That was his name. Gopal. One who takes care of cows. Named after one of the many names of the Lord Krishna in Hindu mythology.
He cooked. For us, I mean. Having joined this new institute, I had been allotted temporary accommodation on a sharing basis with another doctor in one of the as yet unused quarters meant for Professors. He was already in the service of my roommate when I joined, so it was natural that when I joined in with him, I also employed the guy.
He was not a bad cook. He cooked okay. Sometimes well too. But mostly it was a monotonous affair eating the fare that he rustled up in the kitchen.
Gopal loved to come up to our room and talk. Specially when he was drunk. Which was all the time. In his pocket, he would carry a quarter bottle of cheap whisky, and if the mood came over him, even offer some to others. And he had this bottle of mustard oil in which he used to disguise the alcohol when he used to pass the security guards at the campus gates on his way to and from his dwelling. I used to listen in on the conversation he would have with my roommate, who used to ask him to cut down on his drinking, and remind him of his family and his responsibilities. And most of the time, he would get teary eyed and leave. At other times, they would get into arguments regarding religion with Gopal vehemently defending his faith and asking my roommate not to interfere with his religion.
Apart from alcohol, Gopal had another addiction. Every evening at around 3 PM, he would get on the bus to Polo and loiter around the lottery stalls. The lottery, also called teer/archery (arrow), is based on a group of archers shooting on a board of numbers, thus deciding the winning numbers. So, to this game would Gopal go, every day without fail, and put his hard earned money on the board.
His modus operandi in choosing the numbers was interesting. It would stem from anything. Mostly a dream he had, or the ones people with whom he was in contact with had. It would stem from a twig lying on the road, sometimes, the eggs on the kitchen shelf (though how eggs could suggest anything other than zero, i don't know). Once I told him about a dead snake that I saw on my way back from the hospital for lunch, and he became pensive, muttered under his breath (probably calculating something) and said "41! That's the number!" How he arrived at the number, he wouldn't tell. Often, my roommate would tell him imaginary dreams, and Gopal would faithfully try to interpret those imaginary dreams into winning lottery numbers.
Not that he never won. He was fond of telling us the one time he won 27,000/- rupees on a ten rupee ticket. Every time he came up drunk, and the talk veered towards teer, he would embark on that story. "It was the dream I had, you know. You may not believe it, but thats the truth. I saw a girl. She was floating in the air. Just floating- there were a few wisps of clouds in the background. She had a playful smile on her lips. And suddenly, just like that, she opened her top. And there, across her glorious breasts, were written the numbers 2 and 3. I woke up all of a sudden, with that vision stamped over my eyes- the numbers 2 and 3 on those breasts of that mystery girl. As soon as the counters opened, I went and bought my ticket betting on the number 23. And by evening, I was richer by Rs 27,000/-."
We stopped employing Gopal after nearly a month as he was continuously drunk while cooking and started becoming irregular in his job. But whenever I go to Polo in the evenings, I see him there, near the teer counters. Sometimes I overhear him, telling others of his latest dream. Yesterday, he was telling someone, "You don't believe in the power of dreams? But that his how I won 27,000/- rupees. You see I had a dream. A naked girl..."
