The Mad Man
It was the beginning of college. Living away from home was a new thing for most us but we had managed it quite well. The painfully small rooms were hard to get accustomed to, and since we were too fresh to get out of the secure walls of the hostel, our eyes often wandered out of the window. As days passed by, the curiosity of the ones outside the windows in the dwellers waned and the curiosity of the insiders for the outside world grew. The crepuscular charm of the last hours of the day would often turn our feet towards the nearby cafeteria, and we would find ourselves sitting under the quaint shade of the ancient trees that stood tall around the parlour, along with the sparrows, who after a long day’s work, settled in the trees for the evening gossip, and filled the place with sweet music. We would do our best to keep our voices down and were wary of eyes contacts, still fearing unnecessary attention.
It was one of those evenings when, amidst the talkative clusters and hushed ones like ours, sitting in a corner under a colossal banyan tree, a man caught my eye. He appeared to be talking to himself. Poverty seemed to have turned his unkempt beard white a bit too early. Mad man, the conclusion came chasing after the curiosity and devoured it. It was already getting dark and we went back to our rooms. Our lives swept us off some direction and his some other, until one day, when the roads happened to cross once again. Just like the other evenings, we had gone out to the parlour to relieve ourselves of the heat and crammed rooms. Only this time, I found myself sitting on the farthest side of the bench just below the old banyan. There he was, sitting upon a broken bench and muttering. We talked for quite a while until sipping of drinks and helpings of food allowed a moment's silence, and his voice came pounding into my ears and startled me. I turned my eyes in his direction and found myself facing the man. He was looking directly at me, yelling as if in a heated argument. I had no idea how to react, his gaze, his voice held me there, held the conclusion, and let the curiosity endure. The first thing that came into my mind was maybe he was begging, but then, you don't yell and beg. His tongue, I couldn't understand, it might have been Bengali for there were many Bengali speaking people around, but I couldn't tell for sure. The yelling made me uneasy, so I stood up and went to sit at the other side of the bench, away from him. To my surprise, he was still looking at the same place where I was sitting. I did my best to ignore him.
The talks had been resumed and the food done with, and my friends were preparing to retire to their rooms. We went to the counter to pay the bill. During the transaction, I casually enquired the shopkeeper about the mad man. He was indeed mad as he informed me, but with an interesting story behind him. He told me not to waste my time, but on my insistence, agreed to tell me something about it. He told me the man had a laundry shop behind the parlour, pointing towards a ruinous room by the boundary. He lived with his wife and son there. They did the laundry of most the hostellers around, and earned enough to feed and clothe themselves well. But with time came ill fortunes, his son went missing one day and never showed up.
"Such a fine young lad he was! He often sat with the students here and laughed with them. Police inquired hard but the college lads swore they had not the slightest idea about his whereabouts."
The police had long given up, and darkness had grown in the lives of the poor old couple. They would sit below that banyan tree and argue all day long.
"The old hag tried hard to convince him to sit at the shop but he won't listen, just kept on arguing."
Until one day she died. The shop had already gone into ruins.
"But he never let go of his woman. Went along with her into that other world, but only in soul."
A loud animal like laughter interrupted us. We looked up to see the mad old man pointing in front of himself and shaking in hysterical laughter as if laughing at someone right in front of him. To our eyes there was just an empty bench and a mad man laughing at it.
"I think he is happy," The shopkeeper decided, looking thoughtful, “Happier than most of us."
We observed the man for a while with amusement in our eyes.
"Don't you waste your time on this, boy. Better get going."
It was getting dark, I realised, hurrying out of the parlour. On my way back to my room, that animal-like laughter rang in my mind, along with shopkeeper's words-"Happier than most of us."
It made me think hard about myself and people like me. A whole world , full of gossips, full of wonders, full of curiosities, full of danger, of surprises, and queer things surrounded him, and yet failed to interest him. He went on unaffected by what others thought of him, and in a world of his own, was happy with his wife, and maybe his son, who knows. He stood undeterred against the waves of criticism, of judgment, and disapprovals, and paid no heed to it. And it stopped existing. Belief had such power. He is a mad man, my mind argued. But he didn't know that and for him, it didn't mean anything. Only his own world mattered, happiness mattered.
