Worry

How long do you worry about your near and dear ones?

Is there an imaginary cutoff period when offspring become accountable for their own actions?
Is there some wonderful moment when parents can become detached spectators in the lives of their children and shrug,
'It's their life,' and feel nothing?

When I was in my pre-teens I stood in a hospital corridor waiting for doctors to put a few stitches in my head and mom asked,
'When do you stop worrying?'
The nurse said,
'When they get out of the accident stage..'
Mom just smiled faintly and said nothing.

When I was in my early forties, I sat on a little chair in a classroom and heard how my daughter talked incessantly, disrupted the class, and was headed for a career making Feather Dusters.
As if to read my mind, a teacher said,
'Don't worry, they all go through this stage and then you can sit back, relax and enjoy them.'
Mom probably just smiled faintly from somewhere up there and said nothing.

When I would be in my early fifties,
I would spend a lifetime waiting for the phone to ring, the car to come home, the front door to open.
My Friend would say,
'They're trying to find themselves.Don't worry! In a few years, they'll be adults. They'll be off on their own, they'll be out of your hair'
Mom would again just smile faintly and say nothing.

By the time I will be in my late fifties,I would be sick & tired of being vulnerable.
I would still be worrying over my child but there would be a new wrinkle..
Even though she will be on her own I will continue to anguish over her failures, be tormented by her frustrations and absorbed in her disappointments..
And there will be nothing I can do about it.
Mom would just smile faintly from her exalted status and say nothing.

My Friend said that when my daughter gets married I could stop worrying and lead my own life.
I wanted to believe that, but I was haunted by my mother's warm smiles

And her occasional,
'You look pale. Are you all right?'
'Call me the minute you get home'.
Are you depressed about something?'

My Friend said that when I became a grandparent I would get to enjoy the happy little voices yelling 'Grandpa!'

But now I find that I worry just as much about the little kids as the big ones.

How can anyone cope with all this Worry?

Can it be that parents are sentenced to a lifetime of worry?

Is Concern for one another handed down like a torch to blaze the trail of human frailties and the fears of the unknown?

Is Concern a curse or is it a virtue that elevates us to the highest form of earthly creation?

FUTURESPEAK - 10 YEARS FROM NOW:

Recently, my daughter has become quite irritable with me. Yesterday she called me up and said,
'Where were you?
I've been calling for 3 days, and no one answered.
I was worried.'

I smiled a warm smile.
The torch has been passed.

Chana Garam

The streetlights cast their pale glow on the pavement; the bitterly cold wind swept the fallen leaves along on its path; people walked briskly up and down - hands tucked deep inside their pockets, chin buried within the folds of the mufflers; head ducked against the cold wind. Traffic was thinning out slowly as everybody hurried home to be cocooned in the warmth of family comfort.

A little boy was weaving his way through the rows of cars standing at the traffic lights. A heavy basket was slung from the crook of his elbow; the tattered hem of his shorts flapped in the cutting breeze around his knees. Pulling together the open ends of his threadbare cardigan around his chest the little boy let out a plaintive cry of "Chanaaa Garammm" in his shrill and quivering voice. The young eyes darted left and right to see if any of the window glasses were rolled down.

"Damn", he muttered under his breath, disappointment written large on his face, "this evening is turning out to be worse than the previous evenings". The hunted look in his eyes betrayed the sense of despair in the teenaged heart.

"Sala kamina", he yelped in surprise and jumped back on the pavement as a swank car wheezed past him barely missing his basket as the lights turned green.
The blaring of horns of impatient drivers drowned his plaintive cry of "Chana Garammm" as the boy started to walk down the pavement stopping momentarily to shift the heavy basket from one arm to another.

Standing under a tree out of the boundary of the jaundiced yellow glow of the streetlights he surreptitiously dug into his basket and brought out a handful of chana. Looking left and right to see if anybody was watching, he stuffed the handful in his mouth and started to chew slowly.

He was afraid of his dad; he was afraid that today's thrashing will be worse than yesterday's. He has not been able to sell a single paisa worth of chana for the last two days and he was scared of his father's temper.

But then he never felt so hungry as he felt now.

