Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  ***

  The days passed. My father began coming to the pond. He would go to the office in the morning. He worked for a printing company; he dealt with papers and files, papers and files, all day. But at last the day was over. Twilight came. He would take off his shoes, put on his sandals. He would take off his formal clothes, put on his lungi. And he would take the bus to the pond.

  The bus would stop about a quarter of a mile away. He would get off the bus and walk the rest of the distance. It was a dirt road, there were often puddles on the ground. But what did it matter? He was going to see the girl—this girl who was fair-complexioned, the girl with the voice.

  He would see the girl from a distance. He would stand behind a pillar. He would sit on a bench, drink tea. He would look in her direction and cast furtive glances.

  But speak to her—speak to her directly—that was out of the question. How could he do that?

  One day a woman was bathing her son at the edge of the pond. The son was six years old, maybe seven. She was lathering him with soap. The boy’s arms grew slippery, the woman lost her grip on the boy’s hand. The boy fell backwards into the water.

  “Help! Help!” the woman screamed.

  It was twilight, almost dark. Who was there to hear the cry? Who was there to come and help?

  My father was walking by just at that moment. He had gotten off the bus and was walking towards the pond. He was walking there for the same reason that he always walked: in hope of seeing my mother. He would not talk to her (of course not), he would not dare to come close to her. But he would see her from a distance.

  He would espy her and he would dream. Dream of the day that they would be together. Dream of the day that they would be married!

  My father was walking by, he heard the screams. He threw off his sandals and jumped into the water.

  No sign of the boy.

  My father swam and swam. He raised his head to get air. He dove down again and again.

  At last he found the boy. The boy was splashing around trying to stay afloat. The water at that point was about six feet. It was not too difficult to get a hold of the boy, to drag him to the pond’s edge.

  A crowd had gathered on the bank of the pond. They oohed, they aahed. Some of them cheered. The adulation that they poured on my father!

  “God will bless you,” the mother of the boy said.

  “You are a saint,” she said.

  The others joined in. “A saint,” they said. “A saint to surpass other saints.”

  My father was embarrassed. For all his bluster and confidence he was still, deep inside, a timid man. He blushed. All this attention—for what?

  And there, in the distance, he saw her. The girl. She had short black hair. She was dressed in a lime-green outfit: green pajamas, a green skirt. A long white scarf thrown backwards over her shoulders. She was looking at him.

  Looking.

  There was, he thought, a smile on her face. There was—or did he only imagine it?—a look of adulation as well.

  ***

  This was, then, the beginning. And why drag it out—why make a short story long?

  Contact was made. The relatives of the girl approached the relatives of my father. The boy and girl were introduced to each other formally. The relatives, of course, were present in the room. They all drank tea. My father smiled, my mother blushed, lowered her head.

  The date of the wedding was set. Four months later they were married.

  The priest said to my father, “Who are you?”

  My father answered: “I am Hemant Kumar.”

  The priest said to my mother, “Who are you?”

  My mother answered: “I am Usha.”

  They walked around a fire seven times. When they finished, the people smiled, asked them, “One more time.”

  “No no,” the priest cried out. “There is no need. The deed has been done.”

  The deed has been done. I paused, I looked at my audience. Were the people still there? Were they still listening?

  I saw some smiles. I met, directly, the eyes of a few. I was reassured.

  I went on.

  My father married, he was a happy man. He went back to work with joy and energy. He worked for a printing company. He worked every day.

  Sometimes it would rain. You know how Bengal is, how hard it sometimes rains. My father would take my mother’s hand, he would take her out to the veranda. “Usha,” he would say. “Look Usha, look.”

  Sometimes he would take my mother’s hand and go running into the rain itself.

  “Stop!” my mother would call out, screaming, laughing, pulling back her hand from his pull. “Stop, crazy man, stop!”

  But my father would not stop. He would take her out in the rain. He would hold her by the hand or the wrist. He would hold her and twirl her in a circle.

  The rain would fall hard—so hard it would fall. My father’s voice would ring out in the air. My mother’s laughter—cries, laughter, cries, laughter—would ring out in the air as well.

  My father was a timid and reserved man. But he was in love. And love is love. Who knows what love can do?

  And my mother, was she not in love as well? Those were the old, the golden, days. What was not possible? What could not come to pass?

  ***

  One day the war came. My father left and joined the army. The Japanese were in Burma, he was there. They were moving closer—to Bengal, even to Bengal. He was there as well.

  But the war ended, my father came back.

  The days passed peacefully. My sister was born. They called her Savitri, after the virtuous maiden. Two years passed. I was born. They called me Gaya—after the word cow, but also meaning mother, earth: the cow as mother and earth.

  They were busy years. When you have children, you are busy, you have to be so. You have to raise the children, take care of them. There was an ayah—a governess—who helped out. But there was work, of course there was a lot of work. The children get sick, the children want toys. They want you to read, they want you to play.

  Those days, I tell you. They were sweet and innocent days!

  God was above us, he was looking after us. And why should we not enjoy them—the sweet and innocent days.

