Tag: Indian

By Saranyan BV

Getting old is like climbing a mountain, you get a little out of breath 
but the view is much better!
                                                                     - Ingrid Bergman, actress

He arrived in the morning. He was carrying a small bag but enough to contain things to stay for three to four days. His visit was unannounced. Although he was cordial, I didn’t inquire into the purpose of his visit. I invited him inside and showed him the spare room where he could rest a while. He was seventy-nine years and could do with some rest. His body language showed he was grateful, yet he didn’t offer a reason for his presence in the morning. I went inside the kitchen so that I could prepare a cup of coffee for him. I heard him move inside his room, the footsteps of an old man. I could hear him take things out from the bag and push some back. After a while, the sounds stopped. The house turned silent. It sounded silent and silence sounds like death. My eyes roved over the kitchen table to check on the things available to make a decent breakfast for uncle. He was in need. He looked famished.

I pushed open the door leading to the backyard, in the kitchen garden, the plants were unkempt. It was a messy area of about forty-four square feet. I plucked brinjals and tomatoes to make the sambar respectable and to add on to the coconut chutney which was already done. There was also coriander, not ready for plucking, but at times like this it could be useful. I heard the sound of the cistern flush, the water drained without giving inkling of anger. I handed him the cup, he took it and kept looking at the floor. He drew an arc with the toe of his right foot. I could not understand what the act meant except he was disturbed. There would be time later to get to know. For the time being I let him feel at home. He didn’t inquire about my husband’s whereabouts. My husband was his nephew. Uncle might have assumed Shyam has gone to office. Actually, Shyam has gone to handover his Renault Kwid for the first unpaid service. He would be late today. Shyam too would have to have his breakfast before starting for work. Maybe they could have it together. We all could.

I hoped uncle would spruce himself and be ready before Shyam returned. I was not going to rush him.

Shyam would be in a terrible hurry. He could catch up with his uncle while he is pushing the idlis[1] down his throat. I have to keep requesting Shyam time and again to eat slowly. Food is meant to be enjoyed and not be dealt with as if it is a task to be completed. Breakfast is the only meal Shyam has at the dining table. He took his lunch in the office canteen and the night meal was invariably at the bar he frequented. I had rehearsals for the coming play at Ranga Shankara in Jayanagar. Most evenings, I was out. I think he ate only fritters and no proper dinner. I never questioned him about his activities. He found that convenient.

I went past the room in which the uncle was lodged. I pretended to go out under some pretext. The garbage collector had entered the street. The garbage needed to be in cans outside the gate. I peered in. The door was open. Uncle was seated on the mattress leaning back on his hands. He was looking up at the ceiling fan, at his own reflection on the chromium plated hub-cap. He had not switched the fan on, the weather was fine. I collected the compost bag and kept tossing handfuls on the potted plants in the courtyard. That was my weekly routine. The plants responded to the manure but the moment the plants shoot buds, insects destroyed them. I tried to give uncle some privacy by remaining in the garden. He looked rather pulled down. If he wanted to make some calls in my absence, I’d rather facilitate it; but he didn’t.

Uncle lived in Hebagoddi with his only son, his house overlooking the wholesale fruit market. Whenever we visited, I found him standing on the open terrace upstairs and watching the trucks loading and unloading. Ajay resigned his job in Hosur and had left to take up new assignment in Abu Dhabi. He told us he wanted to move with his family to Abu Dhabi. I wondered if he could take his father as well. Maybe that was what made uncle preoccupied – the thought of being left alone without his son, who was also his caregiver.  Uncle had a handsome pension as a retired school master. He was not dependent monetarily, but he needed someone to assure him everything was going to be fine. An old man required assistance and supervision. My dad’s brother had dementia from being lonely they said.  since He had no one to talk to. He was a bachelor with lots of money but dementia doesn’t check the wallet before setting in.

I went back to the kitchen. The decoction had filtered down. I mixed the coffee and took it along with two Marie biscuits. He took it and placed it on the table. His hand shook. He said, “Thanks.” He wasn’t curious about Shyam’s absence. I was surprised he did not inquire.  He was Shyam’s uncle not mine.

I told him, “Shyam would be back shortly, I will serve breakfast when he comes.”

“That’s nice”, he said. “In that case I will have the coffee after breakfast. I took Pantacid just now. Let the medicine do the job.” He took the two biscuits, placed them on the paper napkin and returned the cup.

I said, “Fine.” I lifted my chin to scrutinize his face.

“Its difficult to live with Ajay’s wife,” he said. Uncle moved towards the window turning face away from me. The top two panes of the window were open. They overlooked the vegetable garden I was ambitious about curating. Beyond that was a small 30 feet road. I did not attempt to mollify him. I left the job to Shyam. He was Shyam’s his uncle.

Uncle said, “I can grow enough vegetables in my house in the terrace, I mean in Ajay’s house. People these days grow vegetables in plastic grow-bags you know. I can grow enough for the family or even more. She wouldn’t allow.” He meant Ajay’s wife. Growing vegetables is my passion. My conviction is one should try to grow food in lifetime instead of only consuming. It’s my desire to grow at least one kilo of rice with my bare hands at least once in my life, I told this to uncle in order to keep him cheerful until Shyam returned.

“We should find a place in our village and try doing growing the rice there. Being in city, you can’t”, he said and curbed his instinct say more. The conversation cheered him and I believed took his mind away from Ajay wanting to shift his family to Abu Dhabi. I was not sure if Ajay was planning to take his dad there. It may not have been a workable proposition.

I said, “Its good to try, to think on those lines. I guess Shyam would agree to the idea post his retirement. As of now I have this theatre group which pegs me here.”