Some distance away a small crowd of motley people have gathered round a fire on the edge of the pavement. The sight of the warm glow on the faces of the people around the fire made him shiver violently.

Walking briskly with the heavy basket in his arms he came the edge of the human circle around the fire and setting the basket on the ground he thrust his frail hands forward to soak in the warmth.

"This feels so wonderful!"

His reverie was broken by the sharp sounds of shouts and heavy thuds of running boots.
"Bhago, poolicewalla!", was all that registered in his mind as the sharp crack of a stick on his back made him yelp in pain. Lunging quickly to grab the basket, he could only watch helplessly as it went spinning as a result of a resounding kick, the contents all lying strewn on the pavement.

Mouthing words which are never found in any dictionary, but which he had been hearing since he learned to speak, he started to run blindly with the instinct of self-preservation foremost in his mind.

Gradually the sounds of footsteps running behind him faded as he ran into a narrow dark alleyway between two rows of buildings. He huddled in the darkness, heart thumping. He decided that he will not go back home. Two consecutive nights without any earning and now the basket had gone too, "I will be murdered by Dad", he thought.

Down the end of the alley he could see the brightly lit window of a cake shop. His eyes glistened brightly but he was afraid of the police, afraid to leave the comfort of the darkness. As the throbbing of his heart eased a new tremor of uncontrollable shivering overtook the frail little body. Digging deep in his pockets he fished out a matchbox. Fumbling around in the darkness he gathered some bits and pieces of paper and lit a tiny fire. Then drawing up his knees to his chins and wrapping the cardigan tight around himself he laid down on the cold concrete alley staring intently at the sputtering flames.

Gazing into the dying embers he thought of the days long ago. During those cold nights he used to lie on a tattered mat similarly huddled up with his palms covering his ears; cringing in fear as his father shouted at his mother in a drunken rage. He used to shiver violently as he heard the metallic clanking of utensils being thrown on the ground and sometimes the screams and then thuds as his father went on a rampage. And then he would wake up in the middle of the night to find a himself covered with a worn out shawl and his mother laying beside him facing away. He had questioned his Ma in the mornings. She never replied but always gave him a smile which he thought was very sad. And then one day they took Ma to the hospital.

But those were quite some time ago.

Now laying on the concrete he thought he could hear footsteps. Slowly he opened his eyes.
Isn't it Ma ?
He rubbed his eyes and focused again
Yes! Ma was walking towards him. Her eyes were full of compassion. The red bindi on her forehead had a warm glow; very much like the warm glow of the now-dead fire. Suddenly tears welled up in his eyes. No amount of thrashing by his dad would make him shed a single drop of tear but now he was crying.
What took you so long Ma ?
He wept uncontrollably as Ma hugged him closely wrapping him in her warmth. Slowly his sobs died down. He was feeling intensely happy. He looked up from the comfort of Ma's lap. 

Ma was smiling at him.

It was a foggy and cold morning. A few people had gathered in the alley. A portly gentleman polishing his spectacles with a spotless white handkerchief was speaking in a very important tone with an accent which sounded like a cross between a Wall street banker and a village headman.

"This is a shame for our society", he said, "we now have kids dying at our doorsteps. The government should come forward with more aid schemes for the poor". He grunted and put back the immaculately polished glasses back on his nose.
"Bechara! Must have died in the cold. This is why I always donate warm clothes every winter to the welfare organizations. But I wonder what do they do with those", quipped another.
"The body must be removed at once or else the whole area will start to stink", commented somebody else and everybody applauded the third speaker for his brilliant common sense.

Of Cigarettes and Newspapers

"Can I write about you?", he asked pressing his chin on her shoulder.
"Depends on what u have to say, really", she quipped.
"Oh! About us; how much i adore you; how much you mean to me".
He smiled, looking into her eyes. The little whorls of light from the crinkled rice paper lantern were dancing in her eyes.
"Absolutely not! I will disown you if you write anything about like that. You know I am uncomfortable with these forms of public display of affection", she said, as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
It was his favorite gesture.

"But why not?", he asked plaintively.
"Just because I say so", she gave him a devious smile.
He loved the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. So many memories of were tucked away safely within the soft folds of those crinkles.

