by Bipin Aurora
But the other had heard enough. Enough, enough—was it not always the case? He held out his hand.
“Thank you, Mister Roy.”
“Sir?”
“We will be touch.”
“Sir?”
“Thank you for coming, Mister Roy. I will walk you to the door.”
The other was an important man. He was running a business, not a charity. Charities are nice places—commendable—but this was not a charity. The other walked, Pranab Roy followed. He walked, Pranab Roy followed. Past the door and past the cubicles. Past the steel-handled door and past the restrooms. The elevators, the bell.
Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Pranab Roy had witnessed the scene before—of course, he had. A “repeat,” they said on television. A “rerun.” But each time it surprised him (or did it?). Each time it struck him anew in the face (or did it?). Each time it left him sad, infinitely sad.
***
The days passed. Pranab Roy sat in his room, he pondered. (And did it help?) He looked out the window, he looked at the bare trees outside. (And now?) He went to the mall, he paced back and forth. Weakness after weakness, sin after sin. It was a miracle that he was able to get up in the morning at all. To brush his teeth, to cook. To watch his shows—even that.
And he did watch his shows. The Rifleman. Andy Griffith. Superman. The Fugitive—even that. And did they comfort him? Did they help?
Money, a job, that is what he needed. And this job, where was it? Where would it come from? He was running out of funds. How much longer could he hold on? A day? Two days?
Pranab Roy was not stupid, he had done many things. Systems work, he had done that. Financial work, he had done that. Energy—even some work on energy.
“The EIA surveys, sir, I helped to design them.”
“EIA—what is EIA?”
“Imports into the country, sir. I looked at the imports over a period of twenty-five years. Crude oil imports, motor gasoline imports …”
“And the results?”
“A time series analysis, sir. It was quite sophisticated.”
“And the results?”
“It was snowing in the country, sir, the weather was bad. The imports were severely affected.”
“And the results?”
Pranab Roy answered—he tried to answer. But his mind wandered. Had he not moved on to other things?
Rejections, rejections, all these rejections. A man loses confidence. Is he the Rifleman? No. Is he Andy Taylor? No. Is he Superman? Can the man even focus—can he focus at all?
Pranab Roy sat in his room, he pondered. He went to the mall. He paced back and forth. It was raining in the city—it was overcast, the clouds grey and sad. Was he sad as well?
One day he was at an interview. A fat man sat on the other side of the desk. Most of the people who interviewed him were tall, but this man was short and fat. Was there some meaning in this? Was there some symbolism?
They spoke, they spoke. They spoke for some time.
“I am a good man, sir.”
“What is this?”
“I try hard, sir.”
“What is this?”
“But the world is hard, sir, it is hard as well. Sometimes you win, but most of the time you lose. Is that not the way?”
The fat man looked at Pranab Roy. And was he impressed? He himself was fat, there were blotches on his face. The world laughed at him—laughed every day. Was the world easy for him?
“It was raining in Kanpur, sir. The people lived their lives. I looked at the monsoons, sir—the effect of the monsoons on the people.”
“The monsoons? And what effect did you find?”
“Some people danced, sir, some people cried. Some people lost their homes—their possessions, their families, all they had. They lay down on the ground, sir—right there they did it—and they began to cry.”
The other looked at Pranab Roy. Was it in awe? Was it in disdain—just that?
“They cried, sir, they cried. Did they not do the right thing? They prayed, sir, they prayed. Did they not do the right thing?”
The fat man was at a loss. He was a manager, not a philosopher. How was he supposed to know these things?
“I am from India, sir.”
“So I see.”
“I am a short man, sir. Dark, balding.”
“We all carry our cross.”
“Cross, sir, indeed it is so. My heart is broken, I believe I left it back home.”
There was a short pause. “I seek, sir, I seek.”
“What do you seek?”
Pranab Roy spoke, he spoke. His voice rose, it fell. It rose, it fell. He spoke of his youth—the kites he had flown, the songs he had sung. He spoke of the job interviews—this interview, that. This interview, that.
The other’s eyes grew small. Was it in boredom? He lowered his head. Was it in sadness? Did he not have problems (too many) of his own?
“This is a business, Mister Roy, not a charity.”
“Yes, sir. So I see.”
“One must be strong.”
“Yes.”
“To the strong go the spoils.”
“Indeed.”
“We are looking for strong men, Mister Roy. Strong men, not weak.”
