Just another morning

A beam of moonlight had brightened my room when I opened my eyes. It seemed as if the fairies had descended through that light into my room. It looked so beautiful early in the morning while my room still smelled of sleep. I looked into the sky through the window where the full moon seemed to be smiling back to me as if it were saying its not yet time to get up and I can slid into my blanket. The small piece of cloud which had cushioned the moon seemed to be glistening in gold. The moon really looked beautiful. I closed my eyes to go back to sleep or at least try to sleep though I knew it will be futile. At 5:00AM, I heard the fluttering of leaves and the sound like when someone sprinkles water into fried oil. I knew it was raining, may be the last rain of the season. The rain was not fierce rather gentle as if it were bidding goodbye to the earth to the flora promising them that it will be back next year. I pulled the curtain to look into the sky, the moon was not to be seen but the piece of cloud in the sky looked golden, it seemed to be emitting golden light and I knew the moon was inside this very cloud. May be it was letting the rain engage in farewell.
I could hear the movements of people on the road though the road is more than hundred meters away from the home. Early in the morning when the world is still sleeping sounds are clearer. I guessed the students must be hurrying to their morning colleges and other people marching on the road as their morning walk routine. It’s too early for the rain to bid goodbye but may be it was consoling the earth that its time for it to go and after a week or two it will be gone. May be it was pouring the water on the pores of soil so that the plants will be able to live on it. This is the motherly love of nature, I suppose. I expected a cooler day today. The fluttering of the leaves reminded me of mothers tucking their children to sleep lovingly patting their back over a lullaby while the leaves sounded like stubborn child wanting to hear more, the lullaby has ended and now they want to listen a story. The earth looks to me like a child clutching the end of his/her mother’s sari when she wants to go to work, to kitchen or for other homely choirs.
This ritual must have been there from the time the plants and lives sprang from the heart of earth and till today after thousands of years it looks equally blissful. A pigeon is sitting on the railing of my balcony. It must have set out to find food, bring the food back to its nest to feed its children. Unusually the pigeon looks calm just like the hostel warden who allows brief loving chat between the mother and the child even after the time to meet has expired. I hope soon it will warn cooing the rain and the leaves that the time is already over. I love this harmony. I want to see the world standing on my balcony but I don’t want to disturb the pigeon. I am equally pleased to watch its patience. Though except for houses I can see nothing from my balcony, I love greeting the morning from the very balcony and feel the whiff of air push my cheeks as if blessing from heaven. I could see the smooth feathers of the pigeon being drifted by the breeze, I envied it but still let it enjoy the morning glory. The atmosphere is sweet neither it is dark not its bright. The darkness and brightness have mixed with each other to create the color that is very difficult to describe albeit they will separate soon, very soon. The rain is already slowing down and the pigeon is moving its head cautious, may be its judging whether it can fly on or not and soon I see it hovering in the sky. It is no longer visible in a matter of seconds.

Happiness or money; a dilemma

I stepped out of office a little late than usual, not because I had work but just like that as if I wanted to see how it feels to stay a little late, when the rooms are empty, the counters silent, machines in sleep. I wore a T-shirt inside my shirt for no obvious reason and walking on the street I realized that it was a wrong decision. After shining throughout the day in its full glory the sun seemed reluctant to take a leave. The road as busy as always, and the dogs that slept in the pavement were no where to be seen as if they made room for people. The street children busy nagging people especially girls for alms.
On the other side of the road a boy was kicking a pebble; his hands inside the pockets of his rugged jeans. I thought he looked cool; what I liked however is his indifference to rest of the world. I came across a pebble as well and wanted to imitate him but thinking I might hit somebody I dropped the idea. Suddenly I realized the in spite of footpaths that run along same road but just on opposite side, my side hosted a huge crowd while the other side looked drowsy with few people strolling on it. My side would give an impression of some kind of public demonstration while the other side gave the hint of placidity. I found that funny and may be I gave a cynical smile as well.
Soon I found myself on the other side of the road, just before the door of a book shop. I crept into the book shop and the smell of the book liberated my soul when I left the shop my bag was heavier; I had bought three books. My mood was all of a sudden elated with the weight of the books.
