The door was deliberately left ajar. Anir peeped hesitantly. The patter of the improperly closed tap distracted the silence. A few trucks zoomed out of the frame. He stealthily entered the room. Slipped an envelope under his father’s pillow and smoothly left the room; a distant desperation in his agility. The wind brushed across the door. A part of it furtively entered the room and caught a glimpse of the contented man and wife. What did that envelope contain? Which shade of Anir crept into that room?
Anir’s room was well maintained; prim and proper. It was characterized by a dark mahogany bed and a writing table in the corner. The walls had some in-built custom made closets. The top-most shelf had sliding glass doors dedicated to photo-frames. Anir glanced at one of those lack-lustrous photographs. He was transfixed at that bygone moment. A shard of innocence and half-a-pence worth of mirth. The era murdered by experience. Once, innocence starts weathering, wisdom tooth starts burgeoning. It was his twelfth birthday. The only birthday in the five years of his hostel life, he got to be at home. After passing his first board exam with superfluous grades, he shifted to a school near his home so as to enjoy the niceties of family life. Crucial days of his life did he spent in that lustrous residential school. The metallic glory engraved on his career. He thought of the day when he was all alone in one corner of the park brooding like his classmates. He disliked that park. He never used to like those cry-babies. However, he was one of them that day; crippled by his safeguards. The questions that meandered through his juvenile yet chiseled mind are now vague, but that taste was coming back to him; engulfing him from all sides. Isn’t this vexation baseless? It’s inevitable, he surmised. He submitted to it which somehow evaporated the last bead of slumber on his weary eyes.
Nevertheless, he tried to recollect the green days of the bygone but all he could gather were a few dusty incredulous laughs. The sound cavorting around him like the barbaric cavort round the holy fire. It’s not romp, the exact gesture is close to a parade. An emphatically joyous situation but the question is “was he overjoyed?” He made peace with solitude by letting the gray hound – fame, on it. That made his associates grow fonder of the alpha boy of the school- a pedestal anyone would have loved. Yet, he questioned himself: was that the epitome of bliss? Is that it? Moreover, was I even happy? He was satiated, definitely but is satiation a facet of complete happiness? Ecstatic were they, he knew but does that end in one hefty blow in form of dependency? Wasn’t his existence parasitic? What would be the perfect epithet to describe him? The coffee is getting cold. He gulped in almost whatever was left in the mug. It was cold indeed. Lack of care adds to unnecessary coldness. The shroud was tattering. Humane, was he and that’s what he couldn’t change. Can anyone change the unchangeable?
He drifted across a few mustard fields of his otherwise oceanic memoirs.
His father revved up the engines. One of the national highways was holding its fire for them. The speed was around hundred kilometers/hour; the witch-clouds and the sky-coven. No other person was driving with them. There was a sublime joy in such drives. A lot of things cropped up. Things which doesn’t demand attention or anxiety; crumbs of some unprecedented bliss. The brightness of a certain dull gray day may surpass that of a sunbathed winter morn. Certain emotions are beyond colours. Does it imply they are colourless? Well, not exactly.
The hoarding read “Godzilla : Size doesn’t matter”. What a reflective thought! I am a pretty bad story-teller. I did watch that movie twice though. Anir may have been in the same theatre, sitting beside me and munching pop-corns. I may have breathed in some of the mirth that oozed out of his soul. I may have seen the innocence of his ten year old smile. What I couldn’t see is his faith; Faith and conviction that he had in his father. The person he looked up to. His digressing mind wouldn’t stop there.
He revisited the unfathomable sea. He knew not what untamed and undefined charm it possessed, which forbade him from leaving the sea bed. The person who would remain alongside was his father. They used to sit together. What chronicles they shared are long forgotten; the incongruent waves and their rhythmic breaks. He could confide in his idol those undulating worries: catering to youth. Enough of thinking. The mirror has accumulated dirt. Stained it is with the blues of betrayal. Reflections are bleak and vile.
