"WEEPING GLASSES"
Mom feared separation from dad more than anything else. I still remember some 4 months back, in her last days, mom once said, “We leave this world empty-handed and sometimes we suffer towards the end, but when you know that you are loved then dealing with the pain becomes a lot easier..”
“Wherever you go Mansi, I won’t be far behind..” That was dad’s reply.
Today when I recollect those words, I realize they weren’t mere assurances; it was his commitment to the woman with whom he had spent his entire life, his better half, who had made his house.
I visited them often when in college but ever since I started working, the visits had dried up, partly due to heavy workload and partly due to the need to spend time with Charu. Both of us were software engineers and we first met when Charu had newly joined my company. My parents were happy when I told them about my intention to marry her. Even though we came from a small village Tokawade, some 120 kms from Mumbai, my parents had always been supportive of me in whatever I did; in fact it was Charu’s upper class parents who took some convincing. I had been away from home for the last ten years. Daily travel from Tokawade to Mumbai was next to impossible and I opted to stay in a rented flat with a colleague. After marriage we had bought a small flat in Mumbai at a huge price, we were happy even though we had to work that much harder to pay off the loan.
We visited home occasionally and called over my parents at the weekends. My parents had visited my place 2-3 times but they always preferred not to stay. They understood the space constraints of our little place and even though we were ready to adjust, they wouldn’t let us. Mom always asked me to visit them and I would say yes just to keep her heart, but most of the time I couldn’t manage, Charu’s parents had been influential in the selection of our flat and had set their hearts upon this place which was quite close to theirs, so they visited often, they were quite active socially and we often went out for dinners and parties. But amidst all that I had kept up a steady flow of money to my parents and I didn’t let that be affected even after marriage and all the associated rises in expenses.
But, this year, when my mom expired, I was stubborn to take dad with us, but he denied and when with his wet eyes, he begged me to let him stay over here for some days, with memoirs of mom, I was helpless to do so.
It was a difficult time career wise for us as inflation rose, projects dried up and companies downsized staff. Charu was on the bench, which basically meant that the company did not have work for her, but she had to go to her office, it also meant a pay cut and I was overworked. I had not realized that it had been almost a month since I had contacted dad and one morning, the village lady who cooked food for dad called me. She had found him dead in his bed. He had passed away in his sleep.
August 25, 9 am:
I opened the rusty entrance gate with effort, which made a creaky sound, unlike my childhood times, when I would sway over it easily and my dad always put grease over it to let it work smoothly. Walking through overgrown lawn, I reached the door. I entered, it was murky inside and the air was stale. I tried to open a window but it was jammed. Everything looked pretty much untouched.
To the right of living room, was a small bed room. I entered, it was dark, so I switched on the light. It flickered, buzzed and finally lit up giving a dim sort of light. The checkered bed sheet was still unfolded and pillow rested on backrest near head end of the bed. The memory of dad lying on it was still fresh. A little puddle of water had accumulated on the floor over which I almost slipped as I approached the bed. A crack in the wall stood out glaringly as I looked for the source of water, the rain water had made its way through the crack, soaked the wall which had a grayish fungal growth all over it and accumulated in a depression in the floor. It looked like the crack had been there for a while but I didn’t remember dad ever mentioning anything about it to me. The other walls were relatively dry and the wall clock was still working fine, tick-tocking too loudly. The old iron cupboard looked tarnished and spiders had made it their own, huge webs dangled from it like chandeliers. The faded mirror on its door reminded me of mom as she stood in front of it combing her long straight hair; there was a little red bindi stuck at a corner of the mirror. My chin quivered, a lump gathered in my throat. An old habit of hers that I so often resented saying it spoilt the mirror. And there it was; her last bindi. I swallowed the lump with a deep breath and sat down.
Hung over a hook on the opposite wall were dad’s clothes, his white shirt, the uniform for his workplace which he wore even after retirement. He worked at the Primary Health Centre, Tokawade. We came from a farming background but he took up the job to support my education when I started secondary school and over the years, I guess farming took a backseat. His devotion to his work saw him climb up a few posts from sweeper to ward boy. He used to read my school books and also story books that I would bring from school library. He had not been able to study further after primary schooling due to family conditions but had a strong desire for learning and reading books, especially in English.