He growled indignantly and reached for a book. She reached for the newspaper. They both sank in the overstuffed couch.

She leaned on him, her hair tickling his nostrils. From time to time he snorted like an annoyed horse as he brushed her hair away.
A diya burned in the window, flickering gently, making a little island of light in the sea of darkness beyond.
They sat and read in companionable silence; the only sound being rustling of papers as they turned the pages.
Not removing his eyes from the page of the book he reached out for his pack of cigarettes. With practiced ease he flicked open the lid with his finger. Pulling out a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, he put it between his lips. Still reading the page intently he groped on the side table for his lighter. The flame spluttered into life at the second attempt. Turning his face from the pages of the book he leaned forward to dip the cigarette tip into the pool of lighter flame.

..And the flame went out!

She was smiling impishly at him after blowing out the flame.
With barely controlled irritation he thumbed the lighter again. The obstinate lighter wont light now.
With his concentration entirely focused on the lighter, he was totally unprepared when she deftly reached out, pulled the cigarette from his lips and crumpled it in the ashtray.

He stood up and with an angry glance towards her, walked to the balcony and lit up a fresh cigarette.
As he inhaled deeply on his first drag he could hear the angry clickety-click of her slippers as she stormed out of the living room.

He paused half way about to take the next puff, stared pensively at the glowing tip for some moments and then flicked out the burning cigarette in the empty street below. The crumpled packet followed into the darkness as he turned round and walked into the bedroom.

"Can't you even fold the newspaper properly?", he asked.
She looked up at him from the bed, stuck her tongue out at him and tucked her head under a pillow.
He sighed and went back to the living room.

Picking up the newspaper he opened it and folded it again - carefully, neatly - each crease in place, sharp as a knife edge, put the folded newspaper on the coffee table and returned to his book.

She returned after a few minutes, flopped beside him on the couch and reached for the newspaper again.
"Ahem", he cleared his throat.
"What???", she demanded impatiently.
He did not speak. Just pointed at the newspaper with his eyes.

"Oh! You folded it!", she smiled as if she was noticing it for the first time.
Of course she knew he will fold the newspaper. And he knew that she knew. They had been playing this game so long.

"When will u ever learn to fold a newspaper???", his lips formed a thin line. His eyes dancing with laughter.
"Not until you have stopped smoking", she growled menacingly.
"I just stopped", his face was deadpan.
"Really?",  her face lit up instantly, "Well, I will have to watch for some more time before I fully believe".
He didn't say anything; just wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

"I would never fold a newspaper. Not even when I am a hundred years old and senile", she burst into peals of laughter.
He loved to hear her laugh. She laughed like a summer storm.
"You mean I will have to fold your newspaper for the rest of my life?", he asked raising his eyebrows in mock horror.
"Yeah, it was in the contract. Too bad you didn't read the fine print", she retorted with a huge grin.

"You shud write about this", she said touching his cheek lightly, "The secret to a happy relationship is to stop smoking when ur partner wants you to!".
He stroked her hair lightly, "No, its in folding your partner's newspaper for her".

ARB - Manik Bandyopadhyay

মানিক বন্দ্যোপাধ্যায়ের লেখা ছোট গল্প - নেকী

The Crumpled Newspaper

Rrrrrrinnggggggggg.........

The shrillness of the bell sounding the end of a period cut through my reverie.

The sound of students tumbling out of the classroom on to the stair case seemed like the desperate flutter of the wings of a flock of birds released after a long custody. I shifted myself at the farthest end of the steps of the main entrance of the faculty building leading on to the narrow road along the edge of the football ground.

