Met a friendly man I know after a long time. I waved and proceeded but something made me stop and ask him regarding his work. "Yes," he said, " somehow I am going on but... " He didn't complete the sentence but it was clear that he found it difficult to continue. I dropped a name in the same profession as his —designer pottery and suggested, "You could collaborate with him because I believe that he is very entrepreneurial and I hear he's doing well. I'm sure he could open things for you".
(Let's call him) Michael did not understand, or he did but pretended as though he didn't. So I elaborated and told him that a regular flow of some money might give an insentive to continue doing what he did best. "No", he said, "of course I understand that sale keeps you going, and also it is a service to people who like to use pottery but... "
I noticed that he had developed a way of stopping mid-sentence after a but, like a shayar in a Mushaira who had a radif established well enough not to repeat it in every subsequent sher. That told me that all was not well with Michael. He had lost his companion, his wife of many years, a couple of years back. That had jolted him into facing things alone now. He had his studio where he made elegant pottery. He had almost shut shop after the covid pandemic. Fortunately he didn't and after mourning he resumed.
"How are you", I asked him, just to be humanly closer. " I am depressed ", he said. Immediately I put my hand on his hand, gripping his cycle handle tight and like two mad guys we broke into a healthy laughter as though depression was a cause to laugh! " I could easily be an alcoholic", Michael said. I invited him to breakfast at 9 am. It was not quite half past seven right then. Okay he said, "although nine is late for me", he added. "Come fifteen minutes earlier then", I told him and left.
At 9, another friend, an Aussie, who had returned to India for a month to have his teeth fixed, was there. Michael didn't show up. May be he couldn't make it.
The Aussie, Shane(name changed) was waiting for me. He, I had noticed the last time I met him over a week ago, was smiling more, parting his lips more, showing his teeth more, with renewed confidence, greeted me with a bright smile. The dentist had done a great job! Shane didn't look like Shane take before and after (the denture fix) . In a few cases I had noted that people looked squarish near the mouth, making them look different.
Shane paints watercolours. The guy is like water flowing —nothing stays with him. I mean it in an enviable way, in that he lives in the moment. He remembers things but just as he does not offend, he does not take offence. He has peculiar gestures when he speaks. His speach is peculiar and fast apart from the fact of his being an Australian.
He showed me some of his recent watercolors on his phone. I noticed that his colours were better applied, and they had more vibrancy. He had folders for his favorite painters. I saw and was pleasantly surprised that we liked a few in common. Balthus, Redon, Anselm Kiefer(I think he was there) to name a few. He had folders for Gaugin, too. I quickly noted that he had a taste for painters who worked their simple looking backgrounds meticulously.
We talked a bit and ate our breakfast and drank tea. Then, I got up to put my phone in my pocket. Shane took that as a sign to leave, so he got up. That's how we decided to part this morning. Probably if either of us had suggested to sit some more, chat some more, drink some more sweet tea, neither of us would have resisted.
I think oldish folk quietly long for old friendships.
