Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  “Write them a letter,” he said.

  “A letter?”

  “I don’t mean any letter. I mean an official letter, a harsh letter.”

  Mister Kumar was taken aback by the words. A harsh letter—what kind of talk was this?

  The relative went into the details. The letter should be typed, not handwritten. The letter should be sent by registered mail. The letter should indicate how many trips Mister Kumar had already made to the bank—how many personal trips, without avail. And most of all, said the relative, copies of the letter—copies should be sent to the headquarters bank in Tamil Nadu—to the Reserve Bank there as well.

  Mister Kumar was aghast at the suggestions.

  “It is done,” said the other, “done all the time. They realize you mean business. It is the thing that works—it is the only thing that works.”

  ***

  Mister Kumar was a timid man. “Chicken-hearted,” the others used to call him. It was not in his nature.

  But he did what the relative had asked. He wrote the letter.

  He wrote the letter, he took it to the relative. The relative looked at the letter, he laughed. “Please,” “your Excellency,” “if you could,” “may I kindly,” “may I humbly”—the letter was filled with these words, and words like them. The relative took the letter, he tore it into pieces (eight). He took the pieces, he threw them into the dustbin.

  “Let us begin,” he said, “let us begin again.”

  The relative dictated the new letter, Mister Kumar wrote. He dictated, Mister Kumar wrote. When they were done, Mister Kumar took the letter to the typewriting shop (the one in the market)—he had the girl there type it.

  He sat in the corner, he proofread the letter. (How strong the words were.) His heart beat. (How loudly it beat.)

  He came home, he proofread the letter. He proofread it a second time, a third.

  He showed the letter to his wife—she marveled at it.

  He kept the letter at home—he kept it there for ten days. At last he gathered the courage. On the eleventh day, he took some glue, he sealed the letter. He took the letter to the post office—he mailed the letter.

  Copies were to be sent to the important places. He had copied (“cyclostyled”) the letter two days earlier. He put the copies in separate envelopes, he mailed them as well.

  ***

  He mailed the letters, he felt a sense of relief. He arrived home, he was filled with hope.

  But that afternoon—not surprisingly—the panic came. Send these letters, these “harsh” letters—what had made him do it? Was he sick, was he mad?

  The panic left. He went to his wife, she comforted him. The panic left, it returned. The panic left, it returned.

  And Mister Kumar waited (he waited). He waited for the answers. He waited to see what would happen now—what would happen next.

  Mister Kumar waited. He waited for weeks, he waited for months.

  No answers came.

  He waited, he waited.

  No answers came.

  One day he received a package in the mail. He opened the package, wondered what was inside.

  But the package was empty. (There was nothing inside.)

  One day he received a package in the mail. He opened the package, wondered what was inside.

  But the package was empty. (There was nothing inside.)

  One day he received a package in the mail. He opened the package, wondered what was inside.

  There were three books. A Sanskrit Primer (by E.D. Perry). 10,000 Urdu Words (by Sultan Nathani). Cosmetology (no author). What strange books they were—what a strange combination of books.

  He looked at the return address on the package: there was none. He looked—he tried to look—at the postmark. He had difficulty making out the words. But “Tamil Nadu”—did they not say “Tamil Nadu”?

  He was getting old, his eyes were weak. He took the package—took it to his wife.

  She was younger, but only by three years. She had difficulty making out the words as well.

  He took the package—took it to the children.

  “Tamil Nadu,” they said. “Papa. Tamil Nadu.”

  He had sent copies of the letters—sent them to headquarters. The people at headquarters had replied. But this, was this their response? The response meant something, had to mean something. But the response, what did it mean? What could it mean?

  ***

  Sanskrit is an ancient language. It is a difficult language. Not many people can understand it—can dare to understand it. There are roots and stems, visargas and anusvaras. But for those who do understand it, secrets are inside. Sometimes—with effort—the secrets are even revealed.

  Mister Kumar was a hopeful man. Would the secrets be revealed. To him, to him?

  He looked at the Sanskrit book. He looked at the other books as well. He put the books on top of each other. He put the books in the corner.

  Sometimes he opened the books, glanced through them casually. Sometimes he read the books—read them from the very beginning: letter by letter, page by page.

  And the answers that he was looking for—the secrets—did he find them? The secrets, were they revealed?

  ***

  One day a man came to the house.

  (Who was this man?)

  He was an old man, he walked with a stick. He was dressed simply, in a white shirt, white pajamas.

  He knocked on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you understood?” he said.

  “Understood?”

  “A package was sent. Have you received the package?”

  One day a man came to the door. He was an old man, his face was smeared with ash.

  “One must see—it is not always easy.”

  “Easy?”

  “But one must try—one must try.”

  One day a child came to the door. He had a toffee in one hand, a paper—a small piece of paper—in the other.

  He kept the toffee (how could he not?)—he held out the paper.

  Mister Kumar reached for the paper.

  The child dropped the paper. He turned, giggling, and ran away.

  There were words on the paper, they were printed in small, faint letters.

