An Evening Drink with My Liberal Friend

                            Green and sweet

                             Tathagata Mukhopadhyay

(1)

 

-          Hello, hello – anybody in? I do not have time to waste. One full can of milk remained unsold today

-       Wait, wait – I am in the bathroom – taking a bath, Have patience.

-         Patience? What's that? Every second is important, don't you know?

-          Hang on na. Let me get put on some clothes, Damu.

-          I don't mind even if you are without them.

-          Shut up, you lech. Is that how you talk to your aunt?

-          Oh hoho… my moral police. Look now, if you do not refrigerate this milk right now, it'll turn sour. Don't blame me then…aah there you are. Just as a freshly bloomed rose. And I can smell the aroma also…Ummm. Which soap is that? Or is it your natural odour…?

-          Shut up, Damu. You flirt.

-          Yeah. I know. People love to call me that.

-          I know you know – you love to flirt around with girls. Shame on these maidens of Aarey. They yearn for you, knowing fully well that you are nothing but a flirt.

-          Hey, hey, hey – someone's green with envy!

-          Not at all. Why would I care?

-          You would, because you bloody well know who I care for.

-          Oh, come on Damodar Yadav. You are just a milk distributor and you shall remain one. You are a salaried employee of my husband – and you shall remain one.

-          Excuse me – do you really think Madam Madhavi that I care a damn for the paltry salary that your dear hubby pays me for helping him sell milk from his tabela?

-          'Madhavi Mami' – several times I told you to be respectful, didn't I? Come on in. Have a seat.

-          Don't duck my question. So you think I care about this job?

-          What else? Do you care for anything else except about yourself?

-          You darned well know that. Ask yourself. You look forward, in fact, yearn, to my daily visits. Be truthful.

-          Look forward? Yearn? My foot!

-          The week before I had to travel to Gujarat and I couldn't come here for five days, remember?

-          So?

-          And how many calls did you make? And how many messages? See…look here on my cell phone. I have the logs.

-          And you did not call back. Neither did you respond to any of my WhatsApp. So much for caring! I was worried, naturally.

-          Worried, why? How was that your concern? Why should you, Madhavi Ahir, bother for a certain Damodar Yadav, a happy-go-lucky vagabond, who loves to live life on his terms, may I know?

-          Damu – that's natural, no? You get concerned even when your pet cat or dog goes missing.

-          Chalo, I am happy you see me as an equivalent of a domesticated pet. At least.

-          You are impossible…shameless.

-          Yeah. People call me that as well. A small price for speaking the truth.

-          And this air of superiority – a know-all demeanour – so irritating. Here, have this.

-          Ummm – freshly made buttermilk! I love it.

-          And have this as well – freshly made cottage cheese. I have dipped them in sugar syrup.

-          Ahhhh – yummy. You are a great cook, Madhu.

-          Madhu Mami.

-          Ah, ok, ok. I must say I keep coming here more for these homemade delicacies than anything else, you think of…

-          And what's that 'anything else' mister Damodar?

-          Ask yourself. You know what, I sometimes feel we should have been married.

-          Daaa---muuu – I am older to you…

-          So? You happened to see this earth only eleven months before I did. Do you know there are countless examples where guys got married to older women? Much older.

-          I know many shameless women lust for younger guys.

-          And you are not one of them, right Ma'am?

-          Most definitely not!

-          Oh, if not for my foster father you would have been mine Madhavi errr Mami. But this, in a way, is better. I have seen, in most cases, love flies out of the window after marriage.

-          Now, where's this love thing coming from.

-          It's everywhere. It's in the woods of Aarey, in its winding streets, beside the small lake where you sometimes go to take bath with your friends, everywhere. You can see it, smell it and even see it all around. Mother Nature has bestowed us with abundant love – only one has to have the sensory perceptions to capture them.

-          Huh – look who's talking of love. You don't exactly have a non-violent background, Mister.

-          What violence? I am the most non-intrusive and peaceful person that you shall ever see.

-          Oh, come on Damu. Everyone knows about that Kaaliya killing case. His beheaded torso was found in the dump yard at Dahisar.

-          Oh, Kaaliya Yadav. And you think I had something to do with that?

