About fifty years ago, when I was in my twenties, three middle class co-workers got together and started a magazine. They had no capital. Magazines in those days didn’t always need much capital. Our capital was the experience that we got in our jobs. We had some contacts in the advertising world. While trying to get advertisements for the newspaper we didn’t find it difficult to also get some advertisements for our magazine. Magazines run on advertisements. We were confident that if we could keep it running for some years we were bound to be successful. Until then we had our jobs in the newspaper to support us. Then the three of us decided to get a fourth partner (known to us) from the staff that worked in the editorial section of the newspaper. We entrusted the editorial work of the magazine to him. All four of us had taken care not to resign from the newspaper. If we succeeded we’d be in a new business; if we failed, we had our jobs to fall back on. Though the magazine bore our names as editors, we needed someone to attend to the editorial work on a regular basis. For this purpose our editor chose a fifth person who was working under him in the editorial section. He was a young boy in his twenties and was unmarried. He was fond of literature and had experience correcting proofs. This experience was considered important for editing a magazine in those days. The initial period of this magazine was successful but within a year the cart overturned. The first Diwali issue of the magazine appeared on the stands two days after Diwali and it bounced. The job of preparing the cover was given to a well known artist of the time, but he waited for inspiration till it was too late. All the calculations of the owners of the magazine went awry, and as soon as they found that the business was running into a loss, three of the four original partners panicked and withdrew their share. Now only two were left: the owner-editor, Vasant Kumar Saraf—he was also experienced in getting advertisements—and the assistant who was helping him in editorial work: Vijay Tendulkar. He was unmarried and had no responsibilities of his own. He was not very well qualified, and therefore couldn’t have looked for an alternative job. He was also interested in literary activities and so he remained though three out of four owner-editors deserted the magazine. He had to correct the proofs, select the articles received, correspond with the writer-contributors, stick the postal stamps and look after all the work. I also had to face the creditors of the magazine in the editors’ absence. This was an additional task that fell to my lot. Because of the financial crunch under which the magazine was operating, the owner-editor of the magazine, Saraf, was unable to pay me any salary and I had nowhere to go either. Also, I was alone in Bombay so the owner, Saraf, allowed him to stay in his own Proctor Road house. He could expect to get at least two meals a day.

The house in which Saraf lived consisted of three rooms which accommodated three families. They were all from Karwar. When the house was rented jointly, they were all bachelors. Then they got married and had children. So the house was full. Only the veranda was left unoccupied. But it was the common property of the three families. This guest of Mr. Saraf spread his bed in that gallery. Since he had no friends, he spent all his time outside his working hours in the veranda sitting on his folded bed. He’d do nothing; he’d just stare into nothingness, and when night fell he’d spread his bed and sleep. He’d enter the rest of the house only when necessary. He had no future to look forward to. He had no money in his pocket. The funny thing was that he had no particular worry about it. He was living in existentialist fashion. He had no interest in the past and no expectations for the future. He lived in the moment and for that moment.

There was no particular reason, but one morning Diwadkar met him by chance in the veranda of the Saraf house.

That was a Sunday morning. Beyond the veranda, in the whole colony, and inside the house there was the usual lazy Sunday atmosphere, filled with the sound of music from the radio. (No T.V. in those days.) The hall in the centre would be occupied by rummy players all Sunday afternoon as was their practice. They’d play with stakes. The sole owner of the magazine and part owner of the flat, Saraf would be inside. Saraf was interested not only in rummy but all forms of gambling. (Had he taken on responsibility for the loss-making magazine as one of his gambles?) He was interested in horses and horse racing. He’d written a very engaging story about a horse and it had been published by the young Acting Editor in his magazine. The magazine had suffered severe losses but the Editor-Owner Saraf would stake everything he had on his weekly rummy sessions. He’d lose most of the time. But he was confident that he’d get lots of money from somewhere sometime. He had a firm conviction that one of these days he was going to hit the jackpot. He entertained this belief during the entire period that I was in contact with him.

That youth sitting in the veranda was surprised that people spent hours playing a game like rummy so seriously. But having to watch it every Sunday, he got used to it. This particular Sunday the game of rummy hadn’t started yet. The youth sat on his bedroll in the veranda and was lost in his own thoughts. For no reason a slim, sharp gentleman with large eyes came and greeted him.

This hexagonal large-eyed face was not entirely new to the young man. Whenever he came Saraf would take him out. The two would either go home or to a restaurant nearby. Saraf occasionally ordered tea for him in the office. Then, smoking their cigarettes in the same way as they’d smoke bidis, they’d chat with each other. From their conversation the young man guessed that the man who’d called was an astrologer. His name was Diwadkar. If he came to the office and found that Saraf was not in he’d leave a message to tell Saraf that Diwadkar had called and would turn back right at the door and walk away in his long strides. The youth had accepted the fact that a gambler like Saraf would need an astrologer. Since he wasn’t concerned about his own future he wasn’t interested in this or any other astrologer.

So without any reason this astrologer named Diwadkar had inflicted himself on the young man sitting in the veranda looking into empty space.

I am Diwadkar.

The young man looked at the person standing in front of him with some surprise and nodded his head. He wasn’t used to anyone calling on him at that time and in that veranda. Only once before, a part owner of the flat had bothered to speak to him on the veranda. He was a singer of classical music, but worked as a clerk in the managerial office of the radio station because that position gave him slightly better pay. But the youth had never heard him even humming a tune, let alone practice. But he’d come to know that this newly arrived young man was a writer. And since he wrote, he expected that he’d have a good command over language. With this in mind he had come to consult the young man in solving a crossword puzzle. In those days crossword puzzles were yet another form of gambling. Hard as he tried, he’d end up making at least three or four mistakes in solving the puzzle. So he was quite disappointed. The young man helped and the number of errors rose from four to seven. After that he never bothered the young man.