THE EVENING RENDEZVOUS
(Robin Mitra)
The dazzling beauty of Jal Mahal, as the sun
prepares to retire behind the Aravalli hills, is a sight to behold. Half
submerged below the static waters of the lake, the palace with its double
storeyed arcade topped by a centric cupola reflected the last vestiges of sun
into the waters below. I had taken the tour to this royal city to capture that
very moment of supernatural beauty for my new coffee table book on the lesser
known palaces of Rajasthan.
It was about four in the evening when I got off
the bus plying between Jaipur and Amber fort, one of the three grand forts which
outline the formerly princely state of Jaipur. This particular fort which
houses a graceful temple built by the king who established the kingdom, Raja
Man Singh I is a “must see” on the itinerary of any tourist to this part of the
world. Having had my fill of forts and palaces for the last three days, I
decided to spend some leisurely moments at Jal Mahal.
Having shot several scores of photographs of the
wondrous structure from every possible angle in natural light, I found myself
seated on one of the carved red stone benches and relaxing in the cool environs
of a not- so- busy tourist destination. The soothing breeze of a mid October
evening got the better of my fatigued limbs and soon my head lolled to one
side.
I didn’t realise he was sitting beside me till
something pushed me. It was my bag carrying the camera and other peripherals as
someone had made a little more space for himself to perch his considerable bulk
on the bench placed on the promenade.
“You are new here?” It was more a statement
than a question in a youthful voice belying his age. I looked at him and took
him in closely. He was massive at well over six feet with closed cropped hair
and handlebar moustaches closing in on the jowls. With his eyes set deep inside
his bushy eyebrows, he looked more as a younger version of Asterix with the
built of Obelix. His fleshy and almost pink lips parted in a smile to show his
perfectly aligned teeth.
“Yeah,” I said nodding, not too comfortable
with the prying questions of a stranger which I knew would soon intrude into
private territory.
“Hmm Nikon SLR and that too with Nikkor lenses.
Not bad. Must have cost you a small fortune.” He added an open ended query
waiting for further ingress into a conversation.
“Tools of my trade.” I replied with a half
smile trying to sound disinterested and not sounding rude at the same time.
“Acha, you are commissioned by some
foreign magazine?”
“Not really. I usually publish my own books.”
“I see. I am Kanwal J. Singh. Friends call me KJ.”
He said proffering his hand.
I took his hand without any enthusiasm and my
palm vanished in his huge paws. “Sam Edwards. Nice to know you.”
He had by this time turned sideways and rested
his considerable frame against the handrail of the stone bench. With his shrewd
apprising eyes he could have been a counsellor if not for his massive
moustaches. He looked fit enough in a black Armani polo shirt with a pair of
well worn jeans and brown loafers.
“I usually spend my weekends here and then walk
up the IAF station just further up this road. Got a few friends there.” He said
with another disarming smile.
I nodded but didn’t offer any comment hoping he
would take the cue and either leave me alone or at least stop trying to
converse.
“You are habitually tacit or have you become so
after your wife’s death two months back?” His sudden question jolted me out of
my reverie.
“How do you know about my wife?” I asked
incredulously.
“I am an astrologer, a palm reader and
sometimes I read faces. Your’s is very clearly showing recent grief and also
confusion about what you should do next. Your thumb and its length is telling
me your diplomatic skills and the love for good things in life while your long
fingers show your artistic talent.”
I was stupefied hearing the exact description of
the recent turbulences in my life and my general nature. I softened a bit to
this garrulous fiftyish man chatting me up with no seeming self interest.
I had heard a lot about astrologers and the
like in India and really wanted to know if anyone could foresee the future.
Almost all the columns I had read on the net or in magazines would give vague
predictions which could suit anyone in any situation. To me, these seers played
around with their words and the emotions of their clients. But what intrigued
me was, how could this new acquaintance of mine know about the recent demise of
my wife and my aimlessness in life in general. He had whetted my appetite
enough. But I was wary of some of the pundits charging astronomical fee for
their indulgence.
“Sam, you think a bit too much before taking
any action. That’s your big fat problem in life. By the time you have thought
it over, the value and flavour of the moment is gone. You are at crossroads of
your life where you want a few directions but are unable to ask me thinking of
what I might charge.” He said with a twinkle in his eyes.
This stumped me. This man is a mind reader too.
I should be more careful what I think of in front of him.
“This is amazing. But how can you read my
mind?”
“By aligning my thoughts with yours. To do that
I should first stop my chain of thoughts. This comes through long hours of
meditation.” He explained.
“Hmmm. Which means you can easily find out what
I want to know right now.”
