you are going to be a part of the story

You are going to be a Part of the story

Only an old man can understand the working of another old man’s mind. Its workings are beyond the comprehension of a child or the young. One can never divine what twists and turns of the mind cause an old man to suddenly start beaming, and the next moment to pull a long face.
I start feeling uneasy sitting in one place. But things arte not what they used to be with old age overtaking me, my head reels as I try to rise to my feet. My knee joints ache and my hand shake. Wishing to be propped up in bed, I call out to my grandson, ‘Bablu...oh, Bablu!’
The next moment he comes running to my room. ‘Yes, Grandpa?’
With a gesture I ask him to sit me up in bed. Bablu puts his hand behind my back and helps me sit up against the pillow. A array of questions lines up in my mind. What should I do? Where should I go? I have lost the habit of sticking to just one place. I have numerous friends who go about on social visits, tapping their walking sticks on the ground as they walk. I was always proud of my strong hands. I am no doubt tired but I am loath to go about holding a walking stick as a sign of my infirmity. Coming out of my room I call out to my daughter-in-law… ‘Shedaan…Ismat…Naheed…is nobody there?’
There are sounds of whispering from the kitchen. I know these young women must be curling up their noses at my call at this odd hour and more so at my senile eccentricity. ‘How tiring Abba can be, this is no time for tea but he must have his cup of tea, there is no getting away from it, they would be saying.
I …….age one never predict what a man will need and …..Watching oneself disintegrate under the creeping shadow of death, one calls out for anything one needs or even, out of some strange impulse, far what one doesn’t need. Little do these young women know that suppressing a plethora of desires, some funny and some not so funny, is another name for old man is not supposed to cry or laugh loudly. These can be mistaken for signs of approaching insanity. It will make the children gather around him. His grandchildren will be upset and his daughters-in law will ask, ‘What’s the matter, Abba?’ what will I tell them? That they should leave me alone? In his lonely hours, old memories can torment an old man. Dormant memories can suddenly come alive and make him weep. And old man too has a past and memories of a wife who is no more. She might have left him behind by just two or three years in this race of time. But to him it appears as if she is centuries ahead of him on her journey.
I dump myself heavily on the chowki—a journey from my room to the chowki, a journey from old living moments. An old man can’t even weep unrestrainedly. He has to keep his emotions on a leash. He must divert his mind with his grandchildren, his daughter-in-law. He must have his mind pigeon-holed for bizarre and new-fangled ideas. He must delude himself with the thought which makes him say, ‘you doddering old man, the game is not yet up. It is because of you that the house looks so gay alive. Your glum silence, your sad visage, can wipe the smile from your children’s faces and stop them from cackling. All because of you.’
Ismat comes with tea. Behind her, Naheed stands smiling. ‘Abba, why have you come out your room—at this hour?’
I pretend as if I have not heard Naheed. My lips are curled in a smile—a deep, pretentious smile. Oh, what great concern they show for the old man!
‘Beti, Ismat, how much saccharine have you put in my tea?’ I asked my daughter-in-law.
Shadaan says, ‘Abba, you should have stayed in your room. It’s so chilly outside.’
Like any old man, I listen to her without speaking. What great care these young women take of the old man. They want to give him every comfort. How should I tell them that in old age one is governed by one’s passing moods which can prove to be self-devouring at times.
All my working life I was a high-ranking official, holding a responsible position. Lide a circus ring master, when an officer enters the ‘arerra’ he sweeps everyone before him. People must. Abide by his whims and he must have his way in everything. Like a spoilt child he wants all his demands to be met. ‘Abba, it’s very cold and you are wearing only a thin shirt.’
I stop sipping my tea and take stock of things for myself. Yes, it’s quite chilly. Ismat is right. Picking up my cup of tea I proceed towards my room. I must stay in bed for some time more. There is nothing better than a magazine to while away the time in bed. Keep reading till sleep overtakes you. What more is there left to be accomplished in life? All the children have been married off. I now only look forward to death, when I’ll drift into senility and my eyes will close for ever. Who wants to live alone? My friends have left me one by one. And those who remain are slowly moving towards the precipice, towards the final doom. Suddenly the words ring painfully in my ears. ‘Did you hear? So-and-so is gone!’ I feel stunned for a moment. Something breaks within me. But by now I’ve inured myself against such news. I’m prepared for the eventuality. In the beginning such news used to give me a jolt and its effect lingered making me sad for weeks. Even now such news affects me, but not with the same intensity a s before. May be because at my age I’m expecting this kind of news and it loses its sting.
