A Cocktail Reverie

A Cocktail Reverie

It’s almost midnight, the hour of confidence, loneliness, and intimacy. Save the two of us and one last bartender, the place is empty. There are some left over drops of wine rolling at the bottom of the glasses we are holding. They can’t be licked out unless we add more to gulp them neat.

I look at the friend appealingly. It means I’m not sufficiently drunk to turn into a creator. The friend understands my need. People in a bar strike quick friendship the moment you stand for a second drink.

“Am going to create a god”, I repeat my refrain. The friend doesn’t laugh. He takes it as if I’ve said ‘I’m going to draw a boat.’

“You’re not kidding, I know. You look serious. Are you a sculptor? What experience you have? How many gods you have produced? In clay or stone?” the friend asks.

“Yesterday I produced a sea, complete with clouds, white and dark, sailing on a blue sky”, I reply in right earnest.

“Ok friend. Go ahead and create a god of your choice and taste”, the friend encourages me, raising his hand towards the waiter. His thumb points to the two empty glasses on the table. A new bottle is brought and opened. Our glasses are filled to the brim with vodka and soda. There is a rhythm in the sound when the soda is being poured. I like the poise and the sense of sanctity shown by the waiter when he puts ice cubes, one by one. An artist perhaps!

“So you’re going to create a god in the corner of a bar”, the friend continues. “Don’t we have enough gods to take care of us? The gods have their own disputes. I’m told they are busy fighting for their ranks. And you say you’re going to add a new designer god to the pantheon.”

“I don’t believe in the common gods whom everyone worships. I’m an agnostic. All that I need is a personal god — an exclusive one for myself. At my god’s feet I should be the only devotee.” I take the last sip and push the glass to my right.

“Nice tipsy talk. You know how many gods we have. Add them to the Roman and the Greek ones. Thousands there are — male, female, half human and half animal. We have one for each village, and one for each profession.”

“I don’t like any one of them. I want a special god exclusively for me — a god or goddess in my wave length.” I’m firm in my desire to create one!

“I don’t get it. What type of personal god you’d create?” The friend insists to know my preferences.

“I want to customize a god who would remain friendly — friendly to me alone. Finally my god or goddess should have no other devotees.”

The friend offers to play god and says, “Take me your god. An offertory of two bottles of wine a week is enough. I’d bless you seven long days.”

If I stay another hour, the friend may abort my very idea of having a personal god.

”Well, you’re a creative genius; your eyes tell me so. Go ahead. I wish you succeed.”

“Let me know what type of god you are going to create, male or female, young or old?” are the last words the friend flings at me.

We part at this design stage, but the friend’s parting words ring in my ears. I take the cue and start giving a shape and form to the god I’ve conceived in mind. I’ve the cast ready. In the comfort of the soon-to-be-born god of my choice I sleep.

**** **** ****

Next morning fragrance of fresh jasmine wakes me up. I see her sitting on the edge of my table. She wears the girl-next-door look, a picture-perfect pretty woman, young, youthful and strangely charming. Her face reflects innocence, pure and unalloyed, of the pre-fallen Eve. Is she not the god of my own creation, complete in ways I’ve wished my god to be, I ask myself. I sense she is reading my thoughts.

“You’ve summoned me and I’m here before you”, my deity speaks to me for the first time.

I’m amazed at my own power to create a woman—a young woman at that—as my god. What’s your name, I do not venture to ask. I’m lost, totally lost in this artistic creation I’ve materialized. I start admiring the woman in her. I like the way she looks at me. Again she reads my thoughts and desires, even those I try to keep hidden, unsuccessfully, in the inner recesses of my heart. Does she look divine? No. She is divine, I tell myself. But why she looks this much beautiful like a mortal, I question. I find no answer. I’ve no words to communicate with my goddess.

I sit lost in astonishment, eying her curiously. Her eyes are focused on mine, first questioning and then doubting my curiosity. Have I ever wished my god to be a woman, I begin to doubt my own stand for the first time.

The god I’m longing for is no more distant or remote. Here she is, sitting in my room, sitting on the edge of my table, dangling her ivory legs in the air, and leaning against my book case. She walks towards me. There is fragrance in the air, of a woman emerging from her bath, with drops of water still dripping from her dark hair.

