Against Mumbai's usual design of train stations, the hand cart vendors were parked outside. Wanting something to munch on, he led us outside to get himself a cone of boiled peanuts. The 60s music program was still on, crackling with occasional static when flames from a nearby stove licked the air, following us like a twister of nostalgia from the last station to the next.
"So where did you harbor your love for the bard?" he asked, popping a few peanuts into his mouth.
He didn't offer me the peanuts this time, taking for granted I was not the one for those salty poppers. Good Lord! But I loved boiled peanuts...
"I graduated from the UK, in the outskirts of London," I said avoiding the details. "At Tring, you will find Shakespeare in the air, water and soil of that town."
"Oxford?" he asked and I smiled realizing he couldn't have identified with Tring. That he'd chosen the land of the immigrants - the US - for his higher education, unlike me who had rooted for the excessively polite and prim English folks
"No, Tring is the name of the town. Its in greater London. Just a small time college. Papa paid for it. Nothing fancy like you."
He looked at me even as we turned to get back into the station, assessing the hint of praise I had given his way.
"That partly explains your missing adventures with the Mumbai trains," he said, vindicating me of my offenses towards the city's rail network.
"But it certainly doesn't explain yours." I prompted, reminding him of his own ignorance when he'd had to call his brother to get the train details to reach my place.
"I grew up in Delhi," he explained, sitting down on a plastic bench. I took the adjacent seat. "Then went to the states for my degree, came back for a short while and did a few stints here, in Mumbai with media advertising and then decided to return to the US for my MBA. Now, I'm back again in this city."
I gave a small nod of acknowledgement, as I processed that he'd been outside the country for nearly the same extended period as mine. Once I'd finished my degree, unwilling to part with my friends and the quaint country side that took me back to Shakespearean times, I stayed back to pursue Victorian literature until papa urged me to come back the beginning of this year. Of course, these particulars I didn't wish to share with him unless asked for and much to the pleasure of my withholding self, he didn't.
"You did your bachelors in the US too?" I asked seeking clarification, as I mentally counted the number of times he'd been in and out of the country.
"I was at Cornell, and then I went to Harvard for my MBA."
There was no telling, that bionic men like him could be bestowed with grey cells too, while in most men it was either good looks or intellect and never both. Well, Cornell with Harvard was no joke, after all.
"With all that arsenal on your resume, you still chose to come back?" I didn't mind that our conversations turned one-sided; it helped that he he wasn't equally curious, however that was something to wonder, I thought.
"Duty calls, family beckoned." he said.
"Hmm!" I hummed, understanding his brevity and yet, not fully comprehending the pressures that had driven him back to the homeland.
"The story is really the oldest there is," he met my eyes with some hesitation and eventually delved into it, his relenting in echo of a vague surrender. "Papa inherited the family wealth, fancied advertising. Started H360, but when he took ill, he handed the reins to his elder brother and our uncle refused every penny of it after my father passed away. Ma had been a housewife until papa died, but when she was made to leave with her three sons, she took to teaching at a small private school - it's a funny coincidence, but she did her college from London too; Oxford actually. Now she is a professor at the St. Xaviers Women's College," he continued in one breath, his recount sounding practiced and affecting, all at once.
"We brothers managed to get scholarships and grants. Our grandfather sponsored Yuvi bhaiya - he is the eldest. He is an attorney, but a stickler for rules and the law, so you can tell that he isn't exactly prospering, or not the most sought after defense attorney in the city. The middle one is Dev bhaiya - a chef who is also a boxer by night. Though he is quite good at what he does, he can't keep a job straight for two months in a row. Well, you probably guessed already that he has severe anger management issues. And there is also the legendary court case that is on the run for years, to win back our share," he ended with a sigh, his eyes unseeing the shadows that shifted down at his feet.
"So you are the pillar that holds everything upright?" I offered in summary.
"More like the glue that keeps things from falling?" He suggested in return, his face softening with a telling smile.
I was silent for a moment and my brows creased with the unsettling in my stomach. I know this...Good Lord! I know this, I cringed from the knowing that escaped my reach.
"Oh! The febicole pun..." I exclaimed with a muted glee, my hand raising up to gesture the Duh! feeling inside me.
"Can't help it, you see. That was my ad after all," he shrugged, albeit proud in his place.
"Dhri told me that the ad won the Indian equivalent CLIO. You did that ad?" The admiration in my tone was palpable, though I only held a smile in appreciation.
Who didn't love the new age febicole ads for their crispness in branding? I had heard Papa extol hours at end, the creatives' knack for economy and yet, choosing unlikely plots for messaging - a worn down truck carrying an entire rural Rajasthani township, only to be saved by the febicole banner painted in its rear that held all of them together and many such adulatory ones.
He practically owned a trophy in every sphere of life, I discerned, pondering if all of that was luck or talent. And then I encumbered on the conflict I'd heard over his choice to practice archery - a sport he'd only taken for their posterity - despite which he'd won the national contest. I didn't believe anyone could excel in art or sport unless it was also their passion and had a deeper calling for it. No! I told myself, he couldn't have just picked up archery to upkeep his lineage.
"All this and archery is still only a forced upon hobby? What am I missing here?" I sat back in my seat and crossed my legs.
"I may have pretended that it hadn't been my own decision to take up archery," he seemed guilty, "Face it, growing up it wasn't the coolest thing there was and I had to keep up appearances that it was thrust on me.
He leaned in and faced me. "But, I'm aware that I'm who I'm because of that sport." He smiled when I didn't stumble on the revelation he'd intended for me to grasp.
Closing his eyes, he too leaned back, his head fell, and a keen silence surrounded me as I listened to him.
"Every time I hold the bow in my hands," his delivery was measured for impact and I fixated over his words, "the world falls from my vision, blocks of it melting like its only ice. Then a stupor begins, I dream of only the center, the mark and all that holds to fall prey. In this fragmented world, I'm whole again. There is only one will that courses through my arms and my meditation begins. The nock leaves my fingers and I go over the edge, fall with the arrow as it pierces through the air. I wake up when the dream disperses, my pursuit having culminated." I exhaled with a flutter from having strung by my nerves, from having traveled with that imaginary arrow, from having letting go at the precipice of the abyss I'd carefully held myself from falling into.
I couldn't have looked away from him, even if I'd tried.
"If that is what you achieve with every attempt, then wouldn't you do that a million times over?" And I looked on, as he opened his eyes and inched forward smiling.
"Did you just make that up?" I asked him incredulous at the string of coherence he'd spoken in only an instant's notice. Considering that he was an ad man and did this for a living, I asked myself if there was anything to be in awe of.
"I don't know...that answer felt ever ready," he shook his head questioning himself, in amazement. "Weird, isn't it?"
"I think you meant to say uncanny," I said without meaning to.
"Awh! The English teacher! I forget." He laughed, his taunt crinkling a side of his face.
The song changed in the background. Some more of the static came on before, Lata mangeshkar's Ye sama, sama hai pyar ka mingled with the night air. "You American bred ones certainly need one..." I said before picking up a few peanuts off his palm for myself.
Edited by -Mitra - 11 years ago
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