I was walking along the sea shore. The sun was about to set; the orange sky looked like a perfect painting. I decided to sit down and watch the sinking sun.
Life itself is like it. When we near the end, we wish we were young again; to begin a new chapter, without worries, without rancor, without the dirty pools of water, which spoil our mood.
I did not notice the young girl, quietly sitting by my side and immersed in her own thoughts. A sigh from her awakened me.
She reminded me of my wife.
Unlike my Shyamala, she wore a simple dress, without any ornaments, not even a thin chain. I wanted to talk to her, but was reluctant to break the silence.
At last, my curiosity won the moment.
Excuse me, may I know who you are?
My name is Grazy. I am studying in St. Mary college, Bandra.
Your mother?
She looks after me, is divorced.
I was sure she is my daughter; but somehow hesitated before I resumed:
Didn’t she marry again?
Yes. He is a drunkard. I think Ma regrets her remarriage.
Did she ever talk to you about your father?
Rarely; I know he was a professor. I wonder where he is! Can he be alive now, at the age of about eighty?
It is very dark. May I drop you at your house?
Without waiting for her answer, I stood up. Grazy held my hand and we proceeded towards my car. I was sure she is my daughter. I did not like to confirm, lest I may have miscalculated. I stopped the car in front of her bungalow.
She invited me for a cup of tea. I excused. She hugged me, I kissed her lightly and came home.
The whole night I was restless. I wrote a long letter to Grazy and posted it in the address which I noticed before I left her.
The next evening I visited the sea shore again, vainly hoping to see her. My disappointment was unbearable. I regretted my failure to learn her mobile number.
Having lost my patience, I drove to her bungalow and pressed the buzzer. An old lady came out.
Whom do you want to see?
Grazy.
She is not here.
Her mother?
No.
Her father?
She hesitated, before she ushered me in.
The drunkard was almost asleep, with a bottle and snacks on the tea table. An ugly figure, frail and much older than myself. I felt disgusted and left immediately, leaving a not for the girl.
I had been invited to deliver a lecture in the university. While sitting on the dais, my eyes frantically searched for the girl, like a young lover. I could not locate her, even if she was present.
When I was leaving the auditorium, Gracy ran towards me and eagerly kissed me. She was beaming with joy. We proceeded towards my car.
Uncle, I missed you all these days. I had been to Goa, to meet my relative. I didn’t have your number. We exchanged our numbers.
The next day she called on me. She was surprised to see me alone.
Where is aunty?
I didn’t marry, after the failure of our first marriage.
No maid to help you, uncle?
I usually eat out; occasionally I cook rice ad dhal. A maid comes in the morning to clean the house.
I shall make tea.
She went into the kitchen and I accompanied her, as I used to do, immediately after my marriage.
Regular contact resulted in a unique love between us. Now I was certain she is my daughter. I helped her in her studies. She accompanied me during my lectures which brought me enough money for a simple living. In my leisure time, I used to write stories, published in ficticious names.
Once I asked her:
Why did your mother marry that drunkard?
For money. He has a big Bungalow in the village and plenty of land. You must come there, Sir.
Was she a Hindu?
Yes. We used to go to Hindu temples, when her husband was away.
What was her former husband’s name?
I TRIED TO FIND OUT. But she keeps her former life in wraps.
Once she brought me one old album and photos of Shyamala’s marriage with Henry. I cried out: it is my wife!!!
XXXXXXXXXX
Now it was my daughter’s turn to question me:
Why did she divorce you?
It was her company that created suspicion. Sometimes she stayed with them, even the night. I was too much involved I my work.
Shall I try for a repproachment?
Of what use is it now? Henry may not relish it.
One day my daughter brought Shyamala to my flat. She had dyed her hair. She was very sober and did not show any emotions, when we met.
Aferwards, I wrote a long letter, aplogising for my thoughtless action and injustice caused to her.
I did not notice the young girl, quietly sitting by my side and immersed in her own thoughts. A sigh from her awakened me.
She reminded me of my wife.
Unlike my Shyamala, she wore a simple dress, without any ornaments, not even a thin chain. I wanted to talk to her, but was reluctant to break the silence.
At last, my curiosity won the moment.
Excuse me, may I know who you are?
My name is Grazy. I am studying in St. Mary college, Bandra.
Your mother?
She looks after me, is divorced.
I was sure she is my daughter; but somehow hesitated before I resumed:
Didn’t she marry again?
Yes. He is a drunkard. I think Ma regrets her remarriage.
Did she ever talk to you about your father?
Rarely; I know he was a professor. I wonder where he is! Can he be alive now, at the age of about eighty?
It is very dark. May I drop you at your house?
Without waiting for her answer, I stood up. Grazy held my hand and we proceeded towards my car. I was sure she is my daughter. I did not like to confirm, lest I may have miscalculated. I stopped the car in front of her bungalow.
She invited me for a cup of tea. I excused. She hugged me, I kissed her lightly and came home.
The whole night I was restless. I wrote a long letter to Grazy and posted it in the address which I noticed before I left her.
The next evening I visited the sea shore again, vainly hoping to see her. My disappointment was unbearable. I regretted my failure to learn her mobile number.
Having lost my patience, I drove to her bungalow and pressed the buzzer. An old lady came out.
Whom do you want to see?
Grazy.
She is not here.
Her mother?
No.
Her father?
She hesitated, before she ushered me in.
The drunkard was almost asleep, with a bottle and snacks on the tea table. An ugly figure, frail and much older than myself. I felt disgusted and left immediately, leaving a not for the girl.
I had been invited to deliver a lecture in the university. While sitting on the dais, my eyes frantically searched for the girl, like a young lover. I could not locate her, even if she was present.
When I was leaving the auditorium, Gracy ran towards me and eagerly kissed me. She was beaming with joy. We proceeded towards my car.
Uncle, I missed you all these days. I had been to Goa, to meet my relative. I didn’t have your number. We exchanged our numbers.
The next day she called on me. She was surprised to see me alone.
Where is aunty?
I didn’t marry, after the failure of our first marriage.
No maid to help you, uncle?
I usually eat out; occasionally I cook rice ad dhal. A maid comes in the morning to clean the house.
I shall make tea.
She went into the kitchen and I accompanied her, as I used to do, immediately after my marriage.
Regular contact resulted in a unique love between us. Now I was certain she is my daughter. I helped her in her studies. She accompanied me during my lectures which brought me enough money for a simple living. In my leisure time, I used to write stories, published in ficticious names.
Once I asked her:
Why did your mother marry that drunkard?
For money. He has a big Bungalow in the village and plenty of land. You must come there, Sir.
Was she a Hindu?
Yes. We used to go to Hindu temples, when her husband was away.
What was her former husband’s name?
I TRIED TO FIND OUT. But she keeps her former life in wraps.
Once she brought me one old album and photos of Shyamala’s marriage with Henry. I cried out: it is my wife!!!
XXXXXXXXXX
Now it was my daughter’s turn to question me:
Why did she divorce you?
It was her company that created suspicion. Sometimes she stayed with them, even the night. I was too much involved I my work.
Shall I try for a repproachment?
Of what use is it now? Henry may not relish it.
One day my daughter brought Shyamala to my flat. She had dyed her hair. She was very sober and did not show any emotions, when we met.
Aferwards, I wrote a long letter, aplogising for my thoughtless action and injustice caused to her.
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