There are probably a few themes which are universal when it comes to moving romantics and poets—like the full moon, flowers in bloom and falling in love for the first time. I for one believe these are overrated, especially when compared to the beauty sleep I manage to snatch for an hour after my lunch. I am neither a romantic, nor by any stretch of imagination a poet, and that explains why I have not penned a few lines about this blissful non-activity.
Like all habits, desirable or deleterious, I got hooked to this in my college hostel days. Way back in my first year comes along Dilesh and knocks hard on my door, waking me up from my reverie. He came in with a preamble, “PK, damn the heat. At least your people in Kerala will be having the seasonal rains, no?” I nodded feebly and he took it as a mark of approval. At this juncture, I must warn you that though a fourth year medical student, and a gentleman to his boot laces, Dilesh had this uncanny knack of turning up just when you had received a packet of goodies from your home. This time around, it was a tin full of “Avalose Unda”, ladoo-like rice and jaggery concoction, special to my part of the state. He went about the task of ferreting out the tin methodically. He priced open the lid and with considerable élan, polished off half a dozen of them. Then, with the air of a fond uncle, he proffered me the tin. “Why don’t you take some?” Well, well, that was the height of benevolence!
Years, in fact, decades have passed by. I am now a well-settled practitioner of the noble art. I heard a rap on my door one afternoon a few days ago—yes, it is always the afternoon.
“Ha-ha, ha,” said the intruder.
“Ha-ha, ha,” I responded.
“I just moved into the first house on this lane. Saw your name board, and did a Google search on you. I understand that you write columns for newspapers.” I felt flattered for a moment, but that was not to last, and he went on, “I like humour myself.”
For the next 10 minutes there was an avalanche of funny stories. His pitch reminded me of the engaged tone we get on our land phones ever so often. The rolls of fat around his neck shook when he came to the punch lines. Let me tell you something, if there is anything a self-styled humorist detests, it is the presence of one of his clan dishing out those ossified, partly petrified witticisms.
“I like Khushwant Singh the most,” he trilled on. Here I got my chance to put in a word edgewise. “I too,” I retorted, “especially since he refuses to see people without prior appointment.” I do not think that this gentle shaft got through my visitor’s skin, but eventually, he bid adieu, just as abruptly as he entered.
I have lost count of the number of times direct salesmen, insurance agents and gossiping aunties have dropped in on a Saturday afternoon in the midst of a siesta. Coming to think of it, why should I keep a ledger of grudges? Are we not taught from our school days that we should treat our guests like gods? “Atithi Devo Bhava,” as it were? I was not born a philosopher, but five decades down the road, maybe I have become one. At this rate, by the time I turn seventy, I will well and truly be a sage. Who can tell?