A chance encounter with a revered author, a master of words, a weaver of stories, was written in my fate on my tough journey back after leaving my mater and pater at my sibling's home.
Domestic flights in India, like bus journeys in Inda, start with a jolt. In my case the jolt was the fact that they wanted to take off earlier than the scheduled time, just because all passengers had checked in. Having had paid through my nose for a decent cappuccino I was in no mood to listen to the calls of my flight. Way too early, in my thoughts. When I sauntered past my flight gate, I could see the mournful eyes of an airline attendant pleading me to finish her misery. I obliged and me and a handful of other such hanger-arounds boarded the last bus to the plane. This experience and the fact that my seat was up in the front part of the propeller-driven craft, in hindsight, reduced my time ogling at the legend.
The boy appeared to be crying. His head hung down, he held his face in his hands, and his body shook convulsively. It was a strange, soundless weeping, and Mr. Oliver felt distinctly uneasy. "Well, what's the matter," he asked, his anger giving way to concern. "What are you crying for?" The boy would not answer or look up. His body continued to be wracked with silent sobbing. "Oh, come on, boy. You shouldn't be out here at this hour. Tell me the trouble. Look up."
The boy looked up. He took his hands from his face and looked up at his teacher. The light from Mr. Oliver's torch fell on the boy's face, if you could call it a face. He had no eyes, ears, nose or mouth. It was just a round smooth head with a school cap on top of it.
..... If you haven't just colored the seat of your pants with fear, you are not normal. I was normal, at least when I first read the above lines as a teenager. The level of imagination was disturbing, and it may be the first time that I realized that imagination had no limitations.
Once I got off my flight at Delhi, a rickety old bus was waiting to take me and my co-passengers to the airport's arrival section. I managed to get a seat but then almost immediately realized that there were others who required it more so I stood up, closer to a rotund man who, in the first glance, looked like your friendly neighborhood grand dad. But something was not right. His face was quite uniquely distinguished, with an apparently permanent smile. He looked like a European but his clothes said INDIAN. He was wearing what any fellow Indian would be wearing at that time of the year, an un-tucked bush-shirt over a brownish pair of pants. And he had a book in his hands. My hands fumbled for my 'smart' phone knowing that I did not have enough time to verify the credentials. Was he the guy who made me burn my pants in our backyard which had bore the brunt of my childish fears? My 'smart' phone agreed with my hypothesis. He was. So now my thoughts were how to approach him..... Such thoughts varied from 'celebrities hate being disturbed in public' to 'he would whack me with the book in his hand'.
The book in his hand. What was one of my most revered authors reading? Thanks to my trained eyes (reading reports upside down when required), I could figure it out. It was, to my complete and utter shock, an Agatha Christie. But then I realized, what was I expecting? Crime and Punishment? Obviously he has read the classics many times over, and deserves to help his mind relax with a lollipop. Maybe the rest will ignite his grey cells for another masterpiece. I love Agatha Christies works, mind you. But it was just a complete mismatch, or as I thought initially.
By now the bus had reached its destination and my brain had still not come up with the best intro line. 'Excuse me sir, may I have your autograph? On the book you are reading?' I was obviously not carrying a single shred of paper, as could have been predicted by Murphy's Law. Or was it to be, 'Sir, I am a huge fan of your work.' And then proceeded to snatch the clipboard from the nearest security guard and take his autograph on it. Maybe a night in a cell would have been worth it.
In the end, I gave up. I could see a great Indian author make his way through the crowds, without anyone else even giving him a second glance. Was I the only one to recognize him? Maybe so, but I was 100% sure that I wasn't the only one in the crowd who knew his name.
His name was Bond, Ruskin Bond.......
No comments:
Post a Comment