09 Jan 2025 / Anecdotal analects

Mongrel Master

That’s Joe Gould ---- not really a master (mongrel or otherwise) but close. At least in terms of consummate artistry of yarns. And that’s the blurb from Joseph Mitchell’s book on the guy: “It was 1932 when Joseph Mitchell first came across Joe Gould, a Harvard educated vagrant of Greenwich Village. Penniless, filthy, scurrilous, charming, thieving, Joe Gould was widely considered a genius. He was working on a book he called the Oral History ---- the longest book ever written, he claimed, formed of recorded conversations set down in exercise books. Of course, when Gould died the great epic was nowhere to be found….”

Of course, I never knew Gould, except tangentially through the book I refer to. His portrait picture is from 1943. Grimy nails, a disheveled look and in the second photo, his famous seagull dance --- he was such a self-proclaimed authority on seagulls that he claimed to even speak their tongue. People were besotted or indulgent with this man. The foibles of Joe Gould are replete across the public domain. He was a mongrel in the sense of his totality. An eccentric, emblematic of the disconnected. Perennial perpetual outsider, in parts at least. I consider him an underlying emblem of the delusional nature of real life. I draw upon him to draw you towards the artistry with which he made people believe in the existence of his Oral History. People were regaled by it, they recited and performed anything he wanted them to (for it), some were deferential towards him even as most were tolerant. Only some were dismissive. They widely considered his work a seminal effort, if not outright genius, and they actually went looking for it. Fact is, the Oral History was a chimera, an illusion which had people in its grip --- much like life itself. And they paid full dollar by unwittingly sponsoring Joe Gould. Gould was in equal measure, persuasive, engaging, entertaining, and in a vague way, enthralling. The fulcrum of it all, as Gould demonstrated, was belief in subterfuge while believing it to be real. Great, grand delusion which drives all and everything in the world. People, everybody really, are putty in its hands. A master, Joe Gould would never have seen himself as anything, other than a slighted genius. Yet he was nothing more than the caricature of a charlatan. And a mongrel master.

A more refined master was Old Behrman in O Henry’s The Last Leaf. Greenwich Village again. Well before Joe Gould’s time I should think. Unlike Gould, a fictional character here – a failed painter, a drunk who claimed he would paint his masterpiece one day. He had painted for forty years without ever painting a “good picture”. Yet he always talked of painting a great picture, a masterpiece. Old Behrman, past sixty, a drunk, painted the last leaf for a sick, dying budding artist of a girl. His leaf never withered to fall away like the others. It was a last leaf on a creeper outside her window that the girl, Johnsy believed would fall and she would die too…only it never fell because before it could, the failed artist of “no good picture ever painted” painted his masterpiece. A leaf as realistic as possible was painted by Old Behrman. It was his masterpiece. Johnsy could not tell that it was just a painted leaf. The last leaf had fallen, but the drunk’s masterpiece had her believe otherwise. In the story Old Behrman died of exposure to the cold. He had painted his masterpiece through the night. It was a masterpiece indeed, not only in its realism, it was in its ability to give life to the ailing, dying girl……the fictional character, a mongrel master, revealed reality beyond dross. His reality lay in his genius as much as in his humanity and his sacrifice. Things pass for what they appear, not for what they are. That’s the lesson from unlikely teachers.

My heart lies in the conte. I like telling tales, meandering ones. My beloved mongrel masters were a range accentuated in imperfect eccentric blips on my radar. Nothing tied them together. The denominator of form and manner (completely unknown and unintelligible in the moment) was only understood afterwards as they appeared, riding mind and memory on the back of cues thrown up by reflection. I present them without any order because no order is required. Here are two from amongst several:

The Author

I shall call him the author. That’s who and what he was. I was brusque with him not because of disrespect but because I feared that he would cling. It is a fear I have had since a long time. It has kept me in relative peace and quiet; aspects I have come to cherish as invaluable. I have had people cling and I have had to struggle with freeing myself. That explains, I hope. It also explains the drivers of almost everything one does --- from a state of fear or a state of greed. What you can do to me / what you can do for me. The Janus-faced world swings on this. Anyway, let’s return to the anecdote if it is one.

This gentleman, the Author, was tall, slim, had a slightly stooped manner and indeterminate age. Dressed in an old bush-shirt and well-worn trousers with flip-flops. Physically clean, of agreeable disposition, reading glasses dangling on his chest. He spoke well with a certain eagerness which did not appear effected. Clearly, an educated man in the sense I understand education to be. I regret not engaging him. Through the course of our scattered, brusque and infrequent encounters I did not ask him his name. It did not occur to me. Then, through the in-between spaces between our infrequent meetings, he disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. The Author, I’d call him that regardless of being published or not, carried a spiral-bound manuscript in the crook of his arm. Fairly tattered; not well worn, tattered. It said he had been at the art of persuasion since long. I don’t think people noticed that though. As I recall, our interactions ran something like this:

The Author: “Sir, excuse me, may I speak with you a moment?”

Me: “Certainly sir”

The Author: “Here’s a book which the author is promoting (proffering the spiral-bound manuscript). Would you like to read it?” {he referred to himself in the third person}

Me: “No, thank you sir.”

The Author: “Please read it, it is a good plot, and a good writer…you’ll like it. The author writes well.”

