Better never than late

Screech . . . . . . . . . . Khandadkhat. The tyres rubbed the tar road in a rough, passionless way removing some of the outer hard core exposing the softer, inner layer. Perhaps, every hard thing has an inner softer layer (or was it a silver lining?). And this hard layer, was it to protect the soft inner layer or to hide it from the hard world?

Before I could decide, I heard my infuriated husband shouting at the man who would have measured the weight of our car with his death. “Why have you to come in my way? Why can’t you go and find some other place to die?”

Our eyes met and for a moment I was dumbfounded. His eyes asked me pathetically: “Did I come in your way?”

“Now get lost!” yelled my husband.

And really he took heed of the command and vanished in the crowd without any protest, without any complaint. Many cars flashed in between and separated him from my vision. He was dressed in an old pink shirt and an equally old dark pair of trousers which had seen better days (and nights!).

I couldn’t help ignoring my husband’s talk because I was not with him. I was strolling on the sands of a seashore on a beautiful evening, fifteen years ago . . . .

The soft breeze, the twilight, the setting sun and he prompted me to say:
“Madhukar, this pink shirt and dark trousers look very well on you”.

“Thanks Kusum. Your maroon sari is so tempting that I feel like encaging and engaging you forever and ever in my . . . . . “

“Don’t ever stop, Madhu”. . . . . . Camera, if you don’t mind!”

“That was a complete let down. ‘Arms’ would have been the ideal word. You can photograph so many others with the same camera”.

“My camera is different, it clicks only once”.

“All Madhukars say the same thing to every Kusum they meet”.

“This Madhukar is different”

I knew he was different but, for the sake of an argument, I said, “I don’t believe it”.

“How can I convince you?”

“Try any method”. I expected physical action. He was above physical action.

“Do you see that?” he queried, pointing far on sands.

“Yes, that statue of a man looking at the sea?”

“he is waiting for his ship that did not return. So many other ships appear on the horizon. Many come near, but he never looks at them. He knows his ship. The wind has tried in vain to tell him that his ship will never return. The waves have tried incessantly to wash down his patience, the seasons have tried to corrode his courage. But he still is there, waiting. Time has no significance for him. For him it is a hypothetical quantity created by society. He will be there, there and there itself, forever and ever. Kusum I’m trying to be . . . . . “ “Like that statue”, I butted in.

“Do not call it a statue because of the hard stone from which it is made. It has a soft interior …. Living on hope”

“You are very emotional”

“That I am, but don’t you think I am sincere in my emotions?”

“How can I know until I know for which ship you are waiting?” I asked mischievously.

“It’s a ship carrying my queen with large inviting eyes, a captivating smile and lovely, long raven silken tresses”

“I knew he did not like my short hair so my doubt and fear increased.

With sinking heart I asked: “Can I see her?”

“Yes, of course, I always keep her with me. Here see this”

And, low and behold, it was just me, a blushed Kusum reflected in his pocket mirror.

“But she has short hair”, I said.

“But they can surely grow long”, he insisted. . . . . . and cause inconvenience in maintaining it”.

“For how long will convenience play a major role in your life”? For how long?

We both hoped to do medicine. But he failed to get admission. I managed. The trick was a donation. To add to this setback, conditions worsened and forced him to search for a job. Gradually my new career the new circle of friends separated him from me. Perhaps, he understood and did not come in my way. By the time I had to settle in my life with a partner I dismissed his name from the list because I thought it would not be convenient. His dreams couldn’t fulfill my desire for satiability and prosperity. His poverty was his guilt! He did not protest, did not complain. I never saw him again . . . . till this moment when the tyres of my Herald car screeched to a halt to save that man with the worn out pink shirt and equally worn our trousers covering that frail, body. Even that inanimate car gave him life which I had failed to do. I shuddered to think that for fifteen long years that statue must have had a companion in this man!

“Tomorrow I shall go and meet. . . “

“Meet whom?” my husband asked rather surprised.

“A long lost friend”

“Do go. Take our new car with you”

“No no! I shall walk. One can only walk – his way”.

It was only a matter of fifteen hours before ’tomorrow morning’ and I couldn’t wait. How had he waited for fifteen years preserving to this day the same shirt and trousers? That reminded me of buying a new maroon sari. Unfortunately, my hair . . . . should I wear a switch with long tresses? But I know he would never complain whether my hair was long or short.

That night I couldn’t sleep till early morning. When I awoke Sunita was standing by. “Ma, you are very late today. You will never make it to the dispensary in time”. And she turned over the calendar to a new leaf, a new day. Looking at her large eyes and smiling eyes, I decided it was really too late.

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