I always call him Comrade. True, I know his real name with initials. Admit. Some friends call him by his initials. But I call him Comrade. It is my preference.
He is a revolutionary. Fire-brand ofcourse. Whenever he addresses his Comrades, the real revolutionary in him comes out into the open. He spits fire. He shivers with rage. His baritone voice goes up up and up to great heights. So, says his closest comrades. And on listening to his thunderous speeches their spirits rise up in tandem.
Sorry, I have not yet met him in person. That luck still remains elusive, since we got in touch with each other over phone ten years ago. One day, yes, one day I will meet him, exchange pleasantries with him and will engage in serious discussions connected with trade union, politics, art, literature and culture.
Once in a while, I see him in print media, visual media, leading processions chanting slogans with clenched fists and his voice reverberating all over the surroundings. Tall, sturdy, bushy growth of hair covering his head, thick moustached and clean shaven. Ofcourse a typical revolutionary.
Whenever I think about him I am reminded of former shining jewel of Mumbai journalism, Behram Contractor alias Busybee, who with his daily evening column, ‘Round and About’, first in Evening Times of Times of India (Behram Contractor was Times Of India’s Bombay bureau Chief), then Mid-day and after a short stint in Mid-day his own Afternoon Despatch Courier. The Mumbaikars were madly after him, his evening column with his illuminating style and substance, provided us food for thought and also a great deal to have hearty laughs while on commuting to our homes in the local trains or while waiting for buses at bus-stops, coffee houses, beer parlours, anywhere and everywhere in Mumbai. After a hectic day in offices immersed in tiresome and tedious jobs, Busybee was always there outside to rejuvenate our sagging spirits, to enable us to relax and rejoice with his ‘Round and About’.
But our Busybee in the city doesn’t have much in his kitty to provide us happiness and leisure. Even without it he is a Busybee. In his city he is always held in high esteem for his sincerity to the cause of people, especially employees, incidentally- he is also an employee - and also for his contribution to the development of art, literature and culture by being the owner, printer and publisher of a cultural magazine and to film world by being the head of a film society to display good and sensible films which have something for them to contribute to the growth and enlightenment of society as a whole.
The busy schedule stretching from early morning till late into the night actually deprives him from leading a successful family life. But he continues to be happy or pretends to be happy to everyone, his wife, who also continues to be happy or goes on pretending to be happy to her near and dear ones by not showing or displaying pain and sorrow - a sort of existential agony - for failing to have a flower bloom in their life even after twenty five years of marital bliss.
He comes late into the night. She calmly, patiently waits for him beside the telephone till his arrival under the table lamp reading something which is the only source of her solace, love and affection till the footsteps of her beloved approach infront of the door.. After a shower, he comes out afresh, combs the hair in front of a mirror and both of them sit opposite to each other and serve and share dinner, under the ceiling fan revolving at its peak. Not much to talk to each other. Even if there is something to talk about, not much time is left to spare because it is very late in the night and both of them have to get up early, for her to go to the kitchen and him to the office.
When, part of a story remains fully unveiled, the other part remains veiled and nobody cares to know about it. After all who is here to think and feel sorry for a barren existence or a barren island in the hustle and bustle of an urban existence? This is after all the whole gamut of the humdrum existence of all of us, humanbeings.
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