Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  There were some jokes, there was some nervous laughter. But in twenty minutes they said all was well again. No explanations, no details. “You can go back out,” they said.

  Back out—hmm. They went out, Dilip Kumar sat at his table. The music was turned back on. Lucky Love came, sat beside him. Luciano—a little flushed perhaps—came and joined them as well.

  “You say the virgins danced in the temple?”

  “Yes,” said Dilip Kumar. “They danced.”

  “You say the eunuchs danced at the wedding parties, asked for money or would refuse to leave?”

  “It is so,” said Dilip Kumar.

  “And Ajay Bhatt has studied all this?”

  “This and more—much more.”

  Luciano took out a cigar, chewed on the end of it for a while. He took out a match, hesitated about something. Finally he lit the cigar.

  Dilip Kumar watched him. He watched Lucky Love watching them. (She had taken one hand, placed it softly—was it tenderly?—on the other’s wrist.)

  Luciano indulged in his cigar for some time. But he was a big man. He had eighty-five people working for him, perhaps a hundred. He drove in Cadillacs, he drove in limousines. Did he not deserve to indulge?

  Ajay Bhatt had studied Luciano—or at least men like him. “Children,” he had said about them. “Gods,” he had said. “They make their world, make it from nothing. And God—the eternal one—did He not do the same?” (The Grammar of Cries, p. 471)

  ***

  Dilip Kumar went here, he went there. Ajay Bhatt went with him—if not in person, then in spirit.

  One day Dilip Kumar was in a dark place. “Sit,” said the woman.

  “Which chair?”

  “Any one you like.”

  There were three chairs, he sat in the chair in the middle. He sat there, he leaned his head back.

  The woman left the room. She came back, a bucket in her hand. She rested the bucket on the floor.

  “Is this the dance?”

  “Wait,” she said.

  He had already taken off his shoes, laid them to the side. She took his pants, began to roll them up. She rolled them almost to the knees, stopped.

  She took the bucket, moved it closer to him.

  “Put your feet inside.”

  He put his feet inside.

  The water was warm, he liked the touch of the warm water.

  “Is it warm?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It is not water. It is a Chinese medicine. All the way from China.”

  He sat there, his feet in the bucket.

  “Is this the dance?” he said.

  “Wait,” she said.

  He sat there, his feet in the water. She left the room, came back again. She left the room, came back again.

  She sat on a low stool near the bucket. She lifted up his left leg, drying it with a towel. Then she rubbed the leg with her hands—rubbed it slowly. She rubbed the leg—rubbed it tenderly. The foot—she did not forget the foot.

  He sat in the chair, his head leaning back. She rubbed his leg, she rubbed it.

  “Is it good?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you like it?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She let the left leg rest there, turned to the right leg. She dried it with a towel. Then she rubbed this second leg, rubbed it slowly. She rubbed it tenderly. The foot—she did not forget the foot.

  Dilip Kumar sat there, resting, resting. He thought of Ajay Bhatt, he thought of Luciano. He thought of Lucky Love—the twilights, the long twilights in places far away.

  “Is this the dance?” he said.

  She did not answer him.

  “Is this the dance?” he said.

  The woman smiled at him. Perhaps it was with softness. Perhaps it was with pity as well.

  The minutes passed (perhaps the hours). The hours passed (perhaps the days). Dilip Kumar sat there, sat there. He did not want to leave. Perhaps it was the darkness, perhaps it was the smells. Perhaps it was the dance—the dance as well.

  What was this dance, no one could say. From where it came, no one could say. But sometimes it was there. And could one just turn away?

  The children gather in the twilight, they like to play. They gather in the darkness, they like to dream. And the dream, the dream—or is it the longing?—is that not the greatest dance of all? (Who Am I What Am I (if I Am), p. 386)

  Dilip Kumar had learned a lot from Ajay Bhatt, the master. He had learned from Lucky Love, from Luciano. He had learned from others as well. But now he wanted to just sit there. He wanted to long, to long (how the longing tormented him, comforted him). He did not want to leave.

