Where the past is the present

'I should be reaching the Estate by about 1030 am, in time for breakfast', thought Paul as the bus started from the city bus terminal. It's a long way from the city, past the towns and villages, and then climbing the hills, with tea gardens all around. The narrow winding roads make the vehicles cough and complain, but these drivers have seen them all. So you know you will eventually reach there where the soft, white clouds and the early morning mist caress you and the birds chirp sweet nothings incessantly. The golden rays of the rising sun will kiss you tenderly, and the fragrance of the forests tempts you endlessly.

But for Paul this was not a romantic sojourn. He had made this trip several times over, almost an annual affair, every time he came on his vacation. He had left his home town years ago for higher studies, found a job later, and settled down in a far-off north Indian city. Yet, the roots were strong and the bonds stronger. Come summer, and he would escape from the scorching sun of the northern plains to embrace the monsoon magic of his native place.

It was not just the lure of the land of his birth that beckoned him; for him this was the place that he belonged to. Paul was one who loved to be with his family and friends ' those who brought him up and those whom he grew up with. Though not a joint family, everyone landed up in his ancestral house on festive occasions ' Easter and Christmas, marriages, ceremonies, local church functions and the like. Summer vacations those days meant all kids converging at his house for two months of unadulterated fun.

Since Paul was a bright student, he moved out for higher studies to the city where he stayed with his uncle. Mable aunty was someone he liked very much right from his school days. He used to meet her rarely but her infectious laughter, genuine warmth and innate spontaneity endeared her to everyone. It helped that she was great storyteller and a wonderful cook! And she was good singer too!

Mable aunty was married to Paul's mother's brother who held a very high post in the government for years together. Aunty herself came from a very aristocratic family; her dad was Head of the Department in the government and her brothers and sisters too were highly placed professionals. Yet, Mable aunty was at home everywhere, never hesitating to help out anyone in need. In later years, she used to say wistfully that those very same people to whom she gave so much love and affection deserted her when she needed them the most.

But probably Mable aunty herself was responsible in some way for that. Her exuberance, and innocence too, brought many close to her ' and she was not one endowed with a discerning eye. She gave liberally and if and when she couldn't, they found fault with her. Aunty didn't have a complete control over her own life too. Uncle used to be on tour most of the time and she had a tough time managing the kids, assorted friends and the family estates. But the resources they had helped ensure that they lived life in style, with all its attendant material comforts.

Paul, like several others cousins of his before and after him, found comfort in Mable auntie's home. He spent three wonderful years there while doing his Graduation. He was a patient listener to her many stories and relished the several dishes that she cooked day in and out. Yet, he was wary of those who flocked to her, just to curry favor or worse still, fleece her. Often he wondered how she could be so na've. Her kids were much younger to him, so he used to spend considerable time with both of them, much to auntie's delight.

Paul remembered that Mable aunty used to be good singer, though she claimed she never sang at any function. Sometimes he could hear her singing in the kitchen or in the garden or at the dining table. For him, it was as if aunty could rival some of the known singers of the time.

Once Paul left for higher studies, his contact with aunty and uncle were only when he came home for his vacations. He would spend at least a couple of days with them. Aunty was very keen to know more about his studies and later about his work. After uncle retired, they shifted to Hyderabad where uncle had been offered a position. For some years, he had no contact with them except through the occasional letters.

Years later, they returned to Kerala and settled down there for good. Their elder daughter got married to an air force officer and things were looking good for all of them. So, it came as a big shock when Paul got to know that Mable aunty had to undergo a triple bypass surgery, more so because she didn't have any complaints prior to that. She was greatly pleased when Paul called up to wish her before the surgery. 'I am glad that you remembered me, Paul', she said, and added in a breaking voice: 'not many do that, though'.

When Paul met her next, she was not the same person whom he knew. The spark and the sparkle were gone, though she was only in her late fifties. She complained of memory lapse, more than anything else. Uncle was not keeping well, and couldn't cope with life as it came to him. Their daughter had gone with her husband to a distant air force station. Her younger brother too had left for higher studies and then joined a company in some other state. Aunty and uncle stayed all alone in the huge house in the company of the driver, the maid and the old faithful dog.

In between, aunty and uncle visited Paul on their way to meet their daughter. They spent some time with him and he was pleased that he could give them some happiness in those days ' of course, no match for what they had given him in ample measure. As they were leaving, Aunty took out a recipe book from her bag and gave it to him, saying, 'Paul, I know you love cooking. There are many dishes listed in this book which you can try out'. Later, when he opened the book, tears welled up when he saw her scribble: 'with lots of love and affection for my dear Paul'.

