I was so excited by what I was saying that I forgot to check to see whether he was taking it in, and when I turned his way, he was looking out over the ocean’s empty distance and he seemed lost in thought. I stopped.
When a car’s horn honked loudly, he woke from his trance and absent-mindedly said, ‘Yes, you’re completely right!’
I wanted to challenge him, ‘I’m completely right? Tell me what I just said.’ But I didn’t say anything and instead gave him time to break free from his weighty thoughts.
He remained absorbed in thought for a while. Then he said again, ‘What you said is completely right, but … well, let’s talk about something else.’
I really liked the line of thinking I’d chanced upon, and being too excited to stop I started up again, ‘Well, I was suggesting that some men don’t know how to love. I mean, they want to love but aren’t able to act on their desire. I think this is because of some psychological problem. What do you think?’
His face became pallid, as though he had just seen a ghost. This change was so sudden that I became worried and asked, ‘Are you okay? You look sick.’
‘No, not at all, ‘he said, but his distress only grew. ‘I’m not sick at all. Why did you think that?’
‘Anyone would say you’re sick, if they saw you right now. You’re turning terribly pale. I think you should go home. Come on, I’ll walk with you.’
‘No, I’ll go alone, but I’m not sick. Sometimes my heart gives me some trouble — maybe it’s that. I’ll be fine in a minute, so please keep talking.’
I sat silently for a while, and it seemed he wasn’t in the right state of mind to absorb my words. But then he insisted, and I started up again, ‘I was asking what you think about men who can’t love. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be them. When I think about a certain type of woman, one obsessed with having a child, one who tearfully beseeches God for just one child, and who, when nothing comes from her pleading, tries to remedy her infertility with charms and spells, and who takes ashes from the crematorium and stays up countless nights reciting mantras given to her by sadhus, all the while continuing to beg and present offerings to God; then I imagine men who can’t love must feel the same. They truly deserve our sympathy, and in fact, I feel more sympathy for them than I do for the blind.’
Tears came to his eyes, and clearing his throat he stood up. He looked past me and said, ‘Oh, it’s getting late … I had something important to do. Time has really flown by as we sat here, chatting.’
I got up too. He turned around and quickly grasped my hand, and then without looking in my direction he said, ‘Now I want to go.’ Then he left.
We met again at Apollo Bunder. I don’t usually go for walks, but this was still a month before my interest in Apollo Bunder died — that is, a month before I received a long, saccharine letter from an Agra poet who wrote in a bawdy manner about Apollo Bunder and the beautiful girls there, remarking how lucky I was to live in Bombay. Now whenever someone asks me to go there, I think of that letter and feel nauseated. But our second meeting took place when I still went in the evening to sit on the bench where masseurs were busy close by thumping sense back into their customers’ heads.
Twilight had turned to night. The October heat lingered, and yet there was a light breeze. People were out walking, carrying themselves like weary travellers, and behind me the kerb was lined with parked cars. Almost all the benches were full. I sat down next to two garrulous men, a Gujarati and a Parsi, who had been sitting there for God knows how long. They were speaking Gujarati, but their accents were different, and the Parsi modulated his voice in a way so that when they started to talk fast, it sounded like a parrot and a mynah were fighting.
I got sick of their endless prattling and got up. I turned to walk in the direction of the Taj Mahal Hotel, and suddenly I saw him walking in my direction. I didn’t know his name and so couldn’t call out to him, but when he saw me, he stared at me as if he had found what he was looking for.
There weren’t any empty benches, so I said, ‘It’s been quite a while since we met. There aren’t any empty benches here, so let’s go and sit in the restaurant over there.’
He made some desultory remarks, and we set off. After walking a bit, we got to the restaurant and sat down on its big cane chairs. We ordered some tea, and I offered him a cigarette. Coincidentally, that very day I had gone to Dr Arolkar who had told me to stop smoking, or if I couldn’t manage that, then to smoke good cigarettes like 555s. According to the doctor’s instructions, I had bought a pack just that evening. My friend looked carefully at it, then looked at me as if he wanted to say something and yet he said nothing.
I laughed. ‘Don’t think I bought these cigarettes just because of what you said. It’s quite a coincidence that today I went to see Dr Arolkar for some chest pain I’ve been having. He told me I could smoke these cigarettes, but just a few.’
I looked at him as I spoke and saw that my words seemed to upset him. I quickly reached into my pocket and took out the prescription Dr Arolkar had written. I put it on the table and said, ‘I can’t read this, but it seems like Dr Arolkar has prescribed every possible vitamin.’
He stole glances at the prescription on which Dr Arolkar’s name and address were written alongside the date, and the restlessness that had earlier shown on his face immediately disappeared. He smiled and said, ‘Why is it that writers are often undernourished?’
‘Because they don’t get enough to eat. They work a lot, but don’t get paid much.’
The tea came and we started to talk about different things.
Probably two and a half months had passed since our first meeting. His face had become even more pallid, and black circles had developed around his eyes. He seemed to be suffering from some chronic emotional problem because in the course of talking, he would stop and unintentionally sigh, and if he tried to laugh, no sound came out.
Suddenly I asked, ‘Why are you sad?’
‘Sad … sad …’ he said, and a smile spread over his lips, the kind that the dying take pains to show when they want to prove they are unafraid of death. ‘I’m not sad. You must be sad.’
Then he drained his tea in one gulp and stood up. ‘Okay, then. I have to go. There’s something important I have to do.’
I was sure he didn’t have anything to do, but I didn’t stop him from going. I had no chance to find out his name, but at least I learned that he had serious emotional problems. He was more than sad — he seemed to be suffering from depression — and yet he didn’t want others to know about his sadness. He wanted to lead two lives: the one being that of outward reality and the other being in his head, and this second one consumed his every waking moment. That being said, he was unsuccessful in both lives, and I hadn’t figured out why.
I ran into him for the third time at Apollo Bunder, and this time I invited him home. We didn’t speak to each other on the way there, but that changed once we arrived. At first his face clouded with sadness, but then he chased it away and tried against his nature to impress me with lively conversation. This made me pity him even more: he was trying so hard to avoid reality, and yet, at times, this self-deception seemed to please him.