Mr D and Cynicism(Ari Sam) The phone rang, and my wife answered the call. She nudged me heavy, while I was trying to get some sleep after a 72 hour work schedule, “it’s for you” she said. I had heard from a friend that Gabe’s father was unwell and was suffering from a serious and rare blood disease that had no cure. Gabe had called me a couple of times that week, but I couldn’t call him back.

“He’s no more, my father; he passed away at 3 am this morning” he said in a frail voice. Gabe and I were friends when we were in school, we drifted apart as time went by and geography got the better of us. He had moved back to his hometown and I continued to stay in the city to pursue my dreams as a writer. We grew up in the same block and played the same sports. We shared our dreams. He was my best friend, but life had other plans. I remember his father and his signature panama cigarette that I always associated him with. Although my point of references had gone dim, due to the lack of interest in staying connected with my past.

I had significant memories of his father though, I remember him waking up very early on a Sunday morning and playing music that made you reminiscent about the days gone by. The sound of BB King resonated in the air, I was a fan. I watched him enjoy his tunes in the comfort of his old and dilapidated wooden chair. He seemed like a man of passion, but I felt he always expected more from his little black and white world. He never smiled a lot, Strange! For someone who looked at life through the beauty of music. I never questioned his place in this world, as I am sure he didn’t question mine either.

Mr. D, as we kids called him back then, was a man of few words. He always had a look of discontent. The scars on his face added distinct character to his demeanor. Everyone on the street slated him as a loner. As far as I can remember I don’t think he was a reader either, the only dose of words that he absorbed was from the daily newspaper.

The man was definitely a drinker; I had seen him many a times at the corner liquor store, trying to seduce the store attendant to get an extension on his line of credit. Glasses were not his style; he carried a vintage hip flask that looked as if it was handed down to every man in the D’sousa family tree. I watched him from time to time standing in his balcony as he took a swig from his precious hip flask.

As glasses were not his way, neither were women. He had married twice and both his wives had left him for his hostile and uncaring qualities. I had heard voices of pain and profane exchanges in his house. He was bitter to both of them. Gabe once had mentioned how his biological mother couldn’t rest her back for weeks, as she was flogged for an hour by his uncertain father. I felt sorry for her.

“We were going through all his personals and we found a box with your name written on it, what do you want me to do with it?” Gabe said. “My name?” I quizzed. My thoughts were all over the place, why would Mr. D leave something for me, he barely knew me. I hadn’t seen him since I had left Goa, for the city.

My curiosity at this point weighed almost a ton; I wanted to know what was in that box. I told Gabe to have that box sent to my home on Monday. “Do you want me to open it and check what’s in it?” he asked. “No! Just ship it to Mumbai and I will let you know what’s in it, I am sure you’re curious too.”

The package did not arrive on Monday, I called Gabe incessantly but I got no response. I assumed he was busy with arranging the funeral. I couldn’t stop thinking about the box. Every time I wondered about the contents, my mind traveled back to my childhood. I could count on my fingers the times Mr. D had spoken to me, then why would he want to leave me something, what was he trying to say?

Maybe the box had memories of my past that I was evading all along, I was a timid child, always assumed that life would pan out the way I always imagined it. I didn’t expect a lot from life; little dreams were the source of getting me by. Stories of people fascinated me, conversations about life was my area of interest. Mr. D always seemed like the man that had so much to share, but always thought that none would understand.

I always carried a little diary with me as a kid. I accounted everything that intrigued me. I recall the day when Mr. D was trying to make his way home after downing a few shots of free rum with a bunch of locals. We exchanged glances and he indicated that I help him up as gravity had got the better of him. In his state of incapacitation he spoke to me about Gabe and how he was worried that he would choose the wrong path in life. I wasn’t very comfortable discussing what Gabe and I spoke about, but Mr. D insisted that I help him with life’s choices. I questioned why he would want me to do that for him, since he was his father, and shouldn’t he be advising Gabe on life and its mistakes?

While we walked up to his home, I got the feeling that he was never ready to be a fathe., I sensed he looked at Gabe as a mistake that he regretted every day of his life. His breath stank of alcohol and cynicism. It solidified my belief that alcohol was the perfect outlet for the bitterness within. We had reached his apartment, Gabe answered the doorbell, and he looked at the two of us and was clearly embarrassed. He guided Mr. D to his bed and shut the door on me with a cold thank you.

My diary heard a lot from me that night. I wrote about the conversation with Mr. D and tried to decipher everything that he said. I never quite understood the sinking sand he was, he seemed like the obscure pages of a book with no clear intentions or objective. I was a mystified kid.

While I reminisced, I heard a knock on the door. It was the blue collared man who I was waiting for, he had a large box that had traveled from Goa for me. I quickly addressed the recipient formalities and headed to my study with it. There are moments in life when curiosity controls every inch of you, I was living it, while I placed the box on the table. I reached for my Swiss knife and sliced the box from the center.

