Uno

Most people he knew feared death. They feared it because no one had a clue what lay beyond it. Sure, there were books - several of them centuries old - that claimed different versions of it, but none of it was really certain - simply because no one had come back from the dead to tell what really lay there. What heaven or hell or the 'world beyond' looked like. Was it really that 'Great gig in the sky'?

He did not fear death. Maybe, he was a little afraid or apprehensive about the last few moments or the process leading up to the moment of death, but, beyond that moment it wasn't of any concern to him. Not at least, right now. It was, probably, because he'd had the chance to look death in the eye - come close enough to be certain of that one inescapable event of life - and then have the moment pass by. Albeit, temporarily. It had happened on railway track - a bridge between two mountains - that came out of a tunnel and went into another over a chasm.

He paused to reflect on those few seconds from a long ago for a moment, and then continued sipping his drink. The light in the dimly-lit bar cast his shadow on the grimy wall. Vague enough to be confused for one of those several wet patches on the peeling plaster, yet, a second look would confirm the hazy outline of a human profile. He put his glass down a little too hard on the table spilling a few drops of the whiskey. The drunk at the next table snored on - waiters would rudely slap him awake at closing time like every day and he would stagger out and collapse at the same spot on the pavement.

He turned to look for a waiter. Maybe, to ask for another drink or another packet of cigarettes. The ash-tray in front of him was piled high with butts. The light caught his face and I looked again. It was an unremarkable face - there wasn't anything that you would remember later. Brown skin which was slightly moist from the humidity. A large forehead made distinct by a receding hairline, dry black hair with a few strands of white, an uninteresting nose and mouth with lips darkened by smoke. He had a stubble which was probably a couple of days old that suggested weariness and possible stress. He was dressed in the clothes that one would expect a techie to wear - blue faded jeans, sneakers and a black t-shirt. His black-and-red backpack lay on the chair next to him. "Damn!", he said to me, "These waiters never show up when you need to ask for something, and then when you haven't left enough for the tip, the fuckers will give you a dirty look." I nodded quietly knowing what exactly he meant.

I'd turned up at this bar after work to get a beer. It had been a boring week at work and I was looking forward to a quiet weekend reading books. On my way to catch the bus, I contemplated on getting a beer and walked in into the first bar I could spot. As expected, it was crowded on a Friday night. It wasn't one of those upscale places where they made you fork out a fortune for a beer, nor was it one of those seedy joints. It wasn't entirely respectable - bars in India are not respectable per se, but it stood a rung above being a place where you would not want your manager to see you walk out of. I drank a beer out of a bottle and figured it would be safe since I did not particularly want to eat anything there. Not finding an empty table to myself, I'd settled for the next best option - a table with one other person on it. It was a choice between the techie and the drunk, and I figured if not anything I could at least have a conversation. I'd asked him if it was alright to sit across him and he'd just nodded his head. I slipped into the chair and ordered my beer.

Without warning, quite suddenly, he'd told me about his lack of fear of death and about the drunk at the next table. He spoke in a clear measured tone and used words that were clearly the effect of a solid respectable education. I sip my beer slowly, and I had only finished half my pint-bottle, by which time he'd finished three whiskeys, was on his fourth and wanting a fifth. But, the alcohol never showed - neither on his face or in his speech. It was the impassive face and tone that you'd expect when he was explaining how the operating system booted - a statement of facts that could be verified by looking at code.

"Have you been in love?" That question took me aback and he saw that on my face. "Actually, don't answer that. I'm sorry, it's none of my business and most certainly not something I should ask a stranger".

We'd not bothered with the formalities of identities and names - some meetings, like this, are best anonymous. One never knows what comes out under the influence of alcohol and it's just easier to forget a nameless face that heard it than to have a name associated with the momentary lapse of reason.

I remained silent and took another sip of my beer. He sipped a little more of the whiskey, caught the eye of a waiter hovering nearby and signaled for a repeat of his drink. He looked at me through his glasses and said, "Forgive me, but I need to let this out of my system. I know I have had a little too much to drink. Please feel to stop me if you don't want to listen. It's just that I've had these thoughts trouble me for too long and I am not sure if I can tell it to anyone I know. You don't have to react or say anything, I think I just need to know that someone is listening - that's it." I asked him to go ahead. I had no plans and a story like this would give me something to write about. The beer wasn't expensive and I was okay to drink another since I was anyway taking a bus back home.

"Go ahead...", I nodded and called for another beer...