What really shook up Paul was the way Mable aunty withered away in the years to come. Uncle's death came at a very inappropriate time because dementia had slowly started playing havoc with her life. Her son had already shifted base to Germany and her daughter and her husband had migrated to Canada. Under the circumstances, the children thought it best to relocate her to their Estate in the hills and rent out the houses in the city where all of auntie's relatives lived. In a way, that was the best they could do, considering that her memory was badly affected and she needed constant attention. So, aunty went, without knowing where she was going, to the hills where she stayed in the small outhouse which uncle had built in their Estate.

Once when Paul went and met her, he was distraught at the way life had treated her. Mable aunty talked incessantly, and she kept repeating things many times over. And all she talked about was of her dad ' and no one else: not about her husband, not about her daughter and son, not about anyone else or anything else. She was like a record player, going on and on, and on. The next time he met her, she was just the opposite: she hardly spoke except to exchange pleasantries. Yet, when she talked, she talked only of her dad. Paul was told that slowly she had started forgetting near and dear ones too. But he knew when she recognized him, for she would talk to him only in English.

On Easter, Christmas, New Year and such other occasions, Paul would call her at the Estate. For a few seconds she would be focused but after that she would fade out. It was as if aunty was walking away into the twilight of her life.

It was almost eleven when the bus came to a halt. Paul took a taxi to the Estate; he will have to return by 3 pm to take the bus back to the city. As the can entered the Estate, he was lost in memories. The maid who knew him well came out with a warm smile, saying aunty was in the bath. And she told him how life was for Mable aunty these days.

Aunty was lost to the world, virtually. She didn't know who she was except that she was her dad's daughter; she had no idea of her relatives or friends. Whenever anyone called up, she wouldn't know what to say other than it was hot or cold or windy or rainy. She couldn't recollect that she has a son and a daughter, except when they phoned. She will pack her few clothes several times a day, and get ready to go ' the problem was, she didn't know where she had to go. She will have her lunch, and after five minutes complain that no one gave her lunch.

'manjanee poonilavum perattinkarayinkal, manjalarachuvechu, neeraadumbol''

Paul looked back in wondrous astonishment, to see Mable aunty coming out humming to herself.

'Ha, see who has come!' She smiled at him; Paul could immediately make out that she hadn't recognized him, though it was obvious that she was happy to see a face other than that of the maid's.

In the next three hours, as was her wont, Mable aunty spoke of her dad ' and only of him. When lunch was served, she protested saying she already had her meals, but complained that she was not given her medicines, although she had taken it from the maid an hour before. Paul enquired from her of her daughter Susan and son Jose ' and he knew the names didn't really register on her.

Paul tried to tickle her memory by talking about uncle, their house in the city and his own mom of whom aunty was very fond, but nothing worked. Mable aunty was in her own world where the past was the present and where there was no scope for any future. Paul realized that her today and tomorrow were very much yesterday.

And then she suddenly asked him in English: 'How long are you here?'

Paul held her frail hand, without answering, thankful for that fraction of a second when she recognized him. Shortly thereafter, her dad was once again the hero of her memories or whatever remained of that.

It was 230 pm and the taxi driver honked. Paul got up to leave. Suddenly Mable aunty went inside and came out with her battered bag, with old clothes hanging out. She walked with Paul to the taxi, which was waiting at the gate. As he was getting into the cab, she pleaded: 'Can you take me with you?  I feel so lonely and scared in this Estate'. Paul couldn't control his tears. He came out of the car and hugged his Mable aunty and promised her without any conviction: 'Aunty, I will come soon again and take you home. Please give me a few days''

Mable aunty had already walked back to the house, her bag in hand. As the car started moving, he heard her singing: 'gopuramukalil vaasantha chandran gorochanakkuri varachu, sakhee gorochanakkuri varachu''

Love at Frankfurt Main

`This is Captain Daniel Muller once again. We will be landing shortly at Frankfurt Main. The temperature outside is 3 degree Celsius…' Captain Muller went on about a few other things, as is the wont of Captains of all airlines ' fortunately, we could make out what Muller was saying, notwithstanding the German accent.

The cabin crew had already retrieved the hot towels. Groggy eyes were being forced open; kids were being woken up, and some of them cried in protest.

I hadn't slept for a very long time. It always happened with me. While others enjoyed eating and sleeping through the eight-hour flight, I found it virtually impossible to do either. The only time I slept, without fail, was when the flight took off: and then the airhostess would come with the welcome drink or the toffee!

LH 761 had left Delhi at 305 AM sharp. I was an unabashed Lufthansa fan; even when I had to travel to the Pacific coast, I would travel the German carrier, instead of the more preferred Singapore Airlines. What I enjoyed most was the stop over at Frankfurt Main, my favorite airport.

