Ruins I decided to visit the old man. First. That morning. I went to the shower with the alarm still humming in my ears. Today it was not buzzing. I hate the buzzing sound. I came out of the chill and half-dried myself with my towel and wore it round my waist. I went to the refrigerator and opened it. There had been load-shedding all through the night but the cube of butter was still intact and hard. I took out the bread, the butter and a bottle of cold water. I had two slices. I packed them in their packets and didn�t bother to put them back in the fridge. I don�t know why this place is either "distressingly hot or insufferably cold". I don�t even know why I remember this phrase from an essay by J.B.Priestly that was in my Higher Secondary syllabus ten years ago. Whereas, I just can�t remember what I want to. Maybe God doesn�t love me. I dropped my towel; went to my bedroom solitary, secluded, alone, single and came out decked in my executive suit. It was around quarter to eight and I went to the window and looked down the street. The once-familiar-street. I looked down, just under my first floor window, and saw some children, uniformed and going to school. One of them was wearing grey shorts, white shirt and grey tie. Yes, that was my school uniform. But my school used to start at 7:30 a.m. sharp. Why he�s loitering here at almost eight? Hmm, playing truant! Like me. Yes! Yes! I know it now. It was "GRANDAD". I remember it now. Grandad! Grand-Dad. Not the grandfather whom I have always known wearing a big moustache under his nose and hanging by a nail on the drawing room wall. I called the "old man" grandad. God loves me. By eight I was in the once-familiar-street. It connected with the street that ran parallel with the river. The once-familiar-river. Then some black angel, from the blue firmament, dropped the warm liquid from its anus on my right ear and my back, on which was hung a grey apparel- my executive suit. A boy shouted, "A crow has excreted on you sir". I gave him a silent yell and wiped my ear with my handkerchief. I twisted my neck to look at my back. It pains. It pains when you spend the night on a soft bed, under a warm quilt, watching television with eyes closed and head displaced. When I was again on the once-familiar-street, I was wearing a cardigan. When the once-familiar-river came into view I remembered how I used to walk that way to school and back. Or played truant. I used to meet grandad every school day on my way back. That was�uh�eighteen years ago. My acquaintance with him was for two years. I was in class five when we (my father, my mother and I) left town. We went to the city. I don�t think I will be able to recognize him, except by his smile. Certainly I can never forget his smile. He smiled without showing any teeth except for the gold tooth that would twinkle between his slight-parted lips on the left side. He might recognize me. Just as he did outside the gate of my city school, six years after I left town. That day I was very happy. I was successful in my matriculation examination and was holding my marksheet. I could not have been happier and I met him. Met grandad. That day when we parted I spoke the last words, "I will meet you again". He smiled- his gold tooth smile. Except for this meeting we never kept correspondence with each other for the last eighteen years. Now I passed the teashop where grandad used to have tea and "adda" everyday. He was not to be found here at this time. Whenever I used to meet him after school we used to part company at this point. Our parting were always- "We will meet again". We used to say it in chorus. The day I left town, the last words were his- "I will meet you again". He met me again six years later. He kept his word. Now I was going to keep my word. Twelve years later, I recognized the tree; the once-familiar-tree under which we used to meet� grandad and I. There before me was the once-familiar-haunt. But a concrete one replaced the wooden bench and it was vacant- no grandad was there. I went to it and sat down and was thinking how and where I could meet my grandad now. But my thoughts were churned by the gurgles of the river and I was reminiscing about our first meeting. That was the day when I had failed to clear my history class test and had sat on the same bench, as I was sitting then, distressed (in both cases) when somebody had put a hand on my cardigan. It was grandad. He spoke to me that brought to me the much-needed relief. I don�t remember what he had said except the words that I then did not understand, "History leaves its ruins". Suddenly a hand touched my cardigan; a once-familiar-touch. It was�by Jove�Grandad. I was silent. It was grandad who spoke first. "How are you? Where you had been all these years? What are you doing now? It�s really nice to meet you again." But his voice was not the once-familiar-voice. It seemed artificial, as if he knew the answers to all those questions and was still asking them. I kept quiet. He spoke again. "What happened to you young man? Kid." That was familiar. I said, "Grandad". At that time the 9 O� clock siren bellowed. We talked till twelve. We refreshed our memories. The last eighteen years has made me into a man. Grandad was the same. The same old man who met me outside my city school. He still had his white hair and his toothless jaws. Moreso he was still the grandad but I was no longer the kid. I had never hidden anything from grandad in my childhood and always used to divulge all my secrets to him. He never scolded me, not even when I played truant from school. Again, when I met him after twelve years, I was in no mood to keep secrets. I told him that sthe visit was not exclusively for him. I came there for some official business in the branch office of the company where I worked. So at twelve I had to leave. But I promised to be back at the very spot at 3 O� clock. Grandad also promised. When we parted I said, "We will meet again". Surprisingly I heard a chorus.I smiled. Grandad smiled- the once-familiar-gold tooth smile. I took a rickshaw and went away. When I returned to the once-familiar-haunt it was five past three. I sat down on the concrete bench and waited. Grandad was never late. I waited and waited and waited. It was four when I rose up. No grandad. My acquaintance with grandad was a secret that no one knew. Since my childhood till that day I never told anyone. Only the teashop owner knew. The owner of the shop where grandad used to have his tea and "adda". So I decided to go to the teashop. The once-familiar-teashop. The once-familiar-teashop owner. The owner was now an old man. I asked him, "Do you know the old man who used to have tea here?" He looked a little annoyed and asked in his belching voice, "Who?" I said, "The one who used to come here with a child, eighteen years ago. They used to part company here and the old man used to have tea here." "Oh, old man. The child used to call him grandad." "Yes, yes." "He was a good man. A very good man." "Yeah. I met�" He interrupted me and said, "He died twelve years ago." I was paralysed. I thought that the morsel that I had in the morning would not keep me from fainting. Just then the trance was broken when he again said, in his once-familiar-voice, "Will you have tea?" I ran. I ran fast. I ran as fast as I could. I ran as if I was not chasing a train but a train was chasing me. I ran home. Home- the place I used to live eighteen years ago; now renovated; the place from where I stepped out that very morning. My eyes were covered with a thick blanket of tears but my legs were familiar with the way. When I reached home I didn�t cry. I went to the room where all the old furnitures were kept. In the corner lay a small chair. My study-room chair. The once-familiar-chair. I sat on it. It squeaked. I kept quiet and began to calculate. Calculate grandad�s age. Once in my childhood I had asked him his age and he had ambigously replied, "Eighty". So I thought he might be around hundred. At hundred most people die. But most- not all. I sat there till it was quite dark and chilly. I was thinking- I don�t know what. Now I was really hungry. I went to the refrigerator. Opened it. Got a glass of lemonade, an apple, and a knife. I went to the dining table where the bread and butter were. I had no apetite for anything delicious. I knew my tongue was sans taste. I was sick. My grandad was dead and I ate. And I cried. That night when I slept my head wasn�t at all displaced. I dreamt. I dreamt of grandad. I met grandad. I saw grandad smile his gold tooth smile. No longer the once-familiar-smile; now the forever-familiar-smile. It twinkled. In the morning I did not wake up with the buzzing of the alarm. I woke with my ears humming, "History leaves its ruins. History leaves its ruins." Now I often dream.
Copyright © 1996 Amit Shankar Saha |