The fathomless coincidence

“There are so many things to say, so many things to hear, so many different things to learn. Time, the master of all, decides who should see how much, who should listen to how much and who should know how much…strange isn’t it?” Anup Biswas stopped for a while…swirled the vodka with the fine plastic stick that was given with the drink just for that purpose and gulped a sip…it smoothed down his throat. He started to speak again,

“Have you ever wondered Mr. Dutta how strange, yet so perfect, the entire circle of life is? I mean, wonder how I would have been if that sperm had lost out to any one of the other million. I might have been better looking; I might have had a fairer skin, who knows? Have you ever imagined…you are a result of that single sperm winning the battle against so many…so many! And then…the ovum accepts it…Do parents think of such intricate mechanism while creating their offspring? Not only that, then that egg germinates and divides and grows and then one fine day after 270 days of immaculate care, one fine day you pop out and proclaim your existence in the world…and you continue existing…eventually that sperm loses out…not to another sperm but to time. But to goddamned time!” He sipped some more vodka from his glass! He felt the warmth of the spirit, closed his eyes in appreciation and gave Mr. Vivek Dutta an opportunity to speak.

“If you don’t mind Mr. Biswas, I think it’s only apt that you add some sprite to your vodka.” Anup Biwas waved his hand to suggest that he was not interested.

“I like it neat!”

At this point I must describe the present situation to my readers. None of the two, Mr. Dutta and Mr. Biswas knows each other; it was because of a sudden act of destiny that they met. It was out of the depression of losing someone really close to Mr. Biswas, that, he decided to walk up to the bar. He wanted someone’s company so he looked around for a person sitting all alone. Right in the middle of the bar was the table, which had the mug from which Mr. Dutta was sipping his beer. There weren’t any other chairs around the table and Mr. Dutta himself was watching the football match, which the television set in the bar was, quite loudly, telecasting. He only had his beer mug and cigarettes for company. Mr. Biswas had quietly walked up to him and asked if he could have the pleasure of his company. It’s quite evident now that he did. In less than hour Mr. Biswas had finished an entire packet of Gold Flake kings and finished a couple of pegs of Smirnoff.

Initially they started talking about football and then moved to Indian cricket and then to the more philosophical things that men talk about when they are sad. I must mention here Mr. Dutta was not depressed at all. In fact he was quite happy. He wanted to enjoy his happiness alone over a drink. But he did not mind unknown company. It always gave him more fodder to think about. He loved to think. Mr. Dutta is one of those rare Calcuttans who speak less and listen more. Mr. Biswas was one of the ubiquitous Calcuttans who love to speak and hate to listen. Needless to say that the conversation weighed more on the latter’s side.

Presently, Mr. Biswas ordered for two more pegs of Smirnoff and Mr. Dutta lit another cigarette. And once again Mr. Biswas was the first to speak.

“You know why I am sounding so philosophical?”

“The effect of vodka, I suppose.” joked Mr. Dutta, which prompted a faint smile on Mr. Biswas’ lips.

“No…vodka is just a way to soothe my pain. I am in pain, Mr Dutta. And what is worse is that I know that a part of the pain will always remain within me.” Mr. Dutta took another puff and looked straight into Mr. Biswas. ‘This man possesses unusual composure.’ thought Mr. Biswas. He knows that that expression on his face meant that he was listening to everything he was saying.

“Have you ever had a person in your life who was more fatherly towards you than your own father?” Mr. Dutta knew that this was one of those questions, which was asked not for an answer but for starting a conversation. He quietly put down the cigarette and then looked at Mr. Biswas. On noticing that the two dark eyes (now rapidly turning red) that Mr. Biswas had, were fixed on him and waited for an answer, he opened his mouth and said,

“I was very unlucky to have none, actually, let alone two!”

“Oh in a way you have been lucky, but mostly unlucky, unfortunately. I have had two fathers. If it wasn’t for one, I might have committed patricide. I hated my biological father. He was a menace. Let’s not talk about him. Anyway, do you watch movies?

“Yes, I do.”

“What kind? I am sure you like Hollywood movies.”

“Yes I do…quite a few actually…but I am more oriented towards European and Iranian movies.”

“Oh well. Don’t know much about that. But have you seen ‘Dead Poets Society’? Don’t you wish you had a father like that teacher in that movie? At least I did.” All that he received was a nod in agreement. This urged him to speak more.

“I gather you have heard of that book by Khaled Hosseini…where this kid had liked his father’s friend because he read his stories…” after a pause he received another nod from his audience. “…I had a similar person in my life.” He stopped to light a smoke and then continued speaking. “My uncle Pritish was a similar person in my life. Although he never got married and never had kids, he was the best father nobody ever had.”

