CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE UNBELIEVABLE KIND--GOOD MORNING

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE UNBELIEVABLE KIND--GOOD MORNING

A.V. DHANUSHKODI

Hamlet: “There are many things in heaven and earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”--HAMLET, ACT I SCENE V

EPISODE TWO—“GOOD MORNING”

The second episode of a series of unbelievable experiences I am about to record, will read like a fairy tale to you. Why, even to me, when I now recollect that strange event, after so many years, it appears more like a fairy tale than fact.

Living in one of the quiet localities of Madras, as it was known years ago, is a boon to a seeker of solitude that I was and am. It was partly by chance and partly by choice that I came to live here twenty years ago. From then on, I was determined to reap the maximum benefit out of the relative seclusion of the area: one of those has been long walks early every morning. The purpose of walking, I must confess, was not merely to enjoy the air and the ambience, but to keep my ischaemic heart in a healthy condition, as my allopath had advised. Here I must digress to remark that I was overjoyed when my doctor discovered that I had a heart, although sick, while many of my friends and acquaintances have often declared beyond doubt that I was heartless, sick or sound.

While my sick heart compelled me to undertake the ordeal of an hour-long walk every morning, other reasons exerted an equal pressure on me to take short walks to serve other purposes—trivial and mundane purposes such as buying a sachet of milk, or a box of matches, or a bathing soap, for, I had neither a car nor a boy to drive. However, I should say that I took those walks in my stride and compelled myself to consider them as additional exercise, to keep at least my physical being in good shape.

The second episode of the series of strange experiences took place during such short walks. I don’t remember exactly why I took the walk that morning; I think I had run out of bathing soap and, understandably, I was in a dirty mood. The street leading to the store where I usually bought my provisions, took five ninety-degree turns within a short distance and, every time I took one of those turns, I used to wonder what I might confront around the corner: a speeding car bent on running over me, or a cyclist determined to make me dance to the left and to the right, to avoid an unseemly collision. Although through twenty years of innumerable such walks I had never confronted any such humiliating experience, the inexplicable apprehension per se persisted in haunting me during every walk through that street.

That fateful morning I had cleared the first two turns and, as I was clearing the third with an air of relief, I heard a strident voice call out, “Good Morning, Sir!” In fact, the voice sounded more like one of the myriad noises one hears in a street, that I scarcely took it in. It was only when the voice insisted on greeting me a second time, I realized that it was a human voice and that the greeting was meant for me, because there was none else around at the time. I looked up and discovered the person who had uttered it.

He was tall and well-built, but somewhat misshapen. His age, I estimated to be at least five years more than mine, about 70. He had a walking stick to support him, a stick as misshapen as he was. He wore one of those old-fashioned mull-baniyans and dhoti, folded at the knee and tucked in. On the whole, he presented a rather strange sight, but more important, he had a peculiar unearthly air about him, as if he belonged nowhere.

When he greeted me a second time, I could not help reciprocating with a reluctant “Good Morning”, more out of courtesy than compulsion. I have always had an aversion towards “Good Mornings”. In my opinion, they are unnecessary, formal, and foreign. Therefore, I have never greeted anyone first, but only responded to such greetings, with great reluctance of course.

After passing him, I went about my work. Doing my daily chores and little businesses, the insignificant incident went out of my mind completely.

There are two streets leading from my house to the main road. I take one or the other, depending on the direction in which my destination lies. However, as even a short spell of rain makes one of them a Venetian waterway, I let a few days pass after one such spell, before I ventured into that street again, in which I encountered the stranger with a congenial “Good Morning” for me.

That morning, if I remember well, I was on my way to the junk shop where I usually sold my old newspapers. I had to take the less preferred street to go to the junk shop, otherwise the distance was too long through the other street. Five kilos of newspapers weighed rather heavily that I had to often shift the bundle from one arm to the other. I was guarding the papers carefully from getting wet from the light drizzle which started when I took the first turn, as I feared that even a shadow of a water molecule on the newspapers might cause a bitter quarrel between the junk-shop owner and me over the weight of the newspapers. I was anxious to avoid such a possibility, because I was in a nasty mood, which could bring out the TRex in me at the least provocation.