  “Have you understood?” they said (they seemed to say). “Have you understood?”

  ***

  Mister Kumar was a simple man—there were many things that he did not understand. A package had been received, yes. But this package, what did it mean?

  He had asked for “sums”—were these the sums? He had asked for sums that were due to him—sums that had not been paid (that were in “arrears” now for years). And these—were these the sums?

  One day Mister Kumar rose, he turned to his wife.

  But she was a simple woman. What did she know?

  One day he rose, he went to the Pension Department.

  Mister Choudhary was there, he looked at him. Mister Kumar babbled, he explained, he tried to explain.

  Mister Choudhary was a busy man. Do you think he cared?

  One day he rose, he went to the relative—the “kind” relative—who had helped him write the letter.

  “Has a response been received?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a postmark?”

  “Yes.”

  “One must not be greedy.”

  “Greedy?”

  “One must receive what is due—nothing more, nothing more.”

  “Nothing more, nothing more.” What strange words they were.

  But Mister Kumar was a simple man. What did he know about the world—what did he really know?

  ***

  That night Mister Kumar had a dream. He dreamed that he was in an office (or perhaps in a cell). There were ledgers around him—all kinds of ledgers. There were words in the ledger, there were numbers. How neat they all were, how clean.

  He bent down, he tried to make out the words: he could not do it. He bent down, he tried to make out the numbers: he cou
ld not do it.

  But how clean the words were (the numbers): how clean, how clean.

  Mister Kumar rose from his dream, he felt an emptiness in his stomach. He rose, he felt an emptiness in his heart.

  But he should be strong (should he not). Something had been received, something. And was that not sufficient? Something had been received (something). And was that not the key?

  One day he opened the Sanskrit book, there were some words inside (on page 3):

  By the water which drops

  from the clouds

  upon the fields

  the grain grows tall.

  Were these the words, the secret words?

  He turned to another page:

  In a kingless land the rich do not sleep.

  And again:

  Having sipped water thrice, one wipes the

  lips twice; according to others, once.

  Were these the words, were these?

  He looked at the books—how nice they were. He looked at the package—it was a nice package. He looked at the postmark—how nice it was, how nice as well.

  One day he went to his wife, he lay down at her feet.

  Do you think it helped?

  One day he went to the temple, he prayed.

  Do you think it helped?

  One day Mister Kumar rose, he went for a walk. It was an overcast day, he walked for a long time.

  There were some birds in the sky: how happy they looked. There were some children in the distance: how easy their world was, how free.

  “A response has been received?”

  “Yes.”

  “One must not be greedy.”

  “No.”

  “One must receive what is due—nothing more, nothing more.”

  They were odd words, what odd words they were. But Mister Kumar was a simple man—there was much that he did not understand. He was a simple man—there was much that he did not see.

  One day he opened the book, 10,000 Urdu Words (the inside cover):

  Due to his hard work, integrity and foresight he rose to be a leading industrialist.

  He turned to Cosmetology (p. 91):

  The hair must be kept dry—especially

  before retiring to sleep.

  He turned, again, to A Sanskrit Primer (various pages):

  All guilt departs from one-who-has-done-penance.

  Iron is lighter than gold, but heavier than wood.

  The gates of the city were shut fast; the

  citizens equipped themselves for battle.

  Were these the words, were these?

  Mister Kumar rose, he went to the market to buy vegetables. He left the market, he went to the chemist. He left the chemist, he went to the store.

  He came home, the gates were shut (what gates?). He came home, the citizens were equipped (what citizens?). He was told the battle would be fierce, that it would last for a long time.

  (Battle—what battle?)

  They say that the battle is a nice battle. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Sometimes the rules are clear, sometimes they are not.

  But it is a keen affair; it is joined; it is fun!

  In Cosmetology (p. 214), there are the words:

  The wayfarer was troubled and spent a sleepless night. But he combed his hair (he combed it thrice). He parted it in the middle (exactly there). And he was at peace again—he was again at peace.

  Mister Kumar was a simple man (how simple). He was a timid man (how timid). Perhaps one day he would be wise. Perhaps one day he would understand. Perhaps one day—one day he would see.

  Notes of a Mediocre Man

  I am a product of my age: mean, jealous, vindictive. I hate my neighbors, I hate their successes. I hate Justices of the Supreme Court: I find them dull. I hate schools of government: I find them silly. I hate law schools: I find them limited. I hate Aristotle: he would, if living, be a professor of law—at least on a part-time basis. I hate the black and women’s movements: I find them aggressive. I hate movements in general: I find them vulgar. I hate The New York Times and The Washington Post: I find them smug. I hate people who ride bicycles and go to museums: I find them phony.

  But of course, of course, I must stop. I am, by nature, a shy, a deferential person. And I do not wish you to misunderstand. If I say the above things, it is only to catch your attention—to get you to stop by and chat, as it were, for a few minutes. I never have company anymore. The last visitor I had was Nankua, but that was over ten years ago. And of him, I can only speak later.

