The Fluorescent Lamp

‘Yes. It works! Must admit at first I wasn’t sure if it would.’

‘I was.’

‘Nice light! Never seen such a color from a lamp. Where did you get it from?’

‘It’s a gift, now if you don’t mind…’

I quickly picked up the lamp from the hands of the electrician, gave him the 5 dollar bill and left the shop. While crossing the pavement, the face floated in front of my eyes.White.Everything was white. His pajamas were white. His desk was white. His soul was too.

A restaurant that he was too old to run. A family that he never had. A gift that became his bane. A life that deserved more. We deserved more. I deserved more from Alex Pereira.

Suddenly sun came blazing into my eyes as I hit the road in downtown New York. The cabbie was still waiting.Passersby glared at me, in a tuxedo, holding a table lamp, almost cradling it like a baby. And it was! A precious gift. To me, to an orphan. Who had mom-dad before September 2001.It was a treasure of lifelong achievements that I have been passed.

The door slammed shut. Cabbie took the cue and roared the engine alive. It was festival time. December was closing on its duty of ushering the New Year. More people were on streets. More gifts were traded. More feasts were enjoyed.

I had my gift already. My Santa left it for me. And also I would feast too. The mass ceremony is tomorrow. But before that a last task needs to be done. A promise which I know, he never forgot, although he faked doing so. His fake smile, we all were aware of it. He no longer used it in front of us, he knew it was spiteless.Uncle john knew it, Melissa knew it, & I, I knew it all too well too.

I, my name is immaterial. I might have been a goon straight from the scorcese movies, could have been a nameless beggar on the street near the central park, or could have been still fighting for my parents, totally drowned in my loss.

Anything! Anybody! Somebody! Nobody!

But Alex saw me crying and he took me to this ice cream shop near ground zero. Not long before, I called him by names a dad would approve of. The 23rd longlane street was an area where people with status often struggled. The area belonged to a Mafioso. And that is where Alex & I lived.

The doors always creaked on pushing, they still do. My room earlier was an ‘art-room’, as he used to call it. He brought me a bunk bed, made a window in the wall just for me and also did my homework at nights I cried too much. I cried a lot for four years. The tears somehow tricked the heart in convincing the brain that they had no business remaining in the eyes.

And they stopped one day. It was the day he was called to Jersey for a family affair. I had the house to myself. He never restricted me, neither did he allayed my fears. But he did close his room everytime, well almost. Maybe in hindsight he left it open on purpose & knowing him, his dad done a good job of not telling me about it.

Purity in colour.Clarity of life. Sanctity of mind. The place wasn’t a room. It was something else. No one lived there. How can someone breathe and let the CO2 tarnish the godliness. It was empty. Torn! Scratched! Almost nude!

The carnal bareness was eroded by a small table on the center. A chair and a lamp gave the tripod wooden piece some company while the walls still searched for their beginning & or their end. The only oddity in the white splendor was the fluorescent light, the lamp was radiating. This lamp.

He was a writer of elite proportions. A ventriloquist, whose fluffy monkey was his pen,. He was his life, but his work was his face. No one knew him, personally or otherwise. It’s not that he didn’t give people chance, but they didn’t. Eccentricity in brilliance is a dangerous combination. Servitude to achieve success was never he tried.

Alex Pereira died last week. He was survived by his good friend John and his daughter Melissa and Me. He bequeathed the old ramshackle restaurant to Melissa, his home to uncle john and his works, his pen and his lamp to me. I don’t know if anyone in the world can guess his treasure hiding place. But I can.And that’s where I am going today.

Longlane street again. The bearded goons lining up the stairs of no 23 to pay homage. Only it seems, of the entire world of decent, educated and sensible people, they understood the clamor of his mind, the violence of his pen, the din of his quiet.

I got out of the cab, paid him and made my way through the queue, convincing the humble ruffians that I have the key to the door. Two flights of stairs and I was standing there in same vain,foolish,helpless,the only difference was that earlier I lost two parents and was clouded with uncertainty and now I have another and I am now plagued by certainity.I clenched the fists and pushed the creaking door aside.

The white tomb was still in its color. Not much of a difference, as when he was here and now. All was still quiet, save for some intermittent scratching of pen, which was amiss. The last task needs to be done here as I promised. His treasure trove! His room. He never asked anyone for anything but once-

“Write me a worthy obituary, will you ruddy?”

I nodded. That was last week.

“Use my pen and lamp. Check if it still works. Been a long time.”

“Take the thing to Walter at the NY times, he is a good friend, he would honor you.”

Nothing was in mind when he said those words. No pity. No sadness. He wasn’t someone who needed those base emotions. Cancer also could only take away his pen and strength. He faked his smile one last time. And he left.

Obituaries are never easy to write. First you don’t write many and second, seldom you are requested to pen one down that too by the departed himself. I took the rickety chair. The lamp snugly fit into its usual position giving off its fluorescent aura. There was some poured magic somewhere for as soon as my hands firmed up on the pen, the paper nearly swallowed the whole ink on it. Letters gave a strange yet charismatic glow in the fluorescent light. No wonder, he loved to write here.

Twenty five minutes past and I was ready with the draft. And as it happened, it remained the final version. Nothing extraordinary, yet something I know he would approve of.

“The usual patron at 23 longlane street,NY has passed away.Mr Alex Pereira, author of 21 novels,53 novellas and countless short stories and verses died of leukemia in the wee hours of Friday last week. He was 53.