In the distance the dawn began to break. The lightning flashed. They said that a storm would come. And would it? They said that it would clean the office building. And would it? It would clean the building, the ground, the world. The world—yes yes, even that.
When would it happen? When would it come to pass?
The other had apparently heard enough. He looked at Pranab Roy, he smiled. He looked at him, he held out his hand.
“We will be in touch, Mister Roy.”
“Sir?”
“No need to call us, we will call you. We are good people, Mister Roy, decent people. We will be in touch.”
Pranab Roy rose, bowed to the other. He lifted his head, bowed again. And again—was it for the thousandth time?—he made his way to the lobby. There were elevators there: so many. There was a bell there: it tolls for thee. The inside of the elevator: a tomb.
“I am a sad man, sir.”
“So I see.”
“I am an empty man, sir.”
“So I see.”
“You go ahead with your meetings, sir—please, please. I will sit on the carpet—sit right here. I will sing quietly, softly. I will not disturb.”
Acknowledgments
ABOVE ALL, I WOULD LIKE TO THANK Joel Aurora. Joel has read all the stories in this collection and consistently taken them to the next level. He has made detailed edits, turned the stories inside-out, and offered invaluable insights. He has done so without trying to superimpose his own style. For me, Joel is the ideal reviewer and editor. He has consistently made the stories more polished, “publishable.” Without his help, this collection simply would not exist.
I would also like to thank John Robbins, a person who has read most of the stories in this collection and offered important insights and detailed analyses. Our writing styles and approaches are quite different, and that makes his comments especially useful. John’s insights began decades ago when I first began writing, and they have continued over the years. John has also been a close friend for several decades. I value both his insights and his friendship.
Finally, I would like to thank my brother, Rajive Aurora. Rajive has read several of the stories in this collection and offered useful comments. Just as importantly, he has been a supporter—quiet, sustained—of my writing over the years. In the Indian community, where writing is often considered a silly and/or frivolous endeavor (a “hobby”), he has been a steady source of support.
To Joel, John, and Rajive, my deepest thanks.
Some of the stories in this collection have appeared, in slightly different form, elsewhere:
“Munnu Shunnu”: Quarterly West (Fall 2008/Winter 2009)
“Krishna”: The Chattahoochee Review (Vol. 3
4, No. 1, Spring 2014)
“My Father Is Investigated by the Authorities”: Epiphany (Fall/Winter 2009-2010)
“A Small Market”: Harpur Palate (Vol. 10, Issue 2, Winter 2011)
“The Servant”: The Common (Summer Fiction Issue, August 2012)
“Gurmeet Singh”: Michigan Quarterly Review (Vol. 51, No. 4, Fall 2012)
“Mother of Gulu”: Crossborder (Vol 2, No. 2, Fall 2014)
“D.K. Choudhary”: Quiddity (Vol. 4, No. 2, Fall/ Winter 2011-2)
“The Lovers in Bengal”: Nimrod International Journal (Vol. 57, No. 1, Fall/Winter 2013)
“Pranab Roy”: Western Humanities Review (Vol. 58, No. 2, Summer 2014)
About the Author
BIPIN AURORA WAS BORN IN DELHI, INDIA, and came to the United States when he was nine years old. He has worked at all kinds of part-time jobs—cashier, stock boy, waiter, salesman—and then, more “professionally,” as an economist, an energy analyst, and a systems analyst. His fiction has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Glimmer Train, Michigan Quarterly Review, Southwest Review, Nimrod International Journal, Witness, The Chattahoochee Review, Western Humanities Review, Puerto del Sol, The Common, Southern Humanities Review, South Dakota Review, New Orleans Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Confrontation, Grain, and numerous other literary publications.
Copyright © 2017, Bipin Aurora and Guernica Editions Inc.
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2016930158 Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Aurora, Bipin, author
Notes of a mediocre man : stories of India and America / Bipin
Aurora.—1st edition.
(Essential prose series ; 130)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77183-141-3 (paperback)
I. Title. II. Series: Essential prose series 130
PS3601.U7N68 2016813’.6C2016-900113-X
C2016-900114-8
Contents
Munnu Shunnu
The Dance
Krishna
My Father Is Investigated by the Authorities
A Small Market
The Servant
Gurmeet Singh
Mother of Gulu
Raghavendran Ramachandran
D.K. Choudhary
Notes of a Mediocre Man
The Boy
Ahmed
My Daughter
The Lovers in Bengal
Ajay Bhatt
The Bill
Pranab Roy
Acknowledgments
About the Author