Strings Attached
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Sitting from where I sat, I could only see the tamarind tree top gently swaying with the breeze. And the sunlight barging in like an unruly child through the window, making a tunnel of light and dust that lit up the dull red carpet. I could hear the clanging of stainless steel as the maid washed the dishes. The kitchen was two rooms away, but the clanging was prominent. Maybe she had had enough of the never-ending chores. The living room was unkempt as most living rooms in homes that housed children are. A pack of cards lying loosely on the floor, a tired rag doll on the sofa – clearly uncared for, and an ugly brown stain on the beige satin couch – a tell-tale sign of yesterday’s evening drink that the kids fought over. And through all this mayhem, if one could carefully strain one’s ears, the persistent tick-tock of the large clock on the wall that almost seemed ominous. Tied forever to the wheelchair, my sole entertainment was observing my surroundings. They say when God takes away something, he gives something else in return. In my case, it was razor sharp eyesight in return for paralysis waist down. Or as my son puts it, paraplegia. Hardly makes a difference. Just as it hardly made a difference struggling through life on a government job with meagre wages and educating our brilliant son all the way through medical college. What difference would it have made if we hadn’t struggled so much? Probably there would have been more time and love. For it took time for me to get my things done now, and I am helpless to do them on my own. If my wife were here, these thoughts would probably not even make their way into my mind. I would surely be sipping green tea looking out of the window, enjoying the cool breeze and warm sun on my face at the same time, and hearing her lively commentary on what was going on outside. Kids walking back from school, the local icecream vendor and his delightful vehicle of bright colours, the newly married couple walking hand-in-hand towards the bus-stop…she would bring in all the sights and sounds of the outside world to the tip of my tongue. Adding to it, her stories – imaginary and otherwise. She was always a good cook, and she could cook up stories as well as she could cook a savoury feast. She would make me see the world as she saw it. The same world that I now felt had abandoned me.
Sometimes, the world becomes too much to take in and I shut my eyes. Today as I shut my eyes for a moment of peace, I heard the click of the door and footsteps. I knew it was the man of the house. For parents always know when their child walks in – maybe it’s the smell of them, or the silent sounds they make. Often I play a game with myself – straining to hear the voices I expected to hear next. The sound of the shoe rack being opened with a swift move of his hand, the harsh thud made by his shoes landing onto it, and the loud sigh that would invariably follow. Then the routine questions and answers. “Appa, how are you today? Do you have any aches anywhere? Had tea? What did you have for dinner? Where are the kids? Didn’t they spend time with you? Did you get your afternoon sleep?”. He would ask the same questions, all of them, even though he knew the answers. Out of consideration of course, but sometimes I felt – more out of habit. On days like these, when it was difficult to find peace with my eyes shut, I would open them again and scan the surroundings. And then, I would latch my eyes on to something particular on purpose. Today it was the framed picture of my grandson’s first ‘painting’ – the colourful purposeless scribble that his mother affectionately used to call ‘modern art’. No one could tell what it was. Or in other words, anyone could what it could be. As I looked at it today, it seemed to me like angry tides mercilessly thrashing a seashore. A tide of rainbow colours, no doubt. And next to it, a dying tree. Well, imagination is what feeds the artist. And at this ripe old age of 80, I’ve become a budding artist at last!
Through this imaginary forest of trees and tides, entered a soft polite voice. “Appa, you alright?”. My daughter-in-law. I opened my eyes gently and found her face in the dim light. Electricity was costly these days. And so my resourceful son had turned off the lights assuming that I was asleep. “I’m alright, dear. You look tired as usual. Why don’t you have something quickly and go to sleep? I see dark circles under your eyes. Not a sign of good health, you know”. She gave that all-too-familiar rueful smile. “Yes I will, appa. Let me check on the kids first”, she said and passed indoors. Kids…I smiled to myself. If Sarada were still alive, the kids would have been here in this room surrounded by the vivacity of her voice as she narrated stories and enacted them with her eyes. The jungle, the lion, the deer, the frog in the pond…they all came alive right here, right before their eyes. And what a pleasure it was – watching the children, struck by wonder and living that very moment right here. When Sarada left, she took with her the life from this home and the light in the children’s eyes. After all, who could narrate stories to them like their grandmom could? They resorted to other games, other sources of entertainment…their father’s tab became a constant companion, contributing lavishly to the lifeless stillness of their home.
“Appa, it’s 9 o’clock. Let me tuck you to bed. You’ll tire yourself simply sitting here”, said my son. I gave my mute approval as I always did. And as always, he lifted my frail body and laid me carefully to bed. I winced in pain, to which my son pretended not to notice. What could he do to ease my pain? One’s pain was one’s own. And he of all people knew how I hated sympathy. “Where’s Adi and Ammu? No goodnight kisses for grandpa?”, I asked even though I knew the answer. “Mmm…they must have had a tiring day, appa. They are already asleep”. If Sarada were here, she would ensure that I was given two pecks each, on both cheeks by both of them. No grandfather has had his fair share of goodnight kisses from his grandchildren. And I was no exception. With Sarada was buried the hope – that fragile feather-light hope of reliving fatherhood. Now I had all the time in the world and no means to fill it with moments. And so it would be till I close my eyes forever – vacant moments of loneliness, with the busy world spinning around with not a speck of care.