  But these days, could they last? Could they really last? God has created a world, He has not created an easy world. Sometimes He wishes things to be otherwise.

  The years passed and my father grew sick. At first it was just small things: he could not remember a name. The name of a person, the name of a place. It would be there on the tip of his tongue but somehow, somehow, it would slip away.

  Then it would be bigger things. He would be in mid-sentence and he would suddenly stop. He would not remember what he was saying. A person would walk in, even a relative. “Who is that?” he would say.

  A few minutes later—even a few seconds—he would remember. But why did he forget in the first place?

  “It is normal,” they said.

  “It is nothing,” they said.

  “It is what some people do all the time.”

  But was it as simple as that?

  Sometimes my father would go to the window. He would just stand there. He would call out to passersby.

  “Hello,” he would say.

  “Why do you not look at me?”

  “Is this any way to treat a man—a respectable man? Is this any way to behave?”

  The people would just look at him, stare. Some of them had known him, or at least seen him, for years. He was a respectable man. And was this any way for such a man to behave?

  My mother worried for him, she worried every day. But what could she do?

  Sometimes he would lose his temper and he would push my mother. Sometimes he would hit her. Sometimes my mother had to go to the market for a few minutes. She would close the door and lock it from the outside. She did not want him to go wandering off on his own.

  He would stand at the window (the one with the grilles), angrily calling out to passersby. “
Open the door, you bastards,” he would say. “Open the door. Don’t you see that she has locked me—locked me inside?”

  Sometimes my mother was home and the door was slightly open. She was busy with something in the kitchen. He would put on his robe. He would put on his slippers (or sometimes he would even be barefoot). And he would go out to the street.

  He would go looking for ladoos (sweet cakes), “the kind that Nanaji would always bring.” He would go looking for copybooks. “My teacher told me that I must write neatly. And if I do not have a copybook, how can I write?”

  He would go looking for tangerines. He loved to see the tangerines at the stall, piled in a mound, one on top of the other. “Pretty,” he would say, “are they not pretty?” “The smell,” he would say, “do you not like the smell?”

  ***

  One day my mother gave him his food. She locked the door. And she went to the pond. It had been long—so long—since she had been there. But something forced her, impelled her, and so she went.

  It was a cold and cloudy day, not many people were there. She sat on a rock. A bird came and sat in the distance. It was a pretty bird with a long neck.

  “What a noble bird,” my mother said.

  My mother sat there for some time. She was lost in reveries, lost in the past—who could say.

  There was a fish there, a tiny fish. “How small, a baby,” my mother said.

  My mother was lost in reveries. Suddenly she was awakened—was it startled?—by a sound. She looked up and it was the bird—the noble bird. It was at the edge of the pond. And it had the fish, the baby, in its mouth.

  My mother sat there for some time. It was a big world, a bird—a noble bird—had made the world. And sometimes the bird came. It was proud, it shrieked. Perhaps the sound startled you. And it took the baby away.

  ***

  My mother rose—she forced herself to rise. And she made her way home.

  The days passed, the weeks. The weeks passed, the months. My father was sick, he grew sicker. And what was there to be done?

  My mother took him to all the doctors she could find. She took him to the doctors in Dacca, she took him to the doctors in Chittagong. But do you think it helped?

  She gave him Teramycin (for the eyes), she gave him Borofax (for the lips). She gave him Silicia, Ferrum Phos, Natrum Mur. She gave him every medicine she had ever used—every medicine anyone had ever used on her.

  The people thought she was mad. What was the point of these medicines—these irrelevant medicines? What effect could they have?

  But she gave them, she believed in them. They had worked on her—worked on her when she was sick, worked on her when she was a child. Why should they not work now?

  It was faith, don’t you see? (Or perhaps it was madness.) They were good medicines, they were kind medicines. They had worked on her. And so why should they not work now?

  But of course the medicines did not work. The illness was a big illness, the medicines were small medicines. And work—how could they work?

  My father grew sicker. One day he wet his bed. My mother had to help him off the bed. (How heavy he was!) She rolled him over and she helped him to sit up. She took her arm and she put it around his shoulders. She lifted him up—he fell back; she lifted him up—he fell back. A third time she tried, a fourth.

  At last she managed. She sat him up on the chair. She took off the sheet from the bed, changed it.

  He sat on the chair—he was panting now, he was restless. Then his eyes closed, his head drooped. She was afraid that if she left the room, he would fall off the chair.

  That night my mother sat in the corner, she turned on the low lamp. She took a pad, she took an old pen (it was the only one she could find), and she wrote a letter. She wrote a letter to God.

  It was a simple letter. She wrote it in Hindi and then in Bengali. The script was small, it slanted from left to right.

  “Dear God,” she began.

  ***

  The days passed, the weeks (or was it the months?). The weeks passed, the months (or was it the years?). My father went to the window, he stood there. He went to the window, he cursed. One day he said that there was a story—a story he must tell.

  “A story?”

  A story he must tell.

  My mother told him to be quiet, she told him to get his rest.

  But he would have none of it. “Rest,” he said, “who needs rest? A person can rest all his life.”

