[jai_bhardwaj]

Mid Day

The old grandfather clock made itself heard for the eleventh time. He was still looking outside. His eyes were starting to pain from the midday light. He reluctantly removed his hand from the wall, shifting all his weight to the already paining thighs. He wanted to go on. He wanted to see more of it, more of his life. He had tried many a times, seated on his rocking armchair, or before the mirror, but he had failed to bring back images as living as those he just had.

“Maybe that blinding light helped”, he said. But he hated that word – blinding. He was not blind. He saw everything. He knew everything. And perhaps, this was his tragedy.

A knock sounded at the door. “Come in!” he shouted. A young man entered, and throwing his overcoat over one of those dusty sofas, he said, “Hello pa! Had your lunch yet?”

The old man shook his head in a negative answer.

“You wanna com with us?”

Another shake.

He walked to the old man. “Pa! You can’t remain like this for always! It’s all over! You know we don’t have any grudge! You know that!”

The old man turned his face towards the window again. Something was hurting more than the light. A pause followed, and with a nearly imperceptible start, the old man croaked, “You no grudge, huh? Then why is your son and wife still waiting in ya car?” He paused, awaiting an answer, but as expected, none came.

“You still fear me! You still fear ma anger!” The tone rose.

“You hate me, huh? You think he’s jus ol’ shIt, won’t understand nothing!” He forced his vocal power. “But I need no one! You ge’ that? No one!”

The door slammed. He looked out through the window as the young man walked through the long grass, tapping away the dust on his coat. The latter stopped before his car, threw a brief look at the overgrown weeds, and then opened his door. The old man looked away, to avoid the glance of his departing son. “Idiot! Now he’s gonna send a gard’ner, and I’ll have to mak’im flee, just like tha’ housekeepin’ bi*ch.”

He returned to his mirror, with ears fixed on the silent roar of his son’s car, and lifted up the mug of tea which had now grown ice cold. A fly was attempting its last flap to fly away from the brown sea. In some seconds, it would float lifelessly in that half-empty mug. The image certainly crossed his mind, but he was not disgusted by it. He was disgusted by nothing.

This time aided by his cane, his weakening legs were pulled towards the window again, and he saw himself being pulled away by men in raincoat he did not know, but who called themselves his relatives. He was shouting, but his shrill voice of young boy was overwhelmed by the deafening outbursts of thunder. His tears, all lost in the crowd of raindrops. He resisted in every way he could: he bit, and kicked and shoved his feet into the wet soil. But they were too strong. Several pairs of hands had grabbed his arms and clothes. There is not a thing he remembered after that, not one of those houses, not one of his ‘parents’, not one of those evil kids who called him evil names, not even the one he threw from the top of the second floor. The only thing on his mind was the image of his father and mother being taken out by the front door, marred by their own blood. He did not even remember his father’s face. What he remembered was that vulgar mass of fuming minced meat mounted over a body that once belonged to his father. Everything else was just darkness.

The old man shifted uneasily. He went to his armchair, gave it a gentle push, and carefully leaned forward to take his cigarette case. He tried not to let out even the smallest moan of pain. But he failed. And failure was something he did not like. It could be seen from his face, as he removed yet another cigarette, put it in his mouth, and looked for his matches. Not in his pockets, nor on the table, nor next to the chair. Disgusted, he took out the cigarette, crushed it, and threw it away, by far missing the ashtray already full with half-smoked cigarettes. He looked at the case still in his hand, and went back to his window.

It was already midday, and he was hungry, but he wanted to see more. And he saw the weather had changed. He was coming back, young, and dressed in the most expensive suit he could have ever afforded in his life, the only suit he ever had actually. And together with him was the most beautiful lady he ever saw, dressed in white. She looked far purer than any water, far fairer than even milk, far more angelic than any angel. She was his wife. And she looked proud of it. They entered the house, smiling at each other, lost in each other’s gaze, and the old man lost them from view.

The grass grew momentarily high, then went back to its previous state as the couple reappeared at the gate. He was holding the hand of a little boy, and his wife was smiling at a baby in her arms. They looked so happy together, so divine. They walked towards the house again, giggling, talking about this new gift of love, but this time, some flashes punctuated their approach. He was now on the lawn, seated, covering his face from the innocent punches of his two sons. And they walked nearer. His wife was now helping him paint the gate, and he was laughing at the blot of white over her nose. And they walked nearer. His children were now adolescents, and his drunk elder was being led by his smaller brother down the pathway, on the lookout for any sign of parents. And they came to the door.

For the first time, one could see a faint form resembling a smile on the face of the old man. But it was soon drowned again in an expression nearing anger, with a tiny tint of grief. What he now saw was rain, terrible rain. The sunlight that had basked his memories seemed to be lost forever. A body was being taken away from the front door on a stretcher, and as it went, dripping drops of diluted blood left behind an announcement of its passage. For some unknown reasons, this path of blood seemed to resist the heavy raindrops, as if it did not want to leave. Just steps away, he was escorted by policemen out of the house. He could feel each drop of that rain on his body, as needles stinging him all at once, and becoming part of him as they flowed away. His hands were still red, contrasting with the shine of the metal handcuffs. He reached the middle of the path. His son, crying on the lawn, suddenly leaped for him, taking the policemen by surprise. He punched his father several times in the face, shouting out, “You killed her, freak! You killed her! You killed ma mother, and ma brother! You killed’em! Am gonna kill ya!”

The old man turned away. He did not want to see anything anymore, but that voice was haunting his ears. He wished it would be covered up by the sound of the rain, but it wasn’t. No tripping, no tinkling, no trickling was so powerful. No rain was so powerful. Neither was he. He realised he was squeezing the cigarette case as hard as he could, and his anger dissipated.

“You know it was not ma fault! You know tha’, dontcha?” His voice told he was on the verge of crying, and he did not like the sound of it. It was him weakening, and he knew exactly what he had to do.