The flight was now descending, and I could see a million lights dotting the beautiful city, made ethereal by the first rays of the rising sun on a January morning. It was almost 7 AM. My connecting flight to Washington DC was at 1 PM, so I had a long break of 6 hours. I didn't mind though ' that was part of the package for me! Like on my very first landing at Frankfurt Main some years ago, I would sit in the Concourse, near the huge glass panes, watching the endless landings of flights from all nooks and corners of the world.

LH 761 came to a halt. I was in no hurry, and came out almost at the very end. The Terminal was 1C and my flight to Dulles, LH 418, was from 1AB: so, no problems there!

After freshening up, with just the briefcase and a book in hand, I located Starbucks. A hot, strong coffee does wonders on a cold, wintry morning, even if you are at Frankfurt Main. At 1C, I identified the check-in counter, and found a seat overlooking the landing area.

The Airport City, as the Germans loved to call it, was very much alive and kicking. The globalized world was on view, and on the move. And Indians weren't lagging behind. I recalled the joke from the University days: if you want to see the height of patriotism, take a walk outside the American Embassy in Chanakyapuri at 6 AM! The Guptas and Varmas, the Sharmas and the Senguptas, the Raos and the Reddys, among others, were all hurrying to Promised Lands! The soft- and hardware guys, the doctors, the nurses, the teachers and the taught were all reaching out to greener pastures. I saw the anxiety of elderly couples waiting for the connecting flight to take them to be with their daughters who were in the final stages of pregnancy in faraway Michigan and Minnesota.   I even chanced across a Mallu Sister, probably on her way to a nunnery in some remote corner of Spain, the fear of the unknown in her eyes, yet the belief in Jesus ferrying her to the destination. `It's not the destination, but the journey that counts' said my bookmark: I wasn't sure, though!

I sipped the strong coffee from Starbucks, its aroma bringing back the intoxicating fragrance of the Indian Coffee House back in Connaught Place. I opened the book and started reading'

*****************************************

I was dreaming of several things, all unrelated ' of coffee plantations and coconut palms, paddy fields and temple bells, meandering backwaters and the golden orb slowly disappearing into the blue waters of the Arabian Sea. The weather beaten statue of a foreigner stood at the entrance of a football stadium on the Malabar Coast. Antique shops lined a by-lane somewhere near the Wellington Island in Kochi. I dreamed of the Alpine hills, snow clad mountains, dense forests'

*****************************************

When I opened my eyes, I saw yet another flight landing at Frankfurt Main, with several more coming in, in queue. The sun had now come out, and it was almost 9 AM. I smiled to myself, thinking of all those dreams whose links I could not decipher. The flight to Dulles was another few hours away: I would be able to finish the book by the time I landed in DC. I looked for the book'

`Hi, are you looking for your book?'

I turned to my side from where the question came. She smiled at me.

`I am sorry; you had drifted off to sleep, and the book had fallen down. I picked it up and kept it with me'.

`Oh, that is kind of you; thanks very much'.

 She gave the book back to me. And I started reading again.

`Are you from India?', suddenly she enquired.

`Yes, of course, I am. Why did you ask?'

`I could make it out; and the book is very interesting'.

`Yes, Siddhartha is a classic from the German-Swizz novelist Hermann Hesse. I have read it earlier too, but every time I read it, it is a revelation!'

`But why did you say German-Swizz? Is it because Hesse took Swizz citizenship?' And then she said: `He was born and brought up in Germany and we are not about to surrender a Nobel laureate to the Swizz!'

Ha, I thought, the German pride!

'I know what you were thinking just now', she said, startling me! Is she a mind reader? I smiled my most innocuous smile.

`I am Juanita from Calw in Black Forest. You can call me Anita', and she extended her hand.

`Oh, now I know why you are so possessive of Herman Hesse', I intoned.

`Yes, you are right. I am very sure now that you have read Hesse's acceptance statement on the Nobel Prize that starts, 'I was born in Calw in Black Forest'' '.

`Tell me, are you the grandniece of Hermann Hesse by any chance'?

`I wish I were! It is just that I am proud to belong to a village which gave birth to a Nobel Prize winner'.

I could now relate to my dream of the dense forests, the Alpine mountains and snow-clad hills. Yet the Bavarian beauty by my side was not at all the typical German. She was small built, black long hair, blue eyes and a vivacious smile. And she spoke without a German accent.

`So, you belong to Hesse's village, eh? Tell me something, what do you know of Hermann, apart from his interest in Indology and the Siddhartha?'

