We often met at the gates of JK Residency, rather crossed each other. I, on my way out after a quiet hour at the bar and he on his way in, possibly for a long evening. At first, it was as if we wouldn’t ever notice each other – his lithe figure breezing in and my lethargic form lumbering out. As our crossings became more frequent, we started to acknowledge the other with curt nods. And later, as familiarity grew, we began to exchange smiles, like between fellow-conspirators. We didn’t talk though, as yet.
I was a habitual early customer at the roof-top bar of JK Residency; for an evening in solitude in the relative peace of the slack hours. A seat at any of the north-side tables offered one a view of the expansive stretch of swinging coconut palms below and the curves of the silent hills in the distance. Sitting alone, musing, watching the swaying tree tops, was how I liked to pass my early evenings there. I enjoyed the luxurious tranquillity of those leisurely hours of the day.
That evening began like any other, the sun nearing the end of its day-long journey, its surrogate brilliance reflecting on the quivering palm leaves. The well-behaved wind moved in and out like an obedient page-boy. There was a hum in the air that steadily grew louder and louder, as if one’s fancy was readying to take off. Beginning of a sweet sensation somewhere in a corner of the mind was a sign of poetry taking shape. I sat back and was about to close my eyes.
Our friend from the gates sauntered in from nowhere, looking handsomer than I remembered him to be. In his jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers, striding with a carefree elegance, he looked young, though his hair had begun to grey at the temples. Bluish-grey eyes twinkled as if in anticipation of some ensuing mischief.
“Mind if I join you?” He extended his hand and said, “Sebastian. Sebastian George.”
I mumbled my name as we shook hands. His palms were rough, rough as with regular harsh use.
“Please,” I said, welcoming him.
As he sat, his eyes took in the ambience, the quietness in the bar, the shining palm tops and the distant hills. I observed him, studying his ruggedly handsome face. He must be in his early forties, I thought, and as healthy as one would wish to be.
The bar-boy brought his drink. “Tequila sir,” the boy said. He nodded.
I noticed that no order was taken. The boy withdrew.
“It’s Tequila these days,” he said. “How about you?” he enquired.
“Scotch”, I said. I was with my first drink of the day.
“It used to be Swiss cocktails”, he looked at me. “Swiss Watch is one that comes with a garnishing of powdered sugar to remind one of the snows in the Alps. It’s a relatively new creation, reminding one of Last Word, the world- renowned cocktail.” He spoke without accent and with ease.
‘Is there something more to the drink’ I wondered, ‘some associated memory?’
“Interesting. How long were you there in Switzerland?” I ventured.
“Twenty-six years,” he said, “in Basel, two hours from the Swiss Alps.”
“Thought I had enough and I came back,” he paused. Reaching for his glass, he continued, “Maybe it would have been better to stay back.” There was a touch of melancholy in his voice. He rubbed his chin and looked out into the fading daylight. I too gazed at the faint glimmer disappearing from the palm leaves.
“Tequila is hard”, he was speaking, “the opposite of a good drink in my opinion. But I’ve come to like it.” He hesitated, as if going over something in his mind before speaking.
“It was in Delhi that I switched over to Tequila,” he resumed, “just after five months of being in Delhi. Out of these five months, I abstained for three months. ….. It all appears unreal now.”
He looked at me. “Hope I am not boring you,” he said.
“Certainly not. In fact, I was hoping to get acquainted with you.” I replied.
“Yes,” he continued, “I too. To be honest, it was to see you and speak to you that I came early today. I have been looking towards this meeting for some days. I usually come here for my meals and night drinks.”
He finished his drink and ordered another. I too called for my second.
He wasn’t speaking. So, I asked him in my laboured English, “are you new to this town? I have been seeing you only for the past two months or so.”
He nodded. “I stay a short way away from here. Rented a house. My own house is in an estate in the hills, some thirty miles towards east. But it’s too lonely there.”
He looked out into the growing darkness. Second round of drinks had arrived. He poured some water over the ice cubes.
We sipped our drinks in silence. He then reached into his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. He offered me one.
“No, thanks,” I said, “I quit recently.”
“I started recently,” he quipped, “do you mind if I?”
“Please go ahead.”
He lit his cigarette and let out a cloud of smoke.
“I came only three months back, from Delhi,” he was answering my question, “stayed on the hill for a fortnight, felt lonely there and then moved in here.” He smiled. There was a hint of sadness in that smile.
“I was brought up in an orphanage in the village where I have the house now.” He continued. “Went to the government school in the village. Was good at studies and studied with scholarships throughout. The church helped as much as it could. Ours was a poor parish. Got a job in Mumbai after my engineering graduation. A few years there and I went to Basel in Switzerland. Twenty-six years in the pharmaceutical industry. It was work and more work there. I was good at my job and the package was alright. During the weekends I went to the mountains. Did a course in mountaineering. Spent the entire free time in the Alps, climbing one or another small mountain. Had a fall during one such climb. Suffered a minor fracture in the hip. After the surgeries I was back on legs, albeit with a slight drag in the right leg. I don’t know if you have noticed, I try not to show it. I wanted to quit the job then, but they wouldn’t let me. I was offered a senior post and an increase that wasn’t easy to refuse. So, I stayed on for a few more years, but my mind was no more in it. Felt I had had enough. Quit and came back to the village. Bought that estate and got a house built there.” He reached for his drink.