“Absolutely. Your query is what you should do
next. Whether you should continue with your present line of work or shift
towards the more glamorous fashion photography. Incidentally Sam, your present
business partner isn’t going to be with
you for more than two months.”
I stopped smiling at this sudden revelation
from the man reading me like a newspaper now. How could he know so much? I
started becoming uncomfortable and interested at the same time.
“Look Sam, you need not be afraid of me
spilling your beans. Whatever I know and tell you is confidential. I can’t
break your trust. An astrologer can’t be seen as a gossip shop.”
“Alright. I would really be thankful to know how
to proceed in my life now. My wife was my guiding light but I am at my wits’
end after I lost her. I now go back every evening to my empty apartment and
don’t know how to spend the night. Every night has become so meaningless and
unending. I keep waiting for the first light of dawn so that I can get back to
my office and start the day. But this can’t go on forever.”
“You are right. This can’t go on forever. Let
me have a look at your right palm.” He said taking out a chic pair of
spectacles from its leather case.
I stretched out my right palm for his
inspection after wiping it clean of perspiration. He took my palm in his cool
right hand and bent it a bit towards himself.
“Your wife died in labour. So you are now
haunted by this double loss of your wife and child.” Then tilting my palm
towards one side, he said, “I foresee a definite favourable happening in your near
future. You will be happy and fulfilled in your personal life.”
Taking out a white tablet phone, he looked at
me saying, “Please tell me the date, place and the exact time of your birth.”
Tapping on the screen of his Samsung, he
entered the data which I gave him although I wasn’t too sure about the exact
time of my birth.
Soon the screen metamorphosed into a number of
diagrams with numbers and names of planets.
“This is interesting. A job offer is on its way
for you right at this moment. It is from a well known…” He was cut off mid
sentence by a shrill tone whistling “Colonel Bogey”.
“I am sorry. It’s my mobile.” I reached into my
trousers pocket for the phone and saw a Mumbai number blinking on its screen.
“Hello.” I spoke into the mobile set.
“Is it Mr Sam Edwards at Pinewood Studio, Carter
Road?” The voice of a cultured woman.
“Yes, I am Sam. Who is calling please?”
“I am Joshna calling from Medusa Publications.
We have gone through your latest work, ‘The Waterfalls of Western Ghats’, and
would like to have your inputs in our next venture on River Ganges. Would you
be able to spare some time for us?”
Spare some time, I thought? For the correct
price, you can have all my time, dear lady. Don’t sound over enthusiastic
though, my instincts told me.
“I am out of Mumbai at the moment. Why don’t we
meet on Saturday at my studio? Will eleven in the morning be suitable for you?”
I heard my voice say on the phone. Today was Wednesday and I would be home by
Friday. I wanted the publisher to meet in my office so that they would know by
its location and ambience that their price has to be right for a person working
out of an upmarket locality. It was not a small windowless, dingy place but one
which afforded a view of the Arabian Sea from its 34th floor window.
“Of course, Mr Edwards. We shall be there at
eleven. Have a great day.” The line went dead.
I was elated. My mind was already envisioning
the various places I would go to shoot the river which was lifeline of Northern
India. And suddenly it dawned upon me. Even as the phone was about to ring, KJ
had predicted it. This was getting bizzare. I was stunned at the reach of astrology
and this person’s command over the subject. At that moment, I decided never to
deride an issue about which I had no knowledge.
“That was just remarkable, KJ.” I blurted out,
in more appreciation than he could fathom.
“That was my good luck too.” He smiled,
humility written all over that weather beaten smiling face.
It was getting late. The street lights had been
in business for some time now and the tiled walk on which we were sitting was
awash with the amber light of strategically placed halogen bulbs.
I had now warmed up to this man, who had
captured the drift of my life for a moment. Suddenly he looked up from his
tablet and said, “You are shortly to become a father of a four year old. You
will adopt a male child.” He looked up and smiled broadly. “This is the
answer to your loneliness and your future. Once you get the taste of
fatherhood, the present dissatisfaction with your life will be over.”
This was a day of revelations. In about an hour
this giant of a man had dissected the throes of my private life and provided
with a solution at every obstacle. Suddenly, the months of disenchantment seemed
getting dissolved. He had shown me a way ahead where I could be happy and
contented, the way I always envisioned my life to be. Not perfect, but enjoyable,
unpredictable but satisfying.
“You know KJ,” I said with tears of joy
brimming my eyes, “I have never felt so light in a long time. You made it
happen in the midst of the darkest clouds. I will never forget this day. Or
you.”
“Come, come, my sentimental friend. You were
destined to know these facts today. I was only the vector.”
