… “We’re going to my place and chat.” No sooner than two minutes had passed since I accidentally bumped into Sabin in Durbar Marg, he emphatically pronounced. I had not seen Sabin in 23 years, but that was not why I said “sure”. Maybe with the exception of “why not”, “sure” was the most suitable response that man warranted – after all, he was by far the most interesting friend I have ever had. I was sitting in his living room trying to remember why I never bothered to contact him in 23 years, Sabin came to the room with tea and some Indian biscuits. He sat across from me, started to stretch his right arm and left leg. By purposefully refusing to ask him why he had chosen those two asymmetric limbs to stretch, I had forced him into a conversation. “Do you still sing?” He asked me. “I don’t.” “Did you learn any instrument?” “Does playing beats on my butt like tabala count?” “Why would you play tabala on your butt?” “To pass time.” “So, it gets that lonely in America?” “You really want to know?” “I’ll pass. The only thing that scares me more than loneliness is someone telling me about his loneliness.” “So, you have lonely friends?” “There is no such thing called lonely friend. Either you are lonely or you have a friend.” “That sounded really thoughtful in your head, didn’t it?” I smirked. “That would have triggered 47 ‘likes’ in Facebook. You didn’t think that was ‘Like-worthy’?” “I’m not a ‘Like’ person, I’m a ‘Comment’ person. I thought it was corny.” “You think you were not born to ‘like’? You were born to critique?” “I was not born to react. I was born to observe.” “So, what do you observe?” “I observe that it does not bother you that I branded your thought to be corny. How is that?” “When we started a few minutes ago, we were on equal footing. As soon as you judged me, the burden of being more meaningful now shifts to you. I have a handicap now.” He replied calmly. “That, my friend, would not have fetched you 47 ‘likes’.” “Why?” “Because that’s not corny. Who has time for what is not corny? Everyone’s rushing.” “Are you still funny?” He asked me. “I’ve no friends to test that skill. I’m still funny in my head when I talk to myself. I’m not sure that counts.” “Why don’t you have friends?” “They make me lonely.” “You’re scared, once you get close, they may stop appreciating you.” His eyes twinkled. “No. I’m scared, once I get close, they will figure out there is not much to appreciate.” “Some people are different.” “Until they become the same.” “So you hate people?” “Only because they remind me of other people.” “That won’t even fetch three ‘likes’. I will guarantee you that. Must be difficult being so dismissive.” He said. “The hardest act has been learning to be around people who voluntarily assume that I’m one of them because I’m around them.” “Do you still write?” Sabin would not stop interrogating. “I can’t.” “You don’t write; you don’t sing, and you’re not sure you’re funny anymore. Then, why are you still alive?” “I’m scared my death won’t have any impact. I don’t want to die and find out that I was the only one who noticed it.” “That’s too heavy.” Sabin heaved a sigh. “I thought in Metric System it wouldn’t be that heavy.” “My father passed away two years ago … It was the fifth day after his passing, I think, maybe sixth … I was mourning. A cousin came to me and said that my friends were asking for a photo of my father, to run an obituary in the newspaper. When I gave my cousin a photo of my father from one of our old albums, I saw him write my father’s name on the back of the photo. I knew why. My friends did not know my father’s name. My father was a modest man who held a modest job to run his modest life and his modest Honda motorcycle. He worked for 37 years. On his last day on the job, he called in sick – he did not tell us why, but I think it was because he feared that no one would notice it was his last day … He was a good, disciplined man. He was polite. He did not smoke. He did not drink much. He feared god. He was practical too, more than god he feared my mother. He loved his children … I don’t think it ever occurred to him that he needed to earn a name for his son’s friends. I believe that he believed he had names. At home, he was either “buwa” or “यता सुन्नुस त”. He was either ‘Paudel ji’ or ‘sir’ at work – more ‘Paudel ji’ than ‘sir’. He was ‘बाजे’ for plumbers, डकर्मी, सिकर्मी and टोल को पसले हरु. He was always ‘तेरो बुवा’ to my friends. His friends called him by his name, but that was rare since there were only two of them. When I saw my cousin, write my dead father’s name on the back of his passport size photo, I felt sadder than the moment when the doctor announced his passing.” [Pause] When I did not say a word, Sabin asked me, “Too heavy? What are you using to measure this? Yards or pounds?” “I don’t know why I didn’t contact you for 23 years.” I finally let a labored sigh of my own. “That makes me wonder … Would you have remembered me if I was someone else’s son, instead of Yorgraj Paudel’s?” “Sabin, I’ve no idea why I never kept in touch with you, but Yograj uncle would have been a plus, not a minus.” “My father’s name was Ambika Paudel.”
Posted on: Thu, 23 Jan 2014 02:37:11 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015