It was the beginning of college. Living away from home was a new thing for most us but we had managed it quite well. The painfully small rooms were hard to get accustomed to, and since we were too fresh to get out of the secure walls of the hostel, our eyes often wandered out of the window. As days passed by, the curiosity of the ones outside the windows in the dwellers waned and the curiosity of the insiders for the outside world grew. The crepuscular charm of the last hours of the day would often turn our feet towards the nearby cafeteria, and we would find ourselves sitting under the quaint shade of the ancient trees that stood tall around the parlour, along with the sparrows, who after a long day’s work, settled in the trees for the evening gossip, and filled the place with sweet music. We would do our best to keep our voices down and were wary of eyes contacts, still fearing unnecessary attention.
It was one of those evenings when, amidst the talkative clusters and hushed ones like ours, sitting in a corner under a colossal banyan tree, a man caught my eye. He appeared to be talking to himself. Poverty seemed to have turned his unkempt beard white a bit too early. Mad man, the conclusion came chasing after the curiosity and devoured it. It was already getting dark and we went back to our rooms. Our lives swept us off some direction and his some other, until one day, when the roads happened to cross once again. Just like the other evenings, we had gone out to the parlour to relieve ourselves of the heat and crammed rooms. Only this time, I found myself sitting on the farthest side of the bench just below the old banyan. There he was, sitting upon a broken bench and muttering. We talked for quite a while until sipping of drinks and helpings of food allowed a moment's silence, and his voice came pounding into my ears and startled me. I turned my eyes in his direction and found myself facing the man. He was looking directly at me, yelling as if in a heated argument. I had no idea how to react, his gaze, his voice held me there, held the conclusion, and let the curiosity endure. The first thing that came into my mind was maybe he was begging, but then, you don't yell and beg. His tongue, I couldn't understand, it might have been Bengali for there were many Bengali speaking people around, but I couldn't tell for sure. The yelling made me uneasy, so I stood up and went to sit at the other side of the bench, away from him. To my surprise, he was still looking at the same place where I was sitting. I did my best to ignore him.
The talks had been resumed and the food done with, and my friends were preparing to retire to their rooms. We went to the counter to pay the bill. During the transaction, I casually enquired the shopkeeper about the mad man. He was indeed mad as he informed me, but with an interesting story behind him. He told me not to waste my time, but on my insistence, agreed to tell me something about it. He told me the man had a laundry shop behind the parlour, pointing towards a ruinous room by the boundary. He lived with his wife and son there. They did the laundry of most the hostellers around, and earned enough to feed and clothe themselves well. But with time came ill fortunes, his son went missing one day and never showed up.
"Such a fine young lad he was! He often sat with the students here and laughed with them. Police inquired hard but the college lads swore they had not the slightest idea about his whereabouts."
The police had long given up, and darkness had grown in the lives of the poor old couple. They would sit below that banyan tree and argue all day long.
"The old hag tried hard to convince him to sit at the shop but he won't listen, just kept on arguing."
Until one day she died. The shop had already gone into ruins.
"But he never let go of his woman. Went along with her into that other world, but only in soul."
A loud animal like laughter interrupted us. We looked up to see the mad old man pointing in front of himself and shaking in hysterical laughter as if laughing at someone right in front of him. To our eyes there was just an empty bench and a mad man laughing at it.
"I think he is happy," The shopkeeper decided, looking thoughtful, “Happier than most of us."
We observed the man for a while with amusement in our eyes.
"Don't you waste your time on this, boy. Better get going."
It was getting dark, I realised, hurrying out of the parlour. On my way back to my room, that animal-like laughter rang in my mind, along with shopkeeper's words-"Happier than most of us."
It made me think hard about myself and people like me. A whole world , full of gossips, full of wonders, full of curiosities, full of danger, of surprises, and queer things surrounded him, and yet failed to interest him. He went on unaffected by what others thought of him, and in a world of his own, was happy with his wife, and maybe his son, who knows. He stood undeterred against the waves of criticism, of judgment, and disapprovals, and paid no heed to it. And it stopped existing. Belief had such power. He is a mad man, my mind argued. But he didn't know that and for him, it didn't mean anything. Only his own world mattered, happiness mattered.
-Ketan Mishra
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