Of Diseases Incurable

 

"Well then, young man", said the old shrink,

Settling into his comfy old chair,

"What seems to be the problem then, eh...

Why do I sense an air of despair?"

 

"I don't really know, Doc",

The youth made reply morosely,

"My life's overflows with ennui

And the days pass so somnolently!"

 

"And why is that, do you think?"

Smilingly the shrink said,

"Is it your love life (or the lack of one),

Or does something else fill you with dread?"

 

"No, it's not that Doc... at least, I think not

All of that, praise the Lord, is so very fine,

I don't think it my health; nor my wealth

And it's neither food nor wine"

 

"Hmm", the shrink said musingly

"The answer is then completely clear,

Your career must be your ailment;

Is the office a place of toil and fear?"

 

"Oh no, I don't think so," said the youth,

Work is really too good to be true,

Numbers and charts and stats and graphs,

And really, that's all I ever do."

 

"Hmm", the shrink then said,

And this time his mood was sombre,

He thought he had identified the problem,

And the thought filled him with horror

 

Heavily did the shrink then sigh; in despair,

Finally he said, "Your case I cannot fix;

All else I could handle, young man,

But you seem to work in analytics!"

Hullo, Patel Sa’ab?

"Hullo, Patel Sa'ab? Haan... nahi, daaru chahiye tha. Haan, nahi – maloom hai, thoda late hai... par please... Patel Sa'ab? Haanji... ek khamba Old Monk. Haan OK... nahi paanch minit mein aa jaayenge. Haan pakka. OK Patel Sa'ab. Thank you."

On the bike and off you go. Late at night, and no traffic on the road. Pune is cold by night, and Pune is empty by night. You speed along the roads, your own shadow flitting by in rapid succession under the light of the lamp posts. Slow down at a crossing, and speed up on the straights. Over the bumps, and avoid the potholes. On and on, rider hunched up in the contorted, concentrated stance that only a drunk rider can attain, and pillion gaily drunk, bring up the rear by yelling and singing.

Past the residential areas, past the college, and past the hostel. Opposite the school, the bike is parked. Two rather tipsy souls clamber off and make their way to the door. A couple of soft knocks, made louder when no response is to be had from within.

The night is silent, save for the occasional bike that whizzes past. The insects valiantly chirp away, and every now and then you can hear a dog bark in the distance. The stars twinkle away up above – it is a moonless night, and the sky is clear. All the houses are barred shut, and there is no light burning within. Pune sleeps, but the two souls are awake. And knocking.

An answering grunt, and an exchange of relieved glances without.

The door opens and a sleepy moustached man stumbles out with a bottle wrapped in paper. The money is handed over, no questions asked. Two rather tipsy souls get back onto the bike and head back past the hostel, the school and the residential areas. Onto the main road, and whizz past it all. A brief stop at the usual place, just off the main road and then a right, for the cold drinks. Some chips for company, and you're back in the game.

The party continues.

Nal Stop, Comesum, Pyaasa, Kubera, the bakery opposite Pune Station. Patel Sa'ab and the cold drinks. The cigarette tapri just off JM Road and the cigarette vendor beside the railway booking counter at Karve Road.

And in fond remembrance, the back door entry to Lucky – may it's soul rest in peace.

And if, my friend, you've been reading this with a wistful smile and a heavy heart – why then, hail fellow, well met. You too have prowled at night.

Cheers.