For the Girl who Jumped out of Bed at 2AM to Find Closure in the Romanticised Memory of the One Dead

There was this professor by the name Dr GR Taneja. He did not teach me. He retired from my college, in Delhi University, a year before my admission. I met him once, in the beginning of the second year of my graduation. I was waiting outside the principal’s chamber with a friend to get the permission for conducting the auditions for our theatre group. I did not know Professor Taneja then. I had heard a lot about him from my seniors. On that uneventful day, he was just a man who cracked jokes about the principal we mutually disliked. It was an awkward, yet funny moment. The moment passed, so did years.

Four years later, during the final semester of M.A., I came across his name. I was working on a project report on a couple of Salman Rushdie’s works. As my mind boggled with a hundred articles/newspaper reviews/literary papers and their bibliographies, I saw a book by the name – The Novels of Salman Rushdie. It had GR Taneja as one of its authors. It was an exciting moment. Among all the unfamiliar names in the list of references, there was one that had a familiar set of syllables.

I contacted as many of my seniors as I could recall. I asked them for Professor Taneja’s number. No. I asked for his e-mail id. Contact numbers have always seemed personal. Most of my seniors suggested that the best way to connect to him is via Facebook, given he is ever so active on online social media platforms. For the love of Rushdie, hesitantly, I sent him a friend request. He accepted it within a few hours. I introduced myself and asked about his book, informing him that the sites for online shopping show that his book is unavailable in India. He gave me an address of a bookstore in Delhi, claiming that it would definitely have the book. Sadly, I wasn’t in Delhi and he wasn’t aware of the bookstores in Hyderabad. He offered to send a hard copy of one of his essays via post. As much as I appreciated the gesture, I didn’t want him to go so far for a stranger. I informed him that I’ll be in Delhi for a couple of hours in the coming week, so I might be able to try my luck at the bookstore. I couldn’t make time when I was in Delhi. The conversation with the professor was then over. In a way, forgotten. I submitted my project report by the end of that month.

Nine months later, he messaged me on Facebook on the night of the Super Blue Blood Moon. He enquired about the book I wanted the previous year. Reading my response, he offered to give me his essay in person if I ever happened to visit him in Delhi. In fact, he also gave me his contact number, which I never used because it simply seemed personal. I was delighted, nonetheless. It gave me an opportunity to meet another Rushdie enthusiast, hopefully.

He, then, began speaking about my blog, confirming whether I am the real author of The Unforgettable Desire. After my affirmation, he talked about my blog post of that night, ‘Dear Hypothetical Kids, For Once Moon was your Mother’s Muse’. He mentioned that he liked it. He encouraged me to write more. It was one of my best nights, not only did I see the Super Blue Blood Moon but also, for the first time, someone I call ‘professor’ read my blog. And, commented about it over a personal chat. It was unexpected and at the same time, something that I had always waited for. I just didn’t know that it would come from him.

The days that followed the eventful night saw a few interactive chats between us. From a discussion on the term ‘Grammarnazi’ to the elitism associated with English to the blasphemous state of knowledge of present-day editors. I was against the term ‘Grammarnazi’. I saw it as insensitivity towards history. I never exercised my limited knowledge of English grammar in ‘correcting’ anyone and everyone unnecessarily. I did believe that English reeks of elitism and privilege that most of the people in our country do not have, and some people are egotistical to admit it. He believed in the importance of perfect use of language, at least in newspaper articles, and so, it set a platform for debate. 

In our conversations, he talked about loneliness too, the one that comes with knowledge. He seemed quite a chatty and friendly person. Yet, he mentioned that he had no friends in his workplace. When I read his words, I wondered, if a friendly person like this man can end up with no friends, then where does that leave me? I am, most of the times and maybe always, pained by unnecessary casual social conversations. But then again, ‘friendship’ as a concept had become incoherent and vague a long time ago.

Having said everything and nothing at all, I know that I had immensely enjoyed the glimpse into the life of GR Taneja, the one that he allowed me to see. More often than not, I had planned going to Delhi, meeting him, talking to him in person and discussing Salman Rushdie’s novels. That… never happened. 

I kept postponing my trip. He couldn’t wait enough. I had contacted him for the first time in April 2017. He passed away in April 2018. I did not believe the news when I received it. I hoped that he would come online on Facebook chat again and we would take up another article and scrutinize it. I cried that night. I couldn’t understand the grief for a person whom I barely knew. A couple of days later, I saw him online of Facebook. I cried harder that day, knowing that it wasn’t him but my first thought was, that perhaps he survived.

Writer's desk at 3 in the morning

Since then, I have seen his account online every now and then. Every time I see it, I feel that I was too late. I should have gone to Delhi and met him. Had I done that, then, perhaps tonight I wouldn’t have gotten out of my bed at 2 in the morning to find some closure, months after his demise. I am bad at goodbyes. I write to deal with death. Death, after all, is the very reason that I began writing seven years ago.

This one’s for Professor GR Taneja, wherever he is, and more than that, this one is… for me.

August 4, 2018
3AM