I certainly hadn’t noticed the drag in his leg. Tried to remember if I saw anything when he came in. Nothing.
The cigarette was half burned out. He wasn’t smoking. He put it out in the ashtray and sipped his drink for a while.
“It was our pastor in the village, who told me about Sicily,” he resumed.
“Sicily is also from the same village, grew up in the same orphanage. She is an English Professor in a college in Delhi now,” he was talking. “Stunningly beautiful and a divorcee when we met.”
He drained his glass and motioned to the boy who was waiting nearby. He then lit another cigarette. “She was thirty-eight and I was fifty-two in May last year when we got married. We got acquainted during the summer vacation. It’s a year today to the date.” His eyes followed the smoke trail as he spoke.
“You look hardly forty” I said.
There was amusement in his eyes. “She too told me the same thing when we first met,” he smiled ironically.
With his index finger he wrote something on the misty outside of the glass. The boy had brought his third tequila and dropped ice-cubes into it.
He then sat up straight in his seat and raised his glass, “Cheers!” he said, “to the death of a dream.” I wasn’t sure that I understood. But in his eyes, I could read an untold story.
The first three months following the marriage were blissful. Well .. for him at least. He started to dream of a life, a life he never thought of having of before. Bought a house in Greater Kailash for her. Together they roamed the world and holidayed in costly resorts. Those were magical days, or so he believed.
They were back in Delhi after three months. Sicily to her college and he to nowhere in particular.
Sicily in Delhi led an active life. Her friends from the literary world had her encircled constantly. Some or other engagement always kept her busy. Her evenings in particular were important to her. ‘Artful evenings’, she called them. Sebastian was an outsider during such evenings. An introvert by nature, he found himself alone during the days and gradually during the nights as well. It wasn’t in his character to demand or complain. He made it easy for her. For him, the magic had worn off. To make it bearable, he started frequenting bars. That was the time he switched over to plain tequila. He had found out that dreams and desires didn’t mix well.
He longed to be away from Delhi. He left for his village without leaving any message for her. And she didn’t care to find out.
There was a long silence. He was ordering the fourth tequila. I wasn’t surprised. I too broke my oath to order a third drink.
As we waited for the drinks my phone rang. Madam was on the line. Feeling guilty, I took the call. I was late and I hadn’t informed her.
“So sorry dear, I am with a friend. Yes, yes, I have got the earring. Won’t be too late, I promise.”
He was watching me as I spoke. “How long are you married?” he asked.
“Forty-two years,” I said, “I am sixty-eight.”
He nodded. The drinks had been brought. He lit another cigarette.
We drank in silence for a while. It was dark outside and the bar was slowly filling.
“She cost me three crores in four months and yet she was not a reality in my life.”
There was a pause. He was lost in thoughts.
Then he spoke again, “I am leaving for Europe tomorrow. Going back to Basel. I wished to meet you before I left.”
I was surprised, but I understood. Strangely, I was feeling a sense of loss.
“I am missing the mountains, the cocktails, the Alps air and the snow”, he said.
The bar was getting crowded. We prepared to leave.
“What about food?” I asked him.
“I will have it in the restaurant below,” he replied.
We both drained our glasses and stood up. He came to me and extended his hand. I stood up.
“Adieu sir, till we meet gain.” He shook my hands. He gave me his card.
I nodded and said, “So long, we may meet again soon. We’re planning a trip to Europe.”
A week later I received a message on my mobile phone while I was in my usual seat at J K Bar.
‘Hello sir, how’re you? In your habitual seat, sitting alone sipping scotch? I am also alone in a pub in the Swiss Alps. The drink is Swiss Watch, the delicious cocktail mixed additionally with the air and snows of the Alps. This is how I liked it always. Will have lunch now and be heading to one of the taller peaks in the evening. Wish you well. Bye.’
‘Happy climbing. Enjoy.’ I replied.
I wished to be with him in the Alps. But I wasn’t a man made for the mountains.
Four hours later, while in bed, I received a call from the Indian Embassy in Bern.
“This is the Indian Embassy in Bern. May we know who are we speaking to?”
“What happened? Whom do you want?” I asked. There were misgivings in my mind.
“We have a message for you about one Mr. Sebastian George. We have only your number. Not your name.”
I feared that my fears were coming true. I identified myself.
“In fact, we are reporting a tragedy. Mr. Sebastian George while climbing a mountain peak in the Alps seems to have had an accident. His body was found in the valley. Although the thick snow cushioned his fall, he seems to have suffered a heart attack during the fall. He is no more. We are so sorry.”
“In his inner vest we found a mobile phone and a note,” the lady continued. “The phone was not locked and there is only one contact number saved in the phone. And that is yours. The contact is named merely as ‘Friend’.”
“The note contained his request to be buried in a common cemetery at the highest possible point in the Alps,” she added, “and in his instructions he set apart amounts towards the funeral and other expenses and details regarding disposal of his assets. All money is to go to the orphanage in his village. The pastor in his village is to be informed of the will he kept in the Bank locker.”
“At the end of the note he left a message for you: that at the table in the pub in the Alps he had to make a choice and that it was a difficult one. He hoped you would understand.”
As the call ended, I found my wife looking at me with concern in her eyes.
‘No, my friend, I wouldn’t understand,’ I thought. Somehow, I felt strangely guilty.
Cover: Wilson Sarada Anand
