I met the old man in a café. An old coffee house, meant for the old bureaucrats. It stood for everything English, if not everything imperial. Only men who visited it as young men came there now, for some reason it had lost popularity. It would be convenient to blame consumerism, the place had no ads, or neon lights to recommend itself, but the coffee was bad.
But people still came, even when the place served nothing, it would still have memories.
I walked in out of curiosity. Just to take a look around, at what I thought the 50s looked like. I could not. My eyes immediately found him. He was sitting in the far corner, nursing a cup in his hands. The steam wafting up made his face indistinct. He was bald, though he had a French beard, with stubble along his cheeks. His ears were slightly too big for his face. And when he put his cup down, I noticed a broken, twisted nose, and beady eyes, under bushy dark eyebrows. His lips were hidden by the beard. He wore a ‘bush’ shirt as they were called, open at the collar, and worn outside the trouser. His trousers were grey.
His face was wrinkled around the eyes, and mouth. But they weren’t angry wrinkles, nor laughter wrinkles… just old wrinkles. He’d seen a lot.
I sat down next to him.
“Good afternoon,” I said, I really didn’t know what else to say.
“Good afternoon,” he replied, then he looked at me, and seeing it was not some he knew, his expression changed. He seemed apprehensive, perhaps he did not like new things, or people.
“I’m Eduard, I work with the pioneer, I’m a reporter.”
“Oh, and what do you report?”
“Well that depends on what’s happening.”
That amused him, he smiled. “Do you enjoy it?”
Surprised by the direct question I replied, “It has its moments.”
“Spoken like the true journalist. A balanced answer which says absolutely nothing. Like most the papers these days, not even the facts feel solid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that you don’t enjoy our paper. We do try our best.”
“I’ve never read it, or any other,”
I would have asked how he knew about our facts being soft then, but I decided I wanted to actually have a conversation with him instead.
“Forgive me; my name is Richards, Jeffery Richards, as a matter of fact. I do nothing.”
“That sounds far more interesting than reporting nothing.”
He laughed again.
“Well it is, though there was a time when I could have been news. I used to teach in the university you know, before these damn hooligans took it over. Damn them. The place is no longer a place any one goes to study, at all… it’s become some kind of political wrestling pit. Wasn’t always. There was a time when people from all over the world came here, well not the world, but the nation at least. I had once a bengali come, all the way from Calcutta, to study from me. That’s how famous the university used to be. Now people from our own town prefer going elsewhere.” He seemed sad.
“Even this place, this place used to have some dignity. People would come and discuss things here that mattered. Leninism, Marxism and later even naxilites were discussed and all of them were denounced. Things the world has only nowstarted doing. No I don’t mean the anti-this anti-that status that every one had, people actually sat and discussed it all, admitting the good points, critiquing the bad and all that. We never took sides, just decided that it was not for us.
You’ll not believe the people this place has served, once Nehru sat right there on that chair, and drank some of the same coffee I am now. Yes, they haven’t even changed the brew. And after playing in the mahotsav, Ustad Kermatullah Khan would come here and dr- you don’t know who he is do you? Didn’t think so.” He wagged his head, slowly disappointed.
“He was the greatest practitioner of a the lucknowi gharana of tabla playing. Though I doubt you know what I am talking about.”
“Actually I do, I play the tabla a bit, and know about the gharanas.”
“Which Gharana do you train in?”
“Well its supposed to be Lucknowi, but today all the styles have got pretty much mixed up.”
“Hmmph, well I suppose its to be expected.”
“So do you anything else worthwhile with your time?”
“I write.”
“Its your job, of course you do”
“No I mean I write, poetry and prose.”
“Oh you mean you try to create literature. Well I wonder how good you are.”
“I’ve been published.”
“Well that’s something then. But some of the best writers I know haven’t been. Anyway, what does it matter, no one writes for the damn publishers do they?”
“No, I guess not, though I do hope they like it.”
He chuckled again. Then slowly said, “You know I too once wrote a book. Sent it to a publisher. He did not like it much. Sent it back, without thanks, he told me. I think it was one of those ones with the bird as a logo.”
Penguin were my publishers so I chose not to say anything.