First to come out were the “Grasshoppers”, a gang of four who were inevitably always high on grass.
“Must have been a class test”, I wondered to myself, “No other earthly events can make these guys attend class”.
True to their spirits, one of the guys fished out what looked like a reefer from his jhola, while another rustled a matchbox from the sagging hip pockets of his frayed denims. The producer of the reefer lit it standing on the middle of the road and took a long drag in the typical style of ganja smoker and passed the reefer around holding back exhaling the smoke till the other person have completed his drag.
By this time the others also came out in groups. Some sat down on the steps relieved that the ordeal was over and discussing the futility of learning about entropy and enthalpy, some urging others to go for a cup of tea in the canteen while a few wandered from one group to another trying to coax somebody for the class notes which they have not attended.
The one-dimensional, cadaverous form of the Professor was the last to emerge out of the building. He walked down with measured steps, turned ninety degrees on the road with the precision of a military general, paused, took out a packet of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, struck a match, cupped the flame expertly with his palm and dipped the cigarette in the pool of flame.

It felt strange that nobody asked me why I was missing from the class, but I was too deeply engrossed in my own troubles to give it more than a fleeting thought.

Where is she ?

I was sure that i did not miss anybody. If this period was important enough for the Grasshoppers to attend then it was highly improbable that she would miss it. I decided to wait for some more times before asking somebody about her. I had been the butt of many idiotic and juvenile jokes when I had expressed my interest for her in public and she had hated that. So I wanted to play things a bit more cautiously.

Sitting on the steps, my eyes fell upon the goal-post on the football ground on the edge of the road. The first day of engineering college came to my mind. It was about nine months ago. I was just about to enter the building for the first time with a feeling which was a queer mixture of reverence and awe. A group of about five or six seniors had surrounded me and after the initial questions about my identity, I was taken to the goal-post, ordered to hang from the crossbar and recite Ohm’s Law. I did remember Ohm’s Law fluently but every time the seniors found some mistake and I had to go on repeating. After some times, my palms were burning from the effort and I was almost on the point of letting go ...........and then I saw her.

The sight of me hanging like a bungling monkey and shouting incoherent words made her smile as she quickly lowered her head and rushed inside the building. I had wondered on many occasions, her smiling at my situation should logically be very insulting for me, but strangely it was not. On the contrary, I was thankful that the circumstances have provided an opportunity for her to notice me.

Then on, everything went like a breeze. The monstrosities of raggings didn’t touch me. The perennial back bencher during school days, I started coming to classes early so that I could manage to seat in the second row of desks right behind her. We talked about school days, about rain because she loved Rain, about engineering drawings - a subject she hated.

Once she didn’t come to college for two long days. Time seemed to stop. On the second day, I managed to coax and cajole one of her friends to show me her residence. When the classes were over we both went to her place. My companion showed me the building where she lived and went on his way while I sauntered up and down the pavement in front of the building hoping for her to show up. Hours passed and when the lights of the building started to go off one by one, I hiked my backpack higher up on my shoulders and despondantly trudged my way back home.

My parents’ rebuke “college e uthey dana gojiyechhey” didn’t deter me as the next morning I was again doing my walking exercises in front of her house. But that day I was rewarded with the site of her carrying her college bag and getting into a car presumably to be driven to college. I ran behind the first bus available jumped on it and reached college late ........ And walked into a firing squad !!!!!!! She was mad at me for going to her residence and in the face of the firing - left, right and centre - I had no option but to wilt, completely decimated !

Thoroughly dejected, I took a seat at one corner of the last bench in the classroom and took out my note book and started to doodle a portrait of her - of whatever I could see of her- from my position. I didn’t notice the end of period, the lunch break and ultimately the end of the classes that day as I was engrossed on adding my imagination to her portrait. My concentration was broken by a pat on the shoulder. I looked up at her and before I could apologize for my earlier deeds, she sternly said, “ I need your note book - I will copy the notes of the classes I have missed”. I dumbly handed over my note book to her, she gave me a dazzling smile and walked away stuffing the notebook in her bag. “Yesssssssssssss....” i screamed in silent joy, pumping my fist, once she had turned round the corner.

When she came to return me the notebook she simply said, “ That portrait which you have drawn - I am keeping that with me”.
I had never been happier in my life.

For the second time I was woken from my day dreams by the screeching sound of the buzzer signalling the day’s end.

She didn’t come to college. I am sure now.

I felt that sense of desperation rising inside me. For the last two days I had been sitting outside and by now I was sure that something had happened to her again, like she was absent for two days last time. I decided to go straight to her home tonight.

