The Activist

“Swaminathan, Swaminathan,” the shrill voice said. Everyone, even those not named Swaminathan, looked in the direction of the voice. It appeared to have come from somewhere outside the café. “Jigneshbhai, Jigneshbhai,” the howler shrieked at the top of his voice.

When we turned to our right, we saw a man waving his hands about twenty-five metres away. He stood near the entrance of the café. We were at the far end near the glass window. The man looked around forty plus minus a few years. He had a receding hairline and an unkempt beard with strands of grey blowing in the wind. His eyes were deep, behind a thick pair of glasses on his face. He wore a cream khadi kurta, a white pyjama and had a cloth bag on his shoulder. His teeth and lips had patches of black, indicative of heavy smoking and tobacco use. He had a cigarette in his hand. He stood outside the no smoking board at the entrance and didn’t walk in. None of us recognised him.

“Swami, it’s me, didn’t you recognise me?” He shrieked again at the top of his voice. “Jigneshbhai, didn’t you recognise me either?”

Why do people you haven’t met for years expect instant recognition? This is way beyond my comprehension. The worst part is the guilt trip they put you on. They keep repeating “Still didn’t realise who I am?” Or even after a persistent no, make queer expressions and ask, “Now tell me did you get who I am?” You are not the former Prime Minister of this country for me to recognise you after twenty years. I often feel like telling them. But I keep such thoughts to myself.

Swami has lots of old relatives who practice this form of torture with him over phone. They call him on the phone after years and expect instant recognition of their voice at the first hello. “Guess who this is?” They say even before saying hello sometimes. And when they sense blankness in Swami at the other end, they get disappointed. Similar was this howling man’s predicament. Because he had not one, but three blank faces staring at him, unable to recognise him.

Jigneshbhai looked at us with his eyebrows raised. His memory of faces wasn’t the strongest. So, it wasn’t a surprise that he had no idea who this screaming, waving man was. Swami also was at a loss. He wasn’t bad at faces, but the distance was too much. The man got impatient near the entrance. The security held him back outside. He was about to get into an argument with security over entering the café with a lit cigarette. We decided to walk towards him at that time.

“Hello, Swami,” he said for the third time. “I saw you from the glass window and called you out, but you couldn’t hear me. So, I came to this side to meet you,” he informed us with fervour. “I am meeting my friends after so many years, is it twenty years? So, I had to come,” he raved again like a long-lost friend. 

The problem was we didn’t know who this long-lost friend was. Swami didn’t share any of the camaraderie that the man displayed. Swami looked like someone digging deep into his memory for the face and name of the man. Jigneshbhai was not even trying to do that. There was a deadpan expression on his face. His vacuous look gazed into nowhere. He depended on Swami and me to come up with an answer. I for one had no idea either but gathered that he might be an old friend from school or college. 

Finally seeing our predicament, the man gave small clues before he introduced himself. “Oh! Now I get it. You didn’t recognise me because of my beard and glasses,” he said and removed the glasses. There was no easy way to remove the beard, so he let it be. But we couldn’t fault him on enthusiasm. He put both his hands on his beard as if to hide it. This helped. Not Jigneshbhai or me, but it helped Swami.

“Ohhhh, err…by any chance…” Swami mumbled in faint remembrance.

“Yes, yes?” the man gushed in eagerness. He bent forward and peered nearer to give Swami a close-up. He smiled in eager anticipation. He resembled someone playing dumb charades egging his team on the edge of the right answer.

“Are you…umm…let me guess, Purno?” Swami muttered again.

“Yessss..! You got it,” Purno exclaimed with a loud clap of his hands and an even louder slap on Swami’s shoulder.

“Oh wow, Purno, it’s been a long time, you have changed so much,” Swami broke into a smile and hugged Purno in affection. Purno squeezed Swami in his arms. Jigneshbhai and I looked on. We still hadn’t figured out who Purno was, but guessed he was an old friend of Swami’s.

After the meeting of long-lost friends Swami and Purno got over, Swami said, “This is Purno. An old friend from engineering days. We lived in the same hostel.” After a brief silence spent in recollection with squinted eyes, Swami continued, “Was it for a year or so?” and looked at Purno to fill the gaps in his memory.

“Yes, one year and a bit more, then I shifted out of engineering,” Purno said, and Swami nodded.

“Oh okay, great,” Jigneshbhai said. So, after all, it wasn’t a big deal if he didn’t remember Purno, he thought. Why on earth should I remember Swami’s hostel friends? That too after twenty years. He consoled himself that he didn’t have such a bad memory about people, after all.

“I came to your house once with Swami during vacations, Jigneshbhai,” Purno said. So, there was reason for him to recognise Purno, in that case.

“Oh, is it?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Yes, you were already working in some business then,” Purno affirmed.

“Wow, that’s a great memory. I am sorry I didn’t remember, Purno,” Jigneshbhai apologised.