“Sent them back a letter indicating they shared the logo's neural capacity. And that was that, I never sent it out again.”
“Seriously? Wow, do you still have the manuscript?”
“Of course I do, it’s at home.”
“May I see it?”
He paused, looked at me, slowly from under his eyebrows, then very slowly asked me, “Why, what do you want with it?”
“Well, perhaps we could try to get it published. The climate’s changed, and everyone is asking for new, good manuscripts, even bird brains sir.”
“And what do you get out of it; don’t sell me the old Good Samaritan bit.”
“Well if nothing else, I’ll have my piece for next week’s magazine taken care of, a review of your book. At best, people will remember my name as who found your book. That should help me too.”
He obviously was still not sure. He looked at me carefully. Then slowly nodded, “Okay you can have a look at it, but only in my drawing room. See me tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave. I do have things to do you know. And they are important.”
He got up, surprisingly fast for someone as old as he looked. And walked straight off. He nodded to the man at the counter, who nodded back. At the door he paused, looking out, to either side. It was an odd moment. He stood almost still, silhouetted against the light of the day.
Only then did it strike me, how dark the coffee house was. All the windows were shut, and the bulbs were out. The only light seemed to come in from the door, and what light the sky lights allowed. That’s why the place was so cool.
He moved out of the doorway, but the room remained as much in the twilight, with him standing in it.
The next morning, I woke up early. Well early for me at least. I dressed, ate a hurried breakfast, and left the hotel at about 9.30. I was going to be on time. I rang the bell at exactly five to ten. A maid answered.
She looked at me, half surprised, half suspicious. With a frown she opened the door, and asked me briskly what I wanted. I told I wanted to meet the man who lived there.
“He’s not home.”
“But he told me he’d meet me today, at ten. He asked me to come. How could he have gone out.”
“Who is it,” I heard him call from somewhere inside.
“Its me, sir, Eduard, the reporter you met yesterday in the coffee house.”
“Yes come in, have a seat”
I walked past the maid, with a scowl. What was she playing at? The hallway behind her was narrow and did not have a light. On the walls were some frames, I could not make out what they framed. The floor felt smooth under my shoes. The kind of floor you’d like to slide across in your socks. There was as drawing room at the end of the hall.
It was a big room, with large curtains in one end, and a book shelf opposite it. along the walls between it were two sofas. Not the usual soft, springy ones, but more like cushioned chairs, very straight, and unyielding. They were not as low as you’d expect them to be either. The upholstery was plain baize. The walls were painted cream, and the book shelf varnished. The centre table had a broad thick top of some very dark wood. The walls had some prints of oils on them; I did not recognize any except one of Dali’s. The corners of the room were where the doors were, two of them, opposite each other. One through which I’d entered, the other led into the house. In the other two corners, near the windows were two show cases. One had odd curious, including a ship in a bottle, and the other hand drawn cards, most had ‘happy birthday papa’ written on them in a hand that began as sprawling kindergarten print, and matured into a steady flowing hand as we came upwards. The last few cards were not hand made but printed.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, standing in the door. He looked cheerful. He was wearing an apron, stained with mud, slippers and I could not tell what below that. Apparently he was working in the garden. His face was covered with a slight sweat, and glowed red. His hands were dirty too.
He went back inside. I started looking at the ship in the bottle in the shelf nearest me; I still don’t know how they’re made. I don’t want to be told but figure it out myself, by looking at them. Anyway, I was admiring his when he walked in again. Dressed like yesterday in a shirt and trousers, he’d put shoes on too, and his face was looking much less red.
“Well sorry, the morning is when I spend time talking to my greens. I love gardening, and really wasn’t expecting you to be on time, much less early. Most people aren’t anymore”
“To be honest, I’m not very punctual myself. But then it’s not everyday that you get an opportunity like this.”
“Well, I am not sure what you mean, but reading an old man’s manuscript that no one was interested is hardly what I’d describe as an exciting prospect. But here it is.”
He got up and walked to the book shelf, and from one corner took down a folder. He brought if back to the table. It was bound in the manner of legal papers, with a string around it, and the four flaps holding it in place. He opened them, and inside was a sheaf of wire bound papers with the title “of naught by Jeffery Richards” on the first sheet. The rest of the sheet was blank, and the paper was yellowing around the edges.
