The Morning Walk

"Oft In The Stilly Night
Ere Slumber’s Chain Has Bound Me
Fond Memory Brings
The Light Of Other Days Around Me"

It is but with a cane, that I walk today.

Bent, stooped, tired. Casting a wary eye on the beastly Corporation Garbage Trucks driven by maniacs, who have an uncanny ability to discover the elderly and trample them down. Wonder what the headlines would be if it happens to me “Garbage Truck Runs Over Garbage” … ?

I walk every morning. On this stretch between Highland Park and Abhishekta. And I think. And I remember. Days gone by. Moments spent. And I smile. Rarely, but I do.

My reverie is suddenly broken by the desperate honking of a car. And disoriented that I am, I look wildly around for a Corporation Truck.

But no, today is my lucky day. It is just a white Maruti, belonging to the neighborhood driving school. With a young boy on the wheels, under the watchful eye of the instructor. I move aside, giving him way and a toothless grin. And I know I look hideous without the set of teeth. But I will have to wait till the next month before I get a new pair. My son’s dog “Poopsy” has lived up to his name a few days back, on my dentures which had fallen on the floor.

But no, today I will not let anything depress me. The boy carefully turns the vehicle to the left and moves ahead towards Garfa.

And I remember. Days gone by. Me, in his position.

It was one balmy afternoon after my Xth Standard Board Examinations, while I was vacationing at my grandfather’s place along with my cousins, that the sudden realization came that we should learn to drive. And who better to approach than the ever agreeable grand pop!

I learnt driving in my grand pop’s beat-up Ambassador, along with 4 of my cousins, in his farmyard in Bihar. We had as our instructor, Pandeyji, the loving shepherd of a motley flock.

Pandeyji’s first words will forever remain etched on my mind, ”Gaari mein teen kisaaam ki aaail (oil) hote hain …. aanginee (engine) aaail, baarike (brake) aaail auur gear aaail. Paaani hotein hain do kisaaaaam ki, Baaaterri (battery) aur Radiataar”.

And he thus used to go on and on, describing each and every aspect of driving from each and every angle. His voluble ramblings often made us wonder whether it was my granddad’s ploy to get us off his hair. I had always been a little suspicious of his more-than-immediately acceding to our request.

Trouble with Pandeyji was that he singularly refused to give the controls of the car to us. Resultantly we either used to either sit in the car subjected to his verbal assault or used to gaze longingly at the tractors plying through the fields, with small boys on the driver’s seat. Oh! How we wished we could drive straight into the sunset on such a tractor. Our daydreams used to take a sudden beating when we used to be aware that Pandeyji’s was asking us a question. “Gaari chalane ka samay, idhar udhar maat dekho …. Sidha dekna aaur peeche dekna … nahin toh keya naaaatijja hoga ? ” Jolted out of our dreams, as we were, we used to stare at him and smile foolishly. And he used to reply “Haaaaspitaaaal”.

And as is usual for people of that age, our enthusiasm soon had a decent burial. And it was not until end of college that I enrolled in a proper driving school and learnt to drive.

"The Smiles, The Tears
Of Boyhood Years
The Words Of Love Then Spoken
The Eyes That Shone Are Now Dimmed And Gone
The Cheerful Hearts Now Broken"

I plod on. Weary. Akin to Thomas Gray’s “ploughman”.

I remember people who were dear to me and are no more. I can distinctly remember the way my grandmother used to smile, an iconic lady, resplendent in glory, despite the age of 97, when she left for heavenly abode. I remember the way my father had broken down at her demise – the only time that I had seen him shed tears. I remember Sanjay, I remember Debashish, I remember Sougoto, I remember all of them – my school mates, who have all gone, one by one.

I remember Bhutuu, my Man Friday, while I was growing up, who used to convey by a mute look, a warm lick of his tongue, much more than words ever could. I remember Bhuutu fighting with me for my father’s attention. Bhuutu is no more. He has left for the ‘happy hunting grounds’ eons ago. And as my father was burying Bhuutuu beneath one of the Debdaaru trees in our home, I remember how I had promised that I would never ever again keep a dog.

I remember Ranjha, my pet shrink, my friend, my bouncing board for ideas. Vivacious, well read, confused and a woman with a golden heart. Did you know, despite being in Vienna for the last 32 years, and that too as the Dean of a Counselling School, she had maintained contact with me ? The last time she had come here, she had even visited me. And with a box of chocolates too.

The chocolates are still there. She is not.

"I Feel Like One Who Treads Alone
Some Banquet Hall Deserted
Whose Lights Are Fled, And Garlands Dead
And All But He Departed"

I turn homewards. The city is waking up slowly. The vendors have started setting up the stalls in the Garfa Fish Market. The sun peeps out and it promises to be yet another hot, humid day in May. I plod on. Wearier.

I ring the bell. I know I would have to wait till my daughter in law feels that she has kept me waiting at the door long enough. The door opens. It’s my wife. Painfully traversing all the way across from the tiny alcove that we call our room.

I look at her. She looks at me. She says “Off to your morbid thoughts, old man ?” I don’t even deny. She knows me better.

We go to our room, stealthily. Amidst the fear of waking our daughter in law up. I know she has come in late after partying yesterday night, celebrating her son’s coming first in class in the final examinations. He is now a grown up boy. Studies in Class I.

I sit on my bed. My wife puts on the kettle for the morning tea. I look at her. And I forget all that I have reminisced in the last hour. She never fails to lift up my spirits.

As I sit wetting the biscuit before I swallow it down, I decide that I need to stop these morning forays into ‘thoughts’.