“Come on. Get up. Wash your face”, this is the first command my goddess gives me. “I’ll go with you to your tea shop. Let me join your morning tea”, she throws her first invitation. I obey implicitly, and I’m waiting for more commands. I watch her through the corner of my eyes.

We begin to walk, side by side, to my tea joint. The road is narrow and slippery due to the previous day’s rain. She walks like a little deer sauntering in measured steps. Her arm brushes against mine. She takes no notice of her being touched, done more intentionally by me. My hand begins to grab her palm, and our fingers knit. I’m unusually happy as I’m walking along with a young woman as if I’ve known her for ages. I’m beginning to forget she is my goddess and she has come on my bidding.

Does the tea man see our coming towards him? Is she visible to him? Why he fails to notice my new companion, a woman holding my hand and beaming with a smile. How would he ever know his customer is taking a goddess to his lowly place?

My goddess looks at my face and smiles. Closing her eyes for a second she keeps her index finger across her mouth. It’s another command to keep the tea man away from our company. I nod my head and obey. The tea man doesn’t see I’m accompanying a woman. One cup, I order and drink.

She makes a sign to turn back to the room. We walk silently, though I hold her hand and feel its warmth and softness. Now I have nothing to talk. But I have plenty to watch and enjoy seeing her walk with me. I lit a cigarette.

“What’s that? Give me one”, she says.

“It’s a cigarette. A goddess should not smoke”, I tell her the mortal’s privilege. I convey this with my newly assumed authority over her.

“Oh! Then you don’t do that”, she hissed softly into my ears. I feel a lovely sense of bondage in being commanded by the woman walking by my side. Giving her third command, she pulls the cigarette off my lips, gently, and tosses it with a twist. The cigarette flies with sparks and she watches it with a curiosity of a little girl in play. I feel happy to come under a complete spell of my little goddess. As we walk back our shoulders brush, now and then, mildly enough to be felt by her. My fingers search for hers, clinch them and count one by one. She does not mind or respond to the heat of my nibbling.

“I remember I’ve seen you”, I tell her a lie.

“When did you see me?” is her reply.

“Was it yesterday or day before yesterday, may be some thousand years ago”, I add a new dimension to mystify my lie. “I remember I’ve seen you when I was young; you do not age; you look the same”, I complete the imagined meeting.

My mind is busy composing poetry. I recite it and want her appreciation for my feigned devotion.

Goddess of my own making

No altar or sanctum she has.

She smiles and speaks in songs;

She recites no Vedic verse.

Though a holy blend of all elements

No God like hers I see on earth.

“What is this”, she asks me, laughing loudly.

It’s a song in celebration of our meeting, I do not say.

“It’s a hymn in praise of my goddess. A devotee should have a special number to sing”. It’s another lie. It’s from the poet in me.

“I don’t like this”, she says, suddenly increasing the phase of her walk and freeing her hands from my grip. A first disagreement has sparked.

“Why you don’t like it?” I question her.

“I don’t like your verse. Should I explain why?” She retorts and walks fast a few steps ahead of me. Back to my room we’ve come, now silence becomes my second company.

On reaching the room she looks at my table, pulls out a book and starts reading. With a hand on her chin she looks more of an angel posing for a master painter.

“You’re an angel right from the heaven?” I tell her. Are you a goddess? Are you a woman sent by god? I do not question. She reads my face.

“Tell me, am I an angel or a goddess”? There is a note of mild anger in her interrogation. Again my heart says she is a woman, though I don’t dare to utter it. I haven’t expected this sharp retort from my goddess.

“Why blink? Tell me, guy, whether I’m your god or angel.”

I think for a minute to fish out a compromising answer.

“An angelic goddess”, is my absurd, but timely reply. I believe she’d like the new status I’ve conferred on her.

“Hey! Guy you’re a dreamer, a good day dreamer at that. And you’re telling me a good lie”, pouting her lips, she winks at me. She has come nearer to truth, my heart confirms.

