NAVROZ
Crowded places make me uneasy.
It generates a feeling of mob mentality.
Where we lose the sensitivity of humans as individuals and attack the vulnerable , like hyenas.
But that morning Vartak kaka had asked me,
"Mukunda, can you please get me flowers from Dadar market? We have a Satyanarayan Bhagwan pooja tomorrow at home. And your kaki wishes to put up the garlands all around the house ."
Whether it was my respect for Vartak kaka kaki or my fear for SatyaNarayan bhagwan, but that evening after work, I found myself in the crowded bylanes near Dadar station.
Jostling between evening commuters, I was bargaining the price of 5 kg of Marigold flowers. Having reduced the price by 35 rupees, my soul now felt triumphant.
I decided to treat myself and grabbed Vadapaav from a nearby stall.
It was the month of Shraavan. . The steady drizzle from the morning soon turned into a heavy downpour.
Holding my umbrella in one hand, balancing the 5 kg oversized cloth bag of Marigolds on my shoulder, I took my first bite into the Vadapaaav, standing in front of a TV showroom, watching through the glass, the 50 odd silent flat TV screens showing Katrina Kaif gyrating her hips to the song, Sheila ki Jawaani..
Suddenly I felt someone tap my shoulder. Startled, i turned around in amazement and saw a 5 feet 9 inch tall man behind me. I stood there, my gaze transfixed at the man who stood tall with both his hands on his hips.
" Let's have chai, " his words broke my trance.
I knew of only 1 person who stood with both his hands on his hips, who had curly hair, whose bluish tinged eyes always appeared misty , whose nose came from a typical Parsee mold, who always wore a well starched perfectly ironed white shirt which was neatly tucked in a navy blue trousers.
Could it be Navroz? He looked very much like him. Perhaps slightly bent over, the hairline a little receeding from the forehead and
shades of grey outlined his temples. But the rest was him!
" Navroz!. Is it really you! How !
Where have u been all these years! No letter , mail, text for 25 years."!!
I wanted to say all of these .
But when emotions get the better of you and they swell up, trying to erupt simultaneously, quiet often the tongue disobeys and gets into twisted knots.
I just stood there with my mouth half open in that late evening monsoon outburst.
He dragged me into his car and we drove to Worli sea face.
That sea face had witnessed the strengthening of a bond of a weird friendship, which had taken birth that summer 30 odd years ago, when I was in the queue to submit my 3rd application for admission to FYBA, having failed miserably on previous 3 attempts.
"Before you submit the admission forms, make sure you break a coconut at Siddhivinayak temple", the college clerk smirked as she handed out the forms.
She must have been from Pune, I thought to myself.
My fame of having warmed the benches of Potdar FyBa class and failing thrice in it, was college wide.
I was contemplating on my subject choices, when a boy behind me with both his hands on his hips, suggested Philosophy.
And I followed him.
I followed him for 5 years during the BA years,
Followed him as he played intercollegiate badminton matches,
Followed him as he practised playing Romeo for the Potdar college annual function.
"See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!"
is how i remember Romeo ever since Navroz took on the stage underneath that balcony.
I am not sure why he insisted on sitting next to me and studying with me.
37 of us had studied philosophy in 1987.
Of those 35 were happy with obtaining those 35% marks.
Sakshi and Navroz, however, studied not for the percentages, but for the subject.
They would debate on the moral virtues of Socrates and the metaphysics of Platonism, whilst the rest of us looked out of the windows waiting for the 'hour end' bell to ring.
We were a very odd site, if seen together.
Just a few inches short of 6 feet, his height dwarfed mine by several inches.
My tummy has always protruded beyond my chest, whilst his physique was lean with wide shoulders.
Whilst his philosophical prowess was unconventional and beyond comprehension,
I struggled to decide whether gazing at the pretty faces at Bandra station was within the norms of society.
He lived in a bungalow on Carter road, and though we would drive there often, rarely was I invited inside.
As if he wished to keep the insides of his house and him, shut to the outside world.
" Come on Mukya, let's go!", he would often announce shouting from under my 8 feet by 7 feet room hostel room. Most of the plaster from the walls of my hostel room had come loose. A single window was the only redeeming decorative feature of the room, but I often dried my clothes on its bars and railings.
The hostel room was dark and illuminated by a single bulb on a wall.
'Illuminated' would be an euphemism as, it merely allowed enough light to stumble across the room. During monsoons, it would get surrounded by small insects and flies. I was glad for their company. The lampshade around it had become loose and hung precariously on its side.
In a way I was glad that Navroz didn't come upstairs. Flaked walls, a gloomy
light bulb and the sight of my drying clothes on the window, not exactly the idea of a Picasso renaissance painting...
