by M.Mohankumar
I have just returned from a visit to the old man.
It was thirty odd years ago that I met him for the first time. I was then in the Second Year B.A. The college had just reopened after summer vacation. We were in our seats in the lecture hall for the class on World History. And then he walked in with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. Tall and well-groomed, his thick, black curly hair neatly combed back, he appeared to be in his mid-thirties.
He was an instant hit with us. We listened to his lectures with rapt attention. They were not mere lectures on history but ranged over other subjects like literature, philosophy and architecture. I remember when he talked to us about Alexander and his conquests, he spoke of Aristotle, Homer’s epics, Greek drama and the splendours of Greek architecture.
The lectures were so fascinating that even students belonging to other groups would sneak into our class to attend them.
It was not long before we knew that this handsome man was still a bachelor; and, naturally, there was quite some speculation about it; and soon several stories began doing the rounds in the college.
I always scored high marks in History, and became one of his favourite students. Once in a while, he would invite some of us to his lodge. His room was barely furnished – all it had was a string-cot, a table, a chair. And a shelf, specially procured by him. There were books on the shelf and the table, on many subjects, neatly arranged. There were books stacked on the floor. It was there, in that small room, that I became acquainted with the names of some of the great historians and literary giants – Macaulay, Trevelyan, H.A.L. Fisher, Goethe, Somerset Maugham, T.S. Eliot.
Months went by. The college closed for summer holidays and by the time it reopened, many of the Lecturers had been transferred. He was one of them.
My next meeting with him was some 25 years later. It was just accidental. I had come home on my annual sabbatical. I was out, walking along the main road, when I heard a hoarse voice from behind calling out my name. I looked back and saw him smiling. I couldn’t recognise my old teacher; he had grown old, too old for his age, and was bald and walked with a stoop.
“Twelve years ago, I retired from service,” he said. “After staying in several cities, teaching in parallel colleges, I bought a small house in this relatively quiet town.”
”Who is there with you?’ I asked.
“Only a boy-servant who looks after my needs,” he said.
Since then, I have been meeting him whenever I come to spend some time in this town. And every time I have found him reclining in the same old easy chair in his drawing room, surrounded by books on various subjects.
This time he was in an expansive mood. He talked about his orphaned childhood, his loneliness as a school boy and the encouragement he received from his teachers. He talked about the benevolence of the Father Principal of his college, who took care of the fees and the boarding charges, and how he ‘pegged away’ and ‘pulled himself by his own bootstraps.’
It was virtually a monologue, as it always was in those early days when we met him in his lodge.
“I find you are reading lot of books on dreams,” I interrupted him, seeing so many books on the subject- Freud, Jung and others lying about him.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m still trying to find out whether there is any meaning to the dreams that we have. You know there are various theories about it.”
He paused, and I saw the faint flicker of a smile on his face. Then he said, “We all have dreams, good or bad, almost every day. We forget most of them, but a few stick in the mind for some time, one or two for ever. In my case….”
He paused again, as if in doubt whether he should divulge the details, and then went on:
“When I was about twenty seven, I had an extraordinary dream. In that dream I saw a young girl who looked very fair and charming. She was so radiant and self-possessed. She moved with an indescribable grace. She spoke in a voice at once sweet and confident. All my worries fell away in her presence and I felt absolutely light and care-free.”
“This dream had a tremendous effect on me. For days, my only thoughts were about this dream. Did the dream portend anything? I read Freud and Jung on the subject and was none the wiser for it.”
“I came to the conclusion that if the dream meant anything, it was that I should marry a girl like the one I saw in the dream. She would bring joy and happiness into my life and give it a purpose and a new direction. I advertised and received a hundred proposals. Friends too brought in quite a few. I saw a number of girls and talked to them but was not satisfied. None of them measured up to my expectations.”
At this stage the servant boy came with two cups of tea on a steel tray, and placing it on the teapoy in front of the old man, went back to the kitchen.
Sipping the tea, the old man said, “Now I know, with the hindsight I have, that I was wrong. If I had not been haunted by that dream, I would have perhaps married a decent, fairly good-looking girl and raised a family, instead of going after an unattainable ideal.”
Yet another pause. Then he said, “What did the dream portend? You know there have been good interpreters of dreams in the past. There was Joseph, son of Jacob in the Old Testament; Joseph who was sold into slavery by his brothers, who read aright the dreams of the Pharaoh and predicted the famine that was to strike Egypt, and became the Vizier of Egypt. There was the Buddha, according to Jataka Tales, who interpreted the sixteen dreams of the King of Kosala whom his advisers had misguided for their selfish ends.”
It was getting dark. As I rose to take leave of him, he said, “I’ve read your latest book of poems. It’s better than the previous two.”
So, he had known that I was writing poetry! I wished I had brought my books and gifted them to him.
”Wait a minute,” he said, and went inside, dragging his left leg. I knew how ill he was and frail. And alone. He came back with a book in his hand.
“This one is for you,” he said. “The Collected Poems of Matthew Arnold, the prize I won in my Final B.A. for the best essay on English poetry. One of my favourite poets; ‘Dover Beach’ his best poem.”
He came out with me to the veranda. Then he said, “I too have been writing poetry, of late. I’ll show you the poems when you come next.”
I smiled, shook his hand and left.
As I walked back I realised it would be at least a year before I met him again.
I am flying back to Chicago tomorrow and certainly, with a new baggage of memories.
Mohankumar has published seven volumes of poetry in English. His poems have appeared in almost all reputed literary magazines in print in India. His first collection of short stories in English will be brought out by Authorspress, Delhi shortly. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