  The Bill

  Ramesh Thakur had three houses—one in Defence Colony, one in R.K. Puram, and one in Malviya Nagar. But he was not happy.

  “So much dusting, Chandar. I go to each house once a week. I dust, I dust. The sofas, the tables, the mantelpiece. I do not forget anything.

  “But it is hard work, Chandar. It is not easy.”

  But still I was happy for him. He was retired, he needed something to do. This kept him busy. He had three houses: there was security in that. He had some place to go three days a week: this kept him busy, there was security in that as well.

  He complained about the dusting, yes. He complained about the traffic and the pollution. But he had something to do.

  One day he was at the DESU (Delhi Electric Supply Undertaking) office in South Delhi. There was a problem with the electric bill for one of the houses, the bill obviously wrong. It was overstated by three thousand rupees. He went to discuss the bill; they said that he was at the wrong office. He went to the second office; the girl was sick, she had not come in today. He went to the third office; there were six people in line ahead of him. He waited patiently, and then impatiently, for fifty minutes. At last his turn came. But just as he arrived at the glass window, a cardboard sign was put up behind the window. “Tea,” it said simply.

  “What is this?”

  “The hours, sir, the hours of operation are posted.” He looked at the hours posted on the wall to the right. “Open 10 AM -12 PM, 2 PM—4 PM.” At present it was 11:20.

  He looked at his watch to confirm the time and looked again at the sign. “You should be open,” he said.

  “It is time for tea, sir.”

  “What is this?”

  “A man needs his tea, sir.”

  Again he looked at his watch. Eleven-twenty, that is exactly what it said. Eleven-twenty, not twelve. Not even close to twelve.

  Ramesh Thakur felt the blood rush to his face. “I have been to three offices already. I have received a bill. The bill is a mistake. A mistake.”

  “A hypothesis, sir.”

  “What is this?”

  “You say, sir, that the bill is a mistake. That is a hypothesis.” The host repeated the same word. He seemed to take pride in it.

  Ramesh Thakur again felt the blood rush to his face. He was about to lose his temper. He should not do it. He wanted to tell the man many things. The man should be told many things. But what would that accomplish? No no, better to control himself.

  “Hypothesis, sir, the world is filled with hypotheses.” Thus continued the other. “Men make statements but they are not scientific. They do not verify them. No observation, sir, no testing. And so the hypothesis remains that: a hypothesis. Nothing more.”

  Ramesh Thakur looked at the other, aghast. The impudence of the man, the audacity. You go from house to house, you dust. You dust the sofas, the tables, the mantelpiece. You go from office to office trying to solve a simple problem. A problem that you did not create. A problem that should be solved. And yet, and yet …

  The blood had risen to Ramesh Thakur’s face. But what need was there for a fight? A fight, did it not turn into a war? A war led to more wars, more wars led to more wars still. No no, better to control oneself. Better to …

  “Tea, yes yes,” he suddenly added,
“every man deserves his tea.” He did not want to speak in this way but somehow the words came out. And he knew (or did he?) that it was the right and prudent thing to say.

  “Every man deserves his tea. Please go and drink. Please go and enjoy. I will stand here, wait. When you come back, we will talk.”

  “Yes yes,” the other added, more accommodating now, wagging his head, even that. “We will talk. The day is young. Men need to talk. If they do not talk …”

  The sentence was left dangling there, unfinished. And the other left, left to drink his tea.

  Ramesh Thakur watched him from the back as he walked away. The man walked into some back room to the right. The man greeted someone in the room—who, Ramesh Thakur could not say. Then the man gently kicked the door closed behind him. Lucky man! Impudent man!

  Ramesh Thakur stood at the narrow blue counter. He tapped impatiently on the counter with his fingers. But then he realized what he was doing—he stopped the tapping. “Better to be patient,” he said. “Patience is a virtue. And impatience—did not even our teacher tell us once?—is a vice.”

