Can you imagine us years from today / Sharing a park bench quietly? / How terribly strange to be 70. Simon & Garfunkel
There is this old school class mate of mine, let’s just call him RK whom I had not met for several years and whom I ran into quite unexpectedly. All said and done, a decent sort of chap, but apt to get irritable and tetchy if you spoke to him in a way that he did not fully comprehend. Don’t be fooled, it was all an act, a big pretend given that he did more than passably well in English in his Senior Cambridge exams. It’s just that he made a fetish out of it and, in fact, revelled in it. Clearly, nothing much had changed. I greeted him as I would a long-lost friend, which happened to be the case.
‘Hey, RK old pal. Long time no see. What gives? You know what, this calls for a stiff, celebratory drink. There’s a nice pub nearby. I am buying.’
RK responded in typical fashion. ‘How do you mean “what gives?” And what exactly is a “stiff drink?” And what are we celebrating?’ Speak clearly and cogently. You are as vague as I always remembered you.’
He was being true to type. Deliberately provocative. I kept my calm. Given the circumstances, you might even say I was quite bonhomous. If I did not actually hug him, it was a near thing. ‘Come on RK, don’t start on that again. I need a strong drink. I am bushed.’
‘Come again?’
‘How do you mean, “come again?”’
‘I mean, what exactly do you mean by bushed?’
‘And I meant what exactly did you mean by “come again.” We are beginning to sound like an Abbot and Costello cross talk sequence. We are at cross purposes and you, my friend, are beginning to tire me out. That is what I meant by bushed. Like you hadn’t tumbled to that anyway. And that is why I need a stiff drink? Look, must we squabble over language already? This is not a class in linguistics. We have not met in ages. Let’s go and live it up. It will be closing time shortly.’
He glared at me balefully. ‘I can hardly characterise going out for a drink as living it up. If you are bushed and upend three stiff whiskies down the hatch, you will be on a steep downer. Living it up indeed!’
So saying, we hotfooted our way to this pub and found it full to the brim, as were many of the tall glasses on the low tables. Anyhow, we managed to wedge ourselves between some serious elbow-benders on a couple of barstools. I ordered two draught beers. ‘You are ok with a draught beer I take it RK, or have you become abstemious?’
‘Now who is using big words?’ riposted RK. ‘Would I have joined you on this pub crawl had I been abstinent? Draught beer is fine, but hardly a stiff drink as you have been tom-tomming all evening. Still, it won’t burn a big hole in your deep pockets.’
I got my chance. ‘Quite so, RK. Draught beer is small beer.’
RK took a large draft of the draught beer and stared at me. ‘If you are going to keep conversing in puns and double entendres, I shall make a quick exit stage left.’
‘Pursued by a bear?’ I was starting to enjoy this.
‘Pursued by a what?’ RK looked flummoxed.
‘Bear. Large furry, fearsome creatures found in Alaskan forests and in the Polar regions. The former are also known as grizzlies. If you run into one of them, the result could be grisly.’ I laughed at my own overwrought pun. ‘Mind you, the Polar bears look cuddly, from a safe distance. Anyhow, the expression is a standard cliché in some of the comedies we used to act in school. Like the character who bounds in from stage right and says, “Tennis anyone?” and promptly disappears never to be seen again. I am not sure of the origins of the phrase “pursued by a bear” but I always smiled involuntarily whenever I came across the expression in a Wilde, Waugh or Wodehouse novel. According to our English master, it was Shakespeare, believe it or not, who first notated the words as stage direction on the margins of his manuscript for one of his plays, The Winter’s Tale. We live and learn. From Google.’ I could sense RK’s eyes misting over. A kind of glazed look came over him. Perhaps it was the beer, if not the bear. He looked irritable, which appeared to be his default facial setting.
‘You know, I deeply regret running into you. Should have ducked smartly away from your line of sight. What is with this old boy, school days obsession that afflicts so many of us? We meet once in a blue moon and when we do, do we talk of Modi, Gandhi (all three of them), Trump, Waqf or Musk’s ambition to colonize Mars? Of course not. We become tiny tots again and revert to type. Pursued by a bear while exiting stage left. Next thing I know, you will want us to sing the school song.’
I ordered another round and cleared my throat. ‘Now there’s a thought The alma mater song. We can get on to the house songs after that. What a brilliant idea. Right, after the count of three, ‘On straight on….’
RK stopped me in my tracks. ‘For God’s sake, this is a pub, short for public house. You cannot start singing school songs here. They will turf us out. Get a hold on yourself.’
‘Nice one RK. I like the phrase “getting a hold on oneself.” And you were upbraiding me for borrowing lines form Wilde and company. Look, there’s a band here playing some absolute rubbish. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think. Fine, let us forget about the school song. Probably sacrilege to render it in a pub while guzzling beer, small or otherwise. Let me go and ask the band leader if he knows the chords to Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline. You can join me in harmony for the chorus line.’
RK once again became schoolmasterish. ‘What is it with you? I agreed to join you for a small drink that was small beer on your budget, and you want to reprise Neil Diamond or Engelbert Plum Pudding, having downed just a glass and a half of the frothy stuff? I dread to think what you will become if you drank any more. Mick Jagger, Michael Jackson? I think I’ll call it a day. Well alright, just one for the road if you insist. Just to show there’s no ill-feeling.’
‘Engelbert Plum Pudding! That is so good, RK. More catchy than Humperdinck. Given your present state of mind you should be crooning the great balladeer’s hit, Please Release Me, Let Me Go. What say you? Bottoms up.’
RK finally smiled. ‘You said a mouthful there. It’s alright pal. I did enjoy our serendipitous meeting, if that is not too big a word for you. For a refreshing change of subject, I will leave you with a conundrum I am unable to unravel. Why does everyone say that Chennai Super Kings’ presiding deity, Captain Cool Dhoni is blessed with a retiring nature? Right now, it looks as if our Mahi Bhai will never retire!’
We both laughed heartily and walked out of the pub (after I settled the bill) feeling like the two old school mates we really were. I was eternally grateful that RK did not start on his fanciful cricketing exploits in school (6 for 24 and 52 not out in the inter-school final. MoM). That would have been tiresome and I was already bushed. Whether we were walking straight or not I could not tell, but we warbled ‘On straight on’ in raucous disharmony, startling the pub’s house cat, Macavity, from his deep slumber at the exit door. Not that we cared.
Published with permission from Suresh Subrahmanyan – A long time advertising professional, now retired, and taken up writing as a hobby. Deeply interested in music of various genres, notably Carnatic and 60’s and 70’s pop/rock. An avid tennis and cricket fan. Voracious reader of British humour and satire. P.G. Wodehouse a perennial favourite. He blogs at – https://sureshsubrahmanyan.blog/