A faceless name to many, Mr. Pereira’s work always transcended current literature ethos and trends. Maybe he was anachronic.His work was not read by many. Neither did he write for them. The compendium of his life`s work in totality was very personal. It needn`t or shouldn`t have been. Very slowly, the forlornness got dissolved in his creative juices. And when people started to listen, he became numb. I dedicate my life to his memories. And I dedicate this obituary to him. Long live Alex.”

A pear shaped blotch mark by a falling tear at the word ‘numb’ made me write the last three lines quickly than I anticipated. I marked the date and place of the mass and the final rites at the end, turned off the lamp and made it to the office at NY times.

Walter Jones was the chief editor at the NY times. He was a good friend of Alex. Gave him quite a bit of courage, he did. Funny man, Walter was, met him a year back and he was grinning “year” to “year” at the lessening sales figures. I called the bell-boy, told him to call Mr. Walter and sat on the red sofa at the reception of the office of NY times.

‘Mr. Walter would take another 10 min.You sir, please be seated. ‘The bellboy was gracious.

As I was already seated, I didn’t heed much to the gesture. A magazine caught my eye and particularly the picture on its cover. It was Mr. Walter and with him was …was Alex. The caption of the pic was-“two giants, a gigantic pact”. Interested now, more of intrigued, I quickly turned the pages.

In the next 10 minutes, I became aware of the most preposterous yet workable shock marketing example in the living world. I couldn`t move a muscle. I was still reeling from the aftershocks. But! How! What! Why!!

Mr. Walter was now walking towards me. A bundle in his hands. I couldn’t stand, the magazine in my hands felt too heavy, the questions even more so.

‘Well, that makes my work easy’, Walter said seeing the magazine and the expressions on my face.

‘Now, you have many questions and I have the answers’, his eyes twinkled like a quizmaster.

I was though still unsure of all this, I looked at him as if not ready anymore to listen. I was about to say-‘keep the secret to yourself and leave me alone’, when he began-

‘You see son! Alex was an exceptionally gifted writer. And he knew it. I knew it too. Those blessed enough to understand his work also knew it.But alas! There weren’t too many of them. And then one day, he published his first novel. It was a huge success, huge! He didn’t make anything out of it, but it won him great accolades. I was an abstract story, the kind he never penned down before.’ he continued to look into my eyes with a benign stare, placing his shoulder on mine all this time.

‘But his second work failed miserably. The editor started rejecting his work, asking for a normal story, quite apart from his style. He had two choices, to write the populist stories and give upon his fluorescent lamp or to go in anonymity, deprived of deserved fame and money. Incidentally, he chose none. We chose none.’

Now he was getting even more nostalgic and serious. He heaved a heavy sigh and then continued-

‘He wrote ahead of his time. “A matter of time Walter”, he used to say. So one day, over a beer, we casually chatted about a possibility-a unique proposition!’

‘The day was when he left you all alone at home and came to Memphis to meet me.’

“Road to redemption is rejected by book house.”

“You are telling me that your best work till date has been turned down and you are still smiling, any other guys accepted it?”

“No, the same.” there was not even a speck of sadness in his eyes.

“So, what next!” I tested his move.

“I have an idea. I’ll publish it twenty years later. “He poured himself another.

“Great!” I joked, dismissing the statement as dipped in alcohol, but he continued, seriously.

“There will be news in your daily, about a novel to be released”

“Your novel?”

“Yes”

“But who`s publishing it..”

“No one”

“Then?” I failed to gather the straws, he was chewing at.

“See Walter. Publish a news article each week about my books, the ones I will write now. The article will carry news about these novels being published 20 years later. Just a teaser of the story and the publishing date-which will be twenty years post the date of the D-day.”, now there was a twinkle in his eyes and a concern in mine.

“What you are trying to achieve here Alex?”, now I wanted some clear answers, enough of the riddles.

“The restaurant is enough to keep me going. But now, with the boy...” he continued as if he never heard my concern.

“But Alex, even if this works, say you are able to create public interest, it won’t be there when they won’t find the book in the stores and slowly but surely, they`ll forget.”

“People forget the feasts Walter, but they do remember the snatched morsels. Do as I say.”

“But if you don’t want money, why all this, aren’t chasing fame, are you?”

“Irrelevant Walter. Have you met the boy?”

“Haven’t got the chance. Invite me.”

“Hmm…When you do drop in, you’ll see. It’s a lesson Walter. A lesson, I can’t teach now to him. Even genius has to wait.”

‘And that’s how that evening ended.’ Walter’s eyes were now brooding.

‘So the plan, it did work, did it?’ I asked him, still looking at the picture of the magazine cover.

‘So far so good, pity he couldn’t be around when “Road to Redemption” was finally re-published. It’s on the bestseller list currently. You won’t believe that people still recount the old news snippet about it.And that`s what I have got for you here.’-

He unrolled the bundle. A sizeable no of sheets were rolled into it. I knew them. They were mine. My paintings. The name at the bottom of all-Roger Barnes.

Roger Barnes. I failed at the entrance of the art entrance examination. Studied computer graphics at a local software school. The money I started to make was nothing. Nothing! And I lost my painting kit too, when I went to Arkansas for a job interview. Hasn’t bothered to paint anything, since an artist of repute dismissed my work as “nothing”.’

Along with the bundle, there was something else too. My old painting kit. My fluorescent lamp.

Now the fake smile was mine. My father, yes my father! , he wrote his obituary himself long time ago. It was his work. He was the writer. I wasn’t .

I would need a broader table and a canvas.

He told me everything in his life, yet nothing.

I would also need to leave my ruddy job that will be easy.

I am the painter.

But wait, I am wrong, when once I was just sleeping he told me in hushed tones:

“Belief and Reality are two long lost brothers. Those who combine them are genius. But sometimes even genius has to wait.”