Simon smiles and bididiré

A Sri Lankan ran the canteen at the IPHB ( Institute of Psychiatry and Human Behavior) or simply, the mental hospital. He was a puny little man with a broad smile. The sides of his eyes had crinkled skin owing to his habit of smiling. He was also particulary generous to us, friends from the college of Art. Probably we arties were slightly more relatable, there was less formality to tackle,  behavior became easier. Simon was his name and I liked the tea he made. It was very consistent and it smelled of Jasmine. He got tea from SLanka. 

He would serve lunches there also. Although not regular we ate there sometimes. We paid Simon as and when we could. He  did not ask or not let us drink tea and snacks. I guess we were more reliable among the younger folk. 

But it is not Simon or the Jasmine tea this one is about. This is about an intern, a young woman in her early thirties, an inmate in the mental hospital. 

In Simon's canteen the windows opened directly on to the yard of the hospital where 'mad' women walked in their uniforms. The windows "opened" , but they were always kept shut to avoid the inmates from getting excited to see people in the canteen. In one of the wooden windows there was a small crack, strategically made by whom cannot be said. It could have been the kindly Simon. Or it could be a more functional and problem solving mind on the inside. Through the crack things were given, bhajjies or other savories, perhaps a cup of tea. 

I used to be fascinated by those women, fascinated because I was curious to observe people who had lost their minds. The women in the courtyard were always disheveled, unclean. And they walked by themselves, never have I seen two or three gossiping, or making moves on the guard, or even make small talk. They walked by themselves, carrying their abstract loads of obsession, of manias and phobias and schitzophrenias quietly, lowered heads, some muttering to themselves, others making private gestures. I used to be transfixed! Their's was a strange world where just one was real and all others were thoughts. There were nearly about twenty or less walking away slowly, interacting visibly with their invisible world. 

One woman, just that same woman mentioned above, came to the crack when we had tea in that purposeful darkness of the canteen. The woman would come and start muttering to herself but also to anyone inside who could hear. All she ever said was a monotonous chant, "Bidi-diré,bidi-diré,bidi-diré,bidi-dire... " In konkani it meant, 'give-me-bidi man-give-me-bidi-man... ' I used to love to insert a bidi through that crack hole when she came and she would grab it and leave. No stockpiling, no planning for a rainy day. She grabbed the bidi and left, her pace a tad purposeful. Perhaps she went to another spot unknown to me where she was assured of getting her bidi lit. I don't think they were allowed to keep matches and things like that which could cause harm. But it struck me as the most honest exchange — a bidi was guaranteed to come through the crack if she stood there and chanted her magic bidi mantra, she would, honestly, be satisfied with one, and leave, a bit quicker in her gait, to the spot that promised light, and then she would smoke her bidi till she could no more. There was no obligation from either side, no big deal of gratitude, no formalities of thank yous, god bless yous — it was an exchange as pure as season! 

I have looked into the eyes of that woman. Her pupils were light brown, the colour of red slush washed by a torrent. And she barely blinked. If she did, I didn't see her blink. On one occasion I saw her catch my eye. I think she suspected, rather than met, my gaze. Her gaze was mesmerising, not in the sense of a beautiful thing capturing your attention. It was like some magic fire was lit behind her ophthalmological membranes, like some ritual was on going in which whatever was alive in her was everything that lived in the universe: God, the goblins, the high priestess, the sacrificial animals, and that annointed being in her had stolen a moment to be aware of a world, where you chant a mantra and bidi was granted to you like a boon! The moment her hand felt the bidi, the blinds shut her back in again in the chamber of rites. Oh! It was like looking at soul-function in a body too self-absorbed for etiquette, manner, protocol and other social inanities. 

Today I remembered her. And Simon. Out of the blue. Two people I had had an exchange with. Two figures who came into my life unknowingly and became a part of my memory! It was nineteen eighty two/three; I wasn't quite twenty. That's nearly forty five years ago. India was still to win the Cricket world Cup. It was a time when Goa was Goa. A time in Goa when Simon and that self-absorbed being lived in the metal asylum. I wonder if they are still alive. 

Be as that may, they are both alive in my memory and today when that folder where it is saved opened accidentally, they walked in the corridor of my mind briefly.