Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  “Yes,” we said.

  One day an old man came to the kothi. His back was bent, he had a prayer mat in his left hand, a neem twig (what, did he wish to brush his teeth?)—a neem twig in the right.

  He scraped his feet on the steps, he left the sandals at the door.

  Who was this man, we did not know. Why he had come, we did not know. But we were near the door: we stood, we watched.

  “O mai,” he said, “I am not Mahmud of Ghazni, I am not Tamerlane. I am not Genghis Khan, I am not Aurangzeb. The fighting, the noise, do you think I wanted it to come?”

  The mother of Gulu was quiet. She blinked her eyes: rapidly she blinked them.

  “In Lahore,” he said, “I was there—I was there as well. I had my house, my children. Why when I was small …”

  The mother of Gulu was quiet. She walked to the back. She returned with a tray, some tea on the tray, some cups. “Take,” she said.

  The man accepted the tea, he drank it from the cup. He poured some of the tea into a saucer—he drank from the saucer as well.

  The next thing we knew, the old man was showing her a picture of himself as a child.

  “The only one,” he said.

  Another picture he showed her.

  “My sister,” he said.

  A third picture he showed her (a fourth).

  “TB,” he said.

  He showed her a shawl, he showed her a tea set. He showed her a bracelet—he showed her that as well.

  There they sat, the two of them, they sat into the night.

  He gave her toffees, he gave her biscuits. And there they sat, the two of them, they sat into the night.

  We called to them.

  No answer.

  We called to them.

  No answer.

  And there they sat, the two of them, they sat into the night.

  ***

  Who was this man, we did not know. Why he was there, we did not know.

  But we thought that he was a holy man. We thought that now a change would come over the mother of Gulu.

  (And did it?)

  We were excited, we ran around the kothi. We wanted to see the mother of Gulu, we wanted to see if this change had really come.

  (And had it?)

  The next morning we saw the mother of Gulu, she was lying on the steps—the steps outside her house.

  “The steps are hard (so hard), they will hurt you,” we said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She rose from the steps. She went to the bushes.

  “The bushes have thorns, they will cut you, they will make you bleed.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She rose from the bushes. She went to the middle of the kothi, she lay down on the ground (she lay down right there).

  “But the sun is strong,” we said, “it will burn you, it will hurt your head.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  The mother of Gulu blinked her eyes. Rapidly she blinked them.

  “But the old man was there last night. Did he not teach you—teach you?”

  The mother of Gulu blinked her eyes. Again she blinked them (and again!).

  ***

  The next day we saw the mother of Gulu, she was in the back of the kothi. She was sitting on the string cot, she was rocking back and forth.

  “1947 it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “Partition it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the seven (did I tell you) …”

  It was back (don’t you see)—it was back to the same thing.

  The other women were there. Some of them knitted their sweaters. Some of them ate peanuts, threw the shells on the ground. Some of them picked the lice—they picked the lice from the children’s hair.

  “1947 it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “Partition it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the seven (did I tell you) …”

  It was back, don’t you see—it was back to the same thing.

  The days would pass, the months, and it would always—it would always be the same thing.

  The old people would nod, they would not; they would purse their lips, they would not. They would listen to the tale, they would tire of it (they would look away).

  The mother of Gulu would leave the old people, she would come to us. She would rock back and forth (like this, like this!). She would blink her eyes (like this, like this!). And she would tell the tale (she must, she must). And we would listen (how could we not)—could we just turn away?

  “1947 it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “Partition it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the seven (did I tell you) …”

  “1947 it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “Partition it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the seven (did I tell you) …”

  It was a good tale (we liked it). It was a good tale (we loved it). And could we just ignore it? Could we just turn away?

  Raghavendran Ramachandran

  Raghavendran Ramachandran was from Madras in South India. He had been in America for eighteen months doing graduate work in chemistry. This was his first date and he was excited.

  “Tell us where you’re going,” said the roommates. They were Indians as well, just like him.

  “To see some friends.”

  “But what kind of friends?”

  “Just friends.”

  Raghavendran blushed and lowered his head. His face was hot, he could feel it getting hotter. He walked with quick steps and closed the bathroom door behind him. He brushed his teeth, showered, and rubbed talcum powder all over his body. When he came out his roommates were waiting for him.

  “Don’t you smell nice,” they said.

  Raghavendran hurried towards his room. As he looked at the full-length mirror there, he felt ashamed. He was short, about five feet four inches. He was dark-skinned. Americans were tall and fair-skinned. They were handsome and pretty. Why could he not be like them?

  He put on black slacks, an orange shirt on top. His hair was combed down but was it combed down too much? In India the hair may have been acceptable, but here it looked greasy. Greasy and wet.

  Vinay arrived at six. He was the ride for the evening, the confident one. He was the one who had set up the double date.

  Vinay was tall, almost six feet, with brown hair and a dark brown mustache. He was wearing khaki pants, a collared shirt, and a navy blue jacket. When he saw Raghavendran, he smiled.

  “Are you ready?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Raghavendran. “Should I get an umbrella? It might rain.”