-          I don't think. I know. Everyone knows. The Police, too, had taken you for interrogation. But they had to let you go because of your strong alibi – which you had so craftily fabricated. A few people near the dump yard had seen someone unloading a headless body from a municipality dumper. And their description matched yours.

-          Huh – Madhu Mami – I must laud the prowess of your imagination! I was in Gujarat on that day.

-          We know – it was in the papers too. You had a railway booking on the previous day – but you never travelled.  You had friends in that hotel in Dwarka who swore that you had checked in that evening. The booking register, the payment receipts – everything was in place. Even your phone logs proved that you were indeed in Dwarka on that fateful evening. But you had rigged all that, didn't you Damu? Now don't stare at me like a dumbo.

-          Ah, okay, let's – for the sake of argument – accept that it was I who disposed of Kaaliya. But don't you think that was a noble deed? Good riddance? Kaaliya Yadav was a douchey hooligan with nefarious underworld connections. Extortion was his main means of sustenance. Extortion and cheating. He dealt in drugs. And he himself killed many. We aren't talking of an angle here, are we?

-          And when you were a kid, he had framed your parents in a false drug case and put them behind bars. The framing was obvious – yet your parents couldn't afford a good prosecutor to defend them. The government prosecutor did precious little to fight their case. Heartbroken, they suffered for two years in prison, and eventually, both of them died of malnutrition within a week... You became an orphan. We all know that, Damu. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows.

-          Yeah. Kaaliya Yadav was a distant relative. He had framed my parents for the property which my father's maternal uncle had left for him when he'd died. Kaaliya claimed that the property was rightfully his. I distinctly recall, he used to visit our place often and threaten my parents with dire consequences for they persistently refused to hand over the property to him. Eventually, after my parents' death, he'd managed to claim everything; the cash, the beach-resort in Gorai, the banana plantation – everything. I was just a small boy then, didn't even understand what was going on. One day I found myself with my foster father – Nandu Yadav.

-          I know. You were a very naughty kid. Often, aunty had to tie you with a rope to stop stealing food from the fridge while she was busy doing household chores.

-          Haha, yes I remember that. Fond memories. I shall forever be indebted to them for providing me shelter, food and basic education. But for them, I would never have been self-sufficient. And that's why when –

-          I know. You will talk of my marriage with Abhi, right?

-          Hey, and I thought you were dumb!

-          You, rascal. Let me say –

-          No. Living with the past is the dumbest thing, Madhu. A complete waste of time.

-          Reminiscing past can also be tangy. Like ripe tamarinds. So when Abhi came to ask for my hand, my father wasn't keen. Some stories were making circles about…Anyway, Abhi somehow influenced Nandu uncle. And, being the chief of the panchayat, he could easily persuade my father for this marriage.

-          I am happy it happened that way.

-          Shut up. I know you aren't. You are a pathetic liar Damu.

-          No, seriously. You are happy here. Your hubby owns three hugely prosperous tabelas packed with New Zealand bred cows and buffaloes. He makes a lot of money selling milk, paneer and yoghurt. He can provide you with all the luxuries of life. And look at me. I live hand to mouth doing bits and pieces jobs. Tomorrow if your hubby – Abhimanyu Ahir – kicks me out, I shall have to look for a new job. I have no savings, no permanent home, no steady job –

-          But you are prudent. People say you are worldly-wise, sagacious. And did anyone tell you that you are a damn attractive specimen of the male species of Homo sapiens?

-          Attractive! I thought I was dark. Too dark for a country that goes ga-ga for attaining fairness. Here, even the male film stars promote fairness creams, didn't you see?

-          Forget them. Girls like your strong and dark body. They crave it. I know, because many of my friends have confessed.

-          Aha – really? And how do you react to that?

-          It makes me angry … jealous, really … also a little happy. Bits of happiness trying to peep out of the veil of jealousy when the other girls crave for you.

-          Beauty is only skin deep.

-          It’s not just about your physical attraction. Behind a strong exterior, you have a soft heart too that bleeds for the downtrodden.

-          Really?

-          Of course. How could we forget your tireless service to help build the roads in Aarey after the havoc and flash flood created by the cloudburst? You had toiled continuously for seventy-two hours.