`No, nothing much', admitted Anita.

`Will you believe me if I say that Hermann's mother was born in my village on the Malabar Coast'?

`What!', Anita was astounded.

`Yes, Hesse's mom Marie was born in the year 1842 in Thalassery where I too was born, albeit 130 years later'.

`God, are we related then, at least by geography!', Anita spoke aloud. `But tell me, what was this Black Forest lady doing on the Malabar Coast in the early nineteenth century?'

`Ha, that's another story: Marie's dad too was a Hermann, Dr Hermann Gundert, who spent many years in my God's Own Country as a missionary. Apart from his religious vocations, he took a keen interest in the culture, language and traditions of our people. Now I will tell you something which is even more interesting'.

`Now what?', Anita asked eagerly.

`Dr Hermann Gundert published two journals in our language, of which one is considered to be the first newspaper in the vernacular'!

`Aren't we Germans a nice people!'

I couldn't have agreed more, after spending a few minutes with this daughter of the Black Forest.

`Do you know something else? The first Malayalam-English Dictionary was compiled by your compatriot way back in 1872 and the first grammar book in 1868'.

Anita was awestruck, and her pride swelled. Stars twinkled in her blue eyes as she thought of someone from her village traveling thousands of miles to a distant land, over 150 years ago, being one with the natives, compiling their first grammar book and dictionary.

`I must tell you, the local people loved the Gundert family; they erected a statue of Hermann near the football stadium in Thalassery. And like you Germans, we too are football fanatics'.

`Three cheers to the Hermanns and the Germans', I said.

`Amen to that, and to the Indians too', Anita jovially added.

*****************************************

Juanita came from an old stock of aristocratic Jews from Calw. They survived the holocaust, marginally at that, with several from the village landing in Dachau to be ruthlessly and mercilessly butchered by Hitler's SS. Afterwards, the scars remained but the families moved on.

`So, do you want to hear something else of your connections with God's Own Country?'

`Tell me, tell me'.

`The oldest Jewish synagogue in the Commonwealth, built in the year 1568, is situated in Kochi. The Jew Street there is steeped in antiquity, though very few remain there today'.

`Oh, what coincidences', exclaimed Anita.

Some early morning dreams at Frankfurt Main had found form and linkages'

***************************************** 

It was almost 11 AM. The announcement came as a surprise to both Anita and I. All flights to the US of A had been delayed by 2-3 hours following heavy snowfall and inclement weather in the East Coast.

`Where are you heading to?, I asked her.

`I am on my way to Chicago. My flight is rescheduled for 230 PM'.

`What do you do in Chicago?'

`I am doing my Graduate Program in Philosophy at the University of Illinois at Chicago.'

`Great! You would do justice to Hesse, I am sure! And what are you specializing in?'

`Oh, the philosophy of science dealing with time and space'.

`What is that friend?' My peanut brain wasn't registering her response.

`Ok, ok, I study whether space and time are infinite'.

I wished, for the moment, for both to stand still.

`I know what you are thinking', Anita startled me again.

`I also enquire if there is an edge of the universe. Is there a beginning of time? Does time flow like a river? Or is it laid out like a road?'

I didn't want to think of any edge of the universe. I didn't bother whether there was a beginning or an end. For me, time stood still at Frankfurt Main. The road was smooth and straight, no curves, no bends, no potholes ' an Autobahn, taking me to the country roads of Black Forest.

`Do things in the past exist? Do things in the future exist?', I heard Anita's earnest voice telling me of her research.

The Hermanns existed, so did the statue at Thalassery. Of future, I wasn't sure.

`Is time travel possible, is something else I am looking at'.

`If it were possible what will you do?'

`I will travel to Thalassery where the Gunderts lived. I will reach the Jew Street when the Synagogue was being built in the 1550s. And you?'

I would hold your hands and walk the lanes of Thalassery and Kochi: I didn't reveal my thoughts to her, but the smile in her eyes told me she understood.

`I am also studying about rebirth. Where would you like to be reborn?', she probed.

`In the Black Forest of Wurttemberg'.

`You are so mean! I wanted to be born again on the Malabar Coast'.

And both of us burst out laughing.

*****************************************

`Come, come, I am feeling very, very hungry. Let us have something. The flights are delayed, so we have another three hours'. Anita got up from the chair with child like enthusiasm. `I will take you to a typical German restaurant'.

Walking down to 1B, we took a corner seat in Kaifer's Bistro with a fascinating view of the apron area of Frankfurt Main where aircraft dock. We sat down for Brezels and coffee ' no Bier or Brats!

`You didn't even tell me your name! You are no gentleman', Anita complained.

`Siddhartha'.