A car entered the lane, the sound of its engine was echoing from the between the compound walls. The colony would have looked more impressive without the compound walls. The car stopped in front. The driver’s face seemed familiar but I could not place him. Shyam got down from the other side. He thanked the driver and entered. The car sped away, it was an old red-coloured Punto. The driver smiled on seeing I was trying to place him.

I was not sure if I should inform Shyam about the unannounced guest or leave him to find out for himself. Maybe he knew of the arrival and had forgotten to inform me.

Shyam said, “I must rush, Sundar has promised to pick me on the way. Can’t make Sundar wait.” He went straight into the washroom. He was the type who would expect his wife to keep his clothes ready when he came out of the bath. Before that, he would want the towel. I did that part of the chore, returned to the living room from where I could see uncle. He was not affronted by Shyam’s behavior. He seemed to understand. He smiled sympathetically upon seeing my distress.

“Let me set the table for breakfast,” I told him and went about doing so. I wanted to tell Shyam to eat slowly — to get up only when uncle finished. Uncle came out of the room for the first time. He sat quietly in front of the dining table where Shyam sat normally. He leaned using his elbows on the table. He saw me arranging the plates. He opened the lid where idli was stacked. He smiled again. There was plenty. I too sat pretending to remove the speck on my plate.

“I have to find an old age home,”he said nodding his head.

 “It would do you good. you can be all by yourself,” I said.

“You don’t understand the point Kamala,” he said. I could hear Shyam coming out of the bathroom. He started dressing. He dressed himself first before using the hair drier and combing his hair. I knew as soon as he finished, he would head for the dining table. I waited for the sound of the drier being switched off. I had not informed Shyam about uncle’s presence as yet. Waiting at the breakfast table, I was not sure I should make the effort. He obviously was not expecting to find uncle. I hoped he would be polite to his uncle.

Shyam came in. He had heard our voices, if not the subject of our conversation. He was pleased perceptibly to see his uncle, he went behind him, put his hand over uncle’s shoulders and gave him a hug from behind. He said, “What a surprise! How is Ajay doing? Is he really liking it out there, it is a dangerous country, not meant for one with his kind of temperament.” Shyam rushed with his words, he wanted to convey whatever he wanted quickly without giving scope for his uncle to respond. He looked at me and said, “I promised uncle that I would find him a comfortable old age home. Better that Ajay takes his family quickly to Abu Dhabi. He has the knack of getting into trouble if left alone.”

Uncle didn’t want to prolong the conversation about his son. He said, “Something that fits my pension, not a paise more, I don’t want to take help from Ajay though he may be earning in Dinars now.”

He craned his neck to see when I would start serving. Shyam pulled the chair away from the table to sit, the chair made a grating noise on the floor. I switched the fan on and started serving. The three of us ate quietly. Shyam kept stuffing idlies as was his habit. He choked a bit but managed to swallow without any issues. I had only one idli. I got up to prepare coffee. Sundaram could arrive any moment, though Shyam had not stated the time of his arrival. Shyam took his uncle to the verandah in front. I could hear them talking, though I could not make out what they discussed. It sounded like they wanted to keep me out.

Uncle left our house after three days. He never went back to Ajay’s house. He went straight to the old age home. I felt sad. Shyam had arranged accommodation where uncle could stay in relative comfort. That’s what Shyam told me the previous night.

Whatever the comfort and care the old age home offered, such homes for the aged could not offer hope. Inmates kept falling sick, became invalids and sunk to death slowly. Besides they all had their own tales of woe which each would share, deepening the shadows in others lives. A home could not offer hope.

Shyam said the three days stay with us had restored uncle’s faith in humanity. It was a tall statement, though I suspected it was true. We tend to seek our own space in the kingdom of self-righteousness, we feed on such feelings. During the afternoons we had watched movies together on Netflix or Prime Video. Uncle made the selection. He always chose a crime thriller or science fiction, avoided movies focused on family relationships.

He took me into confidence and confessed on the last day. Shyam was to drop him at an old-age home named after Mother Theresa the next day. Uncle told me almost in whispers after the movie, as if he didn’t believe what he said, “Ajay’s wife is very loving, I can’t say she was wanting in that faculty.” I wanted to believe uncle.

When uncle left, there were tears in his eyes. He didn’t try to mask his feelings. I could not figure if it was on account of a feeling of gratefulness or of grief. He sprayed the insecticide on the rose plants in the courtyard while Shyam was loading his things in the car. I had presented him warm blanket in case the home didn’t provide one. Shyam promised to visit him often, though he did not specify how often.

Ajay’s family had left. He sent uncle photos of their new home. I had half a mind to tell uncle to stay with us, though I didn’t. He was not a bother, was really not a bother. He would have helped with the kitchen and courtyard garden as well as the proposed one in the terrace upstairs. During his brief stay, he helped to water the plants, folded the laundry, cut vegetables for cooking, he cut such perfect cubes. He enjoyed peeling garlic pods. He loved it. One day when the daily maid absented herself, I even found him doing the dishes quietly without letting me know. I had closeted myself in our room to memorise lines and cues of a new play.  

Uncle could have stayed with us if it was not too long. Life looks interminable if we don’t know how long. We didn’t know how long all this would go on had he stayed. He looked healthy though he was seventy-nine. You never know. Love without willingness to take on the responsibility was an aborted child, that much I knew.

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[1] Steamed, savoury rice cake

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Saranyan BV is Bangalore based poet and short-story writer. His works are being published in Indian and Asian journals regularly. He came to the realm of English by mistake but loves being there. He is a big fan of Raymond Carver and Charles Bukowski. He thinks that the genre short story is going to rule literature in the days to come, if the writers are ready to take up the challenge.  

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