Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  He turned to the left—darkness. He turned to the right—darkness. He needed to go to the bathroom. He saw a lighted red sign: “Men.” He began to walk towards the sign.

  As he walked, he heard a voice behind him. “Can we help you?”

  He turned, looked over his shoulder. There—a few feet away and to the left—were two women. They sat at a small table, a radio—or music machine of some kind—before them. So this is where the music came from.

  He walked towards them. “Are you open?”

  “We open at six.”

  It was now three o’clock in the afternoon. “But I saw the sign—‘Open 24 Hours.’ I heard the music.”

  “No, we open really at six.”

  “I’ll come back then.”

  He began to walk away.

  “Ajay Bhatt would approve.”

  “Ajay Bhatt?”

  “He would approve if you stayed.”

  Ajay Bhatt, who was this Ajay Bhatt? He was, of course, the famous linguist (and social critic). A distinguished man. But why must they bring him up now?

  He looked at the women—he enjoyed looking at them. They were skimpily dressed, he could see most of their breasts. He enjoyed looking at the breasts.

  He began to walk away.

  “We are closed—officially closed. But we are open for private dances.”

  “Private dances?”

  “Twenty dollars for each dance.”

  “Where are they done?”

  “There, in that corner.” She pointed to her left.

  He looked in that direction. It was even darker there—he could hardly make out a thing. He was tempted—or was he?

  “How long is the dance?”

  “It is one song. As long as the song lasts. Ajay Bhatt would approve.”

  Ajay Bhatt—there was that name again. Ajay Bhatt, who was this Ajay Bhatt? He was the famous linguist and critic. He had been to dance places all over the world—dance places in fifteen countries, in thirty-one of the fifty American states. He had written extensively on the subject. The Wings of the Dancer (University of Michigan, 1973). The Reclining Dragon (Chatto and Windus, 1982). Dancing in the Streets (Bantam, 1984). Who Am I What Am I (if I Am) (Random House, 1990).

  He had written extensively. He had looked at things from an ontological and epistemological point of view. He had seen “lacunas” here, “solecisms” there. But for the most part, yes, he had approved.

  Could Ajay Bhatt help him here? He stood there, hesitated. And then: “One song—that’s not very long.”

  The woman did not answer. And then: “You want the dance?”

  He hesitated again. Another pause. “I’ll come back—I’ll come back this evening. At six o’clock.”

  He began to walk away.

  “Ajay Bhatt would approve. He would, he would.” Thus he heard the words behind him. It was a shrill voice, longing—shrill and longing at the same time.

  Ajay Bhatt—he was indeed an important man. A sacred man. The hero Dilip Kumar admired the dancers—he did, he did. But it was getting late now, so late. Should he not be getting home?

  “I will come back at six,” he said again. “I promise, I promise. I will come back again.”

  ***

  Dilip Kumar was a short dark man with black hair. He wore black pants, a white shirt. A black nylon jacket on top. (He kept his wallet in the inside pocket of the zippered jacket.) He was in Cleveland right now—Cleveland, Ohio. He had been to other states—Maryland, New Jersey, Texas, Montana. He had tried to imitate the path of the linguist and critic. The scholar had studied dance, the intricacies of dance. His training was extensive. Dilip Kumar was a novice—just that. But the love of the master for the dance, did he not share that? The spirit of the master, did he not share that?

  He went to the dance places, place after place. He took photographs. He had a journal—he made entries in the journal. He observed the scene, imbibed it—tried to imbibe it.

  That night Dilip Kumar went to “The Tropicana.” He saw the dancers there. The next day to “Club Paradise.” The day after, to “The Cat’s Meow.” At the last place he met the famous Lucky Love. She sat at his table, spoke to him of the sunsets in Rio (she had been there once), the sunrises in Tierra del Fuego.

  “Are you from Argentina?” he said.

  “I miss the pampas,” she said. “I miss the long twilights. You know—the sky that goes on forever and forever.”

