I have been here many times, more times than I can recall. I like this city. There is always an autumnal crispness in the air and a dry wind that cools the evenings. It has a living tradition of quiet learning and urbane restraint. No one shows off and life bears no trace of ostentation.
This journey of mine, though, is unplanned, decided on the spur of the moment. I saw my friend’s text only at dawn. “Mother died in her sleep,” it said. I knew that his mother had been ailing for some time, but still, the sparseness of the message struck me hard. For a moment I thought I was reading Camus’ The Stranger, with its famous opening line, “Maman died today. Or yesterday, maybe. I don’t know.”
The plane flies in on time. It parks close to the terminal building. We walk the short distance to the arrival hall. The tarmac is wet from a spell of rain that had stopped just before we landed. I had watched the water droplets splattering on the window of the descending aircraft, and, through the laced curtain of the afternoon rain, seen a broad, squat hill at the farthest end of the runway, marking the boundary.
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I make my way out of the arrival hall. A soft breeze blows in. The sun comes through. The day is bright, with birds flitting about in the chaos of the car park. A parking attendant is shouting at an obstinate driver, “Use your eyes and head. Ki aamhala padayache ahe?” (Do you want to knock us down?) As I walk to my car, I notice the trees with wet leaves, drooping in sadness.
The house on stilts is quiet. The few cars parked outside are about to leave. As I walk up the steps to the first floor, an elderly couple take their leave. Emptiness pervades the air. I expected more people in the drawing room, but there is none. Through the window and the balcony beyond, I can see large trees enclosing the backyard in a deep green darkness. It is as if on this day, night has already begun.
Moving silently, my friend’s bereaved father appears at the door of the bedroom. He seems frail. When he sees me, his face lights up. “Oho! Tumhi itkaya dhurun aale! You have come all the way? Why did you?!” He appears smaller than at our last meeting in the same house. Perhaps he had looked fuller then with his wife by his side. He repeats that I should not have undertaken the long journey. I mumble by way of a reply that I just wanted to meet him and it was no bother.
He is 96. The departed was 89. We called her Ammi. He said he is grateful that her end was so serene and peaceful, and that she went away reciting the guru’s mantra. I politely agreed, thinking of the muffled, final breath that marks the end, which cannot be reversed.
The younger son and his artist wife join us in the conversation. The son is a well-known cinematographer. He has won a national award. He said that the city has changed since the days he studied there at the Film Institute. His wife spoke of the right temperature required to treat ceramic pottery. She is planning a pottery exhibition in Mumbai next year. I asked her if she got any help when she worked at the kiln. She said she worked alone for long hours.
The son recalls their younger days when the family would drive in their old Ambassador from Jamshedpur to Delhi. His parents would take turns at the wheel. That was another time, when summers had the scent of mangoes.
It is time to say goodbye. | Photo Credit: Getty Images/iStock
His father is composed, though he says that memories crowd in his mind. I tell him that it will take a while not to remember. For thoughts to end, time to start flowing again, one had to wait. They had spent a long time together.
The son suggested going out for dinner. The father refused. That evening, he wants to be in the house, all by himself.
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Dusk has settled. The birds are back in their nooks among the leafy branches. It is time to say goodbye. I touch his feet and seek his leave. He is affectionate as always. “Have dinner with me,” he says. But I have to leave to meet someone. He clasps my hands. “We will meet again,” he says, his voice tremulous.
As I drive through the streets, the Ganesh puja pandals are coming alive, with men, women and children flocking there. It is the festive season. I can hear distant music.
P. Krishna Gopinath is a Delhi-based writer with an interest in photography and Western classical music.
