William and the autumn of life

William and I were together only for one year, but our friendship has grown stronger year after year. The duration of that friendship is going to hit half a century. In the meanwhile both he and I changed many places. William was in Kerala when I was in Shillong. He was in Ireland when I was in Delhi. Now I am in Kerala where William is planning to migrate back.

We were both novices of a religious congregation for one year at Kotagiri in Tamil Nadu. He was older than me by a few years and far more mature too. But we shared a cordial rapport which kept us in touch though we went in unexpected directions later.

William’s conversations had the same pattern back then and now too. I’d call it Socratic. He questions a lot of things that you say with the intention of getting to the depth of the matter. The last conversation I had with him was when I decided to stop teaching. I mention this as an example of my conversations with William.

“You are a good teacher. Why do you want to stop teaching?” William asks.

“I am 64. Time to stop,” I say rather disinterested in discussing the matter.

“What does age matter as long as your school is willing to keep you?”

“The students are not as willing as the school.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Their attitudes in the class.”

“Isn’t it a teacher’s job to work on those attitudes?”

And it would go on. Whatever I say, there will be a question raised against it by William. That has been his style ever since I knew him. It makes you think a lot. But it can get a bit tedious at times. William is a very authentic friend, I know. So the questioning is not perceived as intrusive. Moreover, some such people are required to make you probe the deeps. If your friend is good, you don’t need a mirror. That’s a proverb in Malayalam, my mother tongue. William has been my mirror many times.

I was happy when William decided to return to Kerala for good from Ireland. I spent a day with him recently and realised that he was still the same old mirror. Very few people dare to raise unpleasant questions nowadays. William is a welcome exception.

There are no dramatic moments that I can recall when I speak about William. Our friendship was like a river that flowed over a smooth bed all the time. It doesn’t mean that we never disagreed on anything. We did. On many things. William was one of the first friends to tell me that I was prejudiced against Modi when I started writing critical blog posts as soon as the man became the country’s Prime Minister. But a few months later, William admitted that I was right. There were times when I accepted his suggestions and altered some of my choices.

Last month I had a drive with William in his hometown. He was driving his car and I was sitting next to him. On the side of the road in the town was a rather aged man selling maps. Yes, maps, of the country and the world. Thirty rupees a map.

“I stopped to talk to him one day,” William told me. “Does anyone buy maps these days when everything is easily available on the smartphone?” William asked the map-seller.

“Some people do buy them,” the man answered. “That’s why I’m still doing this job.”

“Why don’t you find a better job?”

“Why should I? I’m happy with whatever I get from this. That’s enough for me.”

William bought a map and gave a hundred-rupee note. “Keep the change.” The man was happy to get the extra rupees. When people say they are happy with what they get, it doesn’t mean that they won’t be happier with more. It’s just that they don’t know any other job or don’t want to change the one they’ve been doing for ages.

William probes certain affirmations. He takes interest particularly in the ordinary people whom nobody usually cares about. He has stories to tell about many interesting people he met along the way, very ordinary people with extraordinary personal stories.

One such story came from Ireland. William was attending the Sunday church. The Mass was over. The young priest made an announcement. “This will be the last Mass in this church. This church won’t be here anymore.” The church had been sold and the buyer converted it into a pub. I laughed at the hilarious irony. William had an effete smile on his face. “It is possible that the priest gave up his job too,” he said.

I know that William’s spirituality isn’t confined to any building like a church. His God resides in his heart. But congregational prayers do have a special meaning for him. He wouldn’t want churches to become pubs.

Later when we sat at his dining table sipping a drink from the Jack Daniels he had with him, he said in a cheerless tone, “Even Kerala is changing drastically.”

Kerala had no option but change, I said. A substantial proportion of the state’s population is living abroad, either studying or working. The people of Kerala now depend on migrant labourers from North India for everything from gardening to construction works. I meet more non-Malayalis every day on the roads than Malayalis. How can Kerala not change?

William will return to Kerala nevertheless. The winters of Ireland are too unkind to his bones.

We can make the autumn of our life happy, I say to William. Here in Kerala with a cosmopolitan population even in its villages.

PS. I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z 

A	B	C	D	E	F	G	H	I
J	K	L	M	N	O	P	Q	R
S	T	U	V