  ***

  Ramesh Thakur waited, waited. Five minutes passed, ten. Fifteen minutes passed. The door in the back opened a peep. Then it closed again. The blood rushed to Ramesh Thakur’s face. He controlled himself. Consciously, deliberately, he controlled himself. Twenty minutes passed. Twenty-one. Two more.

  The door opened again—this time more, more. Someone—was it the esteemed one himself?—emerged at the doorway, stretching wide his arms on each side.

  Ramesh Thakur began to tap on the counter, then realized what he was doing and checked himself. There was some lint on his shirt, he flicked at it with his right hand. His heart was racing. A lackey—a low-class lackey—and he was putting him through all this.

  The lackey—the esteemed one—was indeed making his way from the back room. He came in through the entrance to the right. He walked slowly, slowly, to the counter. The cardboard sign was there. Consciously, deliberately—slowly—he began to lift it.

  The people in line behind Ramesh Thakur brushed against him. “Please, please,” said Mister Thakur in some anger, turning slightly, his voice rising. “I have been waiting for over one hour. Kindly wait—kindly wait for your turn.”

  The others were not so impressed.

  “Kindly wait. Please wait.”

  A few controlled themselves, but others, propelled perhaps by still others behind them, kept pushing.

  “Order! Order!” called out the lackey. “Everyone will get his turn.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Only fourteen minutes before lunch. Time is precious. Control yourself. If you wish to be served, kindly—control yourself.”

  The voice of the lackey—screechy, loud—seemed to have had an effect. Mister Thakur had spoken up twice: nothing. But this lackey, this lackey …

  Time is precious: Mister Thakur was tempted to scream at the other, but beggars cannot be choosers. He controlled himself. Again he did it.

  The other pulled up to the glass window, spoke through the metal grilles in the middle.

  “What is the problem, sir?”

  “This bill—as I was saying before—the bill is a mistake.”

  “How is it a mistake?”

  “As I was saying before, before the tea break” (tea break: he felt the words to be unnecessary), “the bill is an error, an obvious error. It is overstated by three thousand rupees.”

  “Three thousand rupees?”

  “The normal bill, you see—I have brought the bills for the past month—the month before that—the month before that …”

  “Yes yes, go on.”

  “The normal bill is 300 rupees. This bill is 3,300. A computer error, I am sure. A human error. An extra ‘3’ was added.”

  The other stood on the other side of the glass window, examined the bill.

  “Did you have a big function?”

  “A big function? No no, of course not.”

  “A birthday party—a lot of lights. A wedding perhaps.”

  “No no, there was no wedding.”

  “You have daughters? A son?”

  “Why is that important?”

  “They are young, they need to be married off. A party is held—a big party. Guests come—important guests. They come from all parts of the country. There is a big electric bill.”

  Mister Thakur looked at the other. “No no, no such thing.”

  “There is a function, yes. The people come—they like to come. From Poona they come, from Patiala. From Kanpur they come, from Karnataka. They come, they come. From Manipur, from Madras …”

  Mad—was this man mad? Did he like geography—did he want to show off his knowledge of geography?

  “Guests, I told you, there were no guests. Party, function, there was no such thing.”

  “Why then is the bill so big?”

  “That is my point—exactly my point. It is a mistake, an error.”

  The other looked at the bill again.

  “A hypothesis,” he said.

  “A hypothesis?”

  “The bill is in error, you say. A mistake. A hypothesis—nothing but a hypothesis.”

  A hypothesis: was he back to that same thing again?

  “I have showed you the bills from the previous months. Three hundred rupees. Now—3,300 rupees. It is a big difference. The same house: two bedrooms, two baths, a kitchen. It is a mistake—it has to be.”

  “Two bedrooms, you say, two baths. Attached baths, one to each bedroom?”

  “Attached, not attached, what difference should it make?” But Mister Thakur controlled himself. “One bath attached. One not attached.”

