SON

SHORT STORY – IN SEARCH OF MY SON Posted on October 24, 2009 by waterfriend | Edit I regret the day he was born, becaused he killed my dear wife, whom I valued more than anything in this world ! I rarely fondled him. But I provided a nurse to look after him and a tutor for him when he was put in the school. I was totally involved in my work, being a lone individual. I was confined to my upstairs study, seeing the boy with the nurse, whom I dispensed with, as soon as he became capable of looking after himself. When the boy was in the ninth class, he told me to send the tutor away, as she did not know the spelling of ” manoeuvres.” I myself did not know it, but agreed to his suggestion, because he was exceptionally brilliant, always standing first in whatever examinations he appeared. In addition, he was a good cricketeer too, and learned music as well. In due course, I began loving him, his sweet open smile so much resembling to my beloved wife’s. He chose philosophy, though I would have liked him to go for medicine , as he had secured the first rank in the merit list. But there is no arguing with him, as he is self willed and somewhat obstinate. I did not like his joining the SFI, but kept quiet. After taking his doctorate, he taught in a college in Delhi for some time, and we rarely met, as I remained in my home in Bhopal, a city which I likeed very much. We didn’t write to each other. My friend told me that he was seen some where in Chhattisgarh among tribals and there was no way of contacting him. Afterwards, he started writing to me regularly, his letters becoming more lengthy, explaining the conditions of the poor people and how he was training them to save money etc. I thought it a good idea. Suddenly all correspondence stopped. Months became years and still no letter from him. One mid night, my phone rang. I wondered who it could be; is it my son? I rushed to take the phone but it was cut. I sat there itself and the this time I took it promptly, lest it be cut again. My son wants to met me, the voice said. Where is he? I am not authorised to say that. Then, where should I come? Ranchi. He told me the hotel’s name and gave me the room number which has been booked in my name. I was overjoyed! At last I can see him. I forgot my rheumatism, which was killing me and went by air, my close friend and benefactor arranging every thing so quickly. It was my first visit to that part of the country. Hiring a taxi, I rushed to the hotel room. Hardly had I sat down, when there was a knock at door. Come in. A bearded young man entered and asked me to follow him. But who are you? No time to argue. So I followed him. On the way he explained that he too knew nothing. He was following orders. The silence was unbearable. I wanted to ask a thousand questions…… After a journey which took us to the way inside he forest, we got out of the car. I was aked to follow another guy, apparently a tribal. I was given refreshments then only, plantains and other fruits brought by the tribal. We rested for some time and then followed the new guide. I was tired. My feet began to ache. It is nothing, I am going to see my son, I consoled myself. At a turning, a handsome tribal girl met us. She gave me a sad but sweet smile. All the three of us came in front of a neat and clean hut, when a ten year old boy, whose face was exactly the same as my wife’s, came running and embraced me; to my questioning gaze, the girl replied: Sir it is your grandson! The earth began swirling violently. The guide and the girl held me and saved me from falling to one side. Water was springled on my face and I sat down on the veranda. After some time I asked: where is my son? They began to cry. Is he dead? No, Sir. They ushered me into a dark room, allowing a handful of light in. It took me a few minutes to accustom my eyes to the dark room. A haggard, emaciated figure of a human being was lying on the bamboo cot. No sign of any life. When I came near, did the eyes shine a little? Oh, God, is this my son? I was told that he has been lying like this for the last three months. He cannot even turn round, nor speak. No food. Porridge or coconut water was slowly poured into his mouth, opened with a spoon. This has been going on for the last three months. How did it begin? He fell from a rock and was badly injured. Don’t tell me a lie; I know my son better. A brief silence; meanwhile, a man in pants came in and called us out. Outside, a big crowd had collected to see me! Some had brought chicken, eggs, coconuts, plantais etc. They were very glad to meet theirs leader’s father! I was embarrased and did not know what to say. I could see that he was extremely popular; could have easily won the election. Some shook hands with me, some simply folded their hands in a namaste. A few wanted to know how long I would stay. The man in pants rebuked them: do you think they will not know about it? He asked them to disperse immediately. I was then carried in a chair and my son was lifted, along with the cot, by young men, who seemed to be faithful, loyal followers, towards another hut, previously selected, which was more spacious and was not easily approachable from Ranchi. I spent some days in that picturesque spot by the river, enjoying the holiday. I had never lived in the country side before, being city addicted for generations. The woman looked after me like a daughter and the boy, my wife in miniature, never left me even for a moment, insisting that he must sleep with me! My rheumatism disappeared. Was it psychological? I dreamt that my son, a young boy, was playing cricket with me, he batting and I bowling. He lost his wicket and started crying……. The next day he died. I proposed that they come with me to Bhopal. She refused: I will continue the fight for which your son became a martyr. This earth binds me with his memories. WHAT SHALL I DO AT BHOPAL? You may ask the boy; he needs schooling. The boy’s response shocked me: I am learning from books. Papa used to teach me I shall continue here. Dejected and deflated, I started crying like a child. The boy came and sat in my lap, holding me with both hands. He said: Dadu, do not cry.. WE CANNOT AFFORD IT. That is what my papa used to say. Is there any role for an old man like me? The man in pants reflected for a moment, then said: of course! You are well educated; you write about our struggle for survival