I was so deeply preoccupied with the aforementioned thoughts and with the calisthenics I had to perform to avoid the dirty puddles, that I almost missed him as I took the second turn. He, however, did not miss me, “Good Morning, Sir!” rang out the raucous voice so near my ear that I jumped out of my slippers and landed right in the middle of a puddle I was planning to out-manoeuvre. Normally I would have been merely annoyed at having to respond to his greeting, but that time, I was more than merely annoyed: I was furious. I snapped back, “It is, indeed, a bad morning, Sir!” without a second-thought. But a moment later, still standing in the dirty water, I cooled my heels and looked back remorsefully to see if I had hurt him badly. He, however, was walking at the same pace and with the same concentration to negotiate every step, puddle or no puddle, as if nothing had happened. I wondered if he heard my most offensive outburst at all.

I continued my walk towards the junk-shop, this time weighed down with thoughts about the compulsive greeter, in addition to the weight of the newspapers. What was it that made him greet me unfailingly every time he passed by? Had I met him elsewhere before? Was I the only person he greeted, or did he greet everyone on the way? Why should he address me, obviously much younger than him, with such respect? Or, was it a matter of mere courtesy and meant nothing more? Every one of those questions drew a blank. By then I had reached the junk-shop and was busy converting the old newspapers into old currency papers and, in the busyness which followed the business of again converting those old currency papers into assorted items of hardware and software needed for my daily existence, I forgot the greeter.

A few more days must have passed before I had another encounter with my tormentor. This time I was going to Sri Ram Bhavan, a restaurant on the main road, to have breakfast. The shortest distance to it was through the “encounter” street, if I may call it that for the sake of convenience than comparison with the “encounters” the police have so often these days with history-sheeters, a curious coinage meaning that the police had sheets of the history of crimes committed by unsocial elements, to put it mildly.

That morning, my head was filled with thoughts most profound in nature: what should I have for breakfast? Quite a wide variety of “items” were available to choose from, but I had tried them all, in all imaginable combinations, and I was left with no untried permutation. I was wondering if I should use my recently acquired laptop to juggle with the available items to come up with a combination I had never tried, when I was hit by the “Good Morning, Sir!” and jolted back to reality. Then and there, I lost all appetite I had churned up until then, thinking on my breakfast.

Naturally, I was extremely annoyed. I decided not to respond, and so I walked on without a word. But there was no escaping the “Good Morning” which now sounded very demanding, but I stuck fast to my decision. Then, I took an unexpected sudden decision to confront my tormentor head on. I stopped, turned around, followed, and caught up with him. He showed no signs that he had company now.

“Sir, my name is Dhanush. May I know your good name, Sir?” I asked, compelling my tone to be as courteous as possible.

“Good Morning,” came his response, as we walked on. That annoyed me even more.

“I am pleased to meet you. May I know whom I am addressing?” I extended my hand, but not expecting him to reciprocate.

“Good Morning,” came the greeting unfailingly again. That was it. I had had enough. I stopped and looked helplessly at his slowly receding figure.

“Good Morning, Sir”, came again clearly. I was speechless. I just stood and watched him walk away with firm steps round the bend.

A few moments passed in silence. I was overjoyed. I had won. I turned around and took a step, when I heard, “Good Morning, Sir” come a little faintly from somewhere in the street.

I was boiling mad and opened my mouth to blast a “GOOD MORNING!” at him, when I heard another voice very politely responding, “A very Good Morning to you Sir.” I couldn’t help laughing. So, I was not the only victim, I concluded.

*

A few days after that encounter I took the same street to go to the main road. My son was with me: he had come down from Delhi on vacation, to spend a week with me. As we were walking, we were discussing personal and family matters so deeply that I almost failed to notice a small group of men standing in front of a modest house; some were silent and some were talking to each other in whispers. At that moment, I saw four sturdy men carry the limp body of an old man out of the house. As I recognized with shock the man they were carrying, they gently put him down on a bier in front of the house. Another man rushed out of the house with a twisted walking stick and placed it next to him. Then the din of the conch and the gong started.

I had never dreamt that the old man would leave so suddenly. I felt somewhat sad and remorseful. As I resumed walking, I could not help recalling the encounters I had with him in the recent past and how shabbily I had behaved towards him. If only I would get another chance to hear his greeting, I would make amends, I thought.

“Good Morning, Sir,” pierced a shrill voice through the din. “A very Good Morning to you, Sir”, slipped out of me like a reflex reaction. My God, I was hallucinating. I quickened my steps, ashamed of myself, hoping that my son had not heard me.

“Who was it Dad?” asked my son.

“What did you ask?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.

“You wished someone ‘Good Morning’?” he reminded me.

“Oh… well….I was talking…..to… myself, I think.” I stammered.

“No, Dad, I heard someone wish you Good Morning, and you wished him back,” he insisted.

I could not believe my ears. He had also heard. I was not hallucinating.

A.V. Dhanushkodi

July 2009