Aniruddha

He was terribly scarred from a bout of adulthood chicken-pox. He was probably the jolliest person I ever knew. I speak of him today, for I dreamt of him recently. I saw him in a railway station. He was a tout and he helped get me some tickets. It was not a peculiar dream. It was kind of dream that is not special by itself but triggers a memory or thought that engrosses you for long.

I remember he was a good student, but worked hard at being one. He was not gifted like some others in my class who rarely had to study and to score good ranks. His parents if I remember correctly were Bengali and maharashtrian. It was a love marriage unlike most of our parents who were in arranged marriages. He one day I remember announced that he had memorised the schedule of the Indian cricket team for the entire year and challenged others to test him. I did question the use of this exercise with predictable pessimism, but he was too excited to notice.

It was not natural at that age, being teenagers, for us to question our future. We were certain that we would make it. How? I don’t remember that question ever coming up. We were, as boys that age often are, intoxicated with what little life we had lived. He, however, was not one of us in this matter. I was utterly under qualified to make this judgment then, and still am but I do believe he carried within himself a self-doubt that clearly undermined his very existence. I venture to make such a bold observation for I am convinced that I carry a similar doubt within myself. May be I always did.

I shall, I tell myself, remember him fondly for a long time to come. He will be another horse that ran. He will be another Nero that fiddled. I need him to become whatever he wanted to, for that is the only way I can be sure I will too.