Monday, June 14, 2010

As he gets down from the rickshaw in front of the familiar blue-grey house, he can't help but think about his mother. That very morning had seen them discuss this place, with all its memories and all the people of her childhood and he found it delightful suddenly when he remembered her face lighting up at the mention of the little details they had gone over so many times. It was a ritual. Both of them knew that the same memories would be summoned up, the same events affectionately recalled and the same people criticised or cherished. For what else did she have now to discuss, or talk about anyway? As he opens the gates and hears them welcome him in rustily, he wishes with all his heart that it were possible to bring her here for a visit one day. He rings the doorbell twice, and the face of his aunt suddenly makes it very easy to call off that wish. He greets her mechanically, and at the same time, makes a mental note as to how happy Mother is being just where she was, even in that cage of a house, surrounded by her almost hilariously varied group of companions. Last night's little group quarrel seemed meaningless now, or at least, hardly as serious a fight he had thought it to be. Why, father seemed quite himself today morning, and things would assuredly be alright with him gone for these two days. For sometimes, though not always, the catalyst that kept them together and, as he liked to think, kept them sane became also the factor that slowed the healing process down. Then again, as a friend once said of him, perhaps he was giving himself too much importance. His parents had always been self sufficient, even through their illnesses (especially through their illnesses, he reminded himself), had always been devoted to one another and he found he was suddenly angry for again giving himself too much credit. But one couldn't help it. They made him feel needed, and how.

1 comment:

  1. Good one! I love the blog template :) Its so very you..

    ReplyDelete