  “Forget the umbrella,” said Vinay. “We have a car.”

  Hearing Vinay’s voice, the other roommates gathered in the living room.

  “So how are you, Vinay baby?” said Satish.

  “Not too bad. How’s the dissertation coming?”

  “It comes along. But you know me—too lazy to go to the lab, too lazy to go to the library. All I like to do is sleep.”

  “The Kumbhkaran of the Chemistry Department, I know. Sleep six months a year, stay awake six.”

  “That’s right. But listen, Vinay—maybe you and I can double date some time. More fun that way. Raghu there …” He did not finish the sentence.

  Raghavendran was right there, just a few feet away, but he pretended not to hear. He had heard the comments before. Perhaps he was used to them.

  “Don’t forget me,” said Dilip. “I’m new in this country, too. Just six months here. Somebody’s got to show me around the town.”

  “Preferably a red-blooded American girl,” said Satish laughing.

  “Or a blonde,” said Dilip. “I love the blonde girls.”

  “The blondes, the blondes,” said Dilip, puckering his lips and rolling his head in small circles. They all laughed.

  “Well, we better be going,” said Vinay. “Are you ready?” he called towards the back of the room.


  Raghavendran had gone to the back, perhaps to look at the mirror one last time.

  “I’m ready,” said Raghavendran, walking towards the group. Satish and Dilip smiled.

  “Well good luck, Raghu,” they said. “Be easy on the girls.”

  “I’ll see you later,” mumbled Raghavendran, and began walking down the steps.

  They arrived at the car. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” said Raghavendran.

  “Sure it is,” said Vinay. “Just relax. It takes practice. Just practice.”

  They began getting into the car. “It may be a good idea,” said Vinay, “to tuck the shirt-tail in.”

  “But I always wear it this way. I like to wear it on the outside.”

  “I know. But just for today. It may be better the other way.”

  ***

  They got in the car, a Ford Maverick, and drove the four miles to the destination. Vinay was also a graduate student, but not in the chemistry department but in economics. He had met Raghavendran in the university cafeteria some six months earlier. They had talked, taken a liking to each other. They had gone to a movie together, to a concert of classical Indian music. This was their first time on a double date.

  “The girl’s name is Anne,” said Vinay. “Your friend. My friend’s name is Cheryl. They both go to City College, they’re both juniors.”

  “Where did you meet them?”

  “I met Cheryl at a party. Anne, I’ve never met before.”

  They drove, they drove. At last they came to some nice residential area. There were rows and rows of colonial townhouses. Vinay pulled up the car in front of one of the houses. “Looks expensive, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Raghavendran. “But do they actually own it?”

  “Nah,” said Vinay. “Four of the students rent the place together. You wait here—it’s not really legal to park. I’ll be right back.”

  He went to get the girls. Raghavendran’s heart was pounding. He took his comb and quickly tried to fix his hair again. “But what’s the use?” he said. He put the comb away.

  When Vinay and the girls came back, they were all laughing. Apparently someone had just told a good joke.

  Raghavendran got out of the car and the introductions were made. Raghavendran smiled but he could hardly get the words out of his mouth. His face felt hot.

  “Raghu,” he said. “Please call me Raghu.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ragu.” This was Anne and she missed the h in the name. But it was a subtle difference in sound, she could hardly be blamed.

  She was a short girl, perhaps Raghavendran’s height, perhaps an inch taller. She had short brown hair. Her friend was blonde, a little taller. Both wore mid-length skirts, a light cardigan sweater on top.

  Raghavendran bowed, Anne offered her hand. Instead of accepting the hand, Raghavendran bowed again. Anne offered a hand—half a hand this time. No contact of the flesh was made.

  Raghavendran began to sit in the front seat with Vinay. He had done so on the way here. Why shouldn’t he do it again?

  “Why don’t you sit in the back?” said Vinay.

  “Oh,” said Raghavendran. He got in the back seat and closed the door behind him. He realized that he had left Anne outside. He unlocked the door from the inside and scooted over to the left, all the way to the other end of the car.

  He sat there, immobile. Anne got in, sat on the other side of the back seat. It was not an auspicious start, but perhaps things would get better. Of course, they would.

  They made their way to the restaurant. They were going to an Italian restaurant for dinner. Then to a movie. Serpico, with someone named Al Pacino.

  The front seat of the car was talkative. The back seat was silent.

  “Raghavendran is studying chemistry,” said Vinay finally over his shoulder.

  “Oh,” said Anne. “One of our roommates—Patrice—is taking a class in chemistry. Sounds pretty hard to me. Too much math.”

  “Not too hard,” said Raghavendran. These were the first words he had spoken in the car. He spoke the words but did they actually come out of his mouth? Did anyone hear them?

  There was a long pause.

  “What are you studying?” said Raghavendran at last. Again he had spoken the words. They were half speech, half mumble. He was amazed that a sound came out—any sound at all.

  “I’m studying philosophy,” said Anne.

  “That must be interesting,” said Raghavendran. His lips were warming up now. He must be getting better. He must!