“At least browse it…”

Me: “No thank you, I am in a rush, please don’t bother me.”

I’d quicken my pace away from the shunned author. The man was exceedingly well-mannered, well- educated and would politely give-up, only to approach the next target. In a world of churlish boors, who never read nor have read anything beyond textbooks or menus, the entirety of his efforts was a waste. He was an odditorium. That he would have felt deeply slighted, would have smarted under the coarseness of people worse than me, is obvious. The fact that he hung around that high street money and material worshipping market for a few weeks, could have been driven by anything. Anything from seeking acknowledgement/endorsement/an audience/money/someone to talk to………anything at all. The fact that he was unquenched was a fact. As I recollect the unpublished Author, the man in whose head the unpublished novel lived, I can relate to him finally. I could and should certainly have extended him the courtesy of listening on pause rather than pretending to be busy in chase of time. I had time, I just didn’t want it invested in him, or for that matter, anyone but myself. It is only now that I am made painfully aware of the always essential need to be sensitive, receptive, respectful. To give a man, anyone, his dignity. A certain respect born of the fact that we are fellow riders in time and space. And, therefore, an obligation of acknowledgement is not just commiseration, it is courtesy. I remember him. His demeanor, his handwritten (I think) spiral-bound manuscript, his beseeching tone, everything apparent about him. And some things not so apparent. I feel guilty and I feel a little sad. I contrast my published work, my scratching as writer of sorts. My writing as elective vocation, his as livelihood. I feel undeserving of my very minor success as a writer of sorts. Why did he write? There’s no reason to it, except George Mallory’s retort to ‘why do people climb mountains?’. “Because they are there” That’s what the climber had said. Reason enough. I don’t know why the Author persisted in asking strangers to read his stuff. There could be several reasons. All equally unimportant.

Mrs Garg

Another one was Mrs Shobha Garg. In the good days, I was told by Maneka Gandhi, my eventual bete noire, to indulge her. Mrs Garg was some three decades ahead of me on life’s treadmill. She dyed her hair orange with henna, was an asthma patient and a bit of a clinger. She had an abusive and violent husband, who was in turns supportive and castigating. Her only son and his wife were exceptionally abusive and violent towards her. Her neighbourhood was hostile. The grocer Mrs Garg took bread, milk and eggs on extended credit from, was hard. Her own family called her a bitch as did many others…she’d smile ad go on. Mrs Garg loved stray dogs. She loved them enough to take all this. She loved them enough to sell whatever ornaments she had, for them. She loved them enough to beg for them. And she loved them enough to climb up and down four floors panting and breathless, twice a day to feed and pet, despite her fragile health. I later learnt that she had a heart condition as well. I shall never forget a blistering summer afternoon. I drove to give her the dog food and was an hour late. She was sitting under a tree with a bottle of Fanta and a glass….I scolded her for this, but she smiled and just egged me to drink the cooled drink. There is so much more I cannot remember or don’t want to…As long as he could, Mrs Garg’s husband was the sole peg of support she had. Once he died, it was dire straits. Her son almost threw her out. I promised to help her with Mr Garg’s will, but fortunately it never came to that --- she was a very kind soul and completely without any rancour. The delinquent son stalled. She’d cry when we met. I used to support her with sacks of dog food. When she’s ask for more than the quota I would often chide her with retort that had many others to support and could not do more ---- mercifully (for me) I often did. In later days Mrs Garg {I called her Shobha ji} was too unwell to continue. The food was still distributed, the dogs were still fed. There were a few good people and I continued to do my bit….Then one day I received a message from Shobha ji’s daughter, from Shobha ji’s phone that she was no more…Shobha ji showed me what integrity, selfless love, Karma are. And an open heart. And a soul bereft of any ego. She taught me much much more than I was capable of imbibing…as I remember her, one of my most poignant masters, my eyes well up. I can do nothing except bear witness to the wonderful lady she was, I cannot do anything except to send her my love and send her light. And in my own, entirely useless, twisted way send her my soulful respect, admiration and thank her for nudging me to see beyond merely looking with the eyes. The eyes can never see. The heart can. As for the dogs, many would have passed, many may remain…life has its way.

I could have called this piece anything else and it would have been just what it is. The word mongrel, however, has a pungent, visceral feel to it; it rings better. Stark, impolite, bitter-bland like an imperfectly ripened tangerine. Imperfectly ripened --that’s the kernel and the peg. Like everyone else, I have come across perfectly commonplace people in perfectly commonplace situations. Across the cadence of perchance meetings with them, as I dip into memory, I try to glean learnings I could not deduce then. The reason for the miss is simple: I was obtuse, insensitive and stupid. I reacted in the impulsive manner I am still trying to kill. I did not have the sense, the maturity to respond, to truly see and respond, to process and learn. A fact regretted, but that’s quite useless. I see them as masters because they not only perfectly bridge my yesterdays and today, they remind me of what I must imbibe and must call to aid in navigating the remainder of my life. Especially now, when my relationship with the world is a war of knives. Especially now, when my refractory beliefs and persona have calcified further with nonchalance. It comes to those who don’t care about popularity, social networks or political, eager-to-please correctness. As I try and tell you what I want to, I realize (at last) the flippancy of things. The sheer impermanence of all and everything. We float about, flailing, while believing we have control, we will prevail, our fortunes are to last. Nothing shall. Only kindness matters.