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Journalism of Courage
That day, last day of the year, we were in Goa on one of those grey beaches and we were lying on those beach beds at one of those shacks. You know those shacks? The Goa shacks. They put striped, torn towels on the beach beds but that was nice of them. The food was average, naturally, what do you expect? So we lay there. It was sunset time and the colours were doing that thing in the sky. At one point the sea became gold. Then it became darker and darker, and, finally, the sea and sky melted into blackness. But there was still an orange and a pink in the clouds. So we lay there drinking beer calmly, smoking cigarettes regretfully. And we were speaking about the usual things: somebody else’s relationship, beach runner’s weird body. Dogs wandered about tails wagging, then charged off barking wildly.
We lay there in a kind of end-of-year lying down, waiting for the sky to fold down into the sea, like a roll of tissue. And just when we were ordering some more calamari, this old man came to us and he said, “Where are you all from?” “Bangalore.” “Oh Bangalore is a lovely place. Very nice people from Bangalore. Generally, I have found the best clients are from Bangalore. From North India, they are very aggressive people.” We agreed wholeheartedly. We nodded and smiled. He asked us what we wanted. His white hair wind-wispy, white-moustached, bleached against his dark face; he spoke polished English. His eyes wore that look, like he had given a lot, and was still waiting for something in return, his small, dark eyes. He wore an ironed, blue shirt, and ironed, grey trousers — they ended above his ankles — and brown sandals. “I hope I’m not disturbing you all,” he said. No. Not at all. How long have you been here? We tried to make conversation. “Many years. I was in North Goa before this. But you know, Bangalore people are nice people. North India, I don’t know what happens there. Just yesterday in the paper, whole family strangled themselves.” He wrapped his hairy fingers around his throat till they interlocked at the back of his neck. We smiled politely. My phone rang and I turned away to take the call. “I hope I’m not disturbing you all,” he said again. “One second,” I told him. He went to get our food and more beer. “That was weird,” said P. “Ya that became weird very quickly.” “Maybe he’s a serial killer.”
He brought our plate of calamari and two beers. He was unstable on beach sand. His hands shook when he put down our food. ‘You’re Muslim or Hindu or Christian?’ he asked. We nodded and shrugged awkwardly. None of us were anything. “These days many problems with Muslims and Hindus. We Christians are left alone in the country.”
I said, “So where are you from?” I changed the subject. He raised his eyebrows happily. “Of course, sir! I am Goan. I was in the army, many years. In fact, I fought in the Indo-China war. So when I came back, the Governor honoured me. Raj Bhavan is a beautiful house. In case you didn’t know that is where the Governor lives. Now I live here, close by.” He pointed somewhere behind us. For us, Goa was the beach and we didn’t know anything else. “We get pension you know but how much? Not much. But I don’t ask anybody for money.” He puffed up his chest and frowned impressively. “You’re all from Bangalore? What do you do there?” We shrugged and mumbled. None of us did anything. Nothing real. “You know my son is like you,” he said. “Quiet and all. He will call me today at night. Maybe he’ll call…” He mumbled something to himself. “Can we have one more calamari?” said P to him. “Of course, ma’am.” He went away. I could see two of the other waiters, young fellows, looking at him and whispering. “Can you not engage him in conversation please?” said P, when he was far away.
The old man was saying, “Do you know about the human body how strong it is? I have read in the magazine. Any human can do anything if he puts his mind to it — he can live on Mars! What do you think sir?” “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” “We survived in -30 degrees weather. How? Our love for the nation. It is all in the mind. Anyone can survive anything with love in the mind.” He marched off, stumbling on the sand. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to him?” said P. “Let him talk for a bit, what’s there?” “We came here to have fun. It’s fu**ing New Year’s Eve, man!” True, it was New Year’s Eve. We ordered tequila shots. We celebrated another year of happiness and blessings. We took selfies. We laughed. “To new beginnings!” said P.
Another waiter brought us calamari and we ordered more beer. The old man was laughing and kicking sand at a black-and-white dog, who was trying to sleep under a beach bed. The dog unfurled to its feet, shook itself, and walked sadly away. The young waiter said in Hindi, “Sorry if that man is disturbing you. He likes to speak to everyone. He’s quite lonely.” We could see him peering closely at his phone, frowning. “It’s ok,” I said. “Look, I think his son is calling him.” “His son?” said the waiter. He sounded surprised. “He died years ago. Drowned. He used to work here. That’s why we employ him. He does no work. He only disturbs guests.”
Later, we were sitting inside because it had begun to drizzle. We watched him trying to make conversation with some other people, two or three other tables. “I hope I’m not disturbing you all,” I heard him say. Then he sat on the stacked beach beds, swinging his legs like a child, his arms straight by his sides. I could see his silhouette against the last light. Then the sky turned a final black. It was the last day of the year.
Roshan Ali is the author of Ib’s Endless Search for Satisfaction (Penguin Viking).