I don’t want to lose my goddess so easily. A kind of new fondness blossoms in me, with added courage. I feel I’m the Lord Sundareswarar pining for his divine consort, the goddess Meenakshi.

I fall prostrate at her feet and sing a new hymn. But she steps back and avoids my hands touching her.

“I don’t like your falling at my feet”, says she. I infer a change in her tone.

“You’re my god and I, as a devotee, have the right to touch your feet. It’s the beginning of my worship. Aren’t you my deity”?

“Repeat your song and let me hear it again”, she wants to test me perhaps. I do repeat, this time with a voice and cadence of a singer she may like. Almost like a pious and genuine devotee I recite the verse again, appealing to her feminine godhood. She closes her eyes and listens. I see a smile spreading on her face. Before I recant the hymn for a third time as a refrain, she jumps, rushes closer and hugs me tight with a kiss on my cheek. I win back my goddess, I tell myself.

It begins to rain outside. We come out and watch drops of water bulleting down. The breeze carries the raw smell of rain and earth right into our hearts. All strange desires it kindles in me. She stretches her hands as if to caress the rain and catch its drops, her face beaming with childish happiness.

“Sing me a song about rain. I want to dance and get drenched.” She cups her hands, catches more droplets and splashes them on her face. I’m lost in watching the simple pleasures of my goddess.

“Do you hear me? Just sing a song. Compose one if you don’t have it ready. I’d love to hear you sing a song on rain”, she insists.

Our hushed-up kisses

Remembrances of late night duels

Little unarmed fights

Made wet by the rain

Now melt before my eyes.

She jumps up, and her arms embrace me tight, showering kisses on my cheeks. I’m shell-shocked and remain frozen for a couple of seconds. My arms respond with a reflex, two bodies trying to merge into each other.

“Watch this”, she points to her cheeks studded with glossy watery beads. “They won’t dry. The wind can’t steal them away”, my goddess says.

Yes, the rain continues. It’s a special rain summoned by my goddess to keep her spirit wet.

Evening comes. A friend steps in to take me to the bar. It’s an evening ritual I share with him. I request him to leave. I live with my goddess, I tell him; I’ve to walk with my deity to the temple I tell him my new schedule. A strange look he casts at me and leaves. Are you mad, his eyes say? My goddess bursts into laughter.

“Why you laughed”, I ask her when the friend left us.

“How would he believe you’re with a goddess in this room? If you tell him your god stands by your side, won’t he think you’re mad? Won’t he laugh?”

“How would you call me, give me a name”, she turns to a new subject.

“Yes. A goddess must have a name — Kaali, Maari—something like this….”

Before I finish she interrupts. “Give me a name, a good name for your goddess.”

A hide-and-seek game starts. I have to search and choose a name for my goddess. I start recollecting names of women I remember. Names have a peculiar association with the exterior, the face, the skin and the shape of flesh. I love or ignore a name; it’s the degree of intimacy that decides my choice.

“Brida Coelho”, is my first choice.

“Who is this?” She asks.

“It’s an immortal character in a novel. She is a beautiful young girl on a long journey in search of knowledge. I like her”.

My goddess is not happy about the name. With a swish of her hand cutting the air, she rejects it. I search for another name more attractive than an imaginary character. Venus from mythology, she rejects. Helen from history, she ignores. My name dictionary gets exhausted. I make a rapid study of all the women’s names I know, comparing each against the features of the one standing before me.

“Madonna”, I jumped with a tone of finality.

“Who is this, an artist or an actress?” She asks.

“Neither. She is a singer; a beautiful woman.”

“How would you call me”, she questions me.

“I won’t dare to call my goddess by name”, I feigned to steal a place in her heart.

The meanings and undertones I’ve packed into the name, Madonna, I hold them to myself. Here is a devotee suggesting a formal name to his goddess. I wish the conversation to prolong. But I give her time to read my mind, scale its depth and find out my devotion for her. She watches me, silently. I have nothing more to convey except that famous name I’ve mentioned. I look at her patiently. It’s the look of a beggar with outstretched hands.

“So you want me play a singer”, she laughs when she utters this casually. I’m stunned. I feel I’m slipping into a world of rejection, back to my old world of loneliness. Her looks are piercing. Questioning.

