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Authors: Kishore Modak
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when you are travelling alone, or when your family
is away and you are by yourself.
It is probably easier
for men to seek male prostitutes than it is for a woman to seek a
gigolo. It did not matter, not to me, because sex and such became
unimportant.
Initially, Jay was the
target of my preoccupation, fuelled by a zealous parent’s
raising of a successful youth. He applied himself well, seeking out
the right company and becoming industrious when it came to achieving
his goal of getting a decent education. In his corner of the flat, he
worked at his desk, and got what he had set out to get. Then he left,
to make a life for himself in the world outside my flat.
I was right after all,
not to delve into the details of his curious teenage exploits in
Singapore. Look, he turned out just fine. I had a feeling, though,
that David had broached the topic with Jay before he died. What they
concluded I know not, but it was clear to me that the onset of his
youth was not a wasted one. He was a good kid, with an interesting
past. In the future, he was his own master. My duties had been
dispensed, and in my mind, dispensed well.
Ten, or even twenty,
may seem like a bagful of years, enough to drag one on, but to me
they were a flash, illuminating my greying hair, leaving me at peace,
at a slow pace all by myself in my little flat in London. My daily
rhythm became languid as my period of senectitude began with
arthritis, high powered glasses, urge to urinate often and light
sleep each night, easily disturbed by the faintest of disturbances
and lasting only for a few hours.
Some of the commuters
had even started offering me their seats on crowded buses and
commuter trains.
In the mornings, I
headed to the community gymnasium, walking and exercising to whatever
extent my body permitted. I returned home to a breakfast of oatmeal
and fresh fruit, which I had to prepare myself, given the lack of
domestic help. Through the mornings, I sat by the computer, surfing
and penning this useless memoir, more for my pleasure than the goal
of seeking readers.
Subconsciously though,
I knew it was for Jay to discover after I had passed on, knowing the
truth that his mother knew, respecting her for respecting his privacy
through the living years and remembering her after she died.
One discerning reader
is all that I write for.
By mid-morning on most
days, I found myself in the library, reading the papers and magazines
for a few hours before settling by the café near the
supermarket where I buy groceries for the day. I buy only a small
batch of supplies each day, enough to subsist yet inadequate, so I
can plan a daily visit to the supermarket, another chore to fill up
the vacant routine of an entire day.
I remain myself,
private and happy in public places, exchanging pleasantries with the
staff before returning home late in the afternoon each day for my
nap. I visit the ISKCON temple in the evenings before settling down
at night with soup and salad in front of the tele, writing this silly
narrative till late, before catching the meagre sleep that my
crumbling body allows. I am not happy or sad, simply story-less and
old, friendless and alone, by choice.
Of the entire Hindu
pantheon, I was drawn to Lord Krishna in my advancing years, a
naughty God, with a clutch of girlfriends and the power to make
brothers fight, a God of convenience, with the ability to sway,
depending on what the situation demanded. I was drawn to his
polarized philosophy, all encompassing with justification for any
action.
Then again, the most
explosive fights, the memorable ones are always between brothers or
neighbours.
A good God is a god of
action.
Jay called, not often
but just enough to maintain a respectable contact. He visited for a
few weeks as each year wound down towards Christmas, got bored with
an old woman’s slow life and then left for more colourful days
in the coming year ahead. He was faring well and was soon working on
Wall Street, earning well, no longer
is away and you are by yourself.
It is probably easier
for men to seek male prostitutes than it is for a woman to seek a
gigolo. It did not matter, not to me, because sex and such became
unimportant.
Initially, Jay was the
target of my preoccupation, fuelled by a zealous parent’s
raising of a successful youth. He applied himself well, seeking out
the right company and becoming industrious when it came to achieving
his goal of getting a decent education. In his corner of the flat, he
worked at his desk, and got what he had set out to get. Then he left,
to make a life for himself in the world outside my flat.
I was right after all,
not to delve into the details of his curious teenage exploits in
Singapore. Look, he turned out just fine. I had a feeling, though,
that David had broached the topic with Jay before he died. What they
concluded I know not, but it was clear to me that the onset of his
youth was not a wasted one. He was a good kid, with an interesting
past. In the future, he was his own master. My duties had been
dispensed, and in my mind, dispensed well.
Ten, or even twenty,
may seem like a bagful of years, enough to drag one on, but to me
they were a flash, illuminating my greying hair, leaving me at peace,
at a slow pace all by myself in my little flat in London. My daily
rhythm became languid as my period of senectitude began with
arthritis, high powered glasses, urge to urinate often and light
sleep each night, easily disturbed by the faintest of disturbances
and lasting only for a few hours.
Some of the commuters
had even started offering me their seats on crowded buses and
commuter trains.
In the mornings, I
headed to the community gymnasium, walking and exercising to whatever
extent my body permitted. I returned home to a breakfast of oatmeal
and fresh fruit, which I had to prepare myself, given the lack of
domestic help. Through the mornings, I sat by the computer, surfing
and penning this useless memoir, more for my pleasure than the goal
of seeking readers.
Subconsciously though,
I knew it was for Jay to discover after I had passed on, knowing the
truth that his mother knew, respecting her for respecting his privacy
through the living years and remembering her after she died.
One discerning reader
is all that I write for.
By mid-morning on most
days, I found myself in the library, reading the papers and magazines
for a few hours before settling by the café near the
supermarket where I buy groceries for the day. I buy only a small
batch of supplies each day, enough to subsist yet inadequate, so I
can plan a daily visit to the supermarket, another chore to fill up
the vacant routine of an entire day.
I remain myself,
private and happy in public places, exchanging pleasantries with the
staff before returning home late in the afternoon each day for my
nap. I visit the ISKCON temple in the evenings before settling down
at night with soup and salad in front of the tele, writing this silly
narrative till late, before catching the meagre sleep that my
crumbling body allows. I am not happy or sad, simply story-less and
old, friendless and alone, by choice.
Of the entire Hindu
pantheon, I was drawn to Lord Krishna in my advancing years, a
naughty God, with a clutch of girlfriends and the power to make
brothers fight, a God of convenience, with the ability to sway,
depending on what the situation demanded. I was drawn to his
polarized philosophy, all encompassing with justification for any
action.
Then again, the most
explosive fights, the memorable ones are always between brothers or
neighbours.
A good God is a god of
action.
Jay called, not often
but just enough to maintain a respectable contact. He visited for a
few weeks as each year wound down towards Christmas, got bored with
an old woman’s slow life and then left for more colourful days
in the coming year ahead. He was faring well and was soon working on
Wall Street, earning well, no longer
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