For some time I recount the qualities of the head and heart of the departed soul. And then as always, I revert to mundane affairs linked with domesticity. Maybe after my death my friends will also list my qualities in the same manner.
As if something has struck out of the blue, I suddenly feel inert. This always happens when my mind is occupied with thoughts of death. I try to extricate myself from this goofy word; ‘death’ one more day is gone. When did Asea die? How long ago was it? Asea! As I recall the name, tears throb in my eye and a voice coming from somewhere encompasses me. ‘Saheb, Saheb, won’t you go to the club? Give Saheb some tea… its time for Saheb’s dinner.’s
Asea is running around in the house, attending to so many things at the same time. And strangely enough, time has still kept on the run. I retired from service and yet Asea showed on signs of age. Yet, she broke her promise, and disappeared for ever behind the clouds.
I felt for the first time that I would not be able to bear the burden of life. Old age is a disease which man can suffer stoically with a wife by his side as a prop. To pass his life along becomes drudgery. He can spend his life in the midst of members of his family, searching for the flashes of happiness. How I miss that sunshine of the which I entombed in the darkness of the graveyard many years ago. From that day on, the desire to live also died. There is just an unending sequence of nights in which sleeping-pills and other medicines figure prominently. Time itself looks aged and so does strong-limbed Asea. In the bodily contours of life I have begun to feel the intensity of surging pain. My old friend, Majju, had rightly said, ‘in old age even medicines do not yield results.’ As it is, as one advances in years one is prone to a multiplicity of ailments. How many of them can be pinpointed treatment?
It is for this reason that my friends who assemble in my house in the brecing morning light do not talk of the vagaries of life. They go straight to the question of impending death in a most facile manner. Who knows when death will knock at our doors? When will the final call come?
The other day I got a jolt. It was about ten in the morning. As on other mornings, Majju, Faruq, and Zafar were sitting in their chairs chatting with one another. They were waiting for Ali who was overdue. Ali would usually come tapping his lathi on the ground, halt at the door and throw a salaam at them in a manner characteristically his own. ‘Mahboob Bhai, Salaam ulikam.’ He would then single me out for his greetings. Lying in bed I would raise my eyes from my book, cast a glance at him and reciprocate his greetings with a loud salaam. Putting aside his lathi he would settle down in a chair.
That morning Ali came much later than usual. Majju had cataract in his eyes. While trying to make out Ali’s figure in the strong sunlight his myopic eyes sparkled for a moment. ‘Bhai, have you been feasting on kurma and kabab?’ Majju asked in a bantering tone. ‘you are looking so cheerful.’
‘Majju Bhai, this time we will eat kurma and kabab in your house,’ Ali said in his sharp metallic voice. ‘Cooked by bhabi. You’ll feed us on kurma-kabab, won’t you?’
‘Yes, bhai. Why not?’ it was on rare occasions that Majjur spoke with such confidence. ‘Imran will be coming the day after,’ he said scraping at the earth with his lathi. I’ll be flush with money with his coming. Come o Friday, we shall have both kurma and kabab.
‘we shall all join you, ‘Faruq chipped in giving a hilarious laugh as was his went.
‘it’s Majju’s invitation! A special occasion indeed,’ I said. ‘let me try to get up. I’m tired of lying in bed.’
‘Mahboob Bhai, keep lying down,’ Ali insisted.
But my sentiments got the better of me and I called out to my grandson, ‘Babu, we would like to have tea.’
How many days are there to Friday? It is just round the corner. But I didn’t feel very enthusiastic about it. I keep asking myself how would a stingy and tight-fisted man like Majju throw a feast for us. Maybe he was doing it out of affection for his friends. They sat there laughing and joking—all of them in a hilarious mood over the prospect of extracting a feast from Majju.