-          Well it wasn’t as back-breaking as you make it sound. But I reaped benefits also. That's how I became so pally with the local municipality. I have direct access to their top boss. See, how swiftly our civic problems are addressed now.

-          We know. And, boy, you are fearless. We saw what you did to that venomous king cobra.

-          Ah that – stop extolling me, will you? It makes me queasy.

-          The evil snake had bitten our Keenu Uncle's son on his toe while we all were having an outdoor party, remember? You fastened tourniquets on his affected leg and then, without once thinking about your safety, sucked out the poison from the poor fellow's wound before sending him to the hospital.  You then went on to catch the cobra with your bare hands and managed to de-venom it before setting it free.

-          Oh? Did I? I hate dwelling in the past.

-          Don't tell me you do not remember, you piteous liar.

-          Huh, some compliments for someone who had been labelled as a gruesome murderer only a while ago.

-          Murderer? No. Killer? Yes. Your looks kill. Your demeanour kills. The violin tunes that you play on full moon nights kill. When the bow touches your violin strings, a hush descends in the woods. The nocturnal owls stop hooting, the hungry leopards stop preying, the venomous cobras retreat hoods, even the crickets stop stridulating. You weave magic on moonlit nights. The time stops. You are a charmer. You were born to charm the world, Damodar! These are not my words. I heard my friends say. Now, don't you grin wickedly?

-          You mean I am a charming killer? MJ’s smooth criminal? Madhu Mami – 'You've been hit by, you've been struck by a sm-o-o-th criminal'…tar ra rang tch tch ta ra rang tch tch–

-          Oh, Damu – you killjoy. Must you make fun of everything?

-          Not making fun. It's just that I find music in everything. The flowing river, the stridulating insects, the quiet on that hilltop, the rustling of the boughs…Do you hear the distant rumbling of the clouds? And the crack of that lightning that just lit you up like a camera flash? Even they have music in them. I also find music when you get irritated and chide me. Only you must have the ears to listen, Madhu Mami, the ears.

-          Don't you dare to touch my ear? I’ll hit you.

-          Oops, sorry. You needn't get violent, even though I quite enjoy your ire just as I enjoy your buttermilk. This, as usual, was delicious as were the sweetmeats. You shall make me fat, Madhavi Mami. I cannot possibly finish all that, the portion is huge.

-          Eat. I command. Nothing shall happen to you. I know whenever you are out on your secret expeditions you starve most days.

-          Secret? I have no secrets.

-          That's again a lie. You are veiled with a gossamer of mystery. No one knows you, really. Why even your right hand doesn't know your left hand's next move.

-          That's ridiculous.

-          Well, then, tell me why you travel to Gujarat so frequently? Girlfriends?

-          Nothing wrong with that, is there? Women are reincarnations of Prakriti. Every woman carries in them the embryos of creation.

-          You have justifications for everything, even for flirting around with your female followers. How despicable.

-          A woman, without doubt, is the most wonderful creation of God – if ever there was one, that is.

-          You talk like an atheist. Don’t you believe in God?

-          How can I not be a believer? There’s God in everyone, in everything. You, me, those boughs swaying in the wind, even the stray which is hanging around your home for some food. Why don’t you feed it Madhavi?

-          I like the way you switch from mundane talks to philosophy. That's another of your prowess – you can talk anyone into doing anything. You can convince one to even kill with your incontestable logic, if need be. Now, why do you travel to Gujarat? The real reason.

-          Over inquisitiveness is bad for minds. But since you are so insistent let me tell you that I go there for project work. In Dwarka, the Government has taken up the mission of restoring and facelifting the decrepit Dwarkadhish temple. I go there to work.

-          Work. Just like that? Do you get paid?

-          Nope. But then, I do not expect to get paid. I offer voluntary services. Offering workable suggestions on civil constructions comes naturally to me.

-          I know. People still talk about the practical solutions that you'd given to restore the Aarey roads after the flash floods. So you travel all the way to Dwarka spending your time and money to provide consultation services for the government which, probably, cares two hoots for you like it does for other common people. I haven't seen a bigger fool, mister Damodar.

-          Do you always do everything with expectations of rewards? See, the efforts that you put to prepare the delicious sweets for me every day when I am around – are they not devoid of all expectations? What can a vagabond idler like me offer in return? Nothing, no? Yet you do.