  “Attached bathrooms, Mister Thakur, they have a much greater value in the market.”

  “Yes, yes, I agree.”

  “But only one bath is attached. The other is not so.”

  And the other seemed suddenly lost in thought. He looked into space, the thin air. He seemed almost saddened by the situation. As if attached bathrooms were the most important thing in the world. As if one bathroom not being attached was a sadness, a loss, and not just a general sadness and loss but a sadness and loss to him.

  Mister Thakur stared at the other. Was it in disgust? Was it in awe? He had come to the office to point out an error, an obvious error. And now this. Had the world gone mad? Had it gone completely mad?

  They talked for some time. The people in line behind Mister Thakur began to grow impatient. They had always been impatient—now they were only more so.

  The lackey looked at the bill a second time. He looked at the bill for the previous month—the bill for the month before that. He took a wooden ruler and placed it under some line on the first bill. The second bill: the same. The third bill: the same. Then he lined up the bills together, again put his ruler in the needed places.

  He did this for some time. At last he looked up at Mister Thakur, shook his head.

  “The bills do not match,” he said with some finality.

  “Exactly,” said Mister Thakur. “Exactly. That is just my point.”

  There was a pause.

  “Two bills are the same, one is bigger.”

  “Exactly, exactly. That is just the point.”

  The lackey seemed lost in thought. Was he thinking of something deep? Was he about to reach a decision? Had he reached it already?

  At last he looked up, he smiled at the other. “Are you sure there was no function?”

  “No no, no function.”

  “No wedding, no party?”

  “No no, nothing like that.”

  “We must have a meeting on this.”

  Meeting: Mister Thakur was intrigued by the word. There would be progress—a good thing. But this meeting, when would it be held? Where? Who would be present?

  Mister Thakur was about to give voice to these questions. But the other was wise—he spoke up instead.

  “Lunch!” he said suddenly.

  “What is this?”

 
; “Lunch!” he said.

  There was a short pause.

  “It is twelve o’clock, Mister Thakur.” He pointed to the clock on the wall. “One minute past. I have already overworked. There are rules here, guidelines. I cannot contravene the guidelines.”

  Contravene: what kind of word was that? Was it an actual word? The man had just taken a tea break!

  Mister Thakur was about to speak—to rant, to rail. But he controlled himself.

  An audible sigh escaped from the people behind him. Mister Thakur turned slightly and looked over his shoulder.

  “Damn it!” said someone.

  “Bitch!” said a second.

  “But I brought my lunch,” said a third. “I am prepared. Cards—does anyone want to play cards?”

  Mister Thakur was bewildered at the goings-on. But what could he do?

  He turned to the important host. “When will lunch be over?” he asked.

  The other had already taken his cardboard sign—a different sign this time—and put it on the glass behind the window.

  “LUNCH,” it said in block letters.

  “When will lunch be over?” Mister Thakur ventured again.

  “The hours are posted, Mister Thakur.”

  Mister Thakur looked at the sign posted on the wall to the right.

  “But two o’clock!” he protested, he almost wailed. “I’ve been here for hours. I’m not a young man. We’ve spoken—spoken for ten minutes …”

  The other seemed offended, genuinely so. “Ten minutes, Mister Thakur? I was here attending to you—attending—at 11:46. It is now well past twelve. Lunch hour. Lunch.”

  Mister Thakur looked at the clock. Two minutes past twelve.

  “A man has to eat, Mister Thakur. Is he a servant to all the people who come, who dare to come? Is he not human? Does he not deserve dignity, peace?”

  “What of my peace?” Mister Thakur was tempted to blurt out. But he controlled himself, again he did it. “No no, right, quite right.” Somehow the words escaped from his lips. How they escaped, he could not say. Perhaps some angel was guiding him. “Two o’clock, my good sir, I will be here. Right here.”

  The other had heard enough. He had already turned his back and was on his way.