Short Story
Man in the mirror
He wore his full sleeve shirt over his grey trousers. There was nothing remarkable about his features. But his long hair parted in the middle and ran down to his shoulders a trend of the times. A man on the other side of thirty that he was, his glasses had a thick black frame, giving him an intellectual air. He was holding a cigarette between his fingers and he smoked with hauteur. It was a time of defiance. We had assembled to submit advertising campaigns. It was a collection of men that walked in the cloud. His men hung around him and prattled on. He lazed in his silence and spoke only when talked to. Soon the agencies started to submit their presentations and they did it with great relish. When his agency was to speak he curtly observed that since this was not a trade fair, he would prefer an exclusive opportunity. His wish was granted and it surprised me. I was a neophyte to the trade. And I got curious to know who this brash gentleman was. I was buffeted by a foreign name that showed his baptism. I naturally did not proceed any further.
Years passed. My ire was forgotten. It was an association meeting. He was there. A letter was drafted where I contributed a little. He took up the letter, narrowed his eyes and observed that articulation did not need a profusion of words. But this time he was quick to smooth my ruffled pride finding redeeming elements in the letter. Soon he befriended me. From then on it was time for me to discover the man. Our contacts grew. The man in the mirror was taking shape. He started giving me the leeway to know the man. I found that he was a free spender. He quoted an advertising titan in support, sermonising that the more you spend the eager you become to earn more. He was not to win me over and by that I did not prosper. The ethos he followed was that of an advertising man. For him there were far greater considerations to pursue in society. And he pursued them compulsively, devoting the latter half of the day and the evening to the pursuit. He fraternized with the members of the media and frequented the watering hole of the social circuit. In spite of it he did not have a life of his own. But he had a tale that everybody knew. The girl he loved had found another man and married him. The marriage soon ended and she found another man. That was that and there was not much to it.
When I started to discover him his business was on the decline. His room was spartan. He was reclining on the mattress laid on the floor. His head with shaggy hair streaming down the neck rested on his palm. There was a chest of drawers behind the mattress. A half empty bottle of liquor and two wine glasses were at his side. 'Debuda has come to life'. His wistful eyes eyed the amber liquid before he brought the wine glass to his lips. With every gulp he was closing his eyes and the amber liquid coursed down his throat. It was as if a sultry thirst had been quenched. A copy of Arthur Hailey's Airport was near the bottle with the circulating air leafing through its pages. The fan made a whirring sound. The midday sun flooded the room with unsolicited light. The attendant was summoned to serve tea and prepare lunch. By that time he had travelled to Karachi. The time was the early sixties. He was young and serving with the radio. There was a guest from the east, an intellectual with authority on folk songs. The matronly lady was for him to take care of. He produced the programme on Bangla folk songs, attending to the lady as best as he could. She was deeply touched by the care and attention she received. The young man did not have any relation to board up with in Dhaka. 'Whenever you come to Dhaka be our guest'. Destiny would do the rest.
It was summer in Dhaka. The krishnachuras were in bloom and the stillness of summer was scripting a tale. He was in love. The girl, the eldest in the brood of five, was a sprightly maiden. She had a chirpy voice, intense eyes and a firm nose. Her small mouth always puckered. She understood that he was in love with her. But she still had the flippancy of a teenage girl and was yet to learn constancy. The entire brood took an instant liking to his modish ways. For both of them it was their first love. He had a well cultivated mind that wanted to script love with his own thoughts. To him she was the teenage Lydia of Chekhov's The House With An Attic…an Eliza Doolittle, the common florist girl to make her his own. But she was still a pert girl. The time came for him to take up a job at a foreign advertising agency. He left and she left him. She plunged into the frivolity of college life. There she found her man. And she married the man she found. It was a turbulent time and the marriage was tempestuous. The marriage ended and she found yet another man. A man given to creative pursuits. She was getting into marriage and out of it.
Years later the epilogue of the tale took form. She married her first love. He gave his marriage a king's treatment. There had to be a bottle, for he loved it as he loved his lady. And he got a new set of wine glasses too. His taste was as lofty as his love. The marriage lasted three months. That was a lifetime for him. She returned to her last husband.
It was destined to be a tragic tale. She ended her life and he withered away in early death. The man in the mirror has been brought back to life.
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