Strange Room of Alexandre Barito

desisted to give them off, notwithstanding several appeals from private collectors. His mama served in the Energy quarter, a modest female who conserved a portion of her payroll without her husband’s knowledge because she had stings of the panic of old age and a forsaken existence. One evening, when Barito and myself were hiking along the way of our former academy, he told me that he had no model personage in the family. I suggested that he can be his own hero. Barito smiled and agreed graciously that he is the one he is waiting for. It was, in truth, an echo of a strain we both understood.

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My father had a business in Salamanca where he spent half of the year. While in

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irresolute and lacking fire in activities. He claimed that he had that enough in his youth, though he could not particularly apply it in academics. So he sent me to a revered friend of him in another city, to seek advice. When I met my mentor, he was coming out from a room after zazen with his private students. He asked me of my plight and after listening told me to write down an area in life where I needed improvement, in case I got a reprieve or a second chance. After considering the options of being the richest or the wisest, I wrote that I wanted to be the kindest [knowing well that I cannot eclipse those saints]. He said that whatever I did, would not matter, so far it is not sabotaging to myself or to humanity in particular, but I proceed with ardor. He said that roads will lead to broader roads and I will possibly get guidance. The next morning, I met a

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with varied expressions. We had an uncle who was a lawyer and an aficionado of Conan Doyle and a member of a club that professed good service. When his clientele were at an ebb, he wrote mystery plays that were rarely staged.

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My elder sister also studied in the same college with me. Because of her, many senior students talked to me. She was an ardent member of the Culture Club, which held weekly assemblages of erudite quality. The conferences were chiefly haunted by the older scholars of an academy nearby. She also served as an apprentice to a Women Liberation leader, until she became disenchanted with the latter’s private life, which my sister ought not to have mixed up with the public one.

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the most elegant cot that had replaced Barito’s old flexible one that taught him once Newton’s laws of motion. In the same evening, we met in a newly constructed restaurant in the City Square. Barito had the fish tacos and iced tea. I took a sweet yogurt, having had a stomach upset. After that, probably a decade passed. Or maybe more. While traveling in North, once in a train compartment, I met a friend from college days maybe and among many other things, he conveyed to me the changes that had come to Alexandre Barito. My friend did not know in detail but suggested that burrito was into a new life of religious contemplation. ‘ How about his medical practice?’, I asked. ’Though he attends the hospital, his wife is managing everything ’, the friend said.

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if he followed the Carthusian Order, but his reply was negative. He was only trying to live in the world as if he were in a desert, in order to have the best of both worlds. He chose his Lauds, Vespers, and Psalms at his own notion. He said that he was arriving at clarity, which was fairly evident from his sober flourishes. He also said that he was translating a religious text into a Dutch dialect of his ancestry. It was, he said, not for publication, but for focus. When he inquired me of my concerns, I told him that I was trying to speak and be in the company of children as much as possible, in an attempt to retrieve a seemingly lost innocence. I invited him for a final time to the river bank by my house, and Barito conceded. We walked for a whole afternoon looking at the barges, and on

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routine. I wrote to him. He wrote back if I could make his home, my next stopover. It was a tremendously beautiful letter, better than all the good books I had come across. In this epistle, he had recollected some old tales. There was neither morbidity nor philosophy. And he mentioned a few old jokes too. I wrote back that we will write a joint autobiography and perhaps some youngster will find it thrilling. I am waiting for his reply. ..........................................................

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