Lost in thoughts, I was just watching each thing kept at the adjacent table. A steel glass, a pen without its cap, a torch, some papers that looked like old receipts, a handkerchief, and the small frame with a photograph of mom, me and Charu, clicked by dad some years back when they had visited the city. I felt I could almost breathe in the warmth of those happy moments in the murky coldness of this house. I got up and started folding the bed sheet. Then as I lifted the pillow, I founded a book underneath. It was an old brown colored diary with wavy edges; the year 1987 was embossed on it in golden ink. I had no idea what it was doing there or who might have kept it in that place.
I wasn’t able to see the words clearly as my eyes were still filled with tears. I removed my spectacle and wiped eyes with my sleeve, and wore them back.
On the first page was written
17th April 1987I am very proud of my son. He got 1st rank in class 3, Today I wear my best clothes and go and talk to his teacher .It was Parents Day in my sons school. I talk to his teacher in English. My son said he is proud of that, so I will write diary in English from today. I will show Krishna when the diary is complete, and my English is improved. he will be happy.
It was my father’s diary! I couldn’t believe. I smiled to myself, vaguely remembering that day, my father was wearing a spotless white shirt and brown pants and I was indeed proud of him for talking with my teacher in English, something very few, if any, parents from our little village did. But I didn’t know that my words meant so much to him.
Turning some pages further, my eyes caught a page that read
21st October 1996We both are lonely and sad as Krishna is now gone to City College to become engineer. Mansi cried, I calmed her saying our Krishna will soon come back. But staying here he can’t study properly, college is very far away and his time will be wasted in travel. So he want to stay in hostel. He will get new friends and good facilities there. We prayed for him at the temple . I have enough money now to arrange for his education for the next four years, the piece of land fetched a good price. Afterwards I took Mansi to see Ram Lila. The performances were good; Ravan acted very well and the dialogues were also well written. I remembered the day when I had acted in Ram Lila many years back when I was young. I tell that to her, she laughed. She think I look like Ravan!
He had expressed so many emotions in one paragraph. I had not known that we had sold our land. I never knew my father acted. But that was because I had never bothered to know. This diary was going to be an insight into the man I called my father.
It was 11 am. I had to return soon as I had some plans with Charu and her parents. So I fanned through the pages and stopped at a page.
1st August 2012I phoned Krishna. He and his wife are fine. I told him about my spectacle. He told me that he will do it in a week.
Oh sh*t! How did I forget that? He had phoned me to get his spectacles repaired, about six or seven weeks back. It could only be done at Kalyan as there was no optician nearby and he obviously could not go there himself.
5th August 2012I am feeling weak nowadays... the joint pain gets worse in these rains.. And I can’t get out of the house. I keep the book open next to my place on bed with the pen on it. It’s difficult to read what I am writing. The city has Krishna now.. he’s too busy it seems…
The words made me feel worthless. I cursed myself for my ignorance. How could I have done that?
When I moved the page, my sorrow turned into agony. The date was 15thAugust, the day when he died.
15th August 2012I hope you will read this page someday Krishna, I want you to do something for me. In the first drawer of table are my spectacles. Take them to Mr. Kharche and get them repaired, only then come back here and read further. Till then, don’t turn the page.
The page ended. I had nothing that I could say to myself that could make up for what I felt at that moment, I was too ashamed. I looked at the old pair of spectacles whose both glasses were shattered. My father had never demanded much of me in his life and even in death he hadn’t asked for much. Getting these spectacles was the least I could have done for him. Without a second thought, I moved out of the house for fulfilling his last wish and reached the local bus stand.
When the bus reached, I was literally running for the door, till it became static and finally, I entered it and occupied a seat.
The conductor came to me “Krishna?”
