Kids can be cruel. At least the ones in my neighbourhood show a rather mean streak. Though I haven't actually seen them pluck wings off flies, I wouldn't be surprised if they do just that. Their insensitivity is manifest in the force with which they hurl stones at a pitiful guy who prowls our locality every so often. He invariably sports a jagged crew-cut, grimy worn-out garments and a permanent grin. He is mad in patches, as it were. His is a kind of a friendly, innocuous lunacy -- not unlike that of a domesticated ape. Maybe, there is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know. Totally harmless, he does not retaliate when kids throw stones at him, except by hitting back at them -- with large chunks of silence. Sometimes he takes a playful, threatening step towards them, scattering the brats in all directions, like a cluster of ants upon being poked with a stick. I often wonder who clothes him, where does he get his haircut, who feeds him, where does he sleep... It almost appears as if he tries to reach out to the kids to make their acquaintance. Wonder what he wants to say. Wonder what Freud or Hegel would have had to say about him. Be that as it may, whenever I see him I am reminded of a rather dramatic night ages ago and a slightly dissimilar soul from a bygone era... That was an elegiac night. The heavens wept a grey drizzle. The wind whistled an eerie threnody. The occasional thunderclap, as lightning struck, sounded like the crack of doom. The world, meanwhile, slumbered, cowering in the safety of warm beds. What awakened us was not Nature's awe-inspiring orchestra, but sharp, piercing human sobs, punctuated with spasmodic sighs, cleaving through the sounds of the night: a haunting wail that drives sleep away. Inquietude forced us to investigate. My 10-year-old fingers clasped my father's wrist tightly as I waddled along with him, afraid of the damp darkness. We located the source of the wretched whimper. It was a man sitting beyond our gates, huddled in the shelter that the overhanging canopy offered. He was eating something off a packet that lay before him. Addressing the disconsolate soul in his most reassuring tone, my father enquired the cause of his grief. The man went rigid, as if a bolt of lightning had skewered him, and whirled to face us. The terrified, blank glare, the contorted curling of the lips to bare his fangs, the feverish pitch of his incomprehensible gibberish, and the raw strength with which he clutched his packet, left not an iota of doubt in my young mind that the apparition before us was totally insane. Dad cajoled him, but he let out a horrifying shriek and ran out into the wet night. We waited for a while and then returned to our snug beds. Some time later, restless as he was, Dad got up to go to the kitchen. I followed. He packed some leftovers, wrapped them in a polythene bag, went outside and left the bag just beyond the gates. Early next morning neither the packet nor the madman was there. Over the following week, we left more packets for the unnamed man. He came there religiously, grabbed the food and wolfed it down hastily. Animal instinct told his demented mind that he had nothing to fear. He even bared his teeth in a crazy grimace, which Dad insisted was a smile. My father looked upon him as if he were a lost child and the man even went as far as to touch our hands hesitantly, expressing his affection. One afternoon, while returning from school, I noticed a crowd gathered around a jeep. With school-boyish curiosity, I decided to investigate. An accident had occurred: a man had jumped before the speeding vehicle. The driver was caught unawares; there was nothing he could do... I looked down beneath the jeep in shock. I saw the mangled remains of a body and the hideous face of the unnamed madman staring blindly at the sun. Today, almost a quarter of a century later, the face of the madman we never got around to christening, still haunts me. I realise now the bond that had developed between us: of love, compassion, gratitude, trust. It was a transient bridge across an eternal chasm: a spider's flimsy web suspended between the self-reliant world of rationality and the melancholy, fragmented realms of insanity. A bridge spanning indelible memories across Time. A bridge that the kids in my neighbourhood have yet to realise exists between them and their grinning, human punch bag. Wonder if they ever will. Meanwhile, life meanders on, the sequence unbroken... But you tell me, who's nuttier? The happy-go-lucky guy who grins upon being pelted with rocks, the chap who died battling the demons that lurked in the dark recesses of his mind, or the fellow who writes about them? Shishir Bhate is still not too far gone. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
HOME | NEWS | CRICKET | MONEY | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | BROADBAND | TRAVEL ASTROLOGY | NEWSLINKS | BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | GIFT SHOP | HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL | WEDDING | ROMANCE | WEATHER | WOMEN | E-CARDS | SEARCH HOMEPAGES | FREE MESSENGER | FREE EMAIL | CONTESTS | FEEDBACK