-          Ufff – the analogy is not the same. You and I…Errr…well, I do that for you because…

-          Yes, yes, go on … you and I and then…what do you expect in return, speak out?

-          Nothing. I do this without expecting anything in return, you shameless trickster.

-          There you are. You just proved my point. You do this selflessly. Or let's take the case of your father. He nurtured you, educated you, fed you, and tended you in your illness, met all your indulgence – knowing fully well that one day you shall leave him and become your husbands. Wasn't that a selfless deed?

-          That's different than providing free service to the government.

-          Dear Mami, I look forward to the day when we all are ready to provide selfless service to anyone, to anything for society. If you get something in return, fine. If you don't, no issues. Just commit yourself to selfless service without any expectations and you shall be happy. That's exactly what I try to do in my little way. Besides –

-          Besides?

-          All my work for the government has not gone unnoticed. A few top-ranking government officials have recommended my name in New Delhi – to the defence secretary – for consultation in the Defence Sector.

-          Don't tell me they are sending you to the frontier – to fight. You hardly have any military training. I keep reading about the Indo-Pak and Indo-China tensions at the borders.

-          Oh no. Not for fighting. I cannot fight, too scared really – that way I am quite a sissy, you know. They have a lot of civil activities in the army. They build bridges, tunnels, escape routes, underground bunkers and hangars. I shall help them there.

-          Oh no, damn. Don't you realize they are using you, dear?

-          No, they are not. I have all freedom to opt out. There are no compulsions.

-          Don't tell me you shall be gone, forever.

-          We all shall be gone, forever, Mami.

-          Oh, you and your darned philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Please tell me that this is one of your innumerable pranks. Tell me you are not going anywhere.

-          Why are you getting so perturbed?

-          I knew. I knew something bad would be happening soon. Yesterday while I was offering my Puja to my Nandgopal, the marigold from His feet just rolled down on the floor. I had premonitions that something bad was going to happen.

-          You and your crazy superstitions. Ohhh it's very late. I must make a move now. See, I forget everything when I start chatting with you Madhavi Mami.

-          Madhu. Just Madhu.

-          Nope. Mami. Just Mami.

-          You brute – I am going to kill you…

-          Ohhhh Madhu…let go of my hair…it hurts…

-          I am going to tear them off, one by one…you came here today to tell me of this new assignment, no? You insensitive brute!

 

 

******

 

(2)

 

Ten years later…

-          What time is your train tomorrow?

-          This is the fifth time you asked this in the last half an hour. Try this one – aren't these mangoes great? I missed them.

-          Only the mangoes? Didn't you miss anything else?

-          Of course. I missed our Aarey Milk Colony, the woods, the serpentine roads, this small lake, and of course our favourite mango tree by the lake. Come let's climb this.

-          I can't. I have never done.

-          There has to be a first time for everything.

-          Noooo.

-          Come on. Only up to that thick horizontally protruding branch. Up there, there's a spot from where you can see the sunset. I shall help you…

-          Hey hey hey – what do you think you are doing Damu – no noooo – leave me, put me down…

-          Yesss, sit on my shoulder. Now when I lift you, catch hold of that small branch and step on that hole. Then step on my shoulder. Thereafter it shall be easy. Up…up…up – there you are. See it wasn't so difficult, was it?

-          You are a goonda. Aha, the view of the lake from here is just fantastic. Is that the reason you often climbed up this tree?

-          There were other attractions as well.

-          Shut up. And don't wink like a street loafer.

-          But I am a street loafer. I belong to the streets. Here have this mango. Tasty, isn't it?

-          Very tasty. This variety is green and sweet. We call them 'Kaccha-Mitha' mangoes. They are evergreen, yet sweet. Just like you, Damodar… Or perhaps not. You are mean, you are selfish. You only think about yourself. All that you said about missing this and missing that are lies. Plain drama.

-          Drama!!!

-          It took you ten long years for you to get back to your home. That too because Yashu aunty took ill. When you are away we, I mean I – your Madhavi – don't ever cross your mind. You are so obsessed with your work that we, I mean I, become non-existent in your life.

-          That's not true Madhurani. You reside here – right inside my heart.

-          Jhooti.

