When I was a child, there used to live an old man in the house next to ours. A man so aged with time that it looked as if he could not get older. The neighbourhood we lived in was poor, encompassed by dilapidated buildings made of yellowed wood. The whole setting was as serene, as empty as it was. After all, it was the dwelling for those who couldn't afford to live, or rather lived the same, ceasably.
However, we- I and my mother were few but not the only ones who lived there. At times it would be so quiet that one could hear the crows flap their black wings against the rays of the withered sunset. Other times, fewer than the former, it would be so alive, as if it was never dead.
However, that old man, every evening would sit with his harmonica. The harmonica, perhaps more time worn than the man, was not to be played but only to be clenched. Clenched tightly, in his wilted hand, as he stared into nothingness.
I observed the same routine, everyday. The man sat on a cushioned arm-chair placed in his veranda, seated in silence. And then, after sometime, he would go inside his house. All this was interesting for me, who usually remained indoors with my mother. I found solace in looking at the man, who as if yearned for something more than I did.
The house though small was large enough for the two of us. She often forbade me from going out at dusk, for the hapless woman was afraid for safety of her son.
Talking about my bad family history, my father was a drunkard, now dead. A taxi driver had hit him with bottle, and so the bastard died due to loss of blood. I knew that, as much as my mother agonized, she was relieved all the same. She wanted to protect me from an unfit father.
But I don't know what came over me, that day. My mother had warned me to stay in before she went to run some errands. I opened the latch of the creaking door and sneaked out.
As usual, there were not many visible men. I tiptoed with tactful stillness as my feet soundlessly traversed the grey cemented tiles of the footpath. I walked a good amount of distance, slowly gliding away from my niche.
Curiosity got the better of me and I amatuerly explored everything that that my eyes set on. May it be the beggar who shrewdly managed to fool people into giving alms or, the two grieved wives who were prattling endlessly through the pulverised window.
All this was new to me. Never had I felt the world so lively. After being confined in the four-walled cell, I felt a strange sense of freedom, that of being young and unrestrained.
Time passed by like a flash of lightning , which only dawned to me at the end of dusk. It was not at all astonishing encounter the stoic faced man, who I had once, only seen from afar.
Something came over me as I approached the man without much thought. My feet were so quiet that I could hear my own heart, thumping unusually loud. His hands stayed still as I saw his features contort erratically in bewilderment.
I saw him lose his composure which I wondered about for years to come. That was the first time I saw him, intently, up close. He peculiarly rose from his illusory nest and headed inside his house.
One would have expected me to leave, maybe out of annoyance or shame. But my feet seemed to have fixed themselves, and so I shamelessly continued to hover around the end of the street.
Surprisingly, the man came out after a few ten minutes, and in his hand, he held a few candies, with colourful paper. Candies for me were a huge treat back then, only to be relished on the best of occasions.
But seeing the man unhesitantly offer me one, I sure was suspicious. Taking one of them in my left hand, I resolved to smell-lick-test-eat. It was hard to resist the temptation, but it was no sooner, did I start savouring it with great enthusiasm.
He smiled at me with glee and I, for someone who knew nothing, did only but smile back innocently. It did not take a long time for our meeting to become an everyday thing. I skipped away, sneakily, every evening whenever I had the chance to atleast, to meet the elder man, who was eager to see me, always. I felt a unique attachment to him, indescribable in words. I felt important. I felt happy.
It was one such occasion that he mentioned his dead wife and son. They had died in an accident. I felt shivers up my spine when I heard the heartbreaking tale. He put in my hand the small harmonica, that his son had owned in the his youth. I held onto the piece like a treasure, for it was the first precious thing that I'd been entrusted with. I would later come to know that it veiled a deep truth behind it.
Days turned into months and months turned into years. I left for abroad to pursue my studies.
The old man had died, I came to know a few years later. I decided to pay my respects to my deceased companion. Wrapping up work, I caught a flight back to my supposedly hometown. I visited those streets again, which nostalgically remained the same. The house too, mellowed with time, stood tall, all the same. I entered his house, covered with cobwebs, as the door glumly squeaked open. The drawers held on their top a small envolope sealed with some red candle wax. Enclosed in it, was a letter addressed to me.