Before me, a couple was walking who were talking about their young niece. From their talk I could know that there niece had gone abroad and missed home bitterly. That reminded me of my cousin who is in Australia and who I called this morning. Her ‘hello’ had sounded clumsy but when she heard me saying ‘Didi’ (sister) she was exhilarated. We do have warm relation still there have been never any occasion I had pleased her just by calling. I remembered her thanking me three times and I had phoned her casually, just to inquire how she was. I could read her excitement throughout the conversation. She talked to me without any punctuation inquiring about family; people we both know and about recent festivals, how we planned to celebrate the upcoming festivals etc. It was clear she missed home; I also know eventually she would adapt her new environment albeit she will have regrets for being on another country far away from her people. Just today I had commented on a blog where the writer said people held her as a traitor just because she chose to live her life in another country. I had told her how wrong the people were in her case because according to her she was doing better outside her country. In many other cases like in the case of my cousin; they are only tempted by higher payment abroad. Just for the sake of money they leave behind a good job, reputation to fly into another country where they have no identity and are doing jobs they didn’t even do at their home.
One of my colleagues who had a good job and a reputed life here in Nepal went to US where he is working at a restaurant cleaning dishes and doing other things. He was an executive in a government office here. He said he earns more than in Nepal but cannot enjoy what he earns, even his wife earns and because they work in different shifts they get to talk only in the weekend; even that if they do not have another engagement on the weekend. He has justification and has forced himself to believe whatever he did was the right move. He says his children are getting better education and their needs are being met. Many of my friends who went abroad for further studies are hanging there even after finishing their studies. Looking for opportunities is never a fault and one should grab it when it comes where it comes. But, completing a Master’s degree just to scrub floor, wash dish is something that is not justifiable. Had they been only a clerk in office that fitted their qualification would have been good. If they are enjoying whatever they are doing and content with it then its fine but if they are ignoring reputable jobs (though salary much much lesser than that of a janitor still enough to maintain reputable life ) in their own land, better to return home. Some people say its their struggle; what if the struggle has no prospect; even after struggling he/she will always remain in the similar job. Unfortunately many of them live illegally amid uncertainties.
My cousin sounded happier than last time, but she missed sitting in her cabin of her office assigning responsibilities to other being addressed with respect. Where ever a tree might move with its creepers it will always be fed from the place where it is rooted. Money is the most important thing; it’s the almighty but man yearns for other things as well. I do not say that just because one misses home and his/her people he/she should leave behind everything and return; I just want to say killing oneself just for money (and it gives no happiness) is not justified; at least not justified to me.

Human relations

The world simmered as Madan looked through the smoke rising from the fire that cremated his mother. After being bed-ridden for illness the doctored called old age for more than a month, she passed away silently god knows at what time. Shweta, her daughter had slept in the same room to be at her service if she wanted anything in the night or if she wanted to go to toilet. When she woke up, her mother’s face was brighter than it had been the other day. She had been brightening every day since last week and could speak. They thought she was recovering. She also recognized everyone then on but still refused to see her husband to whom she had been married for fifty five years. She didn’t allow him to enter the room they have shared for all those years since she got to bed, helpless and pale. No one understood what had happened to her that she denied her husband by whose side she had stood all her life. Hari, her husband had shifted himself to his grandson’s room who had been to hostel and wouldn’t come home for next three months.
It was something no-one understood why Uma behaved so mysteriously yet very cruelly to her husband. If he sneaked into a room when she was being sipped the soup, she would stop the next feed. If he came in her sight she would turn away and just shout ‘Go, Go, I don’t want to see you’. They tried to calm her but nothing would soothe her unless he was out of her sight. When she was in sleep or out of her conscious she would babble about the year of her marriage, how her in-laws treated her and how she could never satisfy her implacable mother-in-law, how she cried before her husband. She would remember the hard times when they suffered a huge loss when their grocery store turned to ashes in fire and how her husband consoled her saying everything will be fine soon. She remembered how once her only son had nearly died of pneumonia and how the witch doctor had advised her that the case was to be seen by doctor. She said how much she was indebted to the witch doctor for saving her son. She would often remember the time Shweta was born and how she loved to dance in the courtyard.
