Smith College 1983
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1983

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It was October 1983..The Montrealer had brought me to Northampton one cold night a few days before, from Washington, DC..I needed to change my life and Basha had been imploring me to give up a career path I dreaded and come up to Western Massachusetts.."There are beautiful college girls here, Vasant, and art and music and culture, all the things you love, why die in DC?..come join me!"..
Northampton went straight to my head..the bohemian five college art culture, the New England autumn, Smithies..and Basha....Basha was in his prime, just 30, equal parts businessman, shaman, mystic, musician, rogue, charlatan, romantic..a slight man, no taller than 5 and a half feet, but wiry and sinewy, towering over others physically taller with his volcanic energy..
I shared his apartment on Belmont Street behind Smith College and part of the deal we struck was that I would help him in The Lotus Of Kashmir, his Main Street rugs and textiles shop.I was a terrible employee.I found all the young college women very distracting, with their intoxicating young girl scents and vivacious ways. Basha and I had long lunches of pita bread, dahl and rhita, in the middle of the day, in the middle of his shop, with sensuous Indian classical music playing in the background, chatting up some of these lovelies, in earnest, pseudo-mystical conversations... but really we were just two romantics, naive in that Indian way, not looking for the "hook-up", specifically, but romantic soul-mates for the long winter nights.
Some of these lunches would drift into closing time, around 6, the sun having set and darkness descended, street lamps on and the big Thorne's neon sign opposite the shop blazing bright.....
After closing, we would sometimes go back to the apartment, change clothes, and head out into the night, to one of the many free concerts, lectures, etc.,that the five colleges offered..
Basha would go out of his way to pick up hitchhikers, sometimes making a u-turn..once, we were returning from a club in Greenfield with a woman friend, Lynn, and Basha insisted on stopping, against my objections, to help some drunk college boys who were having car trouble..even Lynn, who was recovering from a ski-accident, jumped out of the car to help, putting me to shame..Basha directed the whole operation, barking instructions, and at the end, as the car jumped to life, the frat-boys were hugging and hi-fiving Basha..
Basha would go on the road, from time to time, leaving me to tend shop..during these journeys, sales at the shop dropped significantly, as I wasn't much of a salesman..I spent most of the time playing my favorite cassettes over and over and hoping some of my women friends would drop in, which rarely happened...Basha did not pay me much over room and board, so I had to improvise when money ran short and took to raiding a huge jar stuffed with coins and dollars in Basha's bedroom..amazingly, even though I would only take a few dollars for meal money, Basha always seemed to notice the difference in the jar and would make caustic remarks..
From time to time, we would have a tiff, and I would leave the shop..on one such occasion, in the evening, I took the PVTA to Mount Holyoke to see a free classical music concert..during the concert, I felt a tap on my shoulder, turning around, it was Basha.." Good music", he said, with a smile," I'm sorry I missed half of it.I made lamb biryani for you, if you're hungry when we get home.." Basha was a vegetarian, so making a meat dish was his most sincere apology, in lieu of saying "sorry", which he never did..
Saturdays in Northampton were something Basha and I keenly anticipated , as did many others..the glorious Saturdays of October and November, before the long winter settled in, were the occasion for soccer games at Smith College playing field, near Paradise Pond..everyone was welcome, young, old, children..Basha and I were fast and tireless and acquitted ourselves well in these games...how interesting that people who were spending bushel-fulls of money at these prestigious colleges looked forward to this simple game so much!..when the snow started falling, we played indoor soccer in the Smith gym, but it wasn't quite the same..
Basha and I never competed for women..we both admired and approved of each other's objects of desire, but we respected boundaries..we actually gave each other advice when one of us was having problems..occasionally, I would take a poke at him and say that the only reason he hired me was to have a councillor on hand around the clock..he would respond by suggesting that I give up my ideas of romancing a certain Smithie.."why do you think she would be interested in an older man, with no money?"
Sometimes, we would come back to the apartment on a Friday, Basha would cook a fabulous dinner for us, then pour himself a glass of wine and sit yoga-style on the floor, with needle and thread, repairing rugs clients had commissioned him to fix.. our background music was the laughter and bits of conversation of young Smith girls outside our window..during these sessions, we would engage in epic meta-physical, philosophical discussions, touching on every subject under the sun..we were romantics, fellow travellers on a road in a world that neither of us called Home..we both knew that life was a song that should be sung with energy and grace, with vibrant, colorful notes..but it was a Sad song and there was no getting away from that.."Most of our lives are filled with petty distractions and cheap thrills," he said after taking a sip of wine. "The true romantic must measure himself by the number of big moments in his life. Not of the mundane and routine." "Sounds dangerous." I said, grinning. "All our greatest art is created by flying close to the Sun," he continued, ignoring me.
" Look at these antique rugs. They are the product of,let's say, divine inspiration. I know you don't like me saying so, but some of the greatest Persian antiques rival Picasso." I didn't say anything.
One December evening, about a month before I would leave, we went to a dinner with Basha's friend Julia. Julia was a pretty, serious girl who went to Smith and she had romantic feelings for Basha. Basha liked her too, but he was cool and in charge, knowing how she felt about him. The dinner was at the apartment of Russ, Julia's artist boyfriend. They were having problems. The dinner atmosphere was strained. Everyone felt the tension except Basha. He was in fine form, telling stories, laughing, drinking,generally holding forth. I remember the reggae music that played from the college radio station that night.
After the evening was over and Julia had said goodnight to Russ, the three of us went outside, walking to Basha's car. We were going to take Julia home. The two of us walked on either side of her, none of us saying anything, lost in our thoughts. Suddenly Julia stopped, grabbing both of us by the arm. "Look!" she exclaimed, pointing up to the sky. It was a clear, black sky and all the stars were visible.. A few snowflakes had started falling.. It was striking, a heart-breaking moment. Then Julia cried out, in an anguished tone, " Where will we be in 20 years, my dear friends? I love you both so much!"I looked at Basha. He smiled, without saying a word. That was 1983, as I remember it.

Belmont Street

In 1983, Amtrak's Montrealer still stopped in Northampton, albeit for about 10 seconds..it was October, it was cold, and waiting at the station was Carla, one of Basha's friends..she took one of my bags and we walked down Main Street towards Smith College..up the hill, past the big iron gates..the big clock atop one of the old buildings said 10.. I was a soccer player, I weighed 140, my senses were wide open..I saw girls walking hand in hand..it was liberating to see!..we walked past a row of expensive shops catering to Smithies and turned left..Belmont Street.. I could smell Carla's perfume..Basha had told me she wanted to be his girlfriend but her "soft breasts" put him off..it was a small building, 4 apartments. Carla took me to the top floor, opened the door, gave me the key and a hug, and she was gone..it was a one bedroom, the living room with a futon where I would sleep....there was no shower, only a bath-tub, with a hand held nozzle to spray water over the bather..something told me the water was going to be cold in the morning..well, it would wake me up..Basha's bedroom was impeccably decorated, with his sensuous, instinctive taste, even though he had left school when he was 12.. I could taste sounds and smell colors again here.. ...antiques and Kashmiri shawls and the hint of green teas.. a very expensive Persian carpet as the centerpiece.. and the scent of pretty women..