Uncle Akhil was a strange man. Everyday, he would go to office at 9.30 and be back home sharp by 5. He wouldn't venture out of the house any other time, not to the Grocer's shop, not to the neighbour's house, not even on festivals. He barely interacted with anybody.
He was my friend's father and we lived in adjoining houses. Even though my friend's family was rather popular in the neighborhood, Uncle never cared too much for human interaction. He was civil in his dealings but thats about the size of it. Nothing beyond. Since he was moody and temperamental, we didn't like to disturb him. He was fond of his Gold Flakes and Gilbeys and never really cared for anything else. Anything excepting probably Me.
When I was with him, he would talk more than usual; be jovial, discuss school, movies, cricket and a lot else. I had a feeling something was gnawing inside of him but I don't know what it was. I shared this fatalistic streak and we felt like being on another plane in each other's company. But our friendship wasn't only on account of being "puppets at the hands of fate". We had something else common to us. It was our love for Carrom ! Both of us had mammoth 4by4 feet boards that needed Strikers the diameter of a Dew's ball. And both of us loved to play as often as our routine would allow. Which was quite often actually, considering he was back by 5 and I was back from school by 3. Carrom was a popular game in our neighborhood and there were tournaments organized frequently. I used to practice with my friend and we participated wherever we could.
Uncle was a great player, though he never participated in tournaments. Mercurial, but a treat to watch when he was in his elements. And he chose me as his protege. Over his own son. He taught me everything from the basics to the more fancy stuff like reverse first hits. He was an expert at the cut shot. Under his tutelage, I trained to the point where I could cut a coin stuck to the middle of the opponent's wall and pocket it in any of the 4 pockets. Soon I became so obsessed with the cut shot that I would play it even where I had the option of hitting straight.
I learnt a lot from him and put the tricks to good (?) use. I started hustling. Sparingly at first, but gradually it became second nature. I was beginning to rake in a lot of dough. And for me, more dough meant more books. I never looked back. Things came to a situation whereby people were afraid of playing me. The money dried up, but the habit remained. If not money, I would hustle for pride. Uncle was privy to this secret all along but never disclosed it to my father lest he should skin me alive.
We lived as neighbors for 14 long years during which time he grew extremely fond of me and I of him. Finally by 1999, when I had to leave town for studies elsewhere, he had grown a huge pot belly and was morose as ever. I saw him only 3-4 times thereafter, that too very briefly. Each time he looked strikingly older for his age. A couple of months ago I got a call from my friend. We talked of the usual things. He then requested me to speak to Uncle Akhil. I said I would. He gave me the number and hung up. Meanwhile it was late so I decided to call up next day. And as it often happens in such cases, one thing led to another and soon I conveniently forgot all about making the call.
Contd..