  Dilip Kumar understood her words—he believed he understood them.

  Lucky Love was dressed in a long pink robe. There was no brassiere underneath, no underwear. One time she took her fingers and ran them on the side of his neck. One time she leaned forward and kissed him on the earlobe.

  Dilip Kumar believed that she liked dark men—was he not one of these men? She was covered with perfume, and he liked the perfume. It was flowery but not overly so.

  As she leaned forward he saw the tattoo just above her left breast. He thought that it was a small train—perhaps one from CSX, perhaps one from the Northern Railroad.

  ***

  The days passed. Dilip Kumar went to the dance places—he continued to go. The master had studied these places, studied them. Should he not do the same?

  Ajay Bhatt was his hero. He had met the famous scholar in person once. It was a meeting at one of the intellectual clubs—they were very popular in those days. Ajay Bhatt was a man of medium height with a thick grey beard. He wore a turtleneck sweater, a tweed jacket on top of the turtleneck. He spoke of texts, of lacunas in the text, solecisms. He gave Dilip Kumar a copy of his seminal book, The Grammar of Cries (Chatto and Windus, 1968).

  They went to the dark study, sat on the black leather chairs. It was twilight, the light barely filtered in through the window. Dense poplar trees stood on the other side. When there are dense poplar trees, how can the light get through? How can it dare to get through?

  Ajay Bhatt spoke about many things. He spoke about the dark places, the private dances inside. “Dance is an ancient art,” he said.

  Dilip Kumar nodded.

  “A difficult art.”

  Dilip Kumar nodded.

  “One must admire, not mock, the dancers.”

  The scholar spoke for some time on his research. Dilip Kumar listened, he tried to listen. Much of it was above his head. But he leaned forward, he nodded. He pricked his ears. He tried to do the best he could.

  The shadows in the room began to grow long. At one point the scholar rose, went to the corner and turned on the lamp. But how dim—how yellow—was the light from the lamp. Perhaps it was a symbol of some kind. Wisdom comes from inside, light comes from inside. The light of the world—the light of the room—what need is there for that?

  ***

  More days passed. Dilip Kumar was troubled, still troubled. He felt that he had understood little. He felt that he had made little progress.

  One day again he went to the same place. It was four o’clock in the afternoon today, not three. Most of the scene was the same: the pitch darkness, the loud music. The few lights—small bulbs really—at the periphery of the dance floors.

  He turned to the left—darkness. He turned to the right—darkness. But there, in the distance, was a table. Some men were seated there. He walked in that direction.

  They were middle-aged men—some bald, some not so. They were simply dressed—in simple pants and shirts. It was cool inside: one wore a flannel shirt, two or three wore light jackets.

  These men, who were they? Were they disciples of Ajay Bhatt? They spoke of “grammar,” they spoke of “cries”—they spoke of the “grammar of cries.” They quoted from the famous one’s books—they quoted again and again.

  The dance is performed at noon.

  But people think it is dark—dark all

  around. (The Wings of the Dancer, p. 19)

  The world tries to seduce you.

  Will you allow yourself to be seduced?

  (Dancing in the Streets, p. 374)

&nbs
p; In those days I often wandered the streets and the alleys. Some led to walls, others led to culs-de-sac. There was a green wooden door. That was the door that intrigued me most. I always wondered where it led.

  (Who Am I What Am I (if I Am), p. 201)

  It appeared that Ajay Bhatt was speaking of the forbidden fruit, the mysterious door. He was speaking of something that was attractive precisely—only?—because it was forbidden.

  The men read from the pages again and again. The light at the table was dim—only a small candle that flickered in the center of the table. Sometimes they leaned their bodies forward, held the book close to the candle. Sometimes—was it on a dare?—they pulled the candle closer to them.

  The Lord Shiva set the world in motion with a dance. And these dancers, do they not keep the world in motion? (The Wings of the Dancer, p. 218)

  The men were disciples of Ajay Bhatt. The scholar, the linguist, dreamed. Did they dream as well?

