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.
***
“Good, dad didn’t
waste even a grain, as always!”
“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.
***
