I’m shattered to million slivers
Bind the pieces together, my love.
I’m bewildered by life’s labyrinths
Find me in the wilderness, my love.
I’ve lost all good things in turmoil
Rewind my life to good ol’ times, my love.
I hear no whisper soothing my soul in ruins
Kind words please shower on me, my love.
I’ve but one true friend that's you
Blind eye don’t you turn on me, my love.
***
The evening sun is bleeding an orange hue in the blue sky. Orange is the complementary hue of blue, the colour of the sky. I cannot recollect wherefrom I learnt that, but I know that.
I twiddle with the ring on my finger. It is an open-set, red-stone ring on a thin golden band. Somehow, it disturbs me. I don’t know why. Despite the creases on my forehead and between the thinning eyebrows I cannot remember wherefrom I got the ring, but I know that it has always been there on my finger, the narrow white band on the tanned bony skin on my finger bears proof.
***
“Here’s your tea and biscuits, papa...” the soft voice speaks. I raise my head and see a miniature teacup and two Parle G biscuits in two tanned hands that bespeak of decades of patient experience. I accept the evening snack and immediately put my lips to the teacup.
“Ouch.” Scalding of the tongue and irritation. “What the #$%^?”
“It’s hot, papa,” a comforting smile, “you did not let me complete.”
I look sheepishly into two twinkling eyes while I dunk a biscuit into the hot tea.
***
“Morning, papa…coffee and biscuits. It is hot.” The never-fading smile.
“Coffee is bad,” I blurt.
“You haven’t even tasted it, papa!”
“I mean, caffeine is bad.” I try to explain.
“Oh, that…yes.”
“I should not drink coffee.”
“Do you want to give up coffee, tea…?”
“I don’t know…should I?”
A deep, understanding sigh. “Look, papa, I do not want you to give up anything…coffee, tea…unless it contraindicated for your health; the homoeopathic doses of coffee and tea you drink won’t affect you. I want you to be happy; do things that make you happy. Okay? Don’t worry, go on and drink your coffee before it gets cold.”
“Happy. Okay.”
“Anything else? I am going to make breakfast…”
“Beer?”
“Don’t push your luck, oldie.” A touch of mock anger.
“Just asking.”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I remember. I had one, in a large glass mug, a tankard.”
“When! I haven’t seen you have a beer for years. I surely didn’t buy one for you.”
“No, I had it at the kitchen island. There were lot of other…things…on the island. I remember.”
“But we don’t have an island in our kitchen!”
“I remember…I had beer at the kitchen island. There was a…girl…woman, cooking, too.” A little anger.
“Oh, that…” laughter like water flowing in a mountain brook. “That was years ago, papa. Not here, though, in the US.”
“The US? When did I go there?”
***
“Are you happy, papa?” I hear concern in the tense voice.
I remain silent.
“Papa?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep staring at the wall or the blank TV screen. Care to share your thoughts?”
I struggle. My hands go to my head. Two soft hands remove them and bring them to my lap.
“It…it is confusing. I can’t remember anything. I am scared.”
“Why are you scared? We are here with you?”
“Where is here? I don’t know. It is confusing. You said we. Who else is here?”
“Your granddaughters.”
“I have granddaughters?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I am confused. Where is here?”
“Secunderabad.”
“You said the US?”
“Oh papa, you visit US once in a few years.”
“Who is there?”
“Your second daughter, son-in-law, grandson, and granddaughter.”
I can’t recollect. It is all dark. I struggle.
“I have so many people there?”
“Yes, and here, too.”
“Good.”
I fall silent.
“You can do some writing, painting or sketching, you know.”
“Painting? Sketching? I don’t know how to. I never did any!”
“You have done so many; good ones, too. Try to remember.”
I shake my head.
“See those five small paintings…Radha-Krishna…there?”
“Radha-Krishna…yes, I see them. They’re good.”
“Yes, they are; you painted them for me.”
“I did!”
“Yes, you did.”
I wrack my brains.
“I remember a painting. Lots of black birds flying; orange sun behind them. There was sea, too!”
“Yes, papa, I remember that, too. Go on. Remember anything else?” Childlike enthusiasm in the voice.
“No…”
Silence.
“Wait …there were lot of children. They were painting; hands were all covered with colours. I was there, too, painting.”
“The black birds?”
“No, no, no, no…something else. Can’t recollect.” Irritation.
“Go on, papa.”
“There were beautiful chubby fingers, long nails, red nail polish, flying over the canvas…yes, canvas, painting. Bright brilliant sun, sea, and rocks, lot of rocks. My teacher…Share on ma’am…I think her name was. Can’t remember.”
I fall silent. I am confused. I struggle.
“Yes, she scrapes paint of the canvas with them…her nails…” I smile, “her primary tools, like brushes and paints.”
We both laugh.
“Another teacher…she reminds me of…I can’t remember…”
“It’s okay, papa. It will come to you. Go on.”
“She…she used to say ‘there isn’t any paint in your brush at all! How can you paint? Take more paint on the brush’.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t remember…I can’t remember…she reminds me of … Modi.” My hands go to my head.
“P.M. Modi?!” A smile. “It’s okay, dad, it will come to you. You did good today, didn’t you, dad?”
“Did I?”
***
“Dad, your lunch…careful, it is hot. Here is your favourite spoon. Call me if you need anything. Okay?”
“Lunch? I just had toast for breakfast.”
“That was in the morning, dad, it is lunchtime now. Have it peacefully.”
I nod my head and go back to Amy, Heartland, and horses on the TV.
***
“Must not waste food.”
“You are right.”
“Who are those two girls running around the house, neighbour’s daughters?”
Silence, pregnant with sadness.
“They are your granddaughters.”
“My granddaughters?”
“Yes, dad, my two daughters.”
“Who are you?”
Crash of lunch plate, loud sobbing, and running footsteps.
Epilogue
“I remember who gave it to me.” Unbridled exhilaration.
“Gave you what?”
“The ring…”
“The horror movie?” Mischievous smile.
“No, no…the ring…I wear on my finger…”
“Is it so?” Happiness oozes from the voice. “Who?”
“Swarna.” I beam a smile.
“Wow, you did it, old man.”
“…and…and…and…she’s my wife…wife.” I almost shout with joy.
“Great, papa. What else do you remember?”
I fall silent. It is dark and confusing. I can’t remember. I struggle.
“Where is she?” I ask.
***
