Gone With A Wave of The Hand
The umbrella rested at one corner of the room. It was grey with a smooth, black, curved handle and a grey button to open it. The umbrella slid in perfectly into a grey cover. It always felt like sliding a sword into its sheath. It has served a perfect shield in the scorching sun and in torrential rain. It felt heavy in my hand, the heaviness descending from my heart onto the handle. I kept it back in its sheath; it was too heavy for me to lift. Its rightful owner would have smiled at me. It was quite habitual of me to pick up the umbrella while going out for lunch. He started using it at my suggestion, I reminisced. His condition demanded it, to protect himself from the blazing sun. I picked my small, dark red umbrella and slowly walked out.
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I sat back in my chair, and closed my eyes. I was soon driving along the winding roads that led away from the hustle of the towns and into the rustic villages. The day had retired, giving way to the calm, dark night. His home was a long way out, into the hilly regions of the district. The roads were a maze even during the day. I paused a few times at crossroads to ask the way. A few village folk were amused at a stranger asking them directions at night. They had a smile as well as an inquisitive look for which I obliged with a smile of my own. I had switched on the navigation app on my cell phone, but it soon ran out of steam due to patchy network. The necessities in the developed world were a luxury here and rightfully so. The seemingly developed world had traded its innocent charm for sophistication. This part of the world remained more or less rustic. It reflected on him, in an unsophisticated, unpolished manner. His expressions were raw, his manner direct but he was good at heart. The child-like enthusiasm, the unbridled laughter and an innocence rare in these times.
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I woke up and realized it was too late for lunch. As I sat alone for lunch, I could almost feel his presence opposite me. I am a vegetarian and yet today I was thinking about an assortment of non-vegetarian dishes he relished. It was never a silent moment even when he was having food. He kept talking about a variety of topics, akin to the variety of dishes he loved. It used to amuse me, it used to be hilarious and he could be serious at times too. He never showed his emotion to me, but I could sense it just beneath the surface. He had a mask on, to keep himself strong. It does not mean he was weak; like any other, he would have had his share of emotions, his share of soft feelings. I knew of two people who could make him go weak at the knees. I had to keep my tears under check; I went to wash my face.
It was raining heavily when I met him last. I made the solitary ride along the winding roads again to visit him. I crossed the bridge, the landmark which identified that I was about to reach his place. I had to be wary of opening the gate, as I knew his pet dog might be wandering about. I waited for a few minutes and dialed him. As destiny would have it, he was having food in the same unsophisticated manner. I could see him from where I stood. He came out with a relieved smile, almost thankful for my visit. I would remember him always in the context of mouth-watering delicacies.
I had parked my car on the side of the road opposite his gate. There were rubber trees planted on different levels as the land sloped downwards. He once suggested me to take the dirt road down the slope to visit a small temple on the banks of the river. I have been there a couple of times, with my camera for company. One of the pictures I took that day used to adorn the wall of my cubicle for a long time. I remembered him speaking of cricket matches on the road with kids in the neighbourhood. We spoke of the heavy rain, the terrific flow of water down the river, his erratic sleep cycles, the irritability that followed and his food habits. The moist eyes of his mother, the worried face of his wife, the stoic look of his father and the innocent, sleepy smile of his son as I took leave, remained in my mind for long. As I turned the car around, I looked back to see him wave with a smile. It all looked well, until destiny came with a tragic wave of its hand.
I tried to be there, yet give him the space. I did not want him to feel patronized. He was a proud man, and he would not have told me his innermost feelings. I put the cloak of kinship around him; I tried to protect him. He kept a respectful distance; he spoke in a respectful tone even when he had to disagree. He looked up to me, I felt. I had to keep myself balanced on the pedestal I thought he placed me. I tried to reassure him of my presence. I tried to keep his meandering thoughts at bay.
As I look back, I do not know if I did my duty. I thought I was there for him, but did I give him enough of my time? Did I give him enough of my empathy? Did I give him enough of my brotherly counsel? Did I give him enough words and deeds to think well of himself? Did I give him enough?
It is too late to know. With a wave of the hand, he walked into the mist, into the midst of the unknown.
So long, brother! Good luck and Godspeed, in another world, in your own realm.
Unintelligibly Incorrigible 