Walking along Worli sea face, he would talk to me.
i was a meek follower. Perhaps my silence is what he appreciated.
'Mukya' somehow seemed apt...
He brought philosophy to life.
That sea face had witnessed his talks on Plato's forms of reality,
The dynamics of friendship,
The realm of the world we live in and the real world in Platonics.
He was the 20th century avataar of Plato and Socrates.
I remember vividly how he explained the role of numbers in our life.
He would buy the conical paper pack of the salted khare sing.
The lapping waves or the site of a far way boat in the backdrop of the orange halo of a setting sun in the far distance, would be enough to make anyone introspective and stir a few emotions.
But, Navroz read humans.
He could read the sorrow behind the laughter,
the pain in those broad shoulders which bore responsibility,
the strength in those faltering legs.
" One can read books, appear for exams, conduct experiments in labs. But, the real test lies in
Understanding humans,
Understanding,
When they can't speak
When they don't speak
When they speak apples and mean oranges."
It was his old habit. He would always give me the first few khare sing, before eating his share.
He would eat a single nut at a time. Never have I seen him gobble a fistful into his mouth.
"It's like this Mukya.
The seller has given us this packet from the heap of nuts in his basket.
He didn't chose which nuts to give us.
What we get is what we deserve.
Whether u come in a car,
on a bicycle
or walk up to him,
his attitude remains unreserved.
The giver is him.
The receiver us.
A few crispy nuts,
A few burnt ones.
Whoever and whenever we accept this, we learn the art of living."
Navroz's thoughts and their articulation would make me believe that Goddess Saraswati resided on his tongue.
We drove to Mani's lunch home in the bylanes behind Ruia college.
We were waiting for our dosas.
I had to roll back the question that was at the tip of my tongue.
He must have noticed my hesitation.
" Sakshi was married before she started BA", he dipped his dosa in the over filled Sambar bowl. He enjoyed slurping the sambar with his fingers.
" You remember , we went to congratulate her after the first year finals. It was a surprise that she had outwitted all of us to grab the honours in the finals.
She refused speak to us."
"Aur sambar dalu kya"?, we were rudely awakened from our conversation by a 7/8 year old waiter boy and without awaiting our reply, he poured the sambar into our vati,
half in it and half on the table top.
" She was always dear to you, wasn't she? Are you still attracted towards her? Do u still have feelings for her?"
I asked, as Navroz picked up a piece of potato from his dosa.
"What we term as 'being attracted' or 'being in love' can be deceptive.
Take gravity for example. It can only bind 2 objects upto an extent. Once one of the objects has learnt to release itself and reach beyond a certain distance, even gravity can't hold them together.
Being in love can either make you strong or weaken you.
Wherever a relation is based on an expectation, that bond is more than likely to weaken in a storm.
A relation which has learnt the art of giving,
Yet not letting the receiver feel small, is Godliness."
" That's all philosophical bakwaas, Navroz. We humans have to go through all emotions: anger, love, jealousy, hatred, superiority, inferiority, contentment.
That is what we call as 'living'.
After one is no more, you will be well forgotten.
Forget death, even if you are not seen for a few months, your replacement is found the next month."
We had found a cycle coffee waala on the road side.
It must have been a funny site.
2 middle aged men.
One short, round, bald and ill dressed and the other elegant and refined, sat at the edge of the pavement with plastic cups in hand, discussing the philosophy of love.
"It's all relative, Mukya.
Some people are as good as dead when they are alive.
Some Live and exist even after they die.
If you wish to experience death when you are alive, learn to love.
When you love truly, you forget the 'I'.
And when u forget the 'I', you are no more.
And when you are no more, you have experienced the most blissful feeling ever."
He is the only person I know who doesn't have a superiority or an inferocity complex.
For, he has an equality complex....
Navroz crumpled the cups and threw it into a waste bin pushing down the litter, which was already overflowing, with a tissue from his pocket.
We walked together to the bus stop.
Bus number 201 would take me back home.
"So, are you still in contact with Sakshi? " I saw my bus approaching.
People thronged towards the door step.
" Yes, I am. In her daughters form.
Sakshi and her husband died in a car accident. But before she passed away, she willed that i should look after Tanvi. Now Sakshi lives on".
Balancing my umbrella and the bag of marigolds, i had managed to grab one pole of the bus.
I glanced back to look at Navroz.
He stood there, tall. Amongst the heavy traffic. With both his hands on his hips.
Just like Lord Vithoba in Pandharpur.
I couldn't help noticing that in the melee of the mad rush to get on the bus, a couple of the jhendu flowers had dropped down and lay at his feet....