`I didn't ask you the book's title, which I know'.

`I am Siddhartha, but don't call me Sid or Sidey, please!'

She laughed ' and her eyes laughed.

`Can I call you Buddha?', she teased me.

`Sacrilege! Blasphemy!', I cried.

`What do you do, Sidd-heart?'

My heart leapt. `Just as you study relations between time and space, I too study and teach why nations and peoples make war first and then peace, rather their relations in context'.

`Oh, ok, you are a Teacher, though not the Buddha, eh?'

Hmmm, I said to myself, wondering whether this was for real.

`And where are you heading to, The Wise One?'

`I am on my way to Washington, DC. I am on a month-long assignment with the Georgetown University.'

`If time and space permit, can I visit you there?', Anita's question came thick and fast.

Only time will tell, the Siddhartha in me answered.

*****************************************

The coffee was over and we returned to 1AB. Anita's flight to O'Hare was two hours away and mine to Dulles another hour later. We found two vacant seats.

`Juanita, nee Anita?'

`Yes?'

`Can I call you Grace?'

`Siddhartha?'

`Yes, Grace?'

`Do you know Hebrew?'

I do not know Hebrew, but I do know Juanita and Anita both mean Grace ' and I want to call you Grace'.

`No one has ever called me Grace, Siddhartha. You are the first one. I will ever be Grace for you'. She held my hand.

*****************************************

I didn't know when it happened. Grace was sleeping, leaning into me, her head on my chest, her long black hair cascading me. She was breathing gently, her Parfum as gentle as her; I was filled with a rare feeling for this young girl from Black Forest ' of care, concern and compassion. I put my arm around her, and she snuggled into me'

*****************************************

'Lufthansa announces flight LH 430 to Chicago O'Hare.  Passengers are requested to proceed for security check-up.'

Time didn't stand still for me ' and for Grace.

`Grace', I called her.

`Yes, tell me', she murmured in her sleep.

`Grace'.

`Yes'.

`Grace, you have to move'.

She woke with a start, and clung to me.

`Grace, you have to go'.

`Siddhartha, please'.

`Grace, take this book with you; I don't have anything else to give you'.

`Siddhartha, please''

`Grace, please move''

I walked with her to the security clearance counter. She hugged me with such intense feeling. I raised her face to mine, parted her flowing hair, and kissed her forehead tenderly.

`Siddhartha, promise me one thing'.

`I don't make promises Grace, for I can't keep them or break them'.

`Will we ever meet again, Siddhartha?'

`Leave it to time and space, Grace'.

`Ich werde mich an Sie immer sehr liebevoll erinnern', I said.

`Ich auch', she smiled through her tears.

`Auf Wiedersehen.'

`zu Ihnen auch'.

`Bis wir uns wieder treffen'.

`Till we meet again'.

She walked, my hands reluctantly letting go of hers. I stood by, with my eyes following every movement of hers.

Suddenly, she stopped, and ran back to me.

`Siddhartha'.

`Yes Grace'.

`I think''

I put my finger to her lips: `shshhhhhhhh. Don't say it.'

`Go, Grace, go. Gott Geschwindigkeit. God Speed.'

She walked away, and disappeared into the milling crowd'

*****************************************

I walked back to the slots we vacated ' they had already been occupied by some others. Was it the world's way of telling me that time and space never wait for anyone???

It was 230 PM in Frankfurt, 630 AM in San Francisco. I dialed the number. The phone rang at 23 Centre Court, Castro Valley.

`Anita Siddharth here'.

`How are you?'

`Oh, I thought you must be in Georgetown by now', she sounded far indeed.

`My flight is delayed at Frankfurt. I should be starting anytime now'.

`Are you coming to Frisco for a few days?'

`I will definitely make it, even if it is for one or two days'.

`Ok, talk to your son ' you woke him up'.

`Hello Accha, where are you?' asked the sleepy voice.

`At Frankfurt'.

`Oh, your favorite airport, eh?'

`And how are you Rahula?'

`I am Rahul and not Rahula,' the boy screamed.

`How can that be, you are Siddhartha's son!'

`But my mom is Anita, and not Yashodhara'.

`Only she can answer that, betta'.

`You are so mean', said the mother of my son from the parallel connection.

`Accha, you know what Anita means?'

`Oh, you tell me'.

`Grace, Anita means Grace', he said in childish exuberance, and kept the phone.

Yes, Siddhartha told himself. Juanita nee Anita is Grace ' and Grace had taken flight: LH 430 should be crossing the Atlantic on way to Chicago O'Hare.

The bookmark said: 'It's not the destination, but the journey that counts'.

