Frozen in Time

It was a lazy Sunday morning. We were playing cricket on the small maidan on the banks of Meenachil river. Playing cricket midday till Sunday was a ritual practiced vehemently by our gang, there were only seldom Sundays when the event did not happen. Not that playing regularly improved our game by any measure, but it was an unwritten tradition. Humid southern Indian summer or torrential south westerly monsoon, the game invariably found a way to happen.

There was another tradition which accompanied our Sunday morning game. The journey of Achutan, with his long fishing rod, accompanied by his son Ramu. Achutan was a peon in the nearby Government Polytechnic College. And Ramu was in kindergarten, at the local Anganwadi. The game used to pause when they were passing because they had to cross the field to reach the bank of the river where Achutan used to fish. Little Ramu used to wave to us and we used to wave back at him. The father-son duo was a sight for us to watch. The son used to always walk three steps behind his father, it was almost like a two person march past. Achutan would be holding his fishing rod over his shoulder whereas Ramu would be holding a small earthern pot which normally would be filled by the time they used to make their return trip back homeward.

Achutan and Ramu used to talk loudly about a lot of things when walking along, could be about Ramu’s school, Achutan’s job at college, fishing, household stuff. A lot of things. On most occasions, Achutan used to be the speaker and Ramu used to be the listener. Achutan was very patient when answering Ramu’s question. It was evident that he was not well educated, so he had his limitations. But he was always mild and patient when talking to Ramu. The scene was virtually the same every Sunday, our game, the duo’s arrival, our pausing of the game to let them pass, and their return through our ground again after a couple of hours or more. They used to fish very on the bank adjacent to our ground, so we could hear Ramu’s cheerful shouts whenever Achutan caught a fish. The pitch in Ramu’s shout was in direct proportion to the size of fish, we knew Achutan caught a big fish when loud ecstatic cries from Ramu used to reach us. When returning back, the walk would be reversed. This time Ramu would be running ahead and stopping for his father to catch up, with the pot generally full of freshly caught fish. And Achutan would follow behind, contendly smoking his beedi. 

It has been ten years since then. The landscape in our small village has more or less remained unaltered. We still play cricket. We still pause the game when Achutan and Ramu cross the pitch to their usual spot on the banks of Meenachil river. Barring a few differences. All of us used to be in school back then, wearing shorts and shirts with more holes and fewer buttons. Now we wear lungis and random branded T shirts. Our cricket graduated from makeshift bats chiseled from coconut tree branches and tennis ball to BDM bats and cork balls. And Ramu has advanced from kindergarten to high school. And they don’t walk. Ramu pedals on his bicycle with a grey haired Achutan on the pillion. But the sweet camaraderie between father and son has remained untouched.

Time doesn’t keep everything frozen but it certainly does preserve the essence. 

The Wrong Number

I like to keep my mobile phone almost perennially in silent mode. I have never quite determined the reason for it - whether it is my innate irritation to unnecessary noise or my misconstrued sense of civic propriety which makes me believe that it is duty-bound of every one to reduce the noise in a public place. I often hear flak for it because this habit causes me to often miss calls, especially from my mother. But I was what I was, I’d rather be scolded than to change some mannerisms. Stupid, me.

But I did not miss that call. Going by the usual probability I should have. I was in kitchen preparing dinner, and it is not common that I hear the vibration of my phone over the cacophony of noises in kitchen. But somehow I did hear it. I rushed to my bedroom desk where the phone lay expecting it to my mother calling. The display read “Private number.” Okay, so that was not my mother. This might be one of those tele-marketing companies who have made it a habit of calling from random numbers so that you can’t block their calls. Skeptical, I picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello dosth. Yaar I decided enough is enough. The credit card bills I had pending for the past few months, they’ve caught up with me. I begged them for an extension but they are in no mood to relent. They said categorically that they were going to press charges against me. You know how sever it is here, in Saudi Arabia with the Sharia law if I am sued for financial fraud. I begged them, I told them that I used that money for my mother’s treatment, but they weren’t willing to hear. I pleaded with them that I will start repaying once I complete my studies and I get a job. I begged them for a three month extension but they were in no mood to give in. I’m not left with any alternatives yaar. Of all people, tumhe toh pata hai. My mother and sister back at home depend on me with all the financial troubles back at home. I had taken education loan for my course after which I ended up with this job here. Visa ke liye bhi kaafi kharch karna pada. And two months after I came here, my mother fell sick and was hospitalized. Her hospital expenses made me max out my credit cards for three months in a row. It was not like I was spending lavishly on myself, but these people don’t understand. Mother’s hospital expenses, my education loan, all these huge credit card bills. I do not know how I will handle it. Till the other day I was confident that I will be able to take care of everything, that I will work hard. But last week, Lehmann Brothers collapsed and they were our biggest customers. My manager mentioned to me today that there were going to be layoffs in the company, and if that happens, junior staffers like me would be the first to be chopped. I’m done with facing all these problems yaar. Am sick, tired, and dejected. I have decided to end my life. Future kuch dikh hi nahi raha hai yaar….”