I found LP’s of BB King and The Carpenters and to my surprise the diary that had everything about my childhood. I had cried for three straight days when I had lost it that cold Saturday morning in the market. Mr. D had found it and had kept it with him all these years. I wondered why he didn’t give it to me then. I was gleeful as I held my childhood in my hands. It had gone a little old and some of the pages were wearing out, but I didn’t care. I was teary eyed as Mr. D had given me back a very large part of my past.

But amidst everything I found an envelope with my name handwritten with a red color pen, it looked new and at the back of the envelope it said “Read it to the world, when I am buried”. I was taken aback and read the letter inside. It was the man’s eulogy and I had no idea why it was sent to me. It couldn’t have been a mistake as the envelope clearly had my name written on it.

Mr. D had chosen me to read his letter to the world at his funeral. I couldn’t question any longer, I sipped my dark rum and called it a night.

The next morning, I was on the phone with Gabe and I told him about the contents of the box. He couldn’t explain his father’s actions either, but he told me to get on the first flight to Goa as the funeral was scheduled that afternoon. I packed light and kissed the wife goodbye. I didn’t know why I was doing what I was about to do, but something inside me said I had too.

I landed in the city that I had left behind years ago, I saw familiar faces at the airport. There stood Gabe with his wife and his son, they looked pale, and even then he welcomed me with a long overdue hug. I handed him the letter and he looked at me and said, “He wanted you to do this, it will allow him to rest, if you really do this for him”. I wasn’t heartless and couldn’t ignore the look in his eyes when he said that.

We drove through the streets where Gabe and I had grown up. Everything had changed. He told me about Mr. D’s struggle with alcohol and life and his last days with him. I was a little numb to everything that was being told to me and I didn’t know how Gabe felt about all this. He was his son and it should’ve been him who had gotten the letter from Mr. D.

We had reached the church where the funeral was scheduled. I greeted a few people and rested myself next to Park Davis, we had schooled together. He told me how sad he was about Mr. D’s death. I didn’t believe him at all for some reason.

Gabe took the stage and thanked everyone for coming; he spoke at length about his father’s life, shared anecdotes that echoed the sound of laughter in the church. He then looked at me and told the crowd about the letter and asked me to come up and share it with everyone.

I took the longest time to make those ten steps towards the podium. I adjusted the microphone and began the letter:

“I fail to understand why all of you have gathered here, when I am assuming you probably have better things to do with your time. So, I am dead, and you will die too someday, which is why you have to come here and try to prove to me that you cared about my existence.

All my life I’ve wanted to get to know every single one of you, but you stayed away from me. Was it because of my innate ability to tell you the truth, when the world sugar coated everything for you? Or was it the fact that you couldn’t stand the idea of someone showing you the way of righteousness? Which one was it? And now you sit there in your rented black suits, trying to find that part in you that wants’ to feel sorry for my death. What a bunch of hypocrites you all are.

I was a good man, with a kind family and a loving father, until I realized that everything around me is dour, everything was built on fake promises and fabricated structures of desire. I wanted more and couldn’t stand the idea that someone undeserving got my share of the fame and glory. I hated that my children made more money than I did and all I attempted to do was crawl my way through life.

All of you looked down upon me, every single one of you in this room. I wasn’t a bad person, I made some wrong decisions, but who doesn’t? But does that mean that you go behind my back and try to ruin everything for me? I was confused, like most of us were, and when I needed you all the most you turned your backs on me.

Everyone disgusts me, pretending to get through life with mediocrity in your hearts and jealousy as your only weapon of choice. I am happy that I am not sitting amongst you right now, I am glad that our worlds are different now.

I knew love, I wasn’t like this all my life, her name was Ira and she sang in the local bar. Her voice brought things to life. It was the most magical two years of knowing her, but like everything in my life she left me too for something better. I hated her, like I hated you all.

I have nothing to give to this world, nothing at all, why should I? When it never gave anything back to me. All I want to say is, don’t pretend to be someone else in life. Don’t do that job if you think you are meant to do something bigger, don’t fake being responsible when you know that someone else could do it better.

So, go on, eat the free food and get back to the pretense you all call Life.”

The letter was a ticking time bomb of bitterness. I looked up after I was done. I had faced a crowd before during writing conferences or book signing Q&A’s, but definitely not of this kind. Everyone looked at me as if I was the messenger of Satan.

I got off the stage and handed the letter to Gabe and headed straight to the airport. I had a million questions in my head at that time. What was Mr. D thinking when he thought of me to deliver such a grim message to his apparent family and friends? Did he think I would end up like him? Or did he really think of me as the messenger of Satan?

I bottled up my over flowing head of questions and boarded my flight back home. My life had had moments of pure surrealism, but this one was going to stay for a while. I reached my doorstep and was greeted with a warm smile from my wife. She held me as if some how she knew that I needed her touch. She asked, “So, how was it?”

“Strange” is all I could encapsulate.




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