I was a lone biology undergrad from a college uptown who skipped most classes and read a bunch of junk. And I frequented this place.
“Adios, amigo.”
The engineer-at -large ambled out of the pub after having finished her last shot. “See you around.”
White noise echoed across the pub—the hum and chatter of the television and the people inside the bar seemingly attempting to outdo each other. The volume had been turned up, the loudest the idiot box glued to the walls would allow it to be, and the final leg of the Federation Cup was on for all to see.
The players were in top form. They had played undersized passes and ended with a few goals to count. “Yes!” cheered the crowd. “They played well. They missed a lot o passes though. And this was enough for us to avenge that year’s shameful defeat,” said one fan. “Both of them played defensively; dwarf passes and all. They brought this all the way from the pitches of the pitches of España, diga y despedida,” said another.
The tough chap sitting opposite my table ended up saying, “I can’t take this; acting like first year college kids when they’re playing professional ball! I lost 500, plus time.”
“Pass me a beer,” he said after a while. “Pass me the lighter too.” Pass me this and that; this seemed to be how the tough guy went.
A grumpy old guy on the counter opened his mouth displaying his caffeine-tainted teeth. He recalled a historic match that had taken place between the Brits and the Argentineans against the backdrop of the Falkland war. “It was then that Maradona had scored the Hand of God goal,” with a sugar-coated voice.
“Shut up, will you? I can’t hear myself think,” said a guy from one of the other groups in the bar. His comment created silence, a ‘pin drop’ silence one might add, in a place that was buzzing with noise only a moment ago. This silence was challenged by pooches barking at backpackers outside on the street. Another football buff suddenly stood up, opened the door with a thrust, stepped outside and slammed it hard. The night was growing older, like the old man on the counter. The fans now moved out, lighting their cigarettes, leaving behind only a few strangers.
The pub stood by one of midtown’s few engineering colleges. It was the kind that served the regular supply of liquor, fags, teas and in-betweens.
The college was quite like most others of its kind in the city. The freshmen there liked listening to their seniors talk about students’ unions and elections and about free meals. These young guns, who always wanted more in life, frequently stepped outside to smoke a joint or two. I was an outsider to them. I was not from the engineering school.
In fact, I was a lone biology undergrad from a college uptown. I skipped most classes and read a bunch of junk inside my den. And I frequented this place. My room was nearby and I couldn’t afford the fancy restaurants across the street. The pub was Kafkaesque—its wall, black of soot; its roof, rusted ferrous oxide; its tables, six of them crammed in one place; a kitchen and counter on the corner and Kale, an ever hungry dog who was always to be found there.
The tables were pitch-black as if they had not been cleaned for ages. The regular rush of vehicles and screeching of tyres were heard. And on midday, one could hear the thuds the artisans produced as they hammered at their metal statues. I frequented this pub as I liked the taste of hard-boiled tea with a couple of cigarettes and alternative moonshine. And here, I could have them all on credit.
In those days, I was in the process of getting detached from the world, from worldly emotions. I thought myself an outsider in my own world, dipping deep into anthologies, eager to figure a way from the black dog. I found pilgrimage in moonshine, drank darkness out of the dark and discussed Nietzsche with the engineer-at-large.
It was always difficult for the engineer-at-large to stay here very long. The pub was always crammed with specimens of the opposite sex. She often left the place quite early.
I used to dive into lengthy monologues, trying to decipher meaning from unknown codes after she left.
Since she had left for the evening and the hullabaloo creditable to the football fans gathered in the pub had subsided, I pulled myself up and began reading The Plague. I finished some chapters and it really seemed to me then that Kafka was resonating of bleak allegory, of the unparalleled consciousness of human beings.
I was distracted by the sudden appearance of a man. “Hello! Everyone and the dog,” said the guy who had appeared out of the blue and walked with a slight limp. “And you, who are you?” he said as he took the seat opposite me, staring at me with misty eyeballs.
“I am a fellow traveller, much like you, drinking out of anxiety,” I replied.
“Did you win that match, huh?”
“Nope, I lost the series.”
“So, hit me with some rum punch for the failure.”
I ordered glasses of rum for both of us.
“Isalud!”
I have not lost. I have just found 10,000 reasons I couldn’t win.
“What is that hiding under your coat?”
“A paperback.”
“What paperback, a revolver paperback?”
“The Plague, Camus....”
“So you read Camus...It’s not the plague then. It’s cholera for sure; the damned cholera of Oran.”
“What is cholera?”
“Cholera is brown, the plague is black, and bubonic is the soot.”
“Are you a cholera survivor, or what?”
“I survived the plague; the bubonic one.”
As he said this, lightening rumbled in the heart of darkness. His eyes seemed brighter than before. They were still staring at me. I could see clouds assemble in the skyline from the window opposite me. There were alternating thunders, and
then a burst of heaviness. Water drizzled through the pores of the rusted tin roof above us and poured down onto the table. Everything was wet. I saw blood trickle down the coat sleeves of the man opposite me—red, mercurochrome. His eyes were still fixed on me although his bodies melted away.
I felt thirsty. My neck was parched and my clothes wet with sweat. I drank the rum in front of me in one shot. I thought I might be going crazy. I was having a panic attack. I lit up a cigarette out of anxiety. I wept. I wept louder. I felt pain. Somehow I knew I was feeling the pain of birth. O God! His blood was blending with my tears on the floor of the pub. I sensed blood, seat and tears intermingling with alcohol, water urine...I didn’t know what else lay under the foundation of the pub.
I was sucked into a vortex of worldly emotions. The lame walker continued to melt but his vulture eyes were still in place, still in form, glaring at me. He put his arms down on the table and faded into darkness.
I fainted.
I woke up.
The old man on the counter had splashed a bucket of water on me. The engineer-at-large was at the door. She had an umbrella. “What are you doing here late night? I heard gunshots uptown....the sound of firecrackers,” she said. “I worried about you. Let’s go now.”
“I survived the bubonic plague,” I said.
“Good night, pal,” the old man at the counter said. I replied with a shy smile.
- Nirmal Acharya
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