-          Sacchi. Remember, all of us were born to perform specific tasks for our nation, society or even our family. I was born, perhaps, to work for the security and betterment of our nation. All these are predestined. This, therefore, becomes my automatic priority. That doesn't necessarily mean I forgot everyone, everything. How could I forget you? You are a part of my entity. Forgetting you shall mean forgetting my own self. Is that possible?

-          Lies, lies, sweet talks and lies. Tell me something about your work.

-          Cannot be disclosed. My work comes under the classified category.

-          But say something na…I saw your name in the papers after the Pulwama attack. Also after the Balakot airstrike soon after. The defence secretary mentioned the contribution of the special task force of which you were a key member.

-          Then you know enough. Be happy.

-          See, now you have started hiding things from even me – your Madhu. I am so worried for you. Do you go to the battlefront and fight?

-          Hahaha – me fighting? I am just a common man who enjoys fiddling on the violin and loathes bloodshed.

-          Again you are avoiding the question. Go, I won't talk to you.

-          Ok, ok, chill. To answer your question – no, I do not fight. I cannot fight. I am not trained for that. I work as a defence strategist in the office of the Defence Secretary – who in turn reports to the Prime Minister.

-          You detest bloodshed, yet you promote dance of death.

-          Once in a while when it comes to protecting yourself, your country, your ethnicity and eventually your existence – bloodshed becomes necessary. However, that should be used as the last resort.

-          What time did you say is your train tomorrow?

-          Five o clock in the evening from Borivali. It's the Rajdhani Express to Delhi. Reporting to my boss.

-          And from there?

-          My boss assigns my next movement, which at the moment is unknown to me. And even if was known, I couldn't have disclosed it. State secrets!

-          You promised me you shall never fight at the battlefront, remember that.

-          When did I make such a promise? I only said that I am not trained to fight.

-          But when you said that you had your arms wrapped around my waist. You were touching me. And that tantamount to a promise. That's our belief. My belief.

-          Hmmm … now who's being cheeky?

-          When will you come home next, Damu? When shall I see you again? Next, when shall we sit on this tree and have these green-sweet mangoes, when shall I feed you with sweetmeats and buttermilk…when…when…when…

-          Hey…shhh, please don't start weeping again. Girls have this superpower to weep at will and blackmail right, left and centre.

-          Ok, I won't weep. But tell me when you shall come back. After how many years?

-          Ummmm – ok, but first let me remove my arms from your waist – else you shall construe this as a promise … what are you doing? Let go of my arm.

-          I won't. You shall have to stay like this, a prisoner in my arms, for the whole night. It's a full moon night. You shall play on your violin by the side of the lake while I savour every note tucking my face on your lap. All the while wrapping my arms around you.

-          Okay. You haven't said anything about you, Madhavi. How have you been?

-          Leave. As if you care.

-          No. Tell.

-          Time somehow passes. There are times of cheer, and there are times when you are sad and depressed. But I had a magical medicine for my sadness. Whenever I felt sad, I thought of you. And you cheered me up even without being here, Damodar.

-          I thought you would be having at least two babies by now who would prank around with their Damu-kaka.

-          I thought you knew. Or at least have guessed.

-          What?

-          Abhi is incapable. We have never consummated our marriage. But I have no regrets. I feel clean. However –

-          Yes?

-          However, that makes me wonder what was I born for? What are my tasks in this mundane world?

-          You were born to love. Spread the power of love. Pure love, that is free-flowing like a river. Love that is eternally green – just like these green-sweet mangoes.

-          Hmmm…but you haven't answered my question. When are you going to come back next? When shall we meet again?

-          Honestly, I do not know Madhurani.

-          Would you ever return?

-          I do not know Madhu. Most probably, no.

-          I knew I knew…

-          But you shall forever be with me – no matter wherever I am – as I shall be with you, always. Our love shall remain forever green…green and sweet…

-          Yes…just as those mangoes. An attempt to consummate them by forced ripening shall only spoil the taste. I have understood. It's better, this way.

-          Dusk has settled. Yet everything is so bright. Look at that full moon, Madhu. A huge round silver salver…

-          Why don't you help me down, Damu? Let's sit by the lake. You play Raga Abhogi on your violin while I listen…

 

Surat

2 July 21