  “It is interesting,” said Anne. “I especially like Eastern philosophy. Buddhism, Hinduism.”

  There was another pause.

  “You like them?” said Raghavendran at last. He spoke with genuine surprise.

  “I really do,” said Anne. “I’d like to go to the East some day. Too much competition in the West. In the East it’s much better. More relaxed. You’re into your own soul, your own energy.”

  Another silence—this time a long silence—followed. Raghavendran wanted to say something, but he did not know what to say. He was amazed at the girl’s words. How many words there were: how easily they came from her mouth. And the girl liked the East, she actually liked it!

  But Raghavendran was from Madras—how far away the place was. He was short and dark. What do short and dark men really know?

  Vinay began to speak up. He spoke about the restaurant—he had eaten there once before. He spoke about the movie—he had heard good things about it. The girls agreed.

  They continued on their way to the restaurant. It was not a great beginning. But things would get better—of course they would. They often did.

  ***

  They arrived at the restaurant parking lot. Raghavendran got out, closed the door behind him. He thought that perhaps he should go to the other side, open the door for Anne. He rushed over, but the door was already open. “Please,” he said, bowing again and holding out his hand slightly.

  “Thank you,” said Anne.

  He closed the door after her. But apparently the door did not close shut all the way. The others were already walking towards the restaurant.

  “Vinay,” he called softly.

  He did not seem to hear.

  “Vinay,” he called again, more loudly this time.

  The other turned.

  “The door,” he called out, his words barely audible. He gestured with his hands. How forlornly—how desperately—he gestured. “The door, the door …,” he tried to say.

  Vinay understood—at last he understood. He walked back to the car. He put in his keys, unlocked the door. Then he closed the door—simply, firmly.

  What a confident boy Vinay was. Raghavendran admired him. How could he not? Were there really people like this in the world? And not just Americans—that you could understand. The tall Americans, the handsome Americans. But Indians—Indians as well.

  ***

  They arrived inside, they sat at the table. It was a small round table in the back corner. Boy, girl, boy, girl. Raghavendran did not know what to do. He looked at the red tablecloth—he liked the dark color. He looked into the air. He looked at the far corner of the restaurant. He lifted the tablecloth slightly, looked at his shoes. From somewhere some water came, glasses with water and ice. He lifted one glass, drank a little. His throat felt better. Or did it?

  He liked the glass, he liked holding it. When he held the glass, his hands were not idle. He lifted the glass, drank from it several times in small sips. When he drank from the glass, his mouth was not idle. It was occupied and he was not required to speak.

  But could he hold the glass forever? Could he drink the water forever as well?

  Raghavendran again looked at the tablecloth. He wanted to talk about the things he knew. But who would care? Boyle’s law of gases. What a simple and perfect law it was. Cells and molecules and the new computer technology that was changing everything. But who would care? He wanted to talk about polymers and peptides—sometimes they were stable
, sometimes not. They were important to enzymes, to antibiotics, to medicines. But who would care?

  “Do you like movies?” Someone had spoken to him. Who had spoken? It was Anne again. She was a polite girl. Or was she just laughing at him?

  Raghavendran had seen a movie with Vinay two months earlier. Live and Let Die. Did that count?

  He mentioned the movie—he mentioned that he had seen it two months ago.

  “The James Bond movie?” said Anne with some surprise. “You like James Bond?”

  “It is the first movie I have seen.”

  “The first movie ever?”

  “No no, the first movie with Mister James Bond.”

  Mister James Bond. Anne smiled. Cheryl and Vinay smiled as well. How strangely he put it, how quaintly.

  Vinay said that Roger Moore was in the movie, not Sean Connery. It was the first movie with the new James Bond.

  “And what did you think?” said Anne, again addressing the quaint one. “Did you like Roger Moore?”

  “Yes,” said Raghavendran. “He is a handsome man. Very handsome.”

  Again Anne was surprised at the response. “And the acting?” she said. “Did you like the acting?”

  Here Raghavendran was at something of a loss. Roger Moore was a handsome man. So was James Bond. They were dashing and confident. So confident with everything, especially the women. But that he was an actor. That he was acting …

  “I would like to see other James Bond movies,” said Raghavendran.

  Anne was intrigued by the answer. Perhaps the others were intrigued as well. Raghavendran spoke with honesty. Was it so bad to be honest? Was honesty not needed in the world?

  The garlic bread and breadsticks came. They nibbled on them. The drinks came—the girls and Vinay had cocktails, Raghavendran had Coke with ice. How he loved the glass again, how he loved the ice. The bigger the glass, the better. The more the ice, the better. You could drink and drink; you could chew and chew.

  America was not an easy place. There were people and people around you—so many handsome and pretty people. There were girls around you—so many pretty girls. What were you supposed to do with them? What exactly were you supposed to do?

  The main food came. Thank God it came. Raghavendran picked at the food. He struggled with the spaghetti—he had eaten spaghetti only once before. How hard it was to wrap it around your fork. How hard to put in your mouth. But he tried; he tried.