PRIVATE I: Better letter than never

whenever he has to wail, he still does it via snail-mail. curiously enough, in his letters, babuni born surya deo rana, has never ever exulted or eeeked about the state of things in his birthplace nepal. he left his cushy ancestral home long long ago, knocked around mumbai, then checked out hauz khas in new delhi, and is now country-clubbing somewhere out there in bangalore, the city of bageechas and some more.lately, yet another crypto-letter arrived, babuni's handwriting still like rose-patterned embroidery on paper more delicate than petals. so far, the wanderlust-afflicted b hasn't inscribed his addresses on his garden despatches; if i were to fight for a renewal of a two-way contact it would be as perilous as the battle of plassey. like the british colonialists, babuni of stiff-upper-lip and ruddy complexion, lives in his own realm, a sovereign of everything he surveys. that's the facade i suspect. because despite his royal lineage, babuni is as insecure as a fishing boat in a furious storm. plonk him among strangers, and he's completely at sea, tossing, turning and almost drowning in the waves of conversation. downing a virtual brewery of whisky at one go, making a meal out of cocktail canapes and contorting his face with the expertise of jim carrey, babuni loves to hate those hiya-society parties. he belongs there, but doesn't want to, which partially explains his self-imposed banwaas to bangalore, a city where he has no roots. if the rana's lonely, he reveals his isolation-'n'-angst only through those occasional letters which are posted days after he writes them. maybe there are many bereft souls like babuni, maybe there aren't. but i do know, he's among the many gifted writers whose words are strictly ordained for private consumption. whenever i've threatened to send his oh-so-lonesome-me, soulful-mournful and eminently poetic letters to a publisher, he has immediately fired back an et-tu-brutus salvo. "don't you dare," he has thundered, "if you value my friendship." that's that then. his letters, lyrical andvery confessional, will therefore remain among the camphor balls in my desk. but when and how does he thunder, you might ask, if i have no return-address? simple. he calls up once in an indigo moon, chats about nothing special, infallibly ending with the query, "did you get my letter?" i did and could he at least give me his phone number? "no way," he hangs up, after a wicked hyuk-hyuk cackle. is babuni for real? of course, he is, squandering his life and talent for lyrical prose in a phantom house somewhere. churlishly refusing to change, he reminds me of my first meeting with him, at a common friend's mount pleasant road apartment, where he looked contemptuously at the hostess. his first words to me were, "have you noticed that the diamonds she's wearing are pure glass?" i hadn't. on subsequent meetings, babuni disclosed that he just couldn't relate with his uncles, aunts and assorted elders either in kathmandu. the only blood relative he cared for was a cousin, an alcoholic on a self-destructive spree. the cousin was on anti-depressant pills, too, necessitated by a separation from his wife who couldn't take his booze binges and a lack of vocation anymore. both babuni and the cousin were bequeathed stacks of old money to see them through several generations. only the cousin had blown it all up, living it up fast-'n'-fuzzily in an unintended parody of the great gatsby. when the cousin died, babuni didn't weep. instead he laughed, "chalo, at least he won't have to pay for his tequila shots anymore." that was it, babuni vanished soon after to bangalore, and has kept in touch only through those rare letters and rarer phone calls. no e-mail, no sms, no fax for him. for babuni, friendship has been stubbornly one-sided. and i'd like to think, precious...even if so many diamonds nowadays are made of pure glass. khalid.mohamed@timesgroup.com