  There was a glitter in his eye, a strange look. He took a deep breath, and then a second. He took another deep breath. His breathing was labored. He went on.

  He spoke about life, he spoke about death. They were strange words—the words were jumbled, the meaning not clear. But he needed to speak. He went on.

  He spoke about the past: the times in Poona when they owned the factory. He spoke about the past: the times in Delhi when he worked in the sugar mill. But especially he spoke about his childhood: the times in Dacca when his mother’s father, his Nanaji, would come to visit. The ladoos he would bring.

  “He would bring me ladoos—they were the best ladoos in the world.”

  “Ladoos?”

  “I would stand at the door, you see, and wait. I would wait to see his figure, his tall figure, in the distance (the turban, the white turban at the top). At last I would see him and go running. He would be standing there, his face blank, or even stern, his arms behind his back. I would ask him if he had brought me anything.

  “‘No,’ he would say.

  “I would ask him again.

  “‘No,’ he would say.

  “A third time I would ask him, a fourth. (It was a game, you see, just a game.)

  “But he could not keep up the pretense forever. At last his face would break out into a smile. ‘Ladoos,’ he would say, ‘only ladoos. You know, the ones you like so much. The ones they sell in the bazaar.’

  “Or else: ‘A box, he would say. Just a box.’

  “But it was no ordinary box. It was the box with the picture of the goddess Lakshmi on top. There was a string on the top, brown and yellow. And there were ladoos inside—the best ladoos in the world.

  “I would put the box in my left hand (or I would hug it against my chest). I would put my right hand in his left hand. And thus we would walk, my Nanaji and I, swinging hand in hand—thus we would walk towards home.

  “Nanaji did not want me to open the box (not yet). ‘Oh ho, wait,’ he would say, ‘can you wait one minute till we get home?’

  “And I was a good boy, you see, I was a good boy. I did not open it—I did not open it till I got home.”

  He told the story, his breathing was labored. He would begin to sweat—you thought that he was about to choke.

  But then, somehow, he would recover. He would go on. He would take a deep breath, and then a second. He would find the strength. He would go on.

  My father told the story with passion. It was a simple story—a story about childhood. But it was important for him to tell it. He must tell it. He must!

  ***

  The story was over. My father lay back on his pillow—his head dropped against the wall behind him, his arms stretched wide on each side.

  The days passed, the weeks (or was it the months?). The weeks passed, the months (or was it the years?). My father was sick, he was dying. One day the bird would come, the noble bird. It would take him away.

  My father lay straight on his back. His arms were stretched wide on each side. And how tired he was—how infinitely tired!

  He would lie there, his eyes open. Sometimes he would speak. But it was not clear to whom he was speaking. Was he speaking to my mother? Was he speaking to the walls? Was he speaking to himself?

  My mother came to see him, sometimes he recognized her. Sometimes he did not. “Raj,” he said, “are you Raj?” This was his cousin brother.

  “Padma,” he said, “are you Padma?” This was his sister. She had died when he was a child.

  “Nanaji,” he said, “are
you Nanaji? Can you bring me ladoos? The ladoos you used to bring?”

  He lay there on his back. And he was lost, you see, he was lost to the world. He would open his eyes, he would close them; he would open his eyes, he would close them. And he was lost, you see—he was lost to the world.

  ***

  My mother took her head and she rested it against his face. Then she was afraid—she feared that she might disturb him. She took her head and she rested it against his chest.

  She was afraid of that as well. She took her head, she rested it at his feet.

  She liked him. She wanted him to stay. She did not want him to go away.

  He lay there, he slept. He lay there, he slept. He opened his eyes. He looked around him. But there was no one he saw—not really—no one he recognized.

  “Put me on a pallet,” he said. “Take me to the pond (or is it the Jumna River?).”

  “The pond? The Jumna River?”

  “My mother is waiting for me. My Nanaji. They are waiting—how can I be late?”

  “They are waiting—how can I be late?”

  On the twenty-fifth of March, at 11:06 in the morning, my father died. He opened his eyes. He looked at the walls. Some thought seemed to cross his mind (what was it?). A smile came to his lips.

  He closed his eyes. He did not open them again.

  My mother sat there, looked at him. She was his wife—she had lived with him for twenty-one years.

  A bird came, a noble bird. People came, what people? They sobbed, they wept. They said that it was God’s will.

  And was it?

  They said that he had suffered so much. They said that it was for the best.

  And was it?

  A woman came. She went up to my mother and she put her arms around her.

  “Usha,” she said.

  My mother did not answer.

  “Usha,” she said again.

  My mother did not answer.

  The woman was not a bad woman, she meant well. But my mother was old, she was tired. She wanted to go to her room, she wanted to sleep. She was tired, you see, she needed rest. She wanted to sleep for a long time.

  Ajay Bhatt

  He walked into the room. It was pitch dark. There was loud music (where was it coming from?). There were a few lights. If you peered carefully enough you could see them—see the dance floors where the dancers must dance. The lights were at the base and periphery of the dance floors.