Shweta had been with her since her mother was bed-ridden. She nursed her, ensured that her bed was clean and to be there during her natural urges. More than love for her mother, it was the greed for heaven whose comfort and luxury will be bestowed upon if she cared for her ailing parents, she had dedicated herself entirely to her mother’s service. She has been a devoted protégé of a saint who told stories from holy books and who said he can guide people abode heaven if they listened to him and practiced his preaching. He always told the greatest route to heaven was through the selfless service to one’s parents and there she was on her selfless service. But as she dedicated herself entirely to her mother’s service she had forgotten her Guru, the holy saint. The incoherent monologue of her mother had made her feel that whether she gets heaven or not she ought to take care of her mother because she had undertaken so much pain to raise her and her brother. In this one month she had really fell in love with her mother and only she knows how much she had wished to see her mother back to her normal life. The monologues also made her clear that her mother was not ignoring her father out of hatred, she had learnt her mother still loved her father probably more than she ever did. But she could never know why she was despising him, ignoring him, resenting him.
At the age seventy-three, Hari never resented the wishes of his wife he was married to at the age of 18. He abided by whatever she wanted like a child. He seemed to know the reason behind the changed behavior of his wife. He would watch her hiding behind the windows but his concealment was more from the world than from his wife. If he found her alone asleep he would go near her, moved his wrinkled hand over her forehead as if he were trying to soothe her, as if he were trying to share the agony his ailing wife was going through. If someone came he would just walk away as if he had come to the room casually to pick something. He talked lesser and one would rarely see him without holding cigarette in his hand. He avoided eye contacts with everyone. He would always stay at home not even go out for a walk in evening to meet his old friends to chat about anything. However he continued his morning walk but he returned soon. He was worried but somber. He rarely exchanged words with his son, daughter, daughter-in-law and the house maid.
The day before Mira died, Hari had stolen a look of her but she caught him. This time she didn’t resent, she looked at him with her frail eyes and dropped a tear. He saw it, Shweta saw it and so did Madan his son. May be Mira wouldn’t have resented if he had gone to her, sat by her and held her hand which he had so much wanted all this month but he didn’t. The drop of tear barred him from approaching her. He didn’t sleep that night but he didn’t even go to the room where his wife was. The next day she was dead, he behaved as if he knew it and was actually waiting for it. He had lost his soul the time he knew what was coming.
Shweta was wailing he stood before her and moved his hand over her head where the hair had already turned gray. He didn’t say a word. Madan was sitting by the body of his mother, looking at her holding the cold hand.
Now they were on the bank of the river. Mira’s existence was slowly vanishing with the smoke and the world simmered. Madan stood by the fire. He remembered the days in his childhood when his leg was broken after falling in a ditch. When he was alone in the room while his mother was busy in the kitchen, his sister assisting the mother and his father still in the grocery, he used to think what if his parents died. He used to get emotional and would shed tears. He used to feel terrified and orphaned. Throughout his childhood he feared the fact that his parents would die one day. He felt really bad to see his mother’s body turn to ashes but this was less easier than the burden of thought of this moment in his childhood. He thought the importance of his parents had dropped after he got married and especially after his son born. His father sat over a small carpet of straw cross legged. His eyes were focused on the burning body but Madan knew he was seeing something else.
The funeral was finished, the world was same. Hari had shifted to his room voluntarily. He had given up smoking the same day his wife was burnt. He rarely came out of the room. He ate little. He needed tea every next hour earlier but now he behaved as if he didn’t know as if there was something like tea existed in the world. The newspaper lay unopened in his table and his bed looked as if no one had slept in it for a long time.
