The coffee tasted bitter in my mouth although it was the best powder available in the market. Two birds suddenly flew up from somewhere and settled on the branches of the Velvet Apple tree, right next to the balcony. Strangely enough, one of them seemed to be advising the other in the pleasant chirping voice. The newspaper boy announced his arrival ringing the bell of his cycle and the printed letters came flying into the sit-out below. I usually spend the mornings of my retired life reading the newspaper, from the first word to the very last one.
The photo in the front page registered to my eyes and so did the news below it. The read coloured title read:
“FAMOUS POET & SHORT STORY WRITER ANAND FOUND DEAD”
The photo of the unshaven man had no difference to that of my old classmate in college, except maybe for a few lines of wrinkles that time had sketched. The news cited a short history of the harsh life the man had fought. It said that a small bottle of poison had finally given him the at most freedom, freedom even from the binding body.
I felt my cheek muscles stretch in a smile when I remembered the old figure of Anand in college. It was only well after the classes had started that Anand had joined our class, a boy with curly hair, charming smile and a quiet nature. It was a matter of few weeks before the class appeared of no use to him. Within this limited time my jovial and helping nature had already made us acquaintances. His visits to class came to be less in number as the academic year progressed. The rest of the time he went around the other campuses searching for, as he put it, “the heartbeat of the artistic youth”. It seemed I was the only person whom he really talked to, other than answering the stupid questions that people asked him.
It was not difficult for me to be the favourite of teachers with my excellent academics and extra-curricular activities. I cherished a civil-service dream that kept me busy throughout. Maybe that was what made me a fan of Anand during those days. He was carefree about his future and lived truly for his art; both of us were lovers of verse and good literature. My practical mind always reminded me not to get lost in the inebriating rhythm of poetry, because the art was not going to help me reach where I dreamed to be. I controlled my own jealous mind with my dreams whenever I saw Anand going about everywhere not even caring to go home. I watched what people defined to be bad habits creep into his life. I struggled with myself not to break the hard found determination being in the slavery of physical pleasures.
I always admired and also did proof read many of his works, poems and stories. A little bit of verse flew from my pen too during those times. More than his stories and poems I loved his sketches, which although wouldn’t make much sense to many people, were simply beautiful pieces of art. But he never cared about them except that he kept them for me to see.
Time moved forward and change didn’t stay behind. In the race of my life my hand was slowly slipping from the arms of those who loved me. While I read through Anand’s new sheets I realized that they no longer made any sense to my feelings, but I never admitted it. I thought it was that his writings had lost their poignancy. Maybe it was the other way around, my own old poems felt absurd to me that, I still remember it perfectly, I burned them all in my room although Anand tried to prevent me from doing it. I moved into another university for higher studies. With that of all others, Anand’s face also went on being distorted and finally disappeared into the deep oblivion of busy life.
During the busy life of a civil servant, I saw mentions of my old friend’s name in the newspapers but never bothered to read further. Never did I feel a need that I should keep in touch with old college mates, why bother? I remember a comment that somebody passed out aloud when a newspaper article mentioned, Anand being arrested for drunk driving which had caused an accident-
“A fine way to waste good talents, huh? Many talented people are like this, you know. They simply throw away what they are given”.
It is in your retired life that all the simple things in your busy life come back to you. Even the moments which you thought were irrelevant rolls through your mind and haunt you. The news of my old friend’s death is now dusting up old college pictures in mind. Anand’s love for freedom never gave up on him. No one would ever understand, but I can. His suicide was not a fault; he had the courage to live for so long before he liberated himself from the flesh. I knew because, I had poisoned myself long back, to be in chains. The fear of realization never made me think who won; I always kept my mind in chains. I don’t want to fail; not now when life seems to be a victory.