Abani was relieved. Was he? Why shouldn’t he be? His son sailed through one of the toughest seas. The sea of success. He crowned him with a garland of pride: the one like that honorary tiara of Julius Caesar. He was one content father when he left his son in that luminous boarding and returned home. He lit up his cigarette and let out an introspective smoke. He knew the difficult night would pass-by and the change would grow onto him. Any change takes time to penetrate whether good or bad. Abani didn’t sleep much that night. A few futile drops may have rolled down his cheeks but it was too dark.
He continued with his work. Work being a mere understatement. He toiled for his existence. Was it to clear off his undisclosed debts? Were there any debts? Or was he evading the absence of his son? These questions flickered through his mind. Then one day this omnipresence faded away. His son’s absence came naturally to him. It dawned upon him that Anir was no more to be expected. He is locked up in the safest safe. With each change come some intrinsic alterations which aren’t quite perceived by the subject undergoing it. The surroundings may witness it if they decide to; still people are too engrossed in their own cycle.
The hard work paid off. Abani is now the proprietor of one of Kolkata’s best presses. He is bidding for out of the State projects. One of his book covers was given the fourth prize for out of the box printing. He has lived up to his father’s expectations. Success resurrected his dilapidated mind.
Leisure. Leisure to Abani was Saturday night carom with a few well-grounded men, not quite pathos-stricken, although stung by mid-life crisis. Their congregation didn’t reap much but warded off the misfortunes of social origin. One distinct character was Rana. Rana was an IIT graduate. A perfectionist of all sorts. His lack of toleration to any imperfection was beyond the tenacity of his family. They decided to abandon him. He was all alone, stuck with material fortune and a violin. Perfectionists are best suited for desolate lives. Wish I could hear the wonder he does with that on a rainy day. The rest of the entourage was not profound enough to understand his position. Or it may be they didn’t have adequate time to delve into someone else’s life.
Thus, Abani’s boat went upstream; the carom nights, the post-work television. A lot of bickering and counter-sniggers. Monotony has enmeshed him completely. The dead poet flipped through the pages of his ancient magazine. He came across a snippet:
“He lied on the crumbs
Of charred bread
His meal for the day
A few drops of blue
On the aluminum
Roof of his den; faded
Time is ripe to
Unravel the road
The path not taken
Time is here to kill
Kill the seed of
Hopelessness”
The fragment rekindled some of his olden desires. It wasn’t at par with what he wanted to put down. A mere apparition of his thought. Thoughts which bore the burden of profound knowledge, way matured than his peers. He had seen flakes of interest in his son. Nevertheless, the buds never bloomed. That didn’t culminate into any form of dislike. Expectations are something he had already left behind.
Well, the characters are well explained. Now, what was the letter all about and who am I. I am the air which fills in the void between the father and the son. Sometimes I am the naked sun, sometimes the serpentine brook. At times the mellow unnamed zephyr; at times the choking night. The beads of austerity. The shackles of consternation. The dazzle of constellations or the brush of affection.
“Dear Father,
Was it you who drove me away? Or was it me who became distant. This castle is large. Oblivion lurks round its corners. We all go round and round. However, we have all forgotten the reason. The night is longer than I surmised. Although, I detest the wrath of the sun. Why can’t dawn persevere? Why can’t we just stop by the woods? The roads will lead us to the mystic lands of Utopia and the holy chasm of Kubla Khan. I know. Yet I won’t walk alone. I will wishfully dance like gypsies with you, if you want me to. According to many, I didn’t do justice to your hopes. Trust me father, certain things are meant to burn. Burn in unforeseen circumstances. The ambience is Foreboding black. It makes me claustrophobic. Let’s go out to the land of lilies. Let me heal the wounds I have made. My conscience pricks like each drop of sand in the hour glass. The knowledge you have amassed and the expectations you have tried to slaughter will soon find their appropriate destination. Give me one last chance to guide them.
With regards,
Your lost son “