The trailing off of his voice was the first time since I initiated the conversation that I got a chance to speak up.

“Hello sir, I think you have got the wrong number. But jo bhi hai, aapka problem unsolveable nahi hai. We can…”

“Oh shoot. Isn’t this abc-xyz-4710?”

“No brother. This is abc-xyz-4711.”

“Oh sorry bhai, sorry for the trouble. But thanks anyways, that you were patient enough to listen to my rambling all the while. You’re the last person I’m speaking to on this planet. Dhanyawaad. Khuda Hafiz.”

Before I could utter anything more, he disconnected the call. Khuda Hafiz, the final words trailed in my ears.

I do not know if he kept with his decision or changed his mind. Thousands of Indians commit suicide in the Gulf everyday, I have no means to know if he added himself to the tally. I do not know if he ended up calling the correct number. I do not know if the person on the other end of the line coerced him into changing his decision. I do not know. I will never know. Or maybe, I didn’t want to know what I already knew.

It takes two to tango

He was napping on the sofa when the doorbell rang. He opened the door and saw her tired physique and an exasperated visage.

“The dinner has been on the table for more than an hour now. I’ll heat it up.” He said, as he turned his back and shuffled towards the dining table. She didn’t take her eyes off her phone as she made her way into the bedroom.

A few minutes later, with the clock all poised to strike eleven, both of them were seated at the dining table.

“You didn’t eat?” she asked.

“You know very well I hate to have dinner alone. It is something I avoid as much as I can.”

They munched a few morsels in silence. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Please..! Not today. It was a bad day at office. Am in no mood to talk. I know what you are going to talk about. It is not like I wouldn’t want to come back home earlier, but my work forces me to stay late often.”

The conversation trailed off. One liners and short bursts of speech were becoming more and more common.

As they went to bed, she felt sorry for him. “Am sorry honey. I will take more care. I will try to give you more space in life. Somehow I always get tied up in work, but I will try to come home earlier on a regular basis. I love you. Give me a hug.”

“No. You give me a hug.”

She rolled over and embraced him tight.

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For the umpteenth time, he sighed as he picked up his phone and went through his dialed numbers. Her name showed twelve entries. He had called her twelve times over the past two and half hours, and every single time, it had gone to voicemail. Every single time. He sighed, cast a forlorn look for the dinner he had prepared for this day’s special occasion. He got up from the dining table and paced around the room. He saw the China teapot, he had got for her on a trip to Shanghai couple of years ago. Wall paintings they had so thoroughly searched and bought together. Her smile when he used to give her rose bouquets back in the days. Back in the days, seemed so long away. On the calendar though, it was a month under two years.

He wished that life was simpler. That she would barge in with some surprise, on this special day, the anniversary of their marriage. As if his thoughts were read by someone, the doorbell rang. He rushed to open it, with anticipation.

Opened the door.

His arms about to stretch out.

“Madam is coming. She is on a call, so she didn’t take the elevator.”

Saying this, her driver handed him her bag with a big smile. Without a word, he took the bag and turned back, leaving the door ajar.

A couple of minutes later he overheard her voice over the phone, growing louder as she approached closer. “No Mr. Johnson, I can’t allow that to happen. Our company does need an advance payent of fifty percent. I cannot authorize the transaction until you pay your outstanding dues.” She didn’t look at him when she entered. Her energy was focused on the phone, and getting the money from some random Mr. Johnson. She headed to the bedroom to change.

He sat there, drained of emotions, drained on energy. As he scrolled through random forwarded messages on his phone, he had made up his mind.