The Crimson of dusk

What was a bustling house just a couple of hours ago was soon returning to its normal self barring a few pockets of betel leaves chewing old men analyzing how the marriage went on, and how everyone in the town was happy with the way they were treated. The sun was leaving a crimson shade on the clouds at the horizon and nature, just as the house, was getting back to the state of inactivity after a hot, sultry day. There, right at the end of the corridor, in a wired steel chair, he was seated staring at eternity letting his life run as a series of images before his eyes. Once in a while, someone would stop by, enquire about his health, commend him for whatever he had done towards the wedding and give him company for a while. But for mostwhile, he was alone lost in his own thoughts cherishing his moment of fulfilment.

This house held a lot of memories for him, spread all over the spectrum from the worst, forgettable ones to the most wonderful, memorable moments of his life. On the wall, under the tiled roof were pictures right from his childhood, to his own children standing as responsible adults amidst of deluge of relatives. He was seven when he came to this house. They had a much bigger house. But his father, a freedom fighter, had sold it for the sake of building a school for harijan students during times of freedom struggle. This house belonged to his brother in law, who in his own right was a very influential man. It is said that when electricity first came to the town, his brother in law's was the first house to be lit - he was there watching with an open jaw as the bulb came to life and spread light all over the corridor. He also remembered how he tried touching it and burnt his index finger but never dared to tell anyone. On the other side of the corridor were long rows of trees, that he always tried to climb, fell down from and broke his limbs. It was under the shade of these trees, that he would sit with his friends and talk for the first time about girls, politics and alcohol. So many times he had been belted in the porch outside with the whole neighbourhood bearing witness, for flunking his exams, for coming back late and that one time, for standing close to a political march when he didn't even know what that party stood for.

It was in the same corridor that he had a showdown with his father about falling in love with some girl; where tall arguments on family values and buckets of mother's tears had won their way over matters of the heart. He had stood there, one day, with loads of dreams, packed bags, and a new found responsibility of finding a vocation. He left as a slim, charming, handsome youngman and came back to find a bride when he was thirty, balding and pitch dark out of hours under the asbestos roof of the factory floor. It was in one of the corner rooms in the first floor that his wife had cried to him behind those closed doors, confessing that she was very scared about the whole prospect of living with a stranger. She was there, 2 years later with a newborn, waiting for him to come back - and he did, 20 days after his dream, his most cherished possession, his son was born. So many times, in the years that followed, he would sit with his wife counting pennies, selling jewellery just to look presentable and spare a dime as a gift to little children who swarmed all around them. There, with them, were his children ignorant of the language, the customs and even the names of their immediate kin, sitting there with a book they pretended to read.

Through so many weddings, so many naming ceremonies, so many first birthdays and second anniversaries he had sat in the porch, as inconsequential as dirt, he and his kin treated like obligatory baggage, blood relations that were used to fill space on the groom's side. During every ceremony he would be running from one end to another serving rose milk tumblers to guests, buying betel leaves for the priest and talking to old women who weren't significant anymore. The only time his need was felt was when the first round of guests had had their lunch and the plantain leaves had to be removed before the second round made its way inside. He never felt any qualms doing it even if the groom was his own nephew and the rest of his kin would be seated in the A/C hall counting gifts while he was cleaning trash under an asbestos roof.

That one time when his son had passed his final exams with higher marks than anyone ever in the family, he remembered the pride in his eyes as he stood tall and talked to everyone penniless, but rich with a new found confidence. And today, he sat as a satisfied old man after single-handedly carrying out his niece's wedding, and making no fuss about it. His two sons stood with their mother and handled the crowd of relatives with elan. They had a word for everyone - from gossiping aunts to preachy uncles to i-have-seen-it-all grandmothers. Once in a while, they would point to him, give a knowing a smile and accept, what looked like compliments, gracefully. He was happy with himself for the way he had brought them up - His younger son was still a little shy but he knew he would come around too. As he habitually reached for his scalp to adjust the strands of hair that hung to the corners, he felt a fragile hand on his shoulders. Behind those wrinkles, and a sparse gray scalp was his old maths teacher who had forever called him a categorical failure. He, my father, held his hands, showed the two of us, my brother and I, standing as silhouettes at the end of the corridor and said with pride, "My sons sir! my sons!". The old man hugged him and both of them cried silently, their eyes brimming with tears of joy.