“Well here it is, you’re welcome to read it, but remember it stays here.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, I’ll be off then, I do have things to do. I’ll be back in about an hour, if you’re done before that, tell Shanti to let you out, and put it back.”
“I will sir, thank you.”
With that he left me. I opened the book, and started to read. And it hit me immediately. I began to wonder when he sent the manuscript in to the publishers. I decided to wait and ask him, so I kept reading. When he did return, I asked.
“Well sometime around the end of 87 or there abouts I suppose. Though I’d finished much earlier, around… let me see,” he flipped to the last page of the book and showed me a date 1 february 84
So I was right. But I did not know what to say to him. I just got up, thanked him, and left. On my way out, I met the maid again, she apologized for the morning, and told me that he did not like visitors, and rarely had any. He hated being disturbed, and had given standing orders than anyone at the door be told he wasn’t home. Personally she suspected every one to who came to see them, wanted to sell them something. She was just trying to help.
I said it was okay, and left.
The book was a copy of Smith’s ‘come to naught’ the man had barely changed the title… the rest of it was exactly the same. From the first line of the book, down to the third or fourth chapter, which is where I was when he came in.
"Can you believe it?” I asked my friend, with whom I’d been sharing the train compartment, on my way to Delhi.
“Not really.” He said.
“The nerve of the man, I mean pretending it was his work. He could have fooled anyone else too. I mean it was just luck that I’ve read the book. I only laid my hands on it last year.”
“Wasn’t smith around these parts when he wrote it too?”
“Yes, I think he was, he makes some comment about being inspired by the city.”
“I wonder if these two ever met. Well they may have; after all, he smith was a student of literature too.”
“It would make sense.”
“If I remember correctly he says he wrote the book around 86?”
“Oh no it was published then, it must have been written sometime earlier naturally.”
“Of course. Surprising though the way he never produced anything of worth before of after his one masterpiece.”
“That it is. But its enough.”
That night before I went to sleep I remembered something, just as I fell asleep. The boat in a bottle I was looking at had a small etched inscription on it, on the neck it said, thanks for the book, Smith.
Had he? Or may be he borrowed some other?
But people still came, even when the place served nothing, it would still have memories.
I walked in out of curiosity. Just to take a look around, at what I thought the 50s looked like. I could not. My eyes immediately found him. He was sitting in the far corner, nursing a cup in his hands. The steam wafting up made his face indistinct. He was bald, though he had a French beard, with stubble along his cheeks. His ears were slightly too big for his face. And when he put his cup down, I noticed a broken, twisted nose, and beady eyes, under bushy dark eyebrows. His lips were hidden by the beard. He wore a ‘bush’ shirt as they were called, open at the collar, and worn outside the trouser. His trousers were grey.
His face was wrinkled around the eyes, and mouth. But they weren’t angry wrinkles, nor laughter wrinkles… just old wrinkles. He’d seen a lot.
I sat down next to him.
“Good afternoon,” I said, I really didn’t know what else to say.
“Good afternoon,” he replied, then he looked at me, and seeing it was not some he knew, his expression changed. He seemed apprehensive, perhaps he did not like new things, or people.
“I’m Eduard, I work with the pioneer, I’m a reporter.”
“Oh, and what do you report?”
“Well that depends on what’s happening.”
That amused him, he smiled. “Do you enjoy it?”
Surprised by the direct question I replied, “It has its moments.”
“Spoken like the true journalist. A balanced answer which says absolutely nothing. Like most the papers these days, not even the facts feel solid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that you don’t enjoy our paper. We do try our best.”
“I’ve never read it, or any other,”
I would have asked how he knew about our facts being soft then, but I decided I wanted to actually have a conversation with him instead.
“Forgive me; my name is Richards, Jeffery Richards, as a matter of fact. I do nothing.”
“That sounds far more interesting than reporting nothing.”
He laughed again.
