Monday, 26 March 2007

To be a Man

It was five in the morning. He slammed the front door and stepped out immediately to feel the crisp slap of the cold. The jarr did not help calm his temper. He welcomed its cold sting as fresh pain. It aided his self pity and self righteous anger. He began walking briskly down the road. He walked with a purpose but he had nowhere to go. He did not even keep an eye on the turns he took. He was lost not only in this world but in his own self. He could not get the various arguments out of his head. They plunged him into deep resentment at his life, his friends, his family, and his thwarted ambitions. He deemed it all unfair and walked with the purpose of getting away, of abandoning all those he loved and yet hated, all those who supported him yet choked him. He hated living a life for all of them. He hated being responsible all the time. "For what? Why? Why should I? I don't have to. Why did this have to happen to me? I didn't deserve it. Do I? No, I don't! He shouted silently into the coldness".

He had blindly walked onto Parliament Street. Had he been in a better mood, he would have taken a deep breath and appreciated the soothing beauty of the Rashtrapati Bhavan. But, not today. Not for the last few days. Not since last Saturday. He had forgotten the word ‘beauty’ in just these last few days. A week and bitterness had eaten into his young spirit. His entire life had been upturned. In the space of a minute he had been hit by the full import of the meaning of emotions like pain, death, responsibility, strength, courage, rage, self pity, helplessness, anger and the deepest emptiest feeling of immense loss. The loss of his friend, his companion, his mentor, his shoulder, his drive, his only pillar…his father.

They had brought him in and covered him with a white sheet. The family had not had the slightest inkling that this could happen. The first moment when he had heard of the news and seen his father’s body he had just stood still, like a rock. The men had thought he was a strong kid. But he had just frozen. He was completely numb from inside, absolutely still. And then in slow motion the reality of what happened speared through him like tiny explosions. The pain was so immense; it was almost like the numbness. From somewhere beyond his consciousness he had seen his mother rush towards the body and fall on the ground beside it crying, begging her husband to open his eyes just once. The five minutes that he had stood still before enveloping his mother in his arms had felt like eternity. An eternity he would always live with, an eternity he would die with. These initial hours after the death of his father; hours of pain, lament, and anguish were the slowest of his life. After that the week had passed away in a fast blur of actions, decisions and mechanical tasks. His feelings were choked and he had no outlet. He felt like he could not breathe. It was the shortest week of his life. It was the longest week of his life. He had never understood so much, he had never emerged more confused, more lost.

Everything came back to him on this walk. Every moment of betrayal and loneliness was heightened by the chillness of the morning air. He was angry. Angry at the way his father had died. Angry at the civilian funeral. Angry at his friends for being there, yet not being there. Angry at his mother for asking him to give up his life. Angry at his younger brother for just existing and adding to his burden. Angry at God for having cut short his life by sixty years. It was unfair. Tears pricked at his eyes and he roughly wiped his eyes dry.

The body of his father had been like an overwhelming presence that had filled their small one room house. It had everything this house. It had a small cot on one side, a small square of an area where you could do the cooking, with a stove in another corner, piles of clothes and shawls on a rack high up on the wall and books everywhere on the bed. It smelt musty and there was one 60 watt bulb hanging by a wire in the centre of the room from the ceiling. They had all lived there; his mother, his brother, him and his father whenever he was on leave. It had been enough. He had been a good kid. He had studied in these conditions without a complaint and had always managed be the among the handful of students topping the class. He had made up his mind to get out of this slum and take his family with him. Cynicism had not yet tarnished his drive. He had dreamt of becoming a software engineer and working for a company like Wipro someday. It wasn’t a dream for him just a reality for the future, so sure of it was he. And so was his father… is father who had taken all these dreams along with him.

His anger suddenly dissipated as anguish and pain for his father filled his heart. His father had always been a staunch army man. He had recently retired from the army and begun work as a construction worker to keep them going in an expensive city like Delhi. When in the Army, he had been away most of the year and had been strong, ever smiling and full of love and loyalty for the country when he returned on leave. Even now after retirement, the man would have gladly died for the country with a smile on his face. Unknowingly tears dripped down his cheeks as he thought of the injustice of it all. Just because he had not died in war, just because he had not been shot down or did not die in a mine blast he had not been bid farewell with a salute. He had had an ordinary funeral and had been denied the honour that he deserved for having served the Army for so many of his years. It hurt like hell to have to accept the facts of life, to let go of the glorious perceptions that he had of honour.

So many things hurt and for so many reasons, he could not even begin to understand them. None of his friends had come home on the day he had learnt the news. They had not come the next day either. He had done everything on his own. He had arranged his father’s funeral and wiped the tears of his grieving mother on his own. But, they had turned up for the funeral and offered him words of support. Their excuse had been that they wanted to give him his solitude to grieve for his father but none had come when he had needed them most. They insisted that they would stand by him and support him in every way possible. But, he was already too betrayed by the brutal blow of life to understand or to show any kind of mercy. In that one moment he had distanced himself from it all.

Then, one by one the blows had come. Before he could even deal with the loss of his father, he had realised that his brother was still in school and had to be educated. His mother had to be supported. He would have to take up the full responsibility of the house. He had not even finished his engineering. It was this morning that his mother had asked him give up his dream, his ambition to take up a job as a construction worker to support the family. It was this morning that she had squashed every bit of life out of him. It was not like he had not seen it coming. But it was this morning that his deepest fears had been put into words. He was not just afraid of letting his dreams go and living the life of any other labourer. He was afraid of measuring up, of being the strong responsible person that his father had been, of being able to handle life’s injustices, of providing for his mother and brother, of becoming a man.

Without realising it he had slowed his pace considerably and the anger was all gone. He had unknowingly walked back to the slum area, to his house. The sun was beginning to peek from behind the slum and he could feel the first touch of its warmth. He had no more tears left in him to shed and he oddly felt exhausted; not in the body but in his soul. His mother stepped out of their one room and upon seeing him, made a feeble attempt to smile. The courage in that weary face was all it took. In that one moment he decided to let go of the dreams and make new ones. He decided that he would try and be a man. He decided he would give anything to put a few more of those beautiful and strong smiles on his mothers face. He decided he would work hard wherever he had to and take the new curve life had created for him. He decided he would still store those dreams for a later day but for today he would do what he had to now. He decided to wait for tomorrow. He acknowledged that he would still perhaps live moments of bitterness, anger and helplessness but he would stand for those who loved him because they would stand for him. He decided that this was what his father would have done.

Labels: acceptance, blows, death, fiction, life

Posted by Pavitra :: 04:52 :: 8 comments

Post a Comment

---------------oOo---------------