Notes From Qutub

It was him. But I could not recognise. Smooth and silky voice.

I repeated over phone: "Can I speak to K?"

"Yes, speaking, dear. Who's it?"

"I want to speak to K...Is this his number?...."

"Yes," the voice at the other end responded.

"You mean, you're K... who lived in Rangaiah Garden Street, near Vivekananda College?" I was desperate to pin him down to the exact coordinates I was looking for.

"Of course. Who are you, if I may ask you?" He asked me.

I told him who I am. Rather who I was 35 years ago when I had habitated in the address mentioned above.

"Oh, you must be Delhi Ramesh!" he came back.

Oh migod! It's him: K, the Casanova of my childhood. Whether girls fell for him or not, he chased them by rolling a rubber tyre non-challantly.

One small confession to declare: I was his accomplice on several occasions.

K was two years senior to me in school where we studied. History was his elective. He used to visit my block of multi-single room tenements where his colleague - a Telugu guy lived - to exchange notes: on what, I don't know.

"Yes. I live in Delhi."

It is a habit with many south Indians. They tag your company or hometown to one's name for easy identification. For example, Hindu Ranganathan mama, Shell Chinnappa, Vedaranyam Vadivelu, Simpson Rajagopal, Indian Bank Palani etc. And of course, Delhi Ramesh!


"Arre yaar, you sound very young," I tell him and he responds with a hearty laugh.

I remember Ananda Vikatan Santhanam telling me a couple of hours earlier in the day that K has not changed a wee bit in his looks department even: handsome and adorable.

I tried to collect his face and succeed in framing him in my mindscreen. It is still a mystery why "dawanied" girls never fell for him, despite his dashing looks and childlike innocence even when he was in high school.

But one thing was definite. Any girl chased by K was assured of a quick marriage to someone else other than K! Cruel destiny. He never minded. It was a hobby or time-pass if I may say so.

We chat up a lot over phone and I am keen to meet his mother and sisters. He delivers their numbers. Quickly I disconnect with a promise to return after interacting with his family members quickly.

I call up his sister "S" who comes online in the first ring itself. I tried to juggle her memory to identify myself. "Oh, you must be the Gundu (fat) Ramesh!" who lived on the top floor of Vichu's (another friend) house" she blurts out.

I am no longer Delhi Ramesh, but Gundu Ramesh!

"How dare you call me Gundu Ramesh?" I chide her mockingly. But my day has been made. I reconnect with K's family after 35 years.

She introduces her hubby over phone and brings her mother online with a proviso that she is 80 plus and hard on hearing. I can hear S shouting at the top of her voice to her mother telling her who she is about to talk to you.

"Ennada Ramesha, how are you?" says K's mother. I pour out a lot little realizing she cannot hear a decibel.

Quickly S comes back and tells that mother recognised me.

She's curious to know how did I get her number. I tell her about her brother K and I go ga-ga over K's mesmeric voice.

"You must meet him in person. He has not changed a wee bit. Same look. Very young. By the way, he will be retiring in two years time!" she adds.

Uff! He is nearing sixty. Oh migod! Two years after his superannuation, I will also be 60. But retirement? I am unable to stomach that feeling.

I return to K and convey our dialogue with S and his mother.

"Mother is very old now. I want her to take to Kashi. That time I will visit you in Delhi," says K.

I am tempted to ask him about the half a dozen girls both of us chased in the early 1970s. Did he bump into them? How are they? Whom they are married to etc. But restrain myself. I don't know why. I could have easily asked him those embarrassing questions. But, still don't venture.

K reels out many of our common friends' present condition. Most of them have become grandparents! He has not. I have not. So far.

I say goodbye and disconnect.

"Dad, what time your flight reaches Delhi?" asks my daughter over phone. I shuffle in the overcrowded Chennai airport departure lounge and tell her that SpiceJet 308 to Delhi is delayed by more than 30 minutes and will touch Delhi past midnight.

I look around the lounge and imagine whom K's roving eyes would have identified to chase. I fail miserably. It's an art in which K excelled. I just "SMS" him with a simple "thanks".

What fantastic days those were. Romantic, indeed. No care in the world. Conservative, no doubt. But we were chivalrious.

I look into the glass pane of the jewellery shop in the lounge and adjust the sheaf of white hair on my forehead.