Go, Grace, Go'

The Globetrotter Part II*

 

Days passed by and Arun slowly got into the groove of the London way of life. For him, Vijayan continued to remain an enigma, flitting in and out of the pigeonhole (as he described their hotel), vanishing on weekends, and surprising him with unexpected questions and equally unexpected comments. And he continued to laugh at the end of almost every sentence he spoke, much to Arun's irritation.

 

Soon, Arun got about his work all by himself. Evenings, when he managed to reach early, he would walk down the Eldon Street or to the Bishopsgate Arcade. He was not much of a `foodie' ' as Vijayan rightly said - and preferred his North Indian dishes; so scouting around for Indian restaurants took up a bit of his time, though Vijayan always gave him good recommendations. "The croweater that I am, I have never been at a loss to find my taste anywhere in the world", boasted Vijayan ' and inevitably laughed!

 

Sometimes, Vijayan would invite Arun to join him for dinner at fancy restaurants at Aldgate or Finsbury Square. Arun tagged along a couple of times. While Vijayan relished his wine, Arun nursed his Coke, and yearned for the home-made lassi. Vijayan would try out exotic dishes on the menu, which sounded all too Greek to Arun, while he would settle for salads and sandwiches. The crow always hovered over him, thought Arun disgustedly!

 

Vijayan was ever on the move, as if wanting to desperately cross the artificial boundaries between countries he talked about on the flight; a kind of restlessness pervaded his actions. While Arun dutifully called home to assure his wife that he was fine, and reassure himself that things were OK back in Delhi, he noticed that Vijayan never made any call ' at least not in front of Arun. He often wondered whether Vijayan too was married, where his family was, why he was not calling anyone, and where he disappeared during the weekends.

 

**********************************************

 

Arun found Vijayan quite a character, besides being desultory. At times, he asked himself if Vijayan was indeed the software engineer from Chennai as he claimed. Was he a writer looking for new locales for his story? Could it be that Vijayan was a detective following up on some specific lead? Is it that he was a man on the run, a fugitive from law? Oh, no, it can't be, Arun was sure of that; in spite of his rugged looks and erratic behaviour, he didn't look like someone who would do harm to a fellow being.

 

Even while immersed in work, Arun, much against his will, started looking for answers to unravel the mystery that was Vijayan. Small, small things he observed: like Vijayan used to scribble a lot on scraps of paper; late in the nights, Arun found him lost deep in thought, with the laptop as his constant companion. To his dismay, Arun also found Vijayan often talking in his sleep, with some kind of intense feeling.

 

The few times they went out together, Vijayan talked as if to compensate for Arun's silence. He told him of the sights and sounds of London, which he shouldn't miss out before he returned to India. Vijayan described the Westminster Abbey to the last detail, graves and epitaphs included. "Arun, you should visit Baker Street and have a word with Sherlock Holmes; also check out if Dr. Watson is around", demanded Vijay one day, with a chuckle, for a change. Another day, he helpfully suggested, "You should take a cruise on the Thames one evening, and watch the sun set from one of the stone-benches by the riverbank".

 

Vijayan's pervasive interest in everything, from the museums to the cathedrals, fortresses to the theatre, to The Lord's, Wembley and Wimbledon, amazed Arun no end. He told him of his experiences and adventures of Boston and Budapest, New York and New Orleans, France and Frankfurt. This crow-eating globetrotter, for once, impressed Arun.

 

With a twinkle in his eyes, Vijayan once asked Arun, "Why don't you walk down to the Petticoat Market which is just a mile away from this pigeonhole and do some shopping for your family? You get nice stuff out there, and the prices are also quite decent". Strange man, Arun thought, he doesn't even call up anyone, and here he was, advising him to buy things for his wife and daughter!

 

****************************

 

Yet, the missing links in Vijayan became more and more conspicuous to Arun as the days passed by. Never did Vijayan speak of anyone in his family, nor did he talk of Chennai or his company or even his work in London.

 

One evening, Arun mustered courage, as Vijayan was leaving the pigeonhole during the weekend, and asked: "Vijayan, where are you off to this time?" For a second, he felt Vijayan was taken aback by this sudden question. And then, he surprised Arun yet again: "I was wondering why it took you almost three weeks to ask me this question!" Vijayan smiled seeing Arun's embarrassment. "Oh, come on, Arun, don't feel embarrassed ' As he walked out through the door, he turned back: "I am off to Scotland this time. I want to spend sometime at the Scone Palace where a 12^th century monastery stood earlier". And in a flash, without waiting for any reply from Arun, he was gone.

