__________________________________________________
Seeya flips through the yellowing pages of the age-old tomes that clutter his study. These books, the keepers of knowledge; the wise men who taught him everything he knew, from Hanuman to Hitler. Wisdom he passed onto us, a timeless chronicle. From in between one of the moth-eaten pages falls an old photograph, warped by the heat. An ageless testament of devotion, it is a picture of Seeya and Achchi, young and in love.
Achchi, who now potters about the walauwa, preparing their old abode for the visit of her offspring and grandchildren. Nothing has changed – the house still hasn’t seen the colour of a ceiling fan or electric bulb. Seeing the little ones run through the heavy front doors brings her a joy that not even the worst case of arthritis can keep her from celebrating. To feed her children again is something that comes naturally, her mother’s intuition still as well tuned-in as it was those many years ago.
We now sit to eat at the long wooden table, worn with age and pressure, chatter like a gaggle of village damsels at a clear stream on a beautiful sunny day. Seeya, usually the dispenser of all wisdom, takes the backseat and listens to his little grandson rattle on about every minute detail of his three-year old life. Sunlight streams through the long windows, casting a golden glow on this family portrait.
Golden parippu in a clay pot, the rich hue of the lentil curry a stark contrast to the deep brown of the vessel it sits in. Saffron stains our fingers, running deep into the miniscule folds of the skin on our fingertips, painting our fingertips a radiant gold. Chillie, fire-red and scorching, burns the inside of our mouths, bringing tears to the eyes of the younger ones who can’t take the heat.
Burning, the tears in his dark eyes. Anger? Maybe. Frustration? A considerable amount. Sadness? Like an ocean, drowning him. Clutching the side of the door, his knuckles almost white, he stares at them – their family, the happiness they’re lucky enough to feel, the love that they are blessed with. He has nothing to dwell on except the family he once had, his family that was now lost and gone forever.
Lost, that was what he had thought had happened when his son hadn’t returned on time that afternoon. The little tyke was a free spirit and refused to be confined by his overprotective father. The child’s mother had passed away – for a person in their social class, illness meant death because medicine was far too expensive for their meager lifestyle – and from that moment, he had sworn to watch over the boy with a fierce passion that only a father can possibly fathom. Naturally, when the boy didn’t run screaming into the house like a minor tornado, it wasn’t long before he was out the door and wildly searching for his precious son.
Precious was that last laugh he heard as his son ran deeper into the planted field, sensing that his father was hot on his trail and decided to lead him on a merry chase. He cherished the memories of the boys screams as he ran faster, for fear of being caught. He spent his son’s last few moments in this life without even seeing his face.
He found him lying face-down on the ground. The boy’s right leg, a mangled mess of flesh and bone. The grass around him was as still as his body, lifeless and immobile in death. Deaf to his own screams after the thunderous blast, he cradled his angel in his arms and wept. Tears fell on the child’s face, on his bleeding limb and flowed down to settle near the remains of the demon that had extinguished the boy’s spirit. The metal and gunpowder lay strewn across the little clearing, scattered around the two people whose lives it had destroyed – one physically, the other, emotionally.
His emotions fluctuated between raging anger and bitter sadness. Looking at the table one last time, he turned his back to the image that tormented his lonely mind with thoughts of what could have been, a family he could have had. Photographs were alien to people like him so the only memories he had were those that played like a reel in his head, the film always ending with an almighty sound that he couldn’t differentiate – the explosion in the field or the last beat of his child’s heart. Maybe doing his chores will help but his hands shake far too much so he sits in a cold corner of the kitchen and stares into darkness. The sunrays don’t touch his quiet hideaway, no light to illuminate the tears that fall down his dirty face. Forget it all, he thinks, but he’ll never forget that sound.
No comments:
Post a Comment