A man was sitting at a table in a lawn. His name was Attila,
John. His fingers held a cigarette, which he lighted right after he finished
the joint. He was brooding over his life in the past, and how he was now - contemplating
his retirement from his city and old life, job and wife. He had been sitting at
this table at half past four in the evening, every day the last year and a
half.
Around when john had smoked half his cigarette,Prof.
Krishnamurthy Naik came down the two step entrance into the lawn and asked John
if he could borrow the lighter on the table. In reality, Krishnamurthy just
held the lighter in his hand and raised it, and half glanced towards the
stranger while saying, “Can I?”
It was sudden for John because he was too relaxed, but he
was not surprised enough to react in haste. He was used to the valleys and
mountains through which his mind took him when he was off guard. He said “Sure”
This sounded more like ‘sha..’ to Krishnamurthy’s ears. But
then, Krishnamurthy knew that he would have sounded the same given the breeze
from the sea, the calmness of the place and his own mind.
It had been three years since Krishnamurthy was
disillusioned about his career as a social activist. Some day at age forty five,
it dawned upon him that the most important thing was for him to be with himself
all the time.The world was becoming too political for him, hence petty. He
drifted here and there and ended up as a small time legal writer in this beach
village in the south-west coast of India, where his engagement to the real
world was limited to his dealings with his employers and colleagues. It was a
hour job which paid well, yet was mechanical for him due to superior
experiences. He was free to walk his walks the rest of the time.
He took the lighter and took a couple of steps towards the
edge of the lawn where standing underneath the coconut trees, surrounded by
small plants and grass, he could feel the vastness of sea, while taking in the breeze coming from
over it. He lighted a clove flavoured Marthin, his favorite, not usually
available near the beach. He took his time to leave the lawn after finishing
the cigarette - it was a magnetic place.
Krishnamurthy came back the next day around the same time
and took the same lighter from the stranger sitting at the table. John wondered
if they could be still be called strangers.
This went on, more or less everyday, for several years. No
one spoke after the first day.
This lawn was attached to a sea facing lodge. Winds blew
from under its nose, for the lodge was located on a ridge on a small mountain.
It was a tourist kind of a place - but the tourists tended to turn settlers
while the residents migrated away. It was the summer, and windy. Or so it
seemed because of the spaciousness of the beach and waters ahead. Or maybe
because of the brightness of the sun facing the lawn. Yet it wasn’t
hot because of the cool breeze. Krishnamurthy spent hours walking the pavements
that were laced between these small single-storey buildings and the mountain.
The pavements had a view of the ocean from across the lawns. The lawns
themselves were small, but looked luxurious due to the scenic background.
One day after these several years where nothing had changed
about the place or the people, a third person entered the lawn when John and
Krishnamurthy had been smoking their cigarettes as usual, quietly as usual. He
wanted to sell some tea, so the kid shouted “Chai” in his native accent. Krishnamurthy
said “two cups" and so started a conversation.