I don't think I will meet a person like him ever again. I knew him in the mid-1980s, when I worked for an English daily in New Delhi. Those early years in journalism were full of bonhomie. And we garnished it with our daily quota of liquor. Since most of us had lean pay packets, we did not have serious trouble containing ourselves to reasonable limits. Two pegs of rum were our norm, I remember. One day my friend Alfie Ramachandran brought wonderful news. He had come across a guy in the army who had started dispensing his monthly quota to friends. That was glad tidings indeed. Army rum was available for as low as Rs 20 a bottle in those days. Alfie's friend could take care of our twin problems -- rum and money! Alfie fixed up an appointment. We raced on my old bike to Dhaula Kuan where the army barracks are located. And there he was, as dark-complexioned and cheerful as they come. "Hello," he grinned, warmly clasping my extended hand. "I am Muthu." Alfie made small talk. He inquired whether Muthu could give us two bottles every week. "You can take my entire weekly quota, I want my friends to enjoy," said the Good Samaritan. He said he would give us the bottles at just the cost price. Many army jawans sell their quota at black market rates to make a little money for themselves. We were touched by Muthu's generosity. As we returned, I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer. "Alfie, I know Muthu is a do-gooder," I said, "but why is he obliging us so much?" "He just wants his friends to enjoy, that's all," Alfie said. The good times rolled on for about a month. In the fifth week, I noticed that Muthu was slightly pale, his muscled forearms and chest had kind of slackened off. But his cheerful smile was bright as ever. "Alfie, what's wrong?" I asked later. "I am sorry, Muthu is running out of time," he said. "What the hell do you mean?" "Muthu has blood cancer. The doctors have given him six months." After the shock subsided, the story unfolded. Aware that he would not live long, Muthu had decided that he would try and make people happy to the best of his ability. My zest for rum and the army barracks visits began to wane. But we could not disappoint the man who was wasting away. Soon Muthu came to know we knew about his crisis. But he made light of it. "Come on yaar, don't be glum," he said. "Look at the positive side, there will be a sinner less in this world." We didn't laugh. "See you next week," Muthu said after a pause. "I might have an extra bottle for you people!" I don't know about my friend, but I had never met anyone who was so courageous that he could thumb his nose at approaching death. Muthu's medical reports left no doubt that it would be over soon. His body was emaciating, his eyes sinking in. But the smile was there, always. In the fourth month after our first meeting, Alfie and I set out once more for the barracks. We knew it was over the minute we reached there. The end had come the previous night after a massive cardiac arrest, a man told us. There was a large crowd of Muthu's well-wishers who had come to pay their respects. Some cried openly. Today, when someone offers me rum, I decline politely. But I invariably think of Muthu. Farewell friend. Delhi-based Tara Shankar Sahay is a special correspondent with rediff.com Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture!   Write a Diary!
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