They call him Baboon. Much to their disappointment, he liked this epithet. The word made him feel closer to his mission in life. People suspected he was a reincarnation of the man from the paleolithic period, the old stone age.
He is hairy, has eyes deep set, palms like paws and not at all attractive. On the other hand his appearance repelled aquaintance and contact. If he were dress like a Neanderthal man, with a loin cloth and stone implements in his hand, one would be shocked at the anachronism, like he is brought out from a museum, a film studio or a relict of ten thouand years.
One day his father could not tolerate his fetish for the stones and asked him to leave the house.
He takes up quarters in a cave a hundred kilometres outside the city. He lives a spartan life. He furnishes it with the bare necessities. He washes his clothes and bathes at a stream nearby, a perennial source of water flowing down the surrounding cliffs. He uses twigs and discarded branches and wood for heat and light. He sets up tree stumps as seating bench, stool and writing table. what does he do to write? He collects discarded notebooks, notepads, plain papers onesided empty, makes paper from discarded paper bags, half used pencils, pens, refills - he has a huge collection of writing materials gathered from the waste dumps in the city.
He needs to travel often to far off places to hunt for specimens. How does he do it?
He has to work. How does he earn his livelihood? He teaches to write. He is a member of rock clubs, the free ventures that don't ask for a fee. He exchanges information in open cultural centres like Lamakan. He writes to geographic magazines. He is also a ghost writer for student assignments.
And the search continues, his collection grows enormously, his cave is now full of odd boxes of various sizes and shapes to house his specimens, carrying labels according to their identification and location. He hunts in the day, organizes his work in the evenings and rests in the night.
If he were to appear in saffron clothes he could also be mistaken for a yogi. The long flowing beard, the thick shock of hair rolling down to the shoulders, the bushy eyebrows above the bright penetrating eyes, the body upright, hairly limbs and flat and firm feet - all giving the impression of a full life forever enthused about the wonders of nature.
His is voice is clear and audible, neither loud nor low, his stance firm and straight, his looks inquisitive and full of wonder, his limbs long and supple.
When he speaks, he chooses his words carefully, does not repeat, and does not argue. He holds no opinions, speaks only what he observes and sticks to facts. He lacks ambition, but an enormous drive to do what he he does.
Libraries are his haunts. He learns about his specimens from the open libraries in the city and from discarded geography magazines. He also learns about stones from distant lands and years for them, fantasizing about going places before going to sleep at night. He also makes frequent visits to the museums that display rocks, rock shows. He also had his 'private digs' and like all his ilk kept it a secret until he exhausted it.
He once went to the Ravindra Bharati/Kala Bhavan where a sample from the moon rock collection by NASA was on display. He remembers going to see it with fellow students as part of a school trip. He was fascinated by the small pieces of rock encased in glass. He felt drawn towards it the moment he stepped into the room, the feeling remaining with him all the while he inched slowly towards it in a long queue of classmates and when he finally stood before it, he felt a strange kinship with it, as part of himself enclosed in glass for everyone to see, but was soon saddenned as he was hustled by the teacher to move on. He then spent a long time reading the notices and press clippings on the boards and his heart filled with joy.
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