  Dilip Kumar approached the men, but he did not dare to come too close. He observed from ten feet away, fifteen. There was music all around. There was the darkness, the pitch darkness. And these men—lonely men, lost men?—at the table. These men speaking of the linguist, the great linguist. These men speaking of the important things of the world.

  ***

  One day Dilip Kumar went to see Ajay Bhatt again. The linguist was wise. Would Dilip Kumar learn from him? The linguist saw. Would Dilip Kumar be able to see as well?

  But the linguist was a demanding man. He was not always easy to impress. Dilip Kumar spoke to the linguist about the places he had seen—the clubs, the “joints.”

  “There are many such places,” the other said simply.

  He spoke to the linguist about the darkness, the pitch darkness.

  “Darkness is not new to man. He has seen it before.”

  He spoke about the table, the middle-aged men who sat there.

  “Men gather in the daylight. They gather in the darkness. They have done so since the beginning of time.”

  The linguist was rational—perhaps he was so to a fault. Emotion, cheap emotion, what need did he have for that?

  They sat there for some time—the linguist and the seeker. They spoke about happiness, they spoke about sorrow. They spoke about the dancer, they spoke about the dance.

  “Who is the dancer?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Who is the dance?”

  “No one knows.”

  “They gather in the darkness—they dance, they dance. Is that not the key?”

  ***

  Dilip Kumar went to clubs, he went to “joints.” One day he went back to the original dark place again. There was trepidation in his heart. He had come back—why had he done it? He had come back—had he done the right thing?

  He sat there for an hour, perhaps two. Then a thought seemed to come to him (what thought?). He left.

  One day Dilip Kumar sat in the corner of “The Cat’s Meow.” Beside him was the famous Lucky Love. It was dark, the tables had a pink tablecloth—a red candle holder with a faint candle inside.

  Dilip Kumar told Lucky of the places he had been to in India, the cricket matches he had seen.

  She smiled at him.

  He told her of the bicycles he had ridden, the three-wheeled scooter-rickshaws he had taken.

  She smiled at him.

  “Are there fish markets in Calcutta?” she said.

  “A few,” he said.

  “Are there good hairdressers?”

  “Many of them are Chinese. ‘Chinese hairdresser,’ they say on the sign outside. ‘Bridal mehndi.’”

  She was intrigued by the last phrase, asked him to repeat it.

  He repeated it—repeated it again.

  Lucky said that she had been married and would like to marry again. She took his hand—it was on the top of the table—she ran her hand over it.

  The chimes sounded, Dilip Kumar jerked his head in that direction. The door was opening. It was a tall man—he wore a dark suit, a shiny white tie that did not quite match. Was it Luciano himself, the famous mobster? Could it be?

  Lucky Love took her other hand, put it on top of the first. Two hands—soft, liquid—on top of one. Was that really so bad? He was a simple man. From Calcutta. Do simple men from Calcutta not deserve a chance?

  That night in some motel bedroom they lay side by side. The Bengali. The famous dancer. She had been with other men—he knew that. He had little money, he was a simple man—she knew that.

  But December nights can be lonely and cold. They did not want the dawn to come. How nice it was to lie there side by side. To lie there thus and to be safe—safe.

  ***

  One day there was a raid by the police. Who were these police? Why did they come?

  One day a journalist came. He wore a tweed jacket, he had flowing brown hair. He asked some questions—too many perhaps. Lucky Love smiled, Dilip Kumar played with the ice cubes in his drink. Luciano entered the room, asked the man what he wanted. The man spoke, Luciano was not impressed. He asked the man to leave.

  One day the dancers came to the stage, danced slowly, perhaps with uncommon grace. Dilip Kumar began to speak some lines from Yeats, but thought instead of the lines from The Reclining Dragon.

  The mothers cook the dark green lentils, the children play.