 

Vijayan returned on Monday late night. He was not his ebullient self and the laughter at the end of the sentences was missing. Arun could hear him talking in his sleep; he suspected he even heard him sob. When he woke up early next morning, he found Vijayan in a melancholy mood, quite uncharacteristic of him. Arun decided not to disturb him.

 

In the evening, Arun left office a little early. Only a few days were left for his return to India. He was badly missing his wife and daughter; he looked forward to having home-made dinner with them next week this time. A smile lit up his face, as he walked to the counter for the cruise on the Thames.

 

It was a lovely evening. Arun could see the Big Ben standing tall and proud against the setting sun which cast its golden hue on the gently flowing Thames. As the tourists started filling in, he took a corner seat, armed with his newly acquired digital camera. He was not much of a photographer, but he had promised his daughter that he would bring lots of pictures, and he didn't want to let down the little one.

 

**************************************

 

Half way down the cruise, Arun opted to disembark at the Tower Bridge so that he could take more pictures. His daughter wanted pictures of the London Bridge which, she kept saying, was falling down, because that was what the nursery rhymes told her! (Later, it was Vijayan who told him the pictures that he took were those of the Tower Bridge that every tourist thought was the London Bridge. He explained very much like a tourist guide that the London Bridge stood upstream from the Tower Bridge!)

 

As Arun walked around taking pictures and after a quick look at the Tower of London ' he didn't want to go in, recalling Vijayan speaking of the many ghosts of Kings, nobles and plebeians stalking the dungeons ' he sat down for a Cappuccino at the Starbucks. By the time he came out, the evening had already settled; he knew he had a long night ahead ' the Cappuccino was going to keep him awake.

 

Walking towards the Tower Bridge, Arun stopped by at the riverbank to take one last picture: the settings were excellent ' the beautiful blue bridge against the starry sky, the moonlight silhouetting the lone figure on the stone-bench on the river bank. He was happy he had a great picture for his daughter that would assure her that the Bridge was indeed there and not falling ' that it is the Tower Bridge and not the London Bridge, he would clarify later, thanks to Vijayan!

 

Arun suddenly realized he hadn't taken any picture of himself at the Tower Bridge. Hesitantly, he walked towards the lonely man on the stone-bench. And then the man moved: it was Vijayan! Arun was not sure who was more surprised; he or Vijayan.

 

True to him, Vijayan quickly regained his composure and asked, "Oh, Arun, how come you are here at this time?" "I took the Thames cruise and got down here to take some pictures for my daughter", said Arun apologetically.

 

"You want me to take some pictures of yourself against the Bridge? Let me do it for you", and like a thoroughbred professional, he went about the job.

 

Then he said, "Come, sit down with me, Arun, for sometime, now that you are here". Vijayan took him by the hand and made him sit facing the river.

 

"See the ebb and flow of this mighty river ' no boundaries for its waters too. You know, the Thames has fascinated many through the centuries. Poems and novels, pictures and paintings, and history and mystery have brought visitors from around the world to its banks. Every time I pass through London, I manage to spend at least one evening here", Vijayan said passionately.

 

 

***************************************

 

"The Thames means a lot to me Arun! It was here on the banks of the Thames that I first met my wife. It was here that we came often during our weekends in the early days of our marriage", he stopped abruptly. Arun sat embarrassed, cursing himself silently for intruding into Vijayan's personal life.

 

"Don't curse yourself Arun", said Vijayan as if even Arun's thoughts were transparent enough for him to see through. "I know, you have many questions to ask me, but you feel too ashamed to ask them, am I right?" And then the mystery that was Vijayan's life unfolded before Arun.

 

"You have been a very good friend, Arun. You let me be, during the last two or three weeks that we have been at the pigeonhole, and you are too decent to ask me anything about myself, even when you want to ask so many things! We part in another three or four days; we may not meet again at all later  ' and I think I should tell you something about me and my journey, measuring the globe."

 

"As a school going child, I dreamed of traveling, of seeing the world, the Great Wall of China, the desert sands of western Asia, the mighty Amazon, the deep jungles of Africa, and the snow clad mountains of Scandinavia. The urge to travel took me far and wide in the years ahead crossing the man made borders across the continents and oceans. Earlier, it was a quest to quench my thirst for the sheer joy of traveling; in recent times, it has been a quest to find some solace in the whirlpool of life and love."

 

"No, no, I am no detective, as you might suspect; nor am I a writer, nor a fugitive from law! I am indeed a man of the cyber world from Chennai, as I told you when we first met high over Afghanistan and Iran! I would say, friendship, and not marriages, is made in heaven! No barriers, no boundaries!"

 

"But, Arun, I am also a man searching for answers, searching for the truth of life, within and without me. My quest and questions have taken me to different parts of the world but the answers always elude me. And I come back to where it all began, to the banks of the Thames."