Football now had grown louder, as there was collective yelling by a particular group following a particular club. That is not the matter of the story, although some of the readers might wish it was. As soon as the clamour abated, our speaker continued,

“You know I could sing well but it was never well appreciated by my father. But Pritish uncle was the first one to ever record my song. He had recorded it in a mini tape recorder and kept the cassette with him until death. He always believed that I would grow up to become a very popular singer. I wish I could live up to that thought of his…he even bought me my first guitar. That was the best gift ever. I still have the guitar with one of its original strings…and I have lost that man…”

“I offer you my condolences.” said Mr. Dutta.

“…condolences…does it really mean anything? I mean, can anyone really understand the pain Mr. Dutta? You know I sometimes think English isn’t evolved enough as a language. Condolences! Stupid word…I get your point though. I mean I am sure you mean it well. Blame the alcohol for my inappropriate behavior.”

“Never mind, carry on with your story.”

“Oh yes, where was I? So…my father forced studies on me. You know the senior Biswas! I could never do music, something that I craved for all my life. I lacked courage…To make matters worse I was good in studies too. Somehow everything that I did not want fell into place and took my musical career away…I would sneak out and play in bands but that was that. Only uncle Pritish knew about those, no one else knew about it. You know I also had a studio album with a band and it sold ok too, but I had to change my name on it. I don’t know what I was afraid of. I had even seen uncle Pritish sell some of the cassettes to his own friends, just to popularize it and also to make me feel happy. Of course my father knew nothing about it. Not a word; neither did my mother. I sometimes wish I had a sibling.” He paused for a second and said, “I think I need to go the loo.” and left without noticing Vivek Dutta’s nod.

Vivek Dutta was one of those beings, who had a habit of talking to himself silently. The moment he heard the word ‘loo’ his mind went into the funny etymology of the word. He thought to himself. ‘Room number 100’ and smiled. This amused him as much as it might amuse many of the curious readers now.

            The pub, with time had become a little more crowded. Another football match had started, but the TV was on mute. Instead the music players were loudly playing popular rock songs of the 70’s to 90’s. Mark Knoffler’s unusually attractive voice was singing “Sultans of swing” through the speakers and this reminded Vivek Dutta of Sachin Tendulkar who once claimed that this particular song happened to be his favourite song. Then his mind reminded him of Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis, the real sultans of swing. Vivek Dutta smiled again. How many things the human mind strings together in such a short while! It was great to have a talkative mind, he thought. One by one all of his favourite bowlers came to his mind and he was reliving all those memories when Anup Biswas returned and reclaimed his seat.

            “As I was saying, music was what I wanted to do. I love this song too…I loved rock and roll. My father hated it. He had once threatened to break my guitar if I did not listen to all this music on cassettes…in fact he would even buy me the cassettes, uncle Pritish…he he…and my father did not even know that possessed them. I’ll be honest? I wasn’t too sad when my father expired. It might sound apathetic but that is the truth. That is just plain truth. I am not even ashamed of it.”

            Vivek Dutta’s mind was immediately reminded him of another character from literature, Mersault. Again a faint smile appeared on his lips. He was reminded of this character and how he refused to see his dead mother’s body and didn’t care much about it. Is it too much of a deal to society if you are raw and honest? The smile was observed by Mr. Biswas and he asked with a frown, “You are smiling?”

            “Your honesty reminded me of one of my most loved characters in literature. He was created by Albert Camus and his name is Mersault. You must read the book if you haven’t already.”  The answer did not remove the frown but it did take the expression of question off from Mr. Biswas’ countenance. He shook his head suggesting that he hadn’t read much of Camus.

            “Anyway do you believe in God?” Mr. Biswas asked.

            “I haven’t had enough evidence to suggest to me that God exists and I have never believed in putting my faith on someone or something I haven’t seen. But I am open to the idea once I feel the presence myself. So you can call me an agnostic.”

            “Religion?”

            “No.”

            “So you don’t believe in the concept of rebirth?” This question startled Mr. Dutta. He had never given the concept of rebirth a thought. He had once heard his grandmother say that the moment a person dies the soul is allotted another body to fill. But then that was several years ago and somehow he had never thought or read much about that. He paused for a moment and asked himself if he believed in the concept of the soul. Yes, he did believe in the concept of the soul. He had given it quite a bit of thought earlier and accepted it. It seemed to answer many questions that he had in his mind. ‘But, that same soul occupying another body…interesting!’ he thought. In fact he would like to believe in that theory, he thought. He asked Mr. Biswas for some time to think and went out of the pub, lit one cigarette and started thinking.

