I lived for a while in the basement of a middle-aged couple from Bombay. I liked it down there. The walls and floor were cool cement, I had a corduroy couch that opened into a bed, a little black and white TV, some carpet samples for throw rugs, and everything had the smell of sandalwood incense clinging to it.
The husband’s name was Ruki: tall, bald, brown as an acorn and very amiable. I didn’t care much for his tiny wife, though. Maha had a red dot in the middle of her forehead and a sharp ugly voice. I could hear her up there:
“Ruki, how many times must I tell you?”
“Ruki, I am losing my patience!”
“Ruki, bring me a glass of water!”
“Ruki!”
He often came downstairs, heavily, and sat with me on the couch. Sometimes we watched television. Or he would talk. One evening he told me if you climbed the Himalayas high enough, here and there you would find solitary blissful men sitting cross-legged in the snow wearing nothing but a loin cloth.
“With little spinning wheels?”
“Are you making fun?”
“I’m sorry. Not at all.”
“You’re thinking of Gandhi perhaps?”
I told him I’d seen the movie when it came out last year. “With what’s his name … British actor … excellent …”
“I met him once.”
“No kidding? I think he won an Oscar for it. What’s his name again?”
“Not your actor. Gandhi himself. I was very small, of course, a mere infant. What a kind face he had.”
“Ruki!” Maha called down.
“Yes, my cherished one!” He stood. “Excuse me please,” he said, and began heading up the stairs. But then he suddenly turned back and said he’d forgotten to ask: “How does one go about applying for the Peace Corps?”
“The Peace Corps?”
“Yes please.”
“Well … I’m not real sure. Any particular country?” “Ruki! I am waiting!” “No particular country.”
As part of my rent agreement, I was allowed to use a shelf in their refrigerator up there, which was all I needed for my beer, bread and baloney. I remember one Saturday afternoon I came up for a beer as Maha was sweeping the kitchen floor and Ruki was out mowing the lawn. “Ruki has left some of his tea,” she said. “You may finish it.” She was standing near the sink, holding out the cup, smiling benevolently. “Otherwise I will throw it down the drain.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“Have I said something amusing?”
“Yes,” I told her, yanking a can of beer from its plastic noose.
“Please explain.”
I walked over, took the cup from her hand, dumped the tea into the sink and gave her back the cup.
She stood there studying me, her head to one side. “You are very dynamic,” she observed.
“What can I say?” I popped open my beer and headed downstairs to watch the rest of the Cubs game.
When his Peace Corps application arrived, Ruki came downstairs with it, excited. But not only was he rather old for a volunteer, he lacked any useful skills. And yet he felt certain there must be something he could do, somewhere in the world, preferably in a supervisory capacity. “For example, I could oversee the construction of a bridge across a narrow but very treacherous river.”
I pointed out he had no training or experience as an engineer.
He admitted this was true, but said he could nevertheless very easily imagine himself inspiring a group of young volunteers to build a bridge which would not only span a river but would also span religious, racial and cultural differences as well. “For, as you know, we are all brothers,” he said.
“I suppose.”
He looked through the application. “They ask here for a personal reference. Would you be so kind?”
I told him I’d be glad to write something.
“I am in your debt. May I ask—I am curious—what will you say?”
“Well …”
“Please be candid.”
“I’ll say Ruki is a good man.”
“You are very kind.”
“I’ll say … he’s an intelligent man.”
“I am blushing. Please continue.”
“Let’s see, he’s a very … a very …”
“Happy man?”
I looked at him. “Okay. Sure. I’ll say that.”
“You seem doubtful.”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps you could mention my having once met Gandhi, do you suppose?”
“Well …”
“Mention how he took my little hand in his and said, ‘Ruki, listen to me. I am going to tell you something you must never forget.’”
“Ruki,” Maha called down, “come here please.”
He sighed, gathered up his papers.
“Well?” I asked. “What did Gandhi say?”
He sat there for a moment looking off, then shrugged. “It’s of no importance.”
“‘All through history,’” I quoted, “‘the way of truth has always won.’”
He looked at me. “Is that from your movie?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m sure he actually said it.”
“I touched his hand.”
“I know, Ruki. I know.”
“You know. What do you know? Nothing. Movies. That’s all you know. I touched his—”
“Ruki, I am waiting!”
“Yes!” he shouted angrily, and got up from the couch. “I am on my way!” He headed up the stairs. But then he stopped and hurried down again. “I am so sorry. Please forgive my words.”
They had hurt me—it surprised me how deeply—but I nodded, holding up my hand, and told him not to worry about it.
“You will write the letter?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” I assured him.
“You are very kind.” He quickly headed up the stairs again.