I reached for my wallet. “I need to know your
charges, KJ. I guess I will be the biggest billboard of yours for life.” I was
about to extract a few thousand rupee notes when he stopped me short.
“I don’t charge for my time, Sam. This is
divine knowledge and cannot be exchanged for pieces of silver.” Then he flipped
his tablet towards me and pointed at the screen. “Could you please come to this
address tomorrow morning? Make a small donation for this place at the front
office. Whatever amount you feel is correct. There is no lower or upper limit.
It’s your will. And don’t forget to take a receipt. This place houses destitute
kids. ” Then he added as an after thought, “You will get IT relief too, on your
donation.”
The surprises for the evening were never
ending. Would anyone not make a neat amount by selling the secret trove of
information my new friend possessed? Yet, KJ seemed to remain untouched by the
lucre of worldly pursuits.
Having exchanged our mobile numbers, I stood up
and held out my hand which he did not take but
folded his hands into a namaste and said with his now trademark smile, “It’s
almost six Sam, and your bus is waiting for you.”
I turned to see the bus to Jaipur braking to a
halt at the stop where I had alighted
earlier in the evening. I sprinted to catch it lest the driver speed away not
having seen anyone at the stop. As I found a seat at the window, I could see
the back of the hulking figure of JK looking into the waters of the lake.
There was a spring in my step as I got off at a
busy bus station at the heart of this royal city steeped in the reminiscences
of the past, but eager to lap up the goodies of a globalised world.
I slept like a sloth bear that night after a
long time, unafraid of the night and woke up late but fresh the next morning.
The sun was already streaming in its golden rays when I was served breakfast in
bed. One of the trappings of a major tourist destination is that they spoil
you. The cut throat business of garnering tourists makes every hotel worth its
salt treat their guests like demi Gods.
The hotel already had a taxi waiting for me at
the front door which I had booked before falling asleep the previous night. The
driver wove in and out of the busy traffic with practised ease on Mirza Ismail
Road, the arterial road of Jaipur and soon reached a suburban part of the city
which was still coming up. We passed a few huge unfinished malls on the way and
finally reached the guarded gates of a private housing colony. The sentry at
the gate tapped on my window and bent down. “Address please.” He said in heavily
accented English.
I gave him the name of the orphanage KJ had
shown me the previous evening on his tablet. He then directed the driver to the
location and soon we were passing through tree lined roads and streets with
manicured gardens and remote controlled gates. The taxi stopped in front of
such a house.
“Ashram”, was all the simple granite block said
at the entrance of the steel gates leading to the house. I stood in front of
the house unable to find an electric bell when the gate suddenly opened to
reveal a burly uniformed guard.
“Where is the office?” I asked him.
He stepped back and waved the car inside the
compound and I followed on foot.
The reception was small but elegant. The middle
aged lady manning the office stood up and smiled. “Good morning. How can I help
you?”
“Good morning, ma’am. I wish to make a small donation to this
orphanage.” I said.
“Thank you sir,” she beamed. “If you kindly
refer to this place as ashram and not an orphanage, all the children
here would be very happy.” Her affectionate smile robbed her words of any
offence.
“Of course.” I smiled back trying to assuage
any hurt feelings.
She took out a receipt book from the drawer and
flipping open to a new page, handed it to me along with a ball point pen.
I looked down at the book and counted out five
thousand rupees and filled in my name and address and the amount. She signed
the receipt and returned it to me.
“Sir, would you like to have a tour of our
ashram? Most of the kids are away to school now. Only two are resting in the
sick room. Would you wish to meet them or see our other facilities for the
children?”
“Thank you for the offer, ma’am but I am on a
tight schedule. I would be definitely coming back in a month or two and then
will set up an appointment with the kids.” My mind was already thinking of the
predictions which KJ had made a few hours ago.
As I turned to leave, the lady spoke up again,
“Sir, can you kindly tell me who directed you here to help us out with such a
generous donation? Mostly people come here, see the facilities, promise a lot
but never return to help the children.”
“Oh yes. Last evening I met a gentleman who
told me about this place.”
“I would like to have the name and address of
the gentleman who has been so kind to us so that we can send him a token of
appreciation” She looked at me with pen in hand, ready to write in an open
diary.
“I met Mr Kanwal J. Singh last evening and we
got chatting. He recommended this ashram for making a donation.”
The lady stared back blankly, her demeanour
changed, her smile frozen. Shock was written all over her. “You surely are
joking, sir. How could you have met him?”
She pointed behind my head at the wall at a
freshly garlanded huge painting of KJ. “Air Commodore Kanwal J Singh drowned
exactly a year ago in the Jal Mahal lake.”