Dusk was slowly covering up everything in her purple-to-dark envelope. She loved Jibanananda Das. I loved the way she used to recite -

Shomosto din er seshey Shishir er shobder moton shondhya ashey
Dana e roudrer gondho muchhey feley chil

The headlights of a car blinded me as I started to walk down the street to her house.

All sorts of confused ideas crossed my mind as i was walking. I thought of the invitation to her birthday party. “You should not wear that dreadful pair of jeans and that same black tee-shirt. Otherwise ..........!!!!!!”, she had said with an impish smile.

She had asked me out for coffee, for the first time in so many months. I thought she sounded a bit strange when she asked me but I was never going to decline any offer for coffee with her.

We had sat at the table and she took out an envelope from her bag and handed to me. I opened the envelope. Inside there were bits and pieces of paper. I dumped the entire contents on the table. The torn pieces of her portrait which I had drawn lay in front of me like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I looked up at her.

“Father”, she said and averted her eyes.
Something exploded inside me. I jumped up sending the chair crashing back. Ignoring her pleadings, I violently pushed open the doors and ran out. Everything was a flaming red inside my head ...... in front of my eyes.

That was three days ago.

I shook my head to clear my mind. So long I could not muster enough courage to tell her what I wanted to say. But today has to be the day. Today I will tell her how much she means to me.

There was the building - the front entrance was open and somebody was standing outside. I walked past and the person did not seem to notice me. It was strangely quiet inside.

I pushed open the door of her room and walked in. She was slumped on the study table under the big mirror. This was where she had cut her birthday cake. There was so much fun and laughter then. But now she had her face buried in her palms, her shoulders shook uncontrollably as she cried silently. I bent down to hear something she was muttering.

“Why did you leave me like that”, she was murmuring between her sobs.
“I am here. I never left you anywhere. I never will”, I screamed as i took hold of her shoulder and tried to shake her back to her senses.
It was weird, as if she never heard me.
My eyes fell upon the crumpled newspaper on her table. The headlines seemed to scream back at me

TEENAGER RUN OVER BY SPEEDING TRUCK. DIED ON THE SPOT.

Shocked, I looked up at the mirror in front of me. Only the pink wall behind me stared at me through the mirror.

Rain

It was raining this morning. A soft silent rain that covered everything with fine silvery pixiedust. I went for a walk on the trail behind my house. It skirts a long narrow lake that winds through the meadows like a slender blue-green snake. The trail traces the curves of the lake, twisting and turning like the swaying moves of a belly dancer.
I was the only person on the trail. The houses lining the trail appeared to be asleep still, wrapped in the quilt of the blue grey morning light. The sky was a uniform grey, thick and heavy, like curd set in a clay pot. Rain fell incessantly covering my glasses with a filigree of droplets. The world seemed hazy, dreamlike. Like a watercolour painting coming to life.
I walked slowly enjoying the complete absence of human voices, lulled into meditation by the sounds of birdsongs and the steady, unchanging rhythm of my own footsteps hitting the paved trail.
Just around the corner there was a firangipani tree, bent in three places like an Odissi dancer in tribhangi. As I passed under the tree, a flower started to swirl gently towards the ground. I automatically reached for it. It landed on my palm like benediction, the yellow spots gleaming on the pristine white petals like dots of freshly applied turmeric. I stuck the flower in the buttonhole of my t-shirt and continued my walk. A brilliant green parakeet darted from one tree to another like an arrow piercing the sky.
The rain fell on the jade waters of the lake creating pretty concentric whorls that expanded and faded. I increased my speed breaking into a gentle run, rivulets of water running down my face. I ran two rounds, secure in the silence of people, lost in the language of birds and finally plonked on a bench under a gulmohar tree, tired and panting. The sky was clearing up slowly now, the greys were being replaced by large chunks of white.
A big grey heron came fluttering its giant wings and landed gently in the lake, rearranging the water into delicate wrinkles. It settled down, quietly waiting for its prey. I stretched my legs, taking a minute to enjoy the delicious self-inflicted aches.
The rain continued to fall in soft, barely audible whisper. All my thoughts settled down gradually. 

For a few wonderful moments I became the rain.