The waitresses and the woman they worked for were Japanese but all the patrons appeared to be from other lands and unknown to one another. Thy sat at small separate tables, sipping their drinks like a medicine that seemed to increase their anguish. Their heads were bent, their eyes lightless. I sat in a corner from where on lifting my head slightly I could see everyone in the bar. My eyes too were lightless. I too was sipping my drink like a medicine.

I had stopped in that city for two days and that was my first evening there. I could not shake off the impression that I had been there before, that I had spent an evening there in that very ambience, in that very mood, in the midst of almost those very people. In order to gather some supporting evidence of my insistent impression, I lifted my head slightly every few minutes and cast my lightless eyes around - at the dour proprietess, the winsome waitresses, the grim patrons imbibing their medicine, the decor of the bar, the spectacular array of the bottles. My anguish lay inside me like a blue rock. I drank steadily, waiting for it to start throbbing.

I had nothing to do to in that city. I did not know anyone there. That was why I had stopped there. I was wondering how and why I had strayed into the bar where except for the owner and the waitresses everybody appeared to be from some other country, sitting alone, sipping their drinks like a medicine that seemed to be increasing their anguish. I was also wondering why my anguish lay inside me like a blue rock impervious to the medicine I was imbibing. I was also wondering when that blue rock would begin to throb. I would have wondered some more but just then a woman walked over to my table from hers, carrying her glass, and sat down. She did not ask me whether she could join me. She looked deep into my eyes and beckoned me to raise my glass, which I did obediently. After we had taken a sip each, we put our glasses down solemnly. A little light had come into my eyes with the coming of that woman. She had an ordinary face and extraordinary eyes. Her soul seemed to be radiating from them, I imagined that by kissing her eyes even a perennially peace less person like me would become profoundly peaceful. I imagined other things also.

It must have been because of her reassuring eyes that I burst into  a monologue in my language which, I was sure, she did not know.

[Monologue]

I have this bad habit; every evening after I have imbibed a certain amount of my medicine, I start licking the salt of my failures; it is like an animal licking its sores; I like unsuccessful people; they are my kin; they have a special odour; I hate the greasiness of success; I believe that every success is ill-gotten, that every successful person is more or less dishonest, that every success is built on several other's failures; I do not get any peace from this belief; I have doubts about its truth; I am convinced I am unsuccessful in my own eyes as well as others'; I am not proud of this habit of licking the salt of my unsuccessful every evening but I cannot shed this addiction; I don’t even want to; I am afraid I won't know how  to endure my evenings without it; I am one of those absolute failures who cherish no illusions, give themselves no concession, give others no concession, draw no satisfaction from any success; my anguish lies inside me like a blue rock; every evening I drink steadily until it begins to throb; when it does, I burst into a monologue; I do not drink while I deliver my monologue; I resume drinking after I am done; but after a point I can neither drink nor lick the salt of my unsuccessful; normally after that point I fall asleep or perhaps pass out; one of these days shall pass away after that point; I do not draw any satisfaction from this..

My companion held my hand in hers. Her pressure assured me she had understood me perfectly even though she did not know my language. I pressed back my thanks and also the suggestion that, unless she objected, our hands should remain interlocked for a while more. The blue rock of my anguish was throbbing well. That woman was the same age as I. I am always aware of my age. In the evening this awareness becomes more intense. It warms me up a bit and reduces the terror of the evening. If that woman had not walked over to my table, I would have delivered my monologue in an inaudible mumble. I became instantly convinced that everybody sitting in that bar was from a different country, spoke a different language. I had no basis for this instant conviction. Perhaps in order to acquire some basis, I raised my head and looked around. Some of the people had left their tables and gone over to other tables.

Those who still sat alone struck me as belonging to a breed higher than mine. I would have mused some more but just then my companion started whispering her monologue in her language, which I did not know but could understand perfectly. She was saying : I have this bad habit; every evening after I have imbibed a certain  amount of my medicine , I start licking the salt of my failures; it is like an animal…

As she approached the end of her monologue, I pressed her hand and assured her that I had understood her perfectly. She pressed back her thanks.

After that we could have spent that night in her  hotel or mine. We did not do that. We pressed each other's hands for one last time, got up and walked out of that bar. I kissed her eyes. She kissed mine. Then she went to her hotel, I to mine.

The End.