Keshav Bipin Aurora (bio) His name was Keshav. He lived in America in the late 1980s, played cricket on the weekends for Tipu's team. He was an average batsman, a slightly above-average bowler. But Tipu needed players, Keshav was available, and he fit the bill. When I ran into him in 1994—this was at the usia library, on Kasturba Gandhi Road in Delhi—he seemed to have lost weight. I said that it was good to see him, not mentioning anything about his appearance. He looked weak and emaciated. We recalled the old days in America: the cricket matches in West Potomac Park, the occasional trips to Philadelphia or Hartford or Jamaica (New York) for the away matches. We recalled that special day when Keshav had taken five wickets in one innings, had come close—ever so close—to a hat trick. But the camaraderie—the gayness of the meeting—soon vanished. He looked sullen (or perhaps solemn); he looked gaunt. He wore green pants, a wrinkled striped shirt on top—a shirt that perhaps he had slept in. He said that he had given up sports, had turned his attention to poetry and philosophy. He was reading Spinoza, was thinking of turning, within days, to the earlier works of Berkeley. The connection between his readings seemed vague, the meaning to me unclear. But I wanted to encourage him, did so in fact. I said that Spinoza spoke of mind and matter, of good and evil, of God. The latter in fact was his obsession. Berkeley too was obsessed with God: who He was, where He was from. How He could (or could not) be defined. The two thinkers, I offered, renounced much in their search to find answers. He seemed pleased by my words. He seemed pleased by my praise of their works, and, by extension, my praise of his work. His rigorous study of the two thinkers, his attempt to understand them. "I began my study in '92," he said. "My father mocked me, my relatives [End Page 93] said that I was 'silly' and 'frivolous.' But the study of the Dutch master, is that frivolous? Of the British preacher—is that as well?" "The masters who study God," I interjected. "Yes yes!" he said, his voice now rising. "The masters who study not just men, but God. The definition of God, the meaning." A silence fell over us. We had spoken with passion, with enthusiasm—was it real, feigned? Perhaps we had exhausted ourselves. I looked at the scene around us in the library. There were books and newspapers; there were men hunched over the books and newspapers. How serious they were in their studies, in their dreams. And this man next to me, this frail and short man, was he any less serious? He had once played cricket. Now he had moved on to more serious—more important—things. ________ Some years passed. It was 1997, a mild day in late October. I was in Karol Bagh, looking for some shoes. I had been to Connaught Place but found the prices there exorbitant. A friend had encouraged me to go to Karol Bagh, had given me the names of two shops. With the addresses of the shops in hand, I walked through the narrow alleys. I glanced at the paper, glanced up at the shops that stood—or was it multiplied?—around me. I was at a corner lost in thought. An open drain flowed to my right. Suddenly I heard a voice. "Bhatia!" I turned. "Bhatia!" There he was, my friend—there he was again. He looked weak, much weaker even than I last remembered him. He wore grey pants, a white shirt. The shirt was wrinkled, yes. But what really struck me was how big it seemed for my friend—perhaps two sizes too big. Had he weakened so much? "It is life," he said. "Fate." "Fate?" I said. "Fate is strong, its movement inexorable. Who after all can resist it, turn away?" I asked him about his poetry. He did not answer me. I asked him about his philosophy. He did not answer me. [End Page 94] He said that...