“Well it is, though there was a time when I could have been news. I used to teach in the university you know, before these damn hooligans took it over. Damn them. The place is no longer a place any one goes to study, at all… it’s become some kind of political wrestling pit. Wasn’t always. There was a time when people from all over the world came here, well not the world, but the nation at least. I had once a bengali come, all the way from Calcutta, to study from me. That’s how famous the university used to be. Now people from our own town prefer going elsewhere.” He seemed sad.
“Even this place, this place used to have some dignity. People would come and discuss things here that mattered. Leninism, Marxism and later even naxilites were discussed and all of them were denounced. Things the world has only nowstarted doing. No I don’t mean the anti-this anti-that status that every one had, people actually sat and discussed it all, admitting the good points, critiquing the bad and all that. We never took sides, just decided that it was not for us.
You’ll not believe the people this place has served, once Nehru sat right there on that chair, and drank some of the same coffee I am now. Yes, they haven’t even changed the brew. And after playing in the mahotsav, Ustad Kermatullah Khan would come here and dr- you don’t know who he is do you? Didn’t think so.” He wagged his head, slowly disappointed.
“He was the greatest practitioner of a the lucknowi gharana of tabla playing. Though I doubt you know what I am talking about.”
“Actually I do, I play the tabla a bit, and know about the gharanas.”
“Which Gharana do you train in?”
“Well its supposed to be Lucknowi, but today all the styles have got pretty much mixed up.”
“Hmmph, well I suppose its to be expected.”
“So do you anything else worthwhile with your time?”
“I write.”
“Its your job, of course you do”
“No I mean I write, poetry and prose.”
“Oh you mean you try to create literature. Well I wonder how good you are.”
“I’ve been published.”
“Well that’s something then. But some of the best writers I know haven’t been. Anyway, what does it matter, no one writes for the damn publishers do they?”
“No, I guess not, though I do hope they like it.”
He chuckled again. Then slowly said, “You know I too once wrote a book. Sent it to a publisher. He did not like it much. Sent it back, without thanks, he told me. I think it was one of those ones with the bird as a logo.”
Penguin were my publishers so I chose not to say anything.
“Sent them back a letter indicating they shared the logo's neural capacity. And that was that, I never sent it out again.”
“Seriously? Wow, do you still have the manuscript?”
“Of course I do, it’s at home.”
“May I see it?”
He paused, looked at me, slowly from under his eyebrows, then very slowly asked me, “Why, what do you want with it?”
“Well, perhaps we could try to get it published. The climate’s changed, and everyone is asking for new, good manuscripts, even bird brains sir.”
“And what do you get out of it; don’t sell me the old Good Samaritan bit.”
“Well if nothing else, I’ll have my piece for next week’s magazine taken care of, a review of your book. At best, people will remember my name as who found your book. That should help me too.”
He obviously was still not sure. He looked at me carefully. Then slowly nodded, “Okay you can have a look at it, but only in my drawing room. See me tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave. I do have things to do you know. And they are important.”
He got up, surprisingly fast for someone as old as he looked. And walked straight off. He nodded to the man at the counter, who nodded back. At the door he paused, looking out, to either side. It was an odd moment. He stood almost still, silhouetted against the light of the day.
Only then did it strike me, how dark the coffee house was. All the windows were shut, and the bulbs were out. The only light seemed to come in from the door, and what light the sky lights allowed. That’s why the place was so cool.
He moved out of the doorway, but the room remained as much in the twilight, with him standing in it.
The next morning, I woke up early. Well early for me at least. I dressed, ate a hurried breakfast, and left the hotel at about 9.30. I was going to be on time. I rang the bell at exactly five to ten. A maid answered.
She looked at me, half surprised, half suspicious. With a frown she opened the door, and asked me briskly what I wanted. I told I wanted to meet the man who lived there.
“He’s not home.”
“But he told me he’d meet me today, at ten. He asked me to come. How could he have gone out.”
“Who is it,” I heard him call from somewhere inside.
“Its me, sir, Eduard, the reporter you met yesterday in the coffee house.”
“Yes come in, have a seat”
I walked past the maid, with a scowl. What was she playing at? The hallway behind her was narrow and did not have a light. On the walls were some frames, I could not make out what they framed. The floor felt smooth under my shoes. The kind of floor you’d like to slide across in your socks. There was as drawing room at the end of the hall.