He was an old man, probably of retiring age. He knew me, but I didn’t know him “Yes… But I am sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”
Conductor, “Beta, me Bhola, your Dad’s school friend. I heard about what happened. It was really sad. But surely, he handled all his responsibilities well. I know how talented he was, but for his parents, he took up farming, and also he gave you the best of education and made you self reliant. I still remember how every weekend he would meet me in bus, while travelling to Kalyan to meet you, at your hostel. Throughout the journey, he used to keep talking about you and your grades, achievements.”
His words made my eyes wet. It made me remember the days when I avoided dad’s request to spend the weekend with him. Sometimes you don’t think yourself capable of even regretting.
Rest of the journey was a blur.
August 25, 2012 2 pm:
I knew this place well as I had been here on numerous occasions with my parents over my childhood years. It was a huge, bustling market with narrow lanes, shops big and small crowded with supplies, full of people, honking vehicles, carriages, roadside vendors, stray dogs and cows, dirt and filth.
I knew Mr.Kharche well, he was from our village and had a very well established business in Kalyan as an optician, and was well respected in Tokawade. I walked past the Clock Tower in the middle of market and suddenly my eyes fell on the Shivaji theatre to the right of the tower, I used to come here with my dad to watch plays as a child, it was a drama theatre. My dad didn’t like movies much but he was an ardent fan of dramas and stage artists.
Engrossed in these thoughts I reached Eye Care Optics.
Mr.Kharche was at the counter talking to a customer. When he saw me, he smiled “Oh Krishna, after so many days, how are you and how is dad, Where is he nowadays?”
I was quiet. He understood something was wrong, that is why he ordered another person to attend customer and came to me “What happened?”
“Dad is no more.”
-“Oh, I am so sorry. When did this happen…How?”
“10 days back, he was not well.”
-“I never saw him after Mansi bhabi’s demise, was he staying with you?”
I handed him the broken spectacles and asked him to repair it.
I couldn’t speak a word. I never realized how much my dad loved me, cared for me. Once when I had broken my glasses on the way to my school exam, my dad had given me his to wear as we had a similar lens number. He waited for 2 hours outside, half blind, for me. And in return, I didn’t even have time to think about him when he was alone at that old home, blinded without his spectacles. I had not meant it to happen but I had misplaced my priorities, over a long period of time. If I had taken good care of them, maybe, just maybe both of them would have been alive today, and happy.
Within no time, the spectacle was repaired. Taking them, I headed to my old home.
August 25 2012 7 pm:
It was raining heavily outside. The sound of rain pounding the asbestos sheets overhead was so loud that it took me a minute to realize that my phone was ringing “Hello.”
It was Charu. “Hello Krish, where are you?”
-“Hi, I am at Tokawade, it’s raining heavily, so I stopped. I’ll be leaving soon. See you. Bye”
I barely managed to keep emotion out of my voice; I couldn’t tell her this. The diary was in my hands, but in some corner of my mind, I was hesitating to open it. I was afraid to face the next sentence.
…hope you have got them repaired. Now, sit at my place and see things on the table to your left.
I had seen the things earlier, a glass, frame, pen, handkerchief, papers and a torch. I turned the page again.
…can you see the photo of Mansi, you and Charu….now remove your glasses and see them again.
I was short sighted and hence was able to just distinguish things as I had seen them earlier, but they weren’t clear. And getting back to the book, I wasn’t able to read either. So I wore them back, and moved to next page.
…this is what I was going through for the last 15 days. I am not complaining that I wasn’t able to see the table properly or I wasn’t able to walk or move out of house to see this world, not at all. The only thing that mattered to me was that I wasn’t able to see that photo kept on the table, it was my world. I had spent four months by just looking at it. It made me feel that though you are not here with me, you still will come someday to meet me. Someday, your family will realize that they have one more member. Someday, I too will be a part of some family photo. Someday…
That was the last page.
I closed my eyes. I felt as if my throat was constricting, it was getting difficult to gulp. And then, the tears started rolling. I cried at my father’s deathbed, holding his book tightly close to me, trying to endure the guilt.
__END__
SOURCE BY-MAKARANDLOHIRE
PUBLISHED BY-OURHELLO.COM
No comments:
Post a Comment