The old man was at his usual place when I entered the bar, his back facing towards me, drinking leisurely without looking around. I never saw him leave the bar and he was always there when I came in, sitting all by himself at the far end of the bar. I wonder if he ever left that place. He never seemed unnecessarily chatty with the waiters and never for once got drunk. He was always the same man sitting there and drinking as if he was saying “It’s Ok. I’m here and I’m drinking. What can be wrong?” to the world.

Once I saw him stand up and walk towards the men’s room and that was when I guessed he was a really old man, must be in his seventies or more. I don’t know a thing about being seventy, or how men walked when they became that old but the man walked slower than my grandfather when he was seventy. So, I guessed he was around that age and he walked to the men’s room as if it was an effort, an unwanted chore that he had to get through. He walked the same way back to his place as he went in and resumed his drinking. Sometimes I get too drunk to observe him, or I got to run some errand or something, and that meant I always left before he did.   

He was not a hard drinker, that old man. I timed his drinks and he could not guzzle more than one an hour and he always appeared as sober or as drunk as the last one left him. Probably he loved sitting there but I could not find a single redeeming feature in the little bar for it to become an object of such genuine affection. I mean it is a good place, cheap and moderately clean with friendly waiters who never rushed you away towards the end of the night, and the owner always had a word or two with everyone, but for a man to devote so much of his life to its confines was a stretch even to imagine.

On my good days, I felt content looking at him from a distance; he appeared to me like a monk, peaceful and alone, at ease with himself and the world around him. I felt relieved when I saw him there and he had a kind of soothing effect on me. On my bad days however, I begrudged him, I wanted to hold him by his shirt, lift him and shake him off his chair, bring him into the reality away from his meditative stupor. I wanted to take it all on him, show him what it feels like to be alive and ask him if he ever felt it. I thought it was unreasonable and illegal for a person to be so detached from everything that’s happening around. I wanted to show him a newspaper and ask him what he thought of that. I didn’t do any of those, for most of the feelings pass but the old man stayed there, a poster of absolute defiance and unshakeable resolve.

Sometimes I wanted to know him, ask him about his childhood, how he was as a kid, when he had his first drink, the women in his life, his interests, hobbies, his anger, his strengths, his weaknesses, what made him, what broke him and what drove him to this state. Everything. I wanted to know the person inside out so that I can get rid of him, throw him out of my system after leeching his very life out of his mouth. I wanted to tell him that he can’t play enigma for long and that I was calling time on his mysticism, or façade, or musing orwhatever he called the little game he was up to. Maybe he knew all that and he had no intention of letting me, or anyone do that to him. On more than one occasion, I thought of asking the people in the bar about him, but I was quick to dismiss that idea. It seemed unethical and plain wrong to invade on his privacy from behind. If I was too gutless to face him and talk to him, the least I could do was not to resort to shortcuts. It was my cross to bear and I'm glad that I didn't work on the idea.

Lest anyone get any ideas about my psyche, let me clarify that the old man was never an obsession to me, at least that was what I wanted to believe. I was curious just as anyone but, I had my life away from the bar and I doubt it if he did and wondered what it must be like. He always dressed either in black or white, never crumpled, so he did seem to take some care in how he presented himself, though I can't picture him to be fretting about those sorts of things.  I thought about the money. There had to be some way he was able afford his drinking. At 70, he must be earning a pension, and if he did, he must have worked, and must have had a place to crash after the bar closes. I decided to tag along that day, for I had nothing better to do with my Friday evening. I was not invited anywhere and had the entire weekend for myself, so the seed was planted.

As a person, I'm not the most instinctive or proactive and I arrived at the decision to follow him after subjecting the idea to a painfully long thought process, but the idea itself was the easiest to arrive at, at least in hindsight. A ton of what-ifs were running through my mind even as I debated if I had it in me to go through with it. I chose to drank my senses out of working overtime.

An hour passed after I made the decision and I downed a liter of rum by that time. I stood up to see if I can walk behind him and follow him to his place. I could not focus, the surroundings appeared too hazy and I needed to urinate. The waiter who was serving me, came up to me and asked if I wanted anything else, as they were about to call it a day. I looked at the old man's glass. It was near empty and he sat there looking at a wall that was painted tasteless, too bland to hold anyone's interest for more than a second. I started walking.

My steps were decidedly haphazard as I made my way towards the bathroom, a mild excitement running through my veins for I was going to see his face for the first time in all these days. I didn't want to rush the moment, so I walked slower than normal, careful not to let the man sense something behind, also afraid not to disturb his ritual. I was about 10 feet away from him, his back facing me, his head a bit stooped on to the table, probably in fatigue, or drunk. "Please don't drop dead on me, you old man" I prayed as I took the next ten steps eagerly.

I went past him.

I didn't know if I felt ashamed to look at him, standing up and turning back to look at him, but I knew that I couldn't get a better chance to see his face. I was probably afraid of what I might find in his eyes. I felt my legs disappear under my abdomen, I guessed I was falling down. It was probably the alcohol, or the shame of standing up. I stumbled on my feet and grabbed a chair, exactly opposite to where he was sitting, still looking in the opposite direction. When it became too much for me to hold the posture, and when I felt too weak to take a step further I collapsed on to the chair. It was convenient, not exactly calculated, but there I was facing him, looking into his eyes, rid of all inhibitions.

A sense of achievement seemed to crawl into me when he started talking. It was like he was expecting me and he prepared the speech in advance. His tone seemed condescending, that I wasted so much time. It was a stream of consciousness, yet every word embedded with so much meaning and thought behind it. He said.

"Son, I know you were looking at me. I know that you want a story. I know you must have imagined one. Let me tell you, that whatever you imagined is way better and truer than what I have to tell you. Frankly I have nothing to tell you. I got no story to tell you. I wish I had, but no, I don't. You might think I got a dead wife, my kids abandoned me, and I'm wallowing my time away in sorrow. Let me tell you, none of that is true. If I had a story, I wouldn't have been here. "

"When I see people like you, looking at me, my heart goes out to you. I wish I had something to tell you. I wish I could speak to you, something that you don't know, something you would like to know, something only I can tell you, but alas, oh alas. I sit here every day, wishing and willing you to come to me, so that I can tell you something. I want to talk to you, the lot of you, but what can I speak of. I don't have stories of adventure, imagination, optimism. I didn't live that kind of life. I'm an old man. I lived some days, some years, none too memorable."

"Look at me. Do you think I'm hiding something. Heck, I'm not capable of that son. I'm 72 years old. Not the best of the time or age for keeping secrets. I don't have the energy for being enigmatic and sustaining it every day. If my routine interests you, that may be because of your interest in the mundane, the dull, and the unhappening. Who would want to spend their time like that? I wouldn't. Do you?"

"You are the one that should tell me stories, son. I'm sitting here, drinking my time away, seeking stories, yet you come to me for them. You disappoint me, son, and you wasted so much time doing it. You are better than this. You are better than me. Go ahead. Tell me a story. Be a story. I'm all ears. I'm here and I will be drinking to your story. But, son, please, give me a story. That's all I ask. At this age. Go away. This is not the place for you."

"I won't, for once, say please and rob you off your wish to live the life your way. I can only point out to you one of the ways that brought us together on this dull night. How do you feel tonight? Do you want to feel the same tomorrow night? And the day after? It's easy to say yes, and you can sit there, away from me. We can drink our nights away, but never together. You want to talk to me? Know me? Bring me a story. I'm all ears. I'll be here. Let me tell you the last thing. If you got a story to tell me, you won't need me. Don't feed on the old bones, son."

I never saw him again. I wanted to be a story worthy enough to tell him.