I’m in need of a god, a friendly personal god. I never meant a goddess, I’m about to tell her the truth.

“Hey guy, you know you’re telling me a good lie”. She says. “All that you need is not a god or goddess. You need a woman and you want her to shower you with earthly love and affection. Go. Search for your Madonna and marry her.”

She does not wait for my reply. She treads soft, leaves through the window and merges with the air. Her footprints, I’m left to bear on my heart.

Next to my temple visit, midnight rendezvous in the bar is the last item in my day’s schedule. I meet the friend to whom I confessed my plans to materialize a god. I stand for the first round of drinks, followed by old stories and stale jokes often swapped in bars. He has conveniently forgotten our meeting previous night. I tell him about the god’s visitation in the form of a young woman, her earthly beauty and the poetry I’ve recited. As a gentleman and a responsible drinker he listens to the description of my goddess, intently. His face shows he believes me. His eyes reflect no surprise. May be he has taken enough wine to ignore the portrayal of my goddess. Placing the glass with a mild thud on the table, he says, “Hey! Dude, aren’t you telling me a story! It was your late night dream perhaps.”

“No. My dear friend it’s not a dream. It was an experience I’ve lived through,” I insisted. “My invocation brought me my goddess.”

“Yah, I know it was no hallucination. It was an experience you’re dreaming to happen. So it happened to you last night. My congrats. You’re a success in designing a uniquely personal god.” He says looking deeply into my eyes.

“The cocktail you mixed yesterday”, he continued, had worked in top gear. I too want to see and worship your goddess, if she is a young one. Mix one as good as yesterday’s. These days we don’t get cellar-stocked old wine. This stuff brings no good dreams worth dreaming. No wings to fly,” laments my friend.

He stands for few more pegs and I want to know more about the friend of two nights.

“What are you? You work for an MNC?” I ask him, looking at his crisp designer shirt.

“I’m a lover of words. Yeah, I work for an MNC”, he replies.

“Say you’re a wordsmith then. I’m happy to meet one from my tribe.” I share the secret.

“Yeah, I love words. I love to coin new words”, he confirms.

“I wonder what work an MNC offers to a words lover,” I ask him hesitantly.

“There in my office I paint words with love and affection. They must kindle curiosity. It’s an art of persuasion”.

“So you’re a content writer, and you write Ad lines for your company products.”

My guess is correct. He confirms it with a big nod, emptying the glass. Then he casts a last look at the waiter. This time he leaves it to my choice as he directs the waiter to get the order from me.

“Scotch, preferably Bag Piper”, I give my preference.

To honour my friend I ask for sample Ad lines he’s carved.

“I tell you the best one I ever wrote. It is for St. Lukas’ ornaments. It brought more people to their door.” He says.

“Come on, let me hear it”

“Feel the Midas’ Touch. Dip a finger into Lukas’ pot and draw two rings.”

“How true the bars and pubs create geniuses like you” is the compliment I shower on my friend.

“What are you”, the friend now asks me seriously.

“Yesterday I was a deeply religious dreamer and a sculptor rolled into one. Today I’m a poet.” I confess the truth. The friend appreciates my new roll by becoming serious.

“Come on. Recite one piece you wrote today. I love to hear poetry.” My friend doesn’t doubt my capacity to roll out words in rhymes.

“Listen to this and judge my aptitude,

Last night

I missed my fight

And left the bed unruffled

Tonight let me come,

Again no arms I bear

And cleave into you tight.

My friend slips into a serious meditative mood and says, “These bars, they are funny places with magic powers. Here either you get lost in inventing lies or discover yourself”.

He stops a moment to catch the line of his thought.

“You?” the friend asks me to confess.

“Here I’ve discovered my talents. Today I’ve discovered the poet in me”, I reveal the fact about me.

“You,” I ask him in reply, impatiently.

“Here, every day, my vocabulary bag gets filled to the brim. I’ve also rediscovered an old truth: Here a good cocktail can buy love and friendship…for the moment”.

Heavy with new drinks and an empty head, I leave the bar and start walking in unsteady legs, again alone and lonely. I hear the noise of shutters being pulled down.