Another day dawned and they had assembled in my room for the morning gossip. It was Ali’s daily routine and he was very finicky about it. Tapping his lathi on the ground, he would show up pat at ten. Even in his old age he looked so strong and hefty. His wife had passed away many years ago and he had no children. He messed both very much. Majju was also waiting for him like the others what could have dept him away? Tomorrow would be Friday. Imran would be here tonight, Majju was thinking to himself. He made some quick calculations on his fingers.
Just then a boy came from Ali’s house.
‘Ali sahib has passed away.’
‘What?’
‘What?’
A hush fell over the room. Majju looked at Faruq and Faruq at Zafar and Zafar at me. I tried to get up. Nobody spoke. The only sound was a crow cawing raucously on the parapet of the opposite roof. Majjur got up quickly and rushed out swinging his lathi at the offending bird. ‘go, go! Hush, hush!’ he croaked in his thick voice. Cawing loudly, the crow flew away. Many cold and warm breaths rose wheezily in the room. I felt as if a storm had burst upon the room.
‘So Ali is gone.’ The room was again steeped in silence.
‘At what time will they carry him off for burial?’
‘In the evening. After the evening namaz.’
Trembling lips again shivered into silence.
‘What happened to Ali?’
‘Nothing. He was perfectly all right. In the morning he woke up in the normal course and asked for water. Then he complained of pain in his chest. He lay down in bed and asked us to call the doctor. But before the doctor came….’
The boy went away. Uneasiness spread in the room. The chair in front was lying vacant. The one Ali had occupied yesterday, and the day before, and the day previous to that. Whenever he came, he sat in this very chair. Majju sat, slowly shaking his lathi. Yesterday he had invited the poor old man to have food with him. But little did he know...His eyes turned dull and lusterless. ‘He was a very good football player-our Ali,’ I said, as if to myself. ‘We were together and retired together. He played better football than me. He was in such good health, even at his age. He is gone—our Ali.”
The morning had turned better. Babbu came in with the tea and the cups were passed round. They started drinking in silence. Ali’s chair was vacant. Again and again their gaze travelled to that chair. All talk by-passed the subject of Ali. Was it anymore necessary to rope him in to this talk? Who knew whose turn would come next? We were all lined up in the same row—all of us in readiness to depart from the same row. And Ali…
Ali used to come every day. But he will never come again. Every day he laughed and made others laugh. But no more of that. Every day he teased Majju. Those happy moments already seemed so far away. Wasn’t his death a momentous event? Why didn’t his death stop the conversation that went on? Could anything be more momentous than death? Where were those tears gone? Zafar, Faruq, Majju—why had they cut out Ali from their talk? A quick sharp jolt and that was the end of it, they had again complacently gone back to their usual routine.
It was getting on to be afternoon. Our gossip session had long since petered out. In the evening we had to join Ali’s funeral procession. Majju was the first to leave and did it tapping his lathi on the ground. Then it was Faruq’s turn, followed by Zafar. I was left alone in the room. ‘Abba, time for your food,’ I heard one of my daughters-in-law calling out to me.
It is past at night but there is no sleep in my eyes. I had returned soon after sunset, after lowering Ali in to the grave. At this stage of my life, as I reflect on the vagaries of life, I realize that life is neither a puzzle nor a mystery. Only the four walls of the graveyard revolve before my eyes and it makes me wonder if that is what constitutes life? Something poised on an axis. Now nothing sounds strange to me. Or it could just as well be that everything sounds strange to me and I hear a voice within me proclaiming to me, ‘beware, a story will write itself. The answer silenced me.
This voice in my room at one o’clock in the silence of the night greatly agitated my mind. ‘be warned,’ it says, ‘ the story is going to use you. It is because you have experienced life in its fullness. You know about death. And also about life. People turn away in fear from looking into this deep well which is called death. But at this turning point of your life you have learnt about the quintessence of life that lies in the no-man’s land between life and death. There is a big void between life and death, nothing, except an urge to live on. You have to cross this distance between life and death. You just close your eyes and drift into sleep. That is the hard core of reality. After eating your food you will also like sleeping and then go to sleep. This destinations journey will slowly reach its ultimate goal. And then a long silence and the closed book. Mahboob, are you conscious of the fact that it is one o’clock in the morning and you every day. Therefore, be on the alert. The story about you is soon going to write itself. Yes, it will soon be written.’