  I really did not mean to offend you. But perhaps I presume even to think that I could offend you. And for that, too, I apologize. The differences in our positions are, after all, so great. You rule the world or, at the least, live in it. I neither rule nor live; I merely exist, on the fringes.

  But I say this not to invite your pity. I am, in my own ways, a proud man. And even in my despondent, my pitiful, state, pity is something that I will not tolerate. It is the one thing that still sets my teeth on edge. And, as the doctors say, that is not good for me, not good for my heart condition.

  I will be forty next month, but I look more like fifty-five, even sixty. I have always looked older than my years, but the situation has—I suppose—never been so bad. In my youth, it was not uncommon for people, even those my age, even girls on whom I may have had other, more sublime, designs, to address me as “Sir.” But girls are with me a sensitive, delicate topic, and I would like, with your permission, not to get into it. Actually I don’t need your permission not to discuss the topic; it is one that I could not even be dragged into. But I thought that, just to be polite, just to be civil, I would ask.

  Perhaps you think that by mentioning my pride and through refusing to discuss certain topics, I am trying to reassert myself, that I am really a cunning and duplicitous creature. If that is the impression I have created, then, my friends—I hope that you do not mind me calling you that—then, my friends, I am truly sorry. What you take for duplicity is probably just awkwardness, social maladroitness, on my part. I am so out of the habit of talking to people, real people that is. I do talk a lot to myself, to my doctors, and to the birds outside my window, but that isn’t quite the same.

  With doctors, for example, you cannot really discuss anything important. The conversation is always so one-sided: “Take care of your health,” they say. “Do you want to die an early death? Run, walk, exercise. And for heaven’s sake, no, for your sake, improve that terrible posture. Why must you always walk with that stoop in your shoulders?” Doctors don’t understand that to improve your posture, you need something to improve it for. “Improve it for yourself,” they’ll say. If it were only so simple!

  Doctors tell you, too, to get a lot of fresh air. They do not realize that if there is no incentive, there is, again, no point to it. “No point to it,” they’ll say. “So you want to wilt and wither, that’s up to you.” To them everything is medicine, medicine and more medicine. They know so little about real life.

  With birds, one can discuss music, even a little philosophy. But they are so busy with their own activities. And besides, their attention span is so short. They have no compunctions about leaving you in the middle of a sentence, about flying away to wherever it is that suits their momentary fancy.

  To discuss real things, one needs real people. People who live real lives. And that is why it is so good to have you here.

  ***

  I am an average man, limited and insecure. And that is why I said above that I do not like newspapers. Especially certain kinds. Newspapers always talk about successful people, about people who are “newsworthy.” And yet, what do these people have to do with me? I am almost forty years old now and in my life I have done nothing. Till two years ago when a distant relative left me an inheritance, I worked as an accountant for a major multinational corporation. The corporation may have been major and multinational but I wasn’t; I was only an accountant. In my eighteen years with the corporation, I received only two promotions. And
even they were very early in my “career.”

  For the past two years I have not even been an accountant. I have been, in your language, a “has-been.” But no, even that implies that once, somewhere in the past, I was something. And I never was anything—except perhaps in my dreams. Of dreams I had quite a few but I learned, with the years, that I was only fooling myself. By dreaming, an average man is only asking for trouble. He is creating expectations, even great ones, that he can never meet. And, like me, he will end up disappointed, an angry and embittered man.

  Newspapers talk about Kings and Queens, about Presidents and Prime Ministers. They talk about Senators and Congressmen, about Secretaries and Assistant Secretaries. And what do these people have to do with me?

  “But newspapers are also the voice of the people,” you will say. “If you are dissatisfied with the way they are run, then write and let them know.”

  Well, I did write to newspapers several times in my youth, perhaps as many as a hundred. And not once did they print my letters. Worse: they did not even acknowledge them. It was as if I never existed!

  On two occasions, I even sent long articles to newspapers. One time I spoke about the aesthetics of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. The other time I proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the hypocrisy of our ways. But both my articles were turned down. This time I did receive acknowledgments from the papers, but it would have been better if I hadn’t. The papers maintained that my articles were “reactionary,” “nonsense,” “a practical joke.” And I had put so much of myself, my soul, into them! Though exhausted and drained from my job, I had toiled through the nights working on the articles. They were to have been my début, my bonjour, as it were, into the world of letters. But the papers would have none of them.

  I especially used to enjoy reading the sports sections of papers. I had, over the years, my baseball heroes, my football heroes, my boxing heroes. I read of my heroes with relish; I relived, with childlike delight, every one of their exploits. But that was all right as long as I was young and these heroes were older than me; as I got older and the heroes became—or seemed to become—younger, my affection for them vanished. All of my dreams, you see, have always been based on comparing myself with those older than me. If others know or can do something that I cannot, that is, I tell myself, understandable; I am, after all, younger than them. I am in training, preparing for the future when I will really show them. And if I know something that others don’t, I am ecstatic. How quaint, how remarkable I tell myself. I know more than my fellow men—and I am so much younger!