.

  I asked him what kind of soup it was.

  “Chicken noodle,” he said.

  “Is it homemade?”

  “Oh yes,” he said.

  Later that evening I went with the man and a few others to a place where he said that he had gotten the soup. The waitress came, I ordered the same soup. It was salty—overly so. It tasted like something from a can. When the waitress came back I asked her if it was homemade.

  “It is from a can,” she said.

  I lost my faith in the man. Yes, from that moment—you can understand why—I lost faith in him.

  A new dance was going on. People were in line, a couple at a time, dancing together. It was the “El Paso Line Dance.” Some of the dancers were good, some not so good. But they tried.

  Tip-toe front, tip-toe back; sometimes a turn to the side. Sometimes a twirl. And so on. A few people were not in line but stood a few feet away. They were watching the dancers, trying to imitate their steps. They were new to the dance, trying to learn. But they would join the line in a few minutes or next time.

  When they grew confident. Yes, that.

  Most of the couples in line were a man and a woman. But in one or two places were two women together. Perhaps no one asked them to dance. Perhaps they didn’t want to dance with a man. Which was true, it was hard to say.

  The minutes passed. People danced, they clapped. They made hooting noises. They laughed—sometimes at others, sometimes at themselves. I sat at the table on the side. The man with the soup was beside me. Sometimes he left me to join the dancers—to become one of them. Sometimes, but less and less frequently, he came back.

  A man came, stood to my left. A woman came, sat at the table two seats from me.

  “Join the fun,” she said.

  “Soon,” I said.

  “Can’t be a wallflower.”

  “Soon,” I said.

  Tip-toe front, tip-toe back. Sometimes a turn to the side. Sometimes a twirl. How ingenious it all was.

  After forty-five minutes or so, I decided to give it a whirl and to join the dance myself. I saw a woman against the wall. I gathered the courage, I went up to her. I asked her if she wanted to dance. “Not right now,” she said. I asked a second woman. “I’m waiting for my boyfriend,” she said. “He just went to get a drink.” I asked a third: “Maybe in a bit.”

  I walked back to my seat, but it was taken. Someone else was sitting there now. The man with the soup was back at the table, running his hand over his bald head.

  “Great dance,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I love the soup,” he said.

  “It must be good,” I said.

  “Homemade. The best—the very best.”

  ***

  The people were dancing, I was not. They were having a good time. And I? But why think of these things? I decided to go outside.

  A few people were already in the courtyard, scattered throughout. Inside it was warm, but outside it was cool with even a nice breeze. Some people stood in a circle. I went to their circle, tried to insinuate my way in. One of them looked at me.

  “Nice night,” I said.

  The man did not answer me.

  They stood there and they chatted. Were they looking for something? I stood there and I watched them.

  One woman was covered in sweat, her dress soaked. She took her handkerchief and fanned herself. “Boy, that was something,” she said. It was not complaint, but exultation.

  Another woman puffed on a cigarette. “I love it,” she said. “But I just needed to get out. Get some fresh air.”

  The sky was overcast, but here and there you could still see a few stars. Even the
moon—a crescent sliver—went in and out from behind the clouds.

  A man stood in the distance away from the group. He was of medium height, a little on the thin side. He stood near the bushes, his arms folded across his chest. He was deep in thought. Thought of what?

  The sounds of the music wafted outside. Every so often some clapping was heard—no doubt the end of some song had been reached.

  There was a cigarette between the man’s index and middle fingers. Every so often he lifted his hand to his mouth and puffed from it.

  The man stood apart. Who was he, why did he do it? I began to walk back inside. Then matter-of-factly—very matter-of-factly—I called out to the man: “Nice to be outside,” I said.

  The man did not answer. Perhaps he had not heard me.

  This was my chance and I walked not inside but towards him. I stopped but a couple of feet from him. “You like the dance?” I said.

  He did not answer me.

  I did not think that he was being particularly friendly. But I did not let that dissuade me. “Good to stretch the legs, get some fresh air.”

  The man still did not answer me. He puffed on the cigarette and watched the smoke rise in the air.

  Some gnats circled around the nearby bushes. “The gnats do not bother you?” I said.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  He had spoken at last. But he spoke curtly and it was obvious that he did not want to be bothered. Yet I did not leave him alone. I persisted.

  “I am Nadeem,” I said, holding out my hand.

  The man leaned forward. “Didn’t catch that,” he said, leaning forward even more and straining his ear.

  I repeated the name.

  “Neem. Mister Neem,” he said. He finally held out his hand. Mister Neem: was he being serious, was he mocking me, I could not say. But there was no joy in the effort. His hand was weak and limp. The cigarette was still between his lips.

  I spoke again about the weather. No answer. I asked him about the dance. No answer. The man did not want to be bothered. But I lingered, lingered. At last, perhaps, the man had had enough of me.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m really not in a talking mood. I came out to get away, have a smoke.”

  The man did not want to be bothered—he had made that clear more than once. But something drove me, intrigued me. What was it?