The Namesake (with due apologies to Jhumpa Lahiri)

I just finished reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel ‘The Namesake’.  Story of a Bengali immigrant couple in US caught between two conflicting cultures.  More about the book later.  But the title of the book rang a bell in me and took me back by a few decades, to my college years. Here we go.

My earliest foray into writing was an article for the college magazine. Those days, we had a monthly magazine called the College Mirror. Brought out by the English Literature Students, under a club pompously named the English Colloquium. There were many other initiatives for sports and arts as well. All this by the dynamism of the charming college principal Dr NG Pillai. (Pillai died at a very young age in a plane crash). He brought life to an otherwise sleepy college. Pillai was the toast of the town with his good looks, academic brilliance and sartorial elegance. He served the college less than a couple of years but left a legacy difficult to emulate.

As is well known, it is a huge burden to fill the annual college magazine .Imagine, then, how easy or difficult it is to bring out one every month! In their efforts to keep the College Mirror going the English Colloquium used to chase students and staff for articles, poems or any work that could be published. And some advertisements too from the local businessmen to cover the cost. Their efforts proved inadequate, invariably.  As a result, not before long,   the magazine met with its natural end. The club did conduct a few seminars, debates and staged a few English dramas before it too met with its end.

As one who was wooed for an article, I gave my best shot to come up with a topic that could find its way to the magazine. Those days I was greatly influenced by the essays of AG Gardiner (Alpha of the Plough) and decided, short of plagiarizing, my piece should be on the same lines. (Does any body remember Gardiner, now a day? A good read for all aspiring bloggers). So the style was settled, only the topic had to be found. Drudge as I may, nothing worthwhile came to my mind even as weeks passed by. The deadline was fast approaching. With these worries in my mind and not a care for the Physics Lab, I got down from the route bus one morning.

And who else but Abbas, a physically challenged (polio affected) boy, a permanent feature in the bus stop, to greet me. As is his wont he clung on to me calling, Unnietta.   Perhaps, that day he hadn’t had his quarry. My first instinct was to shrug him off as I was cash strapped with the month drawing to a close. But I had a weakness for him and reluctantly shared my slender means with him. It was then that the idea struck me, why not Abbas, for a small write up.  After all, he carried the same name as one my idols of those times.  KA Abbas, film director, columnist and a fellow traveler.  Abbas, a name set to signify the sturdiness of a Lion, in Arabic. And our protagonist, a cripple all on his fours most of the time.  The two Abbases that I was hooked on then, linked by a common name, but placed in vastly different circumstances.  One an idol, the other a bother.

Abbas had enough material for a small write up. He wouldn’t have been more than 10 years of age and some times he used to walk on all fours.  He kept a record of the schedules of all the route buses, a vital info those days, as buses were very infrequent and unreliable. He would run errands for you, pass messages and was a clearing house for   all information and gossip. He was innocent and too young to understand the import of his actions. He was equally popular with the girls.

And write I did, a portrait of Abbas, at times juxtaposing, comparing and contrasting the namesakes.  Only, the caption of the article was not exactly flattering to our Abbas. And that was a disaster I regretted by hindsight. As Barkha Dutt would put it later, ‘an error of judgment’! I hoped Abbas wouldn’t know it. But, to my rotten luck, some body had instigated Abbas about it.  I had a hard time convincing him that the article was not derogatory.  Abbas relented to my persuasion and our relations were back on even keel.

Years later, post retirement, settling down in my home town, I ran into Abbas. He had changed his arena. His new role was that of a time keeper and holler of bus timings in the Town bus stand. He had become sturdier with a smatter of white here and there on his face. Dressed (always) in immaculate white ‘mundu’ and shirt with a scarf on his neck.  A golden yellow watch adorned his full sleeved shirt.  He has only a slight limp, far from the crawling boy that he was.  I too had changed a lot with not a shred of black on my mop.  I wondered if he would recognize me; but as soon as he saw me he called me out. He not only recognized me but remembered my name and the anecdotes of the past. He had, apparently, kept track of my life’s journey.

I now meet him often.  Abbas is the father of four grown up children and a grandfather too. He commands some respect from the otherwise difficult bus employees and has at last lived up to his name.  How time flies and what changes it brings on!