It was a big room, with large curtains in one end, and a book shelf opposite it. along the walls between it were two sofas. Not the usual soft, springy ones, but more like cushioned chairs, very straight, and unyielding. They were not as low as you’d expect them to be either. The upholstery was plain baize. The walls were painted cream, and the book shelf varnished. The centre table had a broad thick top of some very dark wood. The walls had some prints of oils on them; I did not recognize any except one of Dali’s. The corners of the room were where the doors were, two of them, opposite each other. One through which I’d entered, the other led into the house. In the other two corners, near the windows were two show cases. One had odd curious, including a ship in a bottle, and the other hand drawn cards, most had ‘happy birthday papa’ written on them in a hand that began as sprawling kindergarten print, and matured into a steady flowing hand as we came upwards. The last few cards were not hand made but printed.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, standing in the door. He looked cheerful. He was wearing an apron, stained with mud, slippers and I could not tell what below that. Apparently he was working in the garden. His face was covered with a slight sweat, and glowed red. His hands were dirty too.
He went back inside. I started looking at the ship in the bottle in the shelf nearest me; I still don’t know how they’re made. I don’t want to be told but figure it out myself, by looking at them. Anyway, I was admiring his when he walked in again. Dressed like yesterday in a shirt and trousers, he’d put shoes on too, and his face was looking much less red.
“Well sorry, the morning is when I spend time talking to my greens. I love gardening, and really wasn’t expecting you to be on time, much less early. Most people aren’t anymore”
“To be honest, I’m not very punctual myself. But then it’s not everyday that you get an opportunity like this.”
“Well, I am not sure what you mean, but reading an old man’s manuscript that no one was interested is hardly what I’d describe as an exciting prospect. But here it is.”
He got up and walked to the book shelf, and from one corner took down a folder. He brought if back to the table. It was bound in the manner of legal papers, with a string around it, and the four flaps holding it in place. He opened them, and inside was a sheaf of wire bound papers with the title “of naught by Jeffery Richards” on the first sheet. The rest of the sheet was blank, and the paper was yellowing around the edges.
“Well here it is, you’re welcome to read it, but remember it stays here.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, I’ll be off then, I do have things to do. I’ll be back in about an hour, if you’re done before that, tell Shanti to let you out, and put it back.”
“I will sir, thank you.”
With that he left me. I opened the book, and started to read. And it hit me immediately. I began to wonder when he sent the manuscript in to the publishers. I decided to wait and ask him, so I kept reading. When he did return, I asked.
“Well sometime around the end of 87 or there abouts I suppose. Though I’d finished much earlier, around… let me see,” he flipped to the last page of the book and showed me a date 1 february 84
So I was right. But I did not know what to say to him. I just got up, thanked him, and left. On my way out, I met the maid again, she apologized for the morning, and told me that he did not like visitors, and rarely had any. He hated being disturbed, and had given standing orders than anyone at the door be told he wasn’t home. Personally she suspected every one to who came to see them, wanted to sell them something. She was just trying to help.
I said it was okay, and left.
The book was a copy of Smith’s ‘come to naught’ the man had barely changed the title… the rest of it was exactly the same. From the first line of the book, down to the third or fourth chapter, which is where I was when he came in.
"Can you believe it?” I asked my friend, with whom I’d been sharing the train compartment, on my way to Delhi.
“Not really.” He said.
“The nerve of the man, I mean pretending it was his work. He could have fooled anyone else too. I mean it was just luck that I’ve read the book. I only laid my hands on it last year.”
“Wasn’t smith around these parts when he wrote it too?”
“Yes, I think he was, he makes some comment about being inspired by the city.”
“I wonder if these two ever met. Well they may have; after all, he smith was a student of literature too.”
“It would make sense.”
“If I remember correctly he says he wrote the book around 86?”
“Oh no it was published then, it must have been written sometime earlier naturally.”
“Of course. Surprising though the way he never produced anything of worth before of after his one masterpiece.”
“That it is. But its enough.”
That night before I went to sleep I remembered something, just as I fell asleep. The boat in a bottle I was looking at had a small etched inscription on it, on the neck it said, thanks for the book, Smith.
Had he? Or may be he borrowed some other?
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