            ‘Indeed if the soul is eternal then it does need a medium to occupy. But does it carry the same values as it did in the previous birth? Does it carry the same abominations? Is it given a complete new identity?’ he pondered. ‘Indeed if it is just a form of energy, it needs to be transferred. But, how does one explain the burgeoning of population? How does one account for that? Can new souls be created? But we don’t know how many lives are taken every day. Species go extinct and tiny microorganisms are killed every second. So there must be infinite number of souls, right? How does one answer that? May be…just may be that the concept of soul is true but still a lot needs to be answered? Who decides which soul goes where? Is it true that it depends upon your deeds of the past life? Crap! How would you quantify what a bacterium did in its lifetime? You cannot logically quantify deeds.’ He was not entirely convinced so he thought that he would be open about it. Indeed if there was something positive in it, he would accept it. He stubbed the cigarette out and moved inside the pub.

            Mr. Biswas was watching the match. The moment Vivek Dutta sat down he looked at him and said, “So? What do you think?”

            “I am still undecided. But I am ready to accept it if you can convince me. Or if you have any literature on it, I can read it up.” answered Mr. Dutta.

            “Look Mr. Dutta I am not a great orator and neither am I all that well-read. I have derived this knowledge from my uncle Pritish. He used to say that everything in the world is connected. I do believe he had much faith in the teachings of Buddha. He said that he believed that the soul is indeed transferable and that you can connect to anything or anyone around you. He also believed that being human is in no way better than being an ant or an eagle or a fish. I believed him because he always made sense. He even thought that there were no layers in life. You are what you are and what you do is not carried forward in the next life. He told me that you could take birth in any form again. But this is where I did not agree with him. I think there should be justice. If you have done anything wrong in this life and then got away with it, you must pay for it sometime. Why can’t you pay for it in the next life?” Vivek Dutta was quietly listening to it. His mind too kept on thinking about it. He partly agreed with uncle Pritish. But he also wanted to believe Anup Biswas. There must be some justice somewhere. Otherwise the world cannot run. He felt this strongly. But he wanted to hear more. He was quite enjoying this.

            “I believe that human beings are the most intelligent beings in this planet. We have gone to space, been to the moon and taking strides towards Mars too. An ant cannot do that, neither can a fish. So I do believe in the layers of life and human beings are right at the top of the tree. So if your deeds aren’t too great you don’t deserve to take birth as a human being.” He said and stopped to drink more vodka. Dutta observed a lot of conviction in the voice of Mr. Biswas. He also agreed that there was some bit of truth and substance in what he was saying.

            “As I was saying…you need to do some great deeds to take birth again as a human. If you have not been all that great, then may be something inferior awaits you in the next life. I don’t know if you would agree to this, but this is what I believe.” Mr. Dutta nodded, and realized he did so only after a second had passed. He wasn’t entirely convinced still but then he thought ‘What the hell! It doesn’t matter anyway. So let me just agree with him.’ The nod had prompted a satisfactory grin on Mr. Biswas. He continued to speak.

            “For example, I believe uncle Pritish’s soul can never be sent to an ant egg or a lizard egg. He can only be born as a human being. A human being of the highest order! I tell you, the person, uncle Pritish would be born as, would rule the world. I wish I knew all the babies born at the time of his death. I mean immediately after his death. ” Although Vivek Dutta knew vodka was doing a lot of the talking in the last few minutes, he had seldom seen so much of love and respect one man had for another man. Indeed if in any world or in any story, whatever Mr. Biswas said turned out to be true, the coincidence would be really worth sharing. Even he had started liking this uncle Pritish. For a second he too agreed with Mr. Dutta. May be alcohol had started to think for him too. He now heard himself asking. “If you don’t mind me asking Mr. Biswas, when exactly did your uncle expire?” Mr. Biswas suddenly became quiet.

            “Day before yesterday.” he said. This startled Mr. Dutta and he asked, “What time?”

            “Why, around 7:30 in the morning! I was there beside him when he passed into the other world.” Mr. Biswas quietly answered. There was a long pause. They could hear “Black Magic Woman” being played. Football was on. Random conversations could be overheard. There was a clink of many glasses in one corner, followed, almost instantaneously by “Cheers” in unison. The light in the pub was dim but enough to show the observer the cloud of smoke encumbering the multitude. Mr. Dutta had a faint smile on his face, but was overjoyed deep inside.

            “You give me hope,” he said “I had a baby boy at 7:30 am day before yesterday.” 

Author's Note

I would love critical comments on this one

Reviews

[cycy]

sorry for the late review my dear friend i havent had much time for the poetry and stories due to school and yet sadly i still havent had the time for the very long ones but this one seems promising therefore i hope when i have time to go over it slowly i will give a more meaningful review...,till then do keep on :)