“That’s okay. I thought you will remember. Because you had a name like mine, a long one, and we had joked about it,” Purno broke into a loud guffaw. It was evident that Jigneshbhai had no memory of any such joke. And it was evident that Purno had petabytes of it, down to the last detail.

“Jigneshbhai Ranchoddas Patel, right?” Purno asked.

Jigneshbhai nodded and said, “Yes, that’s right. Wow, you remember that?” This man’s photographic memory astounded us.

“Yes,” he said. “I am Purnendu Bankimchandra Mukhopadhyay,” Purno winked. He shook his hands with Jigneshbhai and me in delight.

Wow, I exclaimed within. The man, his memory and his name were impressive.

“Great to meet you, Purno,” Jigneshbhai said. “Why don’t you join us for a coffee?”

“Okay sure. It’s been a long time,” he said. He stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. Then he crushed it with his rubber chappals before entering. The security guard gave him a queer look. We went back to our table. Purno pulled a chair from the neighbouring table. Swami asked them if it’s okay. “Oh, I should have asked,” Purno smiled sheepishly. We ordered a coffee for Purno and settled down.

“So, what’s up?” Purno asked. Swami spoke about his corporate job and his family. Jigneshbhai spoke about his business. I gave a brief introduction and left the floor open to Purno.

“Well, I am a social worker,” Purno started. “Or you can call me an activist. That’s what they call us nowadays,” he added. His tone had a mix of pride and wistfulness. “That does not count for much, isn’t it?” His face turned contemplative as he twiddled his fingers. He fiddled with the tissue papers on the table. A distinct wave of melancholy enveloped his being.

“No, Purno, it’s a noble vocation,” Swami reassured him with a pat on his arm.

“That’s what I used to think,” Purno continued, staring into blank space.

“So, do you work with some social service organization?” Jigneshbhai intervened. He put his positive spin to it, hoping it will ease the mood. And it did work and provide some succour. Because after that, the vivacious Purno of a few minutes earlier was back.

“Well, it depends. Earlier I used to work with an NGO, but I had some differences with some of the other team members. Now I am independent and take up projects based on my interest and the cause,” he explained. Animated with passion, his arms waved across the table when he explained some of the projects.

“Wow, that’s great, Purno,” Swami said. “Sounds like you can make a lot of difference,” he added. The excitement of a social angle had caught on in Swami’s mind. Jigneshbhai was circumspect as usual.

“Yes, we can. But nowadays everything needs the support of politics, business, and media,” Purno complained. His face mellowed down again with a sense of pensive sadness. “Years back the cause mattered when we protested. Now it’s so much more complicated.”

“Oh, so you protest?” Swami asked with the earnestness of a child wanting to learn a new subject in school.

“Yes. What’s an activist who doesn’t protest? In fact, this Sunday we are having a solidarity march,” Purno informed us, catching on to Swami’s zeal. “Well, no, not a solidarity march, sorry, that’s later in the week. Let me check,” Purno said and opened a diary from his bag. “Yes, this Sunday is a sit-in protest,” Purno said.

“A sit-in protest?” Swami asked.

“Yes, we sit in protest to draw attention. There will be media called and a local leader will give a speech,” Purno explained.

“Okay, what’s it about?” Swami asked.

“The poor quality of roads in the city,” Purno clarified, after rechecking his diary. It looked like his routine revolved around organising protests and marches. Because he needed a calendar to keep track of them.

“That’s an important issue,” Swami encouraged Purno.

“Actually, why don’t you join us in the protest? It’s at the next junction, a ten-minute walk from here,” Purno said. “It’s from eleven in the morning, till about four pm. You guys can join anytime. We need locals to support,” he persuaded with passion.

Swami looked at us with his questioning face. He had enquiring eyes and raised eyebrows. Jigneshbhai wasn’t too eager to join protests, so he didn’t give the soft go-ahead signal. He did not say no, though.

“You don’t have to wait long. Come around noon. That’s when the media will come. Then you can leave by two or three,” Purno coaxed Jigneshbhai, identifying the source of the lack of enthusiasm.

“Let us see,” Jigneshbhai said.

“A lot of successful local businessmen will also be there,” Purno enticed him again. “You will find it to be time well spent.”

There was no doubt that he had experience in these matters of activism. He did have some traces of what must have been the idealism of his youth. But there was no naivete of inexperience. It was clear that he had moved beyond those.

“Okay, I will make a move guys,” Purno said and got up from his seat. “I need to get some things done before Sunday.”

“Alright then, good to see you after so many years,” Swami got up and gave him a high five.

“Bye, see you all on Sunday,” Purno said. He lit another cigarette on stepping out. He put it between his lips and adjusted his glasses under the helmet. Then he left on an old Vespa scooter parked on the road opposite the café.

Excerpted from the book “Give Me a Break” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback. Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.