TRSYT WITH RHETT BUTLER

I travel quite frequently. I normally keep to myself during flights, either listening to my Walkman or working on my notebook computer. I consider time a luxury; something that needs to be made the best use of.

So there I was, at Dubai International airport, one day, waiting for my flight back home to Bangalore.

Dubai Duty Free held no fascination for me; I had transited it a million times. These days I just picked up two bottles of my second favourite whisky brand, (you can’t get my favourite brand there!) two cartons of cigarettes and some chocolates. At times I’d stop in for a draught of Kilkenny beer at The Irish Village pub on the concourse, but today I had given it a miss. I was mildly hungover from the previous night’s party and had decided that rather sit around and do nothing, I would finish my trip report. That would save me a few hours in Bangalore. So there I was, typing out a report, pecking at my laptop with two fingers when I happened to look up. My eyes made contact with a handsome man, sitting about fifteen feet away. He was wearing a camel hair coat but his attire oozed a strange Victorian air. “Why, he is the spitting image of Clark Gable” I muttered in astonishment. I was momentarily distracted but soon turned back to my notebook, the man forgotten, and continued with my report. After half an hour or so, the report was complete. My eyes were throbbing with the combination of lack of sleep as well as mild hangover. With a yawn, I clicked the notebook shut and put it back in its case. I stood up, my body stiff, and stretched to ease the tension in my limbs. I looked around at my fellow passengers.

There was an attractive blonde sitting in the seat where the man had been sitting a few minutes before.

The flight was uneventful. I was tired and decided that I’d sleep. The Business Class goodies no longer appealed to me. After all, there just that much one can take of the best food and wine before one gets tired of it. Give me a simple, non-oily, home cooked meal any day!

Hari Lal, my driver, was waiting for me at Bangalore and I was home a short while later. Tiger, my trusty Doberman, jumped on me lavishing loving licks on my face. If he got a few grains of Dubai sand in his mouth in the process, he didn’t complain.

I had been married once, a long time ago. However the marriage didn’t last; the tension of corporate life, the almost constant travel, the late nights and the never ending partying had frazzled my wife’s nerves. We gradually drifted apart. Soon we were almost complete strangers. I would come home, giver her a perfunctory “Hi!”, pull out my briefcase and start working, after having fixed myself a drink. This would go on till around ten p.m. when she would ask whether I would like to have dinner. “No” I’d say. “You go ahead. I’ll eat later.” Dinner placed at the table grew cold. Sometimes I’d just shovel it into my mouth, without tasting it. At other times I’d be so bone-weary that I just didn’t have the strength to do anything and I’d tumble into bed. It would invariably be around two a.m.

I have always been an early riser. That’s the gift that poverty gave to me. We’d all be cooped up in a tiny little flat when I was young, so I had no option but to sleep off early and awake at the crack of dawn, to steal outside and study. The 'sleeping-early' habit left me but not the 'rising- early' one. I’d be up at six and Hari Lal, who doubled as Man Friday, would bring me a steaming cup of tea as soon as I had brushed my teeth. It was a Darjeeling blend that I got directly from the estate. What better way to start the day? It left me deeply satisfied and eager to cross the hurdles that lay ahead before me.

I was at the office at nine a.m. sharp. I had a series of meetings lined up and was glad that I had completed the report at the airport. Rather than go home, I had fallen into the habit of having lunch at the Bangalore Club so 1 p.m. saw me comfortably ensconced in an overstuffed sofa, a glass of beer in hand. As I looked around the room, my eyes fell on a familiar figure. I had seen him the previous evening at Dubai Airport. He was in the same dress and, as earlier, his gaze was fixed on me. He seemed to be staring but in a friendly sort of way. It’s difficult to describe the stare. All I can say is that it wasn’t lewd and there were no emotions or any other overtones in it. It was just a slightly friendly but nevertheless disconcerting stare.

I got up and made my way to him. He watched me, calmly, that same detached look evident.

“Hello!” I wished him. “Weren’t you at the Dubai Airport yesterday?”

“That’s correct” he replied, somewhat formally.

‘What brings you to Bangalore? I didn’t see you on the flight. And oh! By the way! My name is Rakesh Rao”.

We shook hands but I noticed that he had not replied to my questions. Neither had he offered his name.

“And what is your name”? I enquired, with a smile.

“Rhett Butler” he replied, seriously. I noted that though he was white skinned, he had no accent. I just couldn’t place his nationality.

“Rhett Butler!” I exclaimed. That’s the name of a character in a book called “Gone With The Wind! Come to think of it, you look exactly like the actor, Clarke Gable, who played the role of Rhett Butler in the movie. How strange!”

He just nodded.

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you” I said to him thinking what a weirdo he most certainly was. Again he was very taciturn. He just nodded. I walked back to my seat.

I avoided looking at him but I could feel his gaze on me. A while later the bladder signaled its intention to empty itself. Rather urgently, I may add. I arose to go to the cloak room.

When I returned, he was gone. However, on the side table next to the sofa on which he had sat, was a strange object. It was square in shape, around 5 centimeters wide and about 2 centimeters thick. It emitted a dull glow.

I walked up to it and picked it up. I had expected it to be heavy, like, say, a Zippo lighter is. Surprisingly, it was very light. As light as a cheese sandwich? Yes, that appears to me to be a good analogy. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. It had a soft feel to it, like smooth leather but it also had a metallic shine to it. I just couldn’t place it.

I examined it closely from every angle but couldn’t fathom its purpose. There was no button, no lever, no hidden hinge. All its faces seemed completely solid and unbroken. Perplexed, I decided to leave it at the front desk in case “Rhett” decided to come by and claim it later. The clerk at the front desk also looked at it with interest, when I handed it over. He too apparently hadn’t seen anything like it.

I soon put the incident out of my mind. A few days passed. I was scheduled to fly to Singapore on a business trip. The flight was an uneventful one and I took a taxi from Changi airport into the city. My drive to my hotel on Orchard Road took twenty minutes; traffic was light. I had just checked in and was about to go up to my room when a familiar camel hair coat caught my eye. “This is unbelievable!” I told myself. “It can’t be him here in Singapore”. But it was. He had the same clothes on and was looking at me with the same detached stare that I had first seen at the Bangalore Club.

Marching angrily up to him, I demanded an explanation. “Why are you following “me?”

“Sit down” he said, unperturbed. “I have a bottle of your favourite whisky with me”.

This was just too much. My favourite whisky! I was instantly intrigued. Though I have traveled all over the world and sampled all the best that the world of alcohol has to offer, my favourite is actually an Indian whisky fuelled by the rain waters of the Himalayas. It’s bottled at a plant in Kasauli, in Himachal Pradesh.

“What is my favourite whisky? Tell me!” I demanded of him.

“Solan Number 1 bottled by Mohan Meakins at Kasauli” came his immediate reply.

Dumbstruck, I sat down, staring at him foolishly.

“Let’s go upto your room. I will tell you all about myself” he said. “And” he added with as an afterthought “you needn’t worry about my being gay”.

To be continued…………………

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This article copyright © Prakash Subbarao (prakash@3xus.com). The article is completely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any real life character.