Stories From India

Tale 03: Muchhad Magnum

(AESTHETIC/COLLAGE: Delhi, Heart and Soul of India Civilization, City of Excellence, Captial of India. CREDITS to the Author.)

Shantipura Bungalow, Panchasheel Marg.
New Delhi.

Delhi has remained in news quite often, for its radically deteriorating air quality, air pollution, political gravity and a varying weather that fluctuates between extreme peppery hotness and brisk cold winter. But Delhi is just more than a headlined city. Apart from being the national capital, its is an heady mixture of history, tradition, politics, modernity, talent and excellence. Its a city developing with passing time, refining every second in terms of history, artfulness and knowledge, which earns it the title 'Heart and soul of Indian civilization.' From being Hasthinapur of the Kauravas, to Dharm Raj Yudhisthir's Indraprastha, to Mugalo ki Dilli or being Delhi of British India, Delhi has always found its place as the focal point, gifting us with famous experts and scholars, as well as infamous hoodlums and law-breakers. This is a story of two such men, who meet each other, their polar opposites, revealing emotions, experiences, humour and a forgotten relation.

...

Splattering Rain conjured a sweet pattern on the yellow window. Thousands of tiny liquid globes beading the glass, reflected small green shades of the wet grass outside. The road running in front of Shantipura was silent today, except for the constant soft splattering of rain on the wet mud. It was late-September, and Delhi had remained better than usual, something healthier from the usual smoggy clouds that hovered over the city for major part of the year.

Gajendra Chowdhury had been resting in the rocking teak-wood chair by the window of his hall, one of his personal favourite possession. His fingers struck imaginary cords in the invisible air, his way of practicing the sitar, which he was so magnificent at. 60 years of age had granted him a very happening life. He had went to become the most celebrated musician in the city, a distinguished teacher and principal of his time, and the most prestigious citizen in the entire town. But old age is always something more than just silver hairs and wrinkled faces. Same was with Mr. Chowdhury. Subtracting the achievements and respect he had earned in his lifetime, he was nothing more than an old man hoping for support and warmth from his ignorant son. Contrasting to how relaxed he looked sitting in an armchair; was the thunder of storms binding him in a hurricane of worries and misery. Concealed behind the dozen trophies lining the wall, was his maddening health condition, hidden within the fingers that played sitar was a sign of regret, obscured with smiling wrinkles was an irritated mind; grown tired over the years, and deep down in his heart was a disappearing hope of his son's return. He had indeed been a man so achieving for the world outside, but his conscience had maintained the bad habit of reminding him, about the loser he was when it came to his family, keeping relations and preserving emotions.

Today was his birthday, and it was far from anything, that a person might except on his birthday. Gajendra's eyes gazed at the slowly sliding water from the windows, something that reminded him of his constant loss and deeply inflicting guilt. His eyes moved to wall over the windows, the clock was ticking eleven in the morning, and still he had received no calls. His stare slowly moved towards the telephone on the table beside him, and then to his wristwatch. Time was moving so slowly for him, just like it does when you await for something very precious. His son was supposed to call him; (not like he called him frequently), but Gajendra had this strong feeling, that his son might change in heart ever, since he left him fifteen years ago. Since then, things had been difficult for Gajendra, he had lost his wife, his mental peace, his health had deteriorated to such an extent, he had been borrowing money from old age funds for his recovery. His son had lost total contact since he moved out of the house, except for the small calls he did for his financial bidding. And even at those times, he spoke no more than the property case he had filed against his father. Gajendra was breaking from inside, dying from the very poison his son's greed had saddled into his lonely life. But today, he didn't wanted to allow his negative thoughts ruin his birthday. He had tried to detox his mind of the issue he had been dealing with, he had hidden his family photographs behind those crowd of trophies on his shelves, put his health files under the sofa, and replaced his medicines with sitar and old memories of when he used to teach. His face spoke about jeer today, and his eyes about rejoicement. The wrinkles on his forehead indeed told about worries, past and present worries; but they still remained unmatched to the sweetness of his childish excitement which was so deeply ingrained along his smiling wrinkles, telling of a man who had travelled through six decades to that moment; to sit here as an old man, forlorn yet happy; to be dismissed as "old" when he was so much more than the sum of his parts.