18 Feb 2025 / Mind & Memoir

Simpatico

What is it like to be a tourist of the mind? An inexhaustible one? To be qualitatively different? And what is it like to be uniquely yourself? Individuality, and in not being bashful about expressing it. There is a double barrel of situation and trigger which impel a man to be as he is: innate force of habit, an essential intrinsic character which goads, actually perforce has you in its clasp. As refractory trait or fleeting impluse. We all have it in some measure. That’s the foil against which I present a lost colleague and friend ---- Russell W. Grimmer.  An extraordinary man in the mind’s scrapbook, who never ceased to impress, inspire, inveigle.

I first met Russell / Russ / Rusty in 2003 when I went to work at Motorola in the heydays of India’s telecom revolution. A few inches taller, lean, weather-beaten chap with hurried style and swagger. Disarming, slightly shy smile which crinkled at the eyes. What had me in his thrall (admittedly to a degree) wasn’t this, I liked to think of myself as something of an afficionado in one sport too many, so while attracted to this charming chap, wasn’t drawn solely by his elan. I liked the style, it back-handedly endorsed mine. I liked the man, he was bright, he was curious, he had been around but was not jaded, he was witty and overwhelmingly infectious. We both subscribed to the Brotherhood of Perpetual Indulgence. Russ was the golden boy active in the communications business ----- all and every facet of it from broadcasting to print journalism to public relations to crisis management. Across several sectors and untold employers, he wore a decorated career lightly. Russ had a way with people. A gift of connecting with ease. The loner and recluse I am, it amused me hugely. What drew me was something different----he still carried whiffs of the flower children. A very subtle thread I found with him. We never spoke about it, but I am reminded, as I write this piece in 2025. I really loved the 1960s and I loved that decade beyond just its zeitgeist. Russell had launched his boat at the end of that decade. He had the 1960s spirit. I had it too, but I had it suppressed. We were vagabonds in a sense; only I was the chained one. He lived his impulse and beat me many times over in his voyages, adventures, immersions, experiences and that great priceless residue they bring to bear.  My ambitions and plans lacked force, therefore any expression. They sputtered and died. He launched his boat to float and it floated wide. Russell was a hit with the girls. Among them, a few certain ladies and a manicured mannequin of frost. All very collegial, I must say. There were moments in the sun full of banter beyond matters of the heart which passed. Women were never that important to either of us. Thrill of a chase was. The prospectus and equally the conspectus was eclectic. We saw everyone of them with Nelson’s eye. Each had distinct appeal; none had the quality of arrest. It was enough to flutter and fly. Perforce by habit, our man usually settled on a favourite perch as we discussed merits/demerits of the female of the species before agreeing that in sum total and given the types we knew, they unfailingly represented the undefinable zone between Venus Flytrap and Praying Mantis. We put it down to natural design and destination. Not their fault per se. And even if it was, we couldn’t say it like it was, not in the interest of self-preservation. We caught up at the Raffles or the St. Regis {we had hit upon the idea of upgrading ourselves to the best by paying the difference, never substantial fortunately, between our entitled per diem allowance and the negotiated rack rate}. This was often the practice before lines of sight and friendly advice coaxed him to take wing again. For a reader in the sterile unisex order of the 21st century to be offended by these descriptors is par for the course. We were children of the 1960s and ‘70s ---- altogether different mood and milieu which did not couch views in DEI metrics. We said it like it was. Still do. A flirt with the Hare Krishnas, Russell could cook concoctions in a hash, largely edible. I have survived his food, this amateur cook of ISKON. And then the Bharatnatyam, which he struck poses of, was another, altogether amusing part of his cultural repertoire. His Stetson hat after Crocodile Dundee (complete with a crocodile tooth) was trademark. The hat and the strut and the smile and the style…this man could really bring it on. Among the more enduring strong traits of Russ were a razor-sharp mind (I used to tease him as Occam’s Razor) a vast, really vast knowledge about everything, and real knowledge, not millimeter deep fluff. His cosmopolitan world-view gained first-hand and experientially. This, in the wrap of a super cool and collected demeanor, made him an island of calm efficiency. The spontaneity this man had, the openness, the generosity of spirit and wacko sense of humor made Russ uniquely himself. I last met him in Melboure in 2009.

As he knocked on memory out of the blue, I thought I’d try the silly try of reducing him to words ------ I should have known better. I am glad our paths crossed. Life and time seem to fly. Kairos, the angel of time always and forever runs on tip-toe I once read. Days in the sun are technically over, even though we’d never admit it and secretly still consider chase and conquest – in the mind at least. I think the impulse never leaves a man. It may whittle down, a man may scotch it, but it never truly departs. Not in terms of the initial blood-rush at least. Folk like Russ never grow old. They just acquire patinas of juice and flavour. The man should write his memoirs. There’s so much and then so much more to trip on. We, survivors of a certain vintage, are shards of lost time. Representative of open, interesting times so different from the sterile clone-age which presses down on what passes for youth today.

Stay well my friend. With a slap on the back.

Postscript: The eye patch you see Rusty with stems from an accident in London, circa 2009. Our man took it on, head on and carries the scar with signature style.