Bobby's Dream

Bobby was his name. A swarthy fella with slick hair, big hooked nose, gaunt features and tall, reedy figure. His brooding expression and gnarled hands betrayed a lifetime spent cleaning toilets in pubs and hotels.

If you ran into him in a toilet in the wee hours of a Saturday morning with a stub of cigarette in his mouth and a wet mop in his hands, you could not help thinking about the villainous sorcerers in Walt Disney cartoons.

And yet, Bobby had a dream.

Every week, he would half-seriously announce that he was quitting his job and moving to the sunshine State to retire and fish.

At the time, Bobby's weekly retirement announcements were taken as something of a light-hearted joke, but looking back, I cannot help thinking that, perhaps, he had bought a lottery ticket every week of his working life with the hope of claiming a life-changing prize.

Once I commented to a hotel patron that Bobby, when not working, always seemed to be drinking and playing pokies in the hotel where he toiled. Bobby took my comment as a compliment.

"That sounds alright to me," he said without taking his eyes off the one-armed bandit that he was battling.

Born and brought up in Australia, Bobby, who was approaching retirement age, traced his lineage to Fijian Indians.  This meant that, whether he realised it or not, one of his ancestors was probably sold into bonded labour by his own impoverished family in a rural Indian village.

Apart from the heartache of having to leave behind for good his family and village, Bobby’s unfortunate ancestor had to endure the horror of crossing Kaala Paani, literally “black water”, that haunted the imagination of illiterate villagers like a nightmare.

Perhaps, a century had passed since his fateful crossing of Kaalaa Paani and subsequent disgorgement onto a Fijian sugarcane plantation, but one of his descendants was still cleaning toilets in a sahib’s hotel.

Admittedly, compared to his indentured ancestor, Bobby’s lot was much better. He did not have to cower in fear of abusive foremen who bullied and beat him. He could drink in the same bar where semi-retired rich white fellas drank, and he did. Everyone treated him nicely.

I started this post with the working title of “Lottery Approach to Life”, with Bobby’s life held up and dissected as a prime example. However, I lost the plot …

I have not seen Bobby in almost a decade. I left the posh peninsula with its touristy vibe, and the hotel where Bobby and I used to work was sold after the witless owner lost his own lottery and the resulting arms wresting with his bank. I wonder if the new owner ‘relieved’ Bobby of his duties.

Whatever happened, I just hope that Bobby finally won his lottery and retired to a life of ease and fishing in his beloved Queensland.