For the Good Things in Life

Yesterday(Sunday the 5th of Feb) Parinay, another old friend, had come over to my place. I was telling him about yesterday’s visit to the WBF. We both agreed that the essence of being a good writer is to be open to experiences, to interpret them in a personal way, and to be able to express them coherently. Their main achievement is that they've been able to make sense of their experiences. After all, what a history might lie behind a book of a hundred pages or so! What a world of experiences must have led to it’s creation. By and by I told him about “Burmese Days”. He asked “Why?” with a distinct tone of reproach. I reminded him of the saying, “The best things in life come free.” He said that the best things are priceless…not free. For example, the air that we breathe, the water we drink (not in Europe though…wine might be cheaper. And we forgot about food and shelter. Also clothes). I said that’s not entirely correct. One finds happiness when one is not looking for it. It’s not like you can go to a store to buy happiness. I elucidated with an example. Suppose you buy a pet. For example, a dog of good breed. That will cost you money, but it will give you happiness. But this latter is somewhat offset by the fact that you made a conscious effort. On the other hand, if by chance you happen to befriend an abandoned puppy or kitten, then the feeling is more complete. This reminds me of an interesting incident. Once while watching “Kaun banega Crorepati”, Amitabh Bacchan was asking questions to Priety Zinta, who was in the hot seat. At one stage she lets out that she loves animals: “Oh! I love animals! I simply adore them! They’re so cute and cuddly! At home I have two Labradors, one German shephard, and there is a whole fleet of servants to look after them! I take every care of them and have a vet monitoring their diet and health all the time”. Well, so much for that!
In the evening at about 4.00 we went to Priya Cinema. I’d heard a lot about the book stores over here. A friend of mine had bought a book on Salvador Dali and I was curious about checking out the shops. When we reached there I was struck by a sense of unreality. Was that pretty girl over there, walking with her friends, sipping on her Coke, was she for real? Was this shopping complex for real? Were these beautiful people for real? Was the music that was being belted out meant for me also? Their clothes, mannerisms, everything looked like it belonged to a far away, fantasy world. Whenever I’m in Kanpur and I think about Delhi, I think about these glitzy places, and I feel drawn towards them inexplicably. But when I’m actually in such a place, I start feeling out of place. All these people are enjoying the same place and the same things and the same music. Is this for real? The same pretty face looks out of the hoarding at a million faces telling them what they should look like. Like Parinay asked, how can one Shopping Complex be a source of fun to one lakh people? And yet here it was before my eyes and I was feeling like a fugitive. They were eating the same manufactured food, the same beverages from the same MNC’s, and all were looking happy and beautiful. Brave New World is near my friend. Bring home the soma.
Anyhow, we entered a bookshop where Parinay bought a book by Ramanujan (Not the mathematician…a guy who’d translated many Tamil poems into English). Then we went to Music World where I bought a Thin Lizzy CD.
I was in a pretty horrid shape. It felt like a bad Vodka hangover. We went to a place slightly away from the main shopping area. It was relatively quieter there. We were sitting on a bench. In front of us was a large circular wall made of stone about four feet high and sixty feet in diameter. Various people were sitting on it. Most of them were couples and I envied them secretly. In the center of this structure was a defunct fountain. (It really was there. I’m not impotent, and that’s why I was envious)We were sitting and smoking and chatting. Or rather, I was sitting and smoking and listening. He was talking about Marquis de Sade and his works. He was talking about a BBC documentary on pianists, wherein Rachmaninoff was mentioned. He was talking about a whole lot of other things but somehow nothng was forming in my head as I listened passively and smoked actively. At one point he talked about the ultimate high one gets from music…when it seems like the notes you are playing have been extracted from the depths of the universe and put on display. It is as if you are sharing a deep, deep secret which you have been at pains to unearth. I was feeling confused and the thoughts in my mind were too heavy to let me speak. I was still thinking of the glittering shopping complex and the beautiful people that looked so happy and carefree when a beggar came over and stuck out his hand. A coin would have sent him off but we preferred to shoo him away. He went to another bench with his arm held in the same position. In front, on the other side, was a shop with a huge neon sign board. Below it was the sentence, “For the good things in life.” I assume it was “good”, for the trunk of a tree hid the word.