Phone rang.
A sweet voice was on the line, “Hello.” Well I was sure that this was one of
those ‘Happy New Year’ calls from some shop which must have put a neat sum to
the debit of my account. But life is full of surprises. Just when you think
life is getting very drab, there comes a twist which gives you the very same
feeling which a trainee artist in a circus would have on his first show on a
trapeze.
“Hello, I
want to interview you. We are going to do a feature article on you.” The voice
now sounded sweeter. “And I would like to meet you with my photographer to do a
photo shoot on you.”
Those are
the words which send your pulse accelerating faster than a Merc or a Maserati
on an expressway. Imagine a trainee artist in a circus on a trapeze, hanging
upside down on the swing with pulse galloping like a cheetah chasing a prey. The
only other time when this had happened was when I opened the cupboard to take
the bottle of golden liquid from Scotland and it coincided with my wife calling
me out loudly. Yes, dissimilar instances. But the effect is the same. Your
hands tremble, so does your voice; you hold your breath in anticipation of what
is coming next.
“Why?” I
asked. There could not have been a more idiotic question. You want to say ‘Oh,
Yes? Really?” But what comes out is different. “Why?” I asked.
“We are
from a magazine which covers activities of old people. We would like to cover
your times since retirement.”
“Why?” Yet
another of those questions. Not really. Who will read about activities of
retired persons except perhaps the retired persons whose hunger for general
knowledge increases with age? But you guessed it right. I never asked this
question.
So we
decided about time and date of our meeting. I anxiously waited for their
arrival. I glanced at the road to check if they had arrived. “They know the
address so they will come, you don’t worry.” My wife said to me noticing my
anxiety. I murmured something in protest and in denial. Words do not come out
clearly when you are anxious. But you make a sound like a two stroke engine, tut
tut tut tut, just enough to let the other party know your disapproval.
The team
arrived. A young lady, very observant, smiling cautiously and dressed in a jeans
and top. A gentleman was accompanying her, obviously the lens-man, carrying a
big camera bag. He spoke Gujarati and immediately struck a good conversation
with my wife who having been born and brought up in Baroda qualifies to be
labelled Gujju. From ‘kem cho’ it was a short step to share some ‘undhyo.’ The
cameraman’s eyes were searching for good spot to take snaps.
The
interview began. “What attracted you to blogging?” She asked. I searched for an
answer. There are questions you can anticipate in an interview. This one is
like the ‘approach shot’ in tennis. Difficult ones follow this, I knew. But I
was prepared. “Blogging gives me an avenue to express myself.”
My darling
wife was smiling; I noticed it. When you are married for thirty-seven years your
ways are well known to ‘the party of the second part’ as my lawyer friends
would say. I did not wait for the second question. My school had taught me to
write the entire chapter for any question on it in an examination. That
strategy invariably worked. ‘Real value is in volume’ we would tell each other
then. At the end of my long answer I gave a victorious look to my wife. And to
my young interviewer, who was fiddling with her recorder. Never realized that
she was recording it! But ‘it does not matter,’ I said to myself. I was careful
not to use un-parliamentary language, which comes so easily to public and parliamentarians alike. It occurred to me that the
meaning of that word has changed to allow many an expression.
The lady
and lens-man duo left. My darling wife sat there with a smile on her face. “Congratulations!”
She said. I was moved. I mean, there are moments in the married life when you
hear a genuine compliment from your wife; you feel as if you are on a trapeze
and have caught the girl coming from other swing – such an ‘Aha’ moment!
“You must
write your autobiography, let us see how it is received.” she said. The girl was
slipping out of my hands.
“Ha, ha! Darling,
who will read my autobiography?” I asked.
“Well, that’s
my test of a good writer.”
Vivek