The sturdy mahogany door stood tall, befitting the entrance to a mansion decades old. It was a silent testimony to the years that passed by. I waited at the gates, staring at the door, probably in the foolish hope that it might burst into a garrulous talk of nonsensical gibberish. Or probably not. The door reminded me of what lay inside, memories of childhood to be unearthed.
Apprehensions aside, I waited as I heard the dangling sound of the anklets, Chinni wore. She had those tiny silver bells specially designed for her anklets. She doesn't let me get in till I have the customary saffron smeared in a long line across the forehead and a huge gigantic plate with burning camphor in the centre to ward off evil eye.
Some things never change do they, well I enter in, finally.
The stiff hard backed chairs, and the brown red table with the empty vase. Dejavu, all over again. All days of my childhood comes flashing back in crystal clear memories. The familiarity is painful. I have stashed all the painful memories aside. Trying not to think about growing up and here I am. Complete circle. Back from where I started.
I left the house teary eyed. The time I felt pain, the deep feeling of humiliation, Of being insulted in front of friends and family. Some people might say, it is too silly to hold a childhood grudge as an adult, but I differ. I pledged not to return. And yet here I am, why would I be back, you might wonder?
I felt I could not stand the oppressive silence of the long hallways of this rusty dreaded mansion. I decide to take a walk, looking around till he arrives. He had aged, and with every year, his health was on a decline. My aunt unable to take it any longer, the silence, burst into tears over the phone. She wanted me to be back. She wanted me to be here when the surgeon pierces my father's chest open.
I do not understand why. He had never acknowledged my pitiful existence until it was inevitable. I never met his high expectations, a son who refused to do everything the father desires. The father who never understood what his son wants.
Today I am on that very same river bank. The backwaters of Godavari, I sit in solemn solitude. I hear the birds chirping returning to their nest as the sun sets. I realise with calmness, maybe I do not want to call this place home. So I stare at the water, maybe it might change the course of time.
The silence is suddenly broken, with a very unfamiliar sound. I hear the sound of metal clang on the pebble rocks. Looking up, I notice him, my father. He looks so unfamiliar, probably because of the metal contraption that is helping him walk. And suddenly, I felt the sense of guilt and selfishness overpower me as I notice years of weariness on his wrinkled face.
He looked tired, was it because of the walk? Or was it because of my return.
I would rather not be privy to that tiny piece of knowledge.
I almost begin to dread what he might talk. So I wait silently, and my heart beating wildly and eyes scrunched in consternation as I wait for his angry rant. I kept waiting but it never came. I settle down back onto the lull and silence.
He calls me, Dev, no pet names, for I never had one. Strangely he doesn't seem to be annoyed. He ushers me close. He holds me in embrace and apologises. In a sense of shock, I wonder if it's a dream, since my father would never admit if he's wrong even on the day of holocaust.
He asks me to walk further. We reach a country road, a banyan tree and a swing on it. It looks very familiar except for the absence of the familiar motor pump and the wooden shed with metal frame. In its place I see a small house and I walk closer to see a mailbox, the old kind with the caramel frame and a white box on top with a lid. In bright red letters, I see Dev plastered on the box.
I wonder if it's his way of making things right, but I don't know what to do. I wait in confusion, as he slowly walks over to the other side. He has the last word, as usual.
I slowly turn around and hear a loud noise. I crunch my eyes. I look wildly to see, there was no house, No mail box. I wake up on a metal chair. The blinding white of hospital, and the smell of antiseptic. I bring myself to the reality, as I see my father behind a mass of plastic tubing, and beeping devices. Nurses bustling as I see the blank line on ECG.
He indeed had the last word.