**********************
Dear Richard Wells,
I hope you remember the old man who accompanied you every twilight in childhood. I really hope you do.
Remember that time I gave you a small harmonica which belonged to my son once, there is a story behind it. The car accident of my son and daughter-in-law was caused by a drunk man. That drunk man unfortunately turned out to be your father. Our family fell apart after our precious child's death. My wife too passed away, leaving me behind in grief and mourning
What could an old man do? I drove my cab relentlessly through the nights, hoping to make a living on my own, and peacefully pass my days until death knocked my doors.
But what should that lost man do when he faces the one who mad his life a living hell... I was confronted by the same man who wiped out the very trace of my paradise - your father. He was in the same state as he was when I met him in the police station, dead drunk and intoxicated blissfully, a bliss which killed lives.
If I assumed correctly, your mother was stumbling like a lunatic that time, in a dark alley. A small pale child bundled up in her arms, covered by only a sheer piece of clothing, on that cold winter night. But what was that miserable woman to do when her husband, grabbed and twisted her wrist tightly. I never wanted to interfere in the first place, but when I saw your mother quiver in fear of that detestable man, I felt a fury rage inside me and pure hatred towards that shameless man. I imagined my own daughter-in-law and unborn grandson in your place, which fuelled my abhorrence and contempt for that reckless animal.
I didn't want another one's life being ruined by this wasteful man. Law did not help. And I was, say fortunately or unfortunately, forced to take matters into my own hands.
And as the story goes, I hit him with a glass bottle, leaving him to bleed and die. It happened.... and fate gave an opportunity, to avenge and relieve.
He was wobbling badly, half conscious, through the dimly lit street. It was about 2AM back then, with all the faulty lights flickering murderously in that murky street. Your father lousily danced from pole to pole disgustingly, completely out of his senses, but my cab 'accidently' drove onto him. I applied the breaks, a bit reluctantly, even though my original intention was not to kill the man. I got out of the car, but not to help a man who was your father. I was old too, but that didn't stop me from hating him to the guts.
The boozed up man, got up sloppily with a glass bottle unsteadily held in his hand. He approached me slowly, stabilizing his then shaking feet, with eyes that spoke of a strange repulsion and insanity. He tried to inflict me with glass but luckily I managed to dodge it, only to stab him with the same shard of that glass. It gave me utter satisfaction, to see that loathsome face, lying lifeless on the pavement.
I was jailed for it. For a whole 5 years before getting released.
But who knew that his son - you and I would end up living in the same area. I used to see a slight resemblance between your father and you. It was because of this that I gave you that cold shoulder. I surprisingly grew to hate you at that time, as you reminded me of my grandchild, who could never step into this world. Only because of your father.
But I think that's what brought us closer. I didn't like the very sight of you, but... I found peace in the company of your innocence and persistent quizzing. I loved your dazzling eyes. You brought a ray of new hope, through a crevice that I thought was occluded.
The harmonica no longer remained in my wrinkled fingers but were held by your small hands, as if made for your play.
Thank you for bringing life to my last days.
And if possible, please, sometimes play the tune that we played together in those days. I will always watch over you from above. Time is less, andwords will never end. But I'm ending this letter. Goodbye, my dear boy.
**********************
The paper was damp with tears. I regretted that I was not there with him, on the old man's deathbed. I felt a the silhouette of a man, gently smiling at me, through the glassy curtains, speckled with dust, but still sparkling under the warm light of the evening.
Those memories were hazy but not faded.
I still go around there somewhere, lurking in those streets of Woodsvinelle, playing the same old tune, the one gifted by the old man.
For I can never..... Forget him.
§§§§§§
Where the sirens fall
I believe you will call
The old tune plays
At the end of the days....
Another eye to lament
Forever ever incident
The cold grey blue streets
Still remind you of me.
I have nothing to keep
In the memory, I weep
The willows sway in wind
And moon mirrors the twinned
§§§§§§
The end
