The Poetry of a Derailed Mind

Remembering a Gentleman I and my friend Ramesh met in Thanjavur.

I look back and suddenly, I don't know why and how, I remember this smart, young gentleman, perfectly dressed, in costly sports shoes, who used to walk into the Dinamani/ The New Indian Express office in Thanjavur. 

The office was then located at the first floor of a small complex at the busy Marys Corner. 

Ramesh, who to this day remains not only  one of my dear friends but, whom I respect for his down-to-earth manners and above all for resolute adherence to his principles in life, was then the correspondent of Dinamani. 

People, familiar and strange, used to come to the office, for delivering press statements.

The stranger (what was his name?) I'm speaking about happened to come once in a while. 

He used to silently enter, hand over a paper to Ramesh, and walk out decently. 

The contents of the paper, if I remember correctly, were scribbled with pencil or sometimes pen. But it made no sense. All that we could make out was that he had something to convey about sports. But what he had in his derailed mind had refused to flow onto the paper.

"Sad," Ramesh used to say once he walked out of the office.

I was washing my face after waking up today when I suddenly remembered this young man. 

I don't know why, but, I longed for a moment that, if only I had all the papers the stranger had handed over to us I could have now gone through what he had scribbled in it and tried to make some sense.

Is he alive today? Even Ramesh may not know. Because we've travelled (Through the office window we had a view of the Thanjavur railway station) so far from Marys corner since then. 

By the way there's another interesting character I came across in Thanjavur. He happened to be Ramesh's classmate. All about it later. 

Check Ramesh on Twitter @fydorDos (Like me Dostoevsky happens to be his favourite writer. Check his twitter followers, it would reveal one thing: that nice human beings have few friends or followers).

Pranamam.