  And is the world at peace—is it finally at peace? (p. 29)

  Lucky Love was impressed, even the harsh Luciano. Sometimes the latter smirked, sometimes he guffawed. But today he seemed solemn—unusually so. “Ajay Bhatt is a nice man,” he said. “Maybe I will invite him to the club. He can tell me about his books, his travels. It may not be so bad. No no, not so bad.”

  ***

  Dilip Kumar studied the books of Ajay Bhatt, he continued to study them.

  The world is a stage. There are good people, there are bad people. Are there dancers as well? (The Wings of the Dancer, p. 218)

  They were accurate words, difficult to deny. Some of the newspapers—the philistines—did try to deny them. But their arguments were poor, not very impressive. Was anyone persuaded?

  The musician was a blind man. He played the sarod, was working on his last raga.

  Once the raga was done—it was dedicated to the sun, to the bird bathing in the dirt in the sun—he would be ready for the next life. If he had followed the right path, he would know when his duties were done. If he had followed the right path …

  The dancer listened to the musician. The first step, the second. The first step, the second. He listened, he listened. He began to dance! (Dancing in the Streets, p. 88)

  They were melodic words, pleasing to the ear. Not all the critics were appeased. But the truth was the truth. Could it be denied?

  “Ask a boon,” said the gods.

  “The boon of dance,” he said.

  “So be it,” said the gods.

  And thus began his life as a dancer. From village to village he went. The reason behind the dance was not clear.

  “Reason,” said he, “must there be a reason?” (The Reclining Dragon, p. 147)

  In this way the linguist wrote. How moving his words, how sublime! But some of the critics would have none of it. They mocked him—again and again they mocked.

  Lucky Love left “The Cat’s Meow,” went to work for “The Tropicana.” Dilip Kumar followed her. She left “The Tropicana,” went to work for “Club Paradise.” Again Dilip Kumar was not far behind. Other dancers were there—Fifi, Desiree, some famous dancer from a village in Portugal. She was religious, perhaps excessively so. She began every dance with a prayer. “Mon Dieu,” she began—in French, not Portuguese.

  One day Luciano happened to be coming through the door. He wore a blue suit, a white shirt underneath—no tie. There was a gold bracelet on his right wrist, a thick gold ring on his left hand. He seemed to be upset about something. Was it at the police who were making more raids than usual? Was it at the dancers (was it possible?). Was it at the dance itself—at that?
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br />   “These people,” he said. “I hate them.”

  “People—what people?”

  “They think they can compete with me, take away my business.”

  “People, Luciano, who are these people?”

  But Luciano was in no mood to elaborate. He said these things—every so often he said them. He had been thinking about something—he needed to get it off his chest.

  Lucky Love tried to comfort the mobster—she rubbed her hand down his back. The mobster smiled, but it was a weak smile, a smile without conviction.

  Dilip Kumar sat there silent; it was not his place to speak. He tried to think of lines from Ajay Bhatt—did they come?

  That night in his motel room, Dilip Kumar found himself unable to sleep. He turned on the lamp, opened the book that he kept by his bedside. He opened to a page at random. It was a long and difficult passage. Was this the right passage—did it help him to understand?

  The musician played the tala, the alap—all according to the musical notation of the North. But then in the second movement he switched suddenly to the pallavi of the Southern Hindustani—a style of the native Hindus, a style disdaining any influence of the recent rulers, the Mughals.

  With what emotion the dancer joined him! A surprising change in movement, yes, but the dancer was prepared. Always he was prepared. And the musician and the dancer, how well they worked together. The music and the dance, could they ever be kept apart? (The Reclining Dragon, p. 302)

  The words of the linguist were refined, poetry even. There was distress in the world, there was tension. Things did not always go as planned. But the musician, did he give up? The dancer, the dancer—did he ever give up as well?

  ***

  More days passed. Luciano was running a numbers racket. He moved on to prostitution. He moved on to real estate.

  One day there was some shouting, some shots were fired. The police came. They locked the doors of the lounge from the inside. It was two-thirty in the afternoon—not many customers. They took everyone to a back room, made them huddle in a corner.