During his childhood, Madan had watched movies where mother protected their child when they did something wrong from the wrath of their father. Madan thought why showed opposite things. In his life he was more afraid of his mother than his father. His father always protected him and even if Mira chided at the children he shouted back at her. Mira always complained that Hari had spoilt the children. When he returned from school he would go to the grocery store and sit on the lap of his father telling him how was his day at school, telling him the colors of news bags of his friends, how his teachers appreciated his sincerity, how his handwriting was better than that of his friends etc. With the passage of time he became closer to his mother than his father. It was not any intentional decision but it just happened. When he used to come to home from his hostel in city he talked less with his father. If his father came to the room where he was talking with his mother he would just stop talking. He never resented his father but was getting awkward before him, till date he does not know the reason. They did talk about so many things but Madan knew something had changed for ever.
Lately they talked still lesser as if they were neighbors. Sometime they talked about politics, business but there was always uneasiness between them. When his mother resented his father he had wanted to sit by his father consoling him, supporting him but he never did. Hari talked with his daughter-in-law, his wife about almost everything but not with Madan as if he didn’t want to embarrass his son who used to feel awkward before his father.
After the death of his mother, Madan would enquire about his father. He liked to know what his father did in the day, what did he eat and if he liked it or not. He once went to his room but found him lying in bed his face turned to other side. He walked out pulling the door slowly behind him. He knew his father was not asleep but wanted to be alone and he felt more awkward. Once while returning home he saw his father on the rooftop looking at the sky as if he were forming some image probably that of his mother. He had learnt by then why his mother resented his father on her last days. She knew she would die and she wanted to disconnect herself from the world. Had her husband been around dying wouldn’t have been easier, she didn’t want to die with a burden. She wanted to believe that she loved no-one, she didn’t want to care for anyone when she died. He thought his father knew this and that is why he had become a different man.
All his life he remembered his mother asking his father to give up cigarette. She always complained about his cigarette and he listened to her smiling but never gave up. He hadn’t seen a cigarette in his hand from the day his mother had died. Now he believed that his father smoked just to irritate his mother, just to listen to her complaints and just to smile.
Madan’s relationship with his wife had just been fine. They took each other for granted. He always came home tired and they talked little. He had altogether forgotten to notice the color of her saree, the new hair style of hers or her makeup. The frequency of their making love had been dwindling. They made love hardly once or twice and this was just a ritual for them. He didn’t resent her either, he thought its in his nature to get tired of relationships fast. His relationship with his wife was similar to his relationship with his father. Many times he fell to sleep long before his wife came to their room after finishing her choirs and the daily TV programs which she was fond of. When he woke up she would have usually busy in the kitchen. Still they talked almost like any other husband wife, knew each other’s preferences and may be loved each other as well.
He remembered his mother complaining her father failing to take care of himself. She would say ‘only after I die, you will know my value’. She had died and may be his father had come to know her value. Once he saw the door of his father not completely closed, one could peep into the room. He looked into the room, his father stood before a big picture of his wife inside a wooden frame. He was looking into the picture without blinking. Drops of tears rolled down his cheek. Madan wanted to rush to his father embrace him saying ‘Papa, do not feel lonely I am here. Tell me what you want. Tell me what I can do to make you feel better’ but he didn’t.
His parents’ happiness knew no bounds when his son was born. He would never forget how their eyes had shed tears of happiness in the passage of hospital. They said that was the happiest day of their lives. His son Mohit grew in the lap of his grandparents. They got him everything he wanted. They protected him when he committed mistakes and Madan and his wife reproached him. He thought his son was being spoilt by too much love and he had decided to send him to the boarding school. He resented going to boarding school. He hated to stay away from his grandparents. His mother cried all the day when Mohit was sent to boarding school, his father had lost the color of his face. He had taken away the happiness from their life and he felt guilty for it. He however was ready to live with guilt than to see his son being spoilt.
Today after seeing his father standing helpless before the photo of his mother he had made a decision. Next day he rang to the boarding school asking if he can withdraw his son from the hostel and dropped him to school everyday. It could have been difficult but the Principal had been his childhood friend who agreed. He just wanted to give life to his father who was already broken. Next evening he brought Mohit back from his hostel, Mohit ran to his grandfather who embraced him as if a falling man holds the only twig as a support. He cried for the first time after the death of his wife. It took a lot of effort for Madan to hold his own tear. That night he made love to his wife without thinking when did he made love last time. This was no ritual, he reclaimed his lost love.