Deep Purple’s “When a Blind Man Cries” is arguably one of the saddest rock ballads ever penned and sung. But honestly, I was never a great fan of Purple and only started paying serious attention to the song after hearing a cover version by the German never-grew-old rockers Axel Rudi Pell. They did justice to the song in a way Ian Gillan and the rest of Purple could never dream— powerful, yet plaintive heavy metal vocals, with canyon-deep guitar riffs emerging from the core of the heart only to rip it apart, while tears stream down from empty eyes.
Listening to this song invariably reminds me of a college senior and good friend, “Raja,” an ethnic Nepali who lived in a small room behind a pharmacy owned by his uncle, not far from my home. Short, stocky, thuggish but effulgent, we shared a love for books and rock music—though he leaned more towards metal. I started appreciating Iron Maiden thanks to him, while he tripped on Floyd's Wish you were here, which he copied from me. When a Blind Man Cries was his favourite ballad, and he could go on and on discussing the lyrics, the sadness, the pain. Though he never acknowledged it, the song was a metaphor for his secret, one-sided tragic love for Nivedita. His classmate and someone he never gathered the courage to say “Hi", fearing what all outwardly tough men dread the most—rejection.
I always saw Nivedita as demure, petite and a reserved girl. She also possessed an almost ethereal beauty and femininity—porcelain skin, natural auburn hair, with a decidedly European nose and cheekbones. But what was truly disarming about her was her utter simplicity and complete lack of airs or pretence. She came from a very middle-middle-class family, had studied in a vernacular school, and always spoke in Assamese. Her voice was normal, almost flat, without a girlish timbre or any of the exaggerated, drawn-out tones of most of the convent-educated girls—all those hiiiii, byeee, waaaow, ooauch… Interestingly, while everyone acknowledged her beauty, she was not on anyone’s radar. I never saw anyone courting her, or her out on a date. Well, except for Raja, but his inaction just made him a ghost that yearns.
And there was me — but she was considerably senior. We never interacted; there wasn't much scope for finding intellectual compatibility or common ground, and most likely there was none. So I chose to admire from a cinematic distance, watching the vision of a real-life Miranda — not one lost in the Picnic on Hanging Rock, but in the bustle of life, of the then-still-small town of Guwahati.
She was also the girl for whom I jumped out of my seat on a bus and offered it to her when I noticed her standing beside me. “Sit down, a girl like you shouldn’t stand,” I uttered with a gracious, flirty swagger that surprised even me. It also the only time I spoke to her. By then, I was used to any of my actions—no matter how kind or well-meaning—being met with a scowl from women. I was surprised when her face lit up with a smile, and she even said, “thanks.” She kept stealing glances, bemused, realising that the college’s undisputed, Don Quixote, was both her admirer and a gentleman. She looked happy, but honestly so was I… still am. A transient, yet lasting moment, suspended in time — with a sweetness most dates would struggle to reach, let alone match. It was also the last time I saw her—giving me one last side glance from the bus window as it sped away.
Years later, I bumped into Raja, who had since shifted to Nepal. We shared a smoke, caught up on our lives, and discovered that both of us were still single had so far achieved absolutely nothing. At one point, I couldn’t resist asking him about her. He went silent for a moment and then said he had once seen her getting off a rickshaw, a few years after college, with two kids—one in her arms, the other in tow—clutching a very heavy vegetable bag, as she struggled on her way home. She looked haggard and tired, despite still being so young.
She was such a frail and beautiful girl,” he said, and after a pause added, “life is unfair.” I nodded in silent agreement. I knew the last thing on his mind was his own unrequited romance - it was a lament for somone he adored, but never knew, yet wished the very best in life. He looked away, quickly brushing aside a tear; I pretended not to notice.
It’s not always the blind man who cries.
I gave him a quick hug, started my trusty Marmalade and rode off.