 

"Why did she leave me for another man after fifteen years of marriage? How could she do this to me when I did everything that she wanted, when I never did anything that she didn't want?"

 

"I surrendered myself to her, even my self-respect. I lived a relationship devoid of mutuality and reciprocity. Sometimes, I feel I should have asserted my rights and myself just as the way she did. I should have expressed forcefully my needs, wants, desires ' my love for her. Did I go wrong there, I don't know".

 

"When our son was born, I thought she would be happy now. When he fell ill time and again, we were a troubled couple. The repeated visits to the doctor and his occasional hospitalization, the agony and the anguish, did not help us bridge the divide. But why?"

 

"I knew she had her own reasons to be unhappy in marriage. Both of us were from India but our backgrounds were different, our values were different; sadly, it turned out that even our priorities in life were different. Yet, both of us had said, `I do'. The early days were bliss; ask the Thames, and its tranquil waters will rise to tell you of the fragrance of our forgotten romance."

 

********************************************

 

"The warning signals came early enough but, as is my wont, I overlooked them, or sometimes I ask myself, whether I had conveniently ignored them. I thought, with the child on the way, we would recapture the love that had gone missing from our marriage ' no, it didn't happen that way. When I suggested we should see a shrink, what I got was a volley of abuses".

 

"You know Arun, I can't understand even today why I did not walk out of the marriage in those early years itself. Was it because of my son whom I loved so much? Was it because I felt my middle class parents would get a rude shock in the evening of their lives? Or was it because I feared for the many questions which would come my way if I took the plunge?"

 

"One, day, in the ninth year of our marriage, she told me that she had a great offer from California and she would leave soon with my son. I was shattered. Yet, inexplicably, I said, `In case it is going to make you happy, you must go, by all means.' And she went. Why did I let her go? Why did I let my son go away from me? Was it that I wanted her to go away for her own good knowing that she wasn't happy with me? Or was it for my own selfish reasons?"

"The next five years were the most painful years of my life. I yearned for the love of my son, his laughter, his sweet nothings, his warm hugs. Instead, I had my work and books for company during the day, and the silence and the walls to share my night. I had to answer many unpalatable questions from my relatives; I pretended that I didn't hear the snide remarks of my colleagues and neighbours.

 

************************************************

 

"And in all those years, I defended her right to pursue her goals, even when I was convinced that I was being dishonest with myself."

 

"She did visit me twice during this period and I took leave from work to be with my son during his summer holidays. You know, Arun, he was, and still is, very much fond of me. I brought him once to this very bench on the riverbank and told him of the love story of his mom and dad. He calls me the world's best dad ' he described me like that in his school project work!"

 

"Suddenly, at the end of six years, she returned with my son, saying she wanted to take up a job nearer home. Hopes of building bridges of love and understanding welled up in me ' but that was not to be, and the chasm only widened ."

 

"Yet again, I didn't notice the tell-tale signs of impending doom. Why? Why was I so oblivious of everything around me, especially when it affected my very existence, also the future of the dear child of mine? Was I that naïve? I don't have the answers."

 

"By the time I came to know of the whirlpool that I was going to be sucked into, it was too late. This time she left with `the man in her life', as she chose to describe her colleague whom she knew for hardly three months. It didn't matter to her that his divorce was yet to come through or that he was four years younger to her."

 

"My ten-year-old son didn't cry when he packed his bags and said `bye dad' ' he just hugged me tightly and whispered, `I will always remain your little son'. Why did I let him go?"

 

*******************************************

 

"It's almost two years since she left me. When I was a kid, I wanted to be like that guy in the National Geographic, or better Phileas Fogg, traveling around the world in eighty days, only to start traveling again immediately after that. And where am I today ' a globetrotter through life, crossing borders and boundaries in love's labour, still seeking answers. I know I will never have any answers ' my questions will ever remain unanswered. Tell me Arun, is it that the answers lie within me, somewhere in the deep recesses of my being?"

 

"Arun, my questions will remain with me, haunting me till my very last breath. But let me at least have the comfort that this globetrotter has answered the questions which you never asked."

 

"By the way Arun, today is my son's birthday. I thought this bench on the banks of the Thames is where I should be to share my son's joy this evening. After all, my love blossomed here in these very golden sands."

 

"Bye Arun, let me be ."

 

                       ************************************

* For Part I, please visit VT  at:    http://vixx.rediffiland.com 

[Thanks, very much, VT, for asking me to write Part II. I have tried, and I leave it to you and other iLanders to decide whether I have done justice to `The Globetrotter' ]