It was one of those days that made you feel
depressed. You would get out of the bed and see no other colour than gray. Dull
dark clouds gloomed in the sky and even the birds were huddled in the
trees-neither willing to go out nor to chirp and talk among themselves. A
gentle but cold wind was blowing and the leaves were swaying, gently enough,
but the water droplets from last night’s rain would occasionally drip down on a
passerby as if the trees could no more bear the weight of the misery of the
world and were shedding silent tears.
The world was quiet. It was a weekend and hardly
anyone was around. Occasionally the silence was broken by the sound of a car
going around but even they did not make a lot of sound, afraid that the sullen
silence would be broken. The atmosphere was tense. Silence overweighed the
breakfast tables. It seemed as if everyone was waiting for something to happen.
No one dared to make a lot of sound, afraid that if they did the tension would
break and all the misery of the world would come pouring down on them in one
torrential rain.
Occasionally the heavy clouds would let loose a soft
shower, splattering the earth and just making the roads wet and then would stop
as suddenly as they had started. The few passerbies would increase their pace
and continue on to their journey-either to their home or else to some other
mission of their own. The wind would sometimes pick up and bring with it sharp
chills that would shake the trees to their core and make the passerbies cling more
closely to their coat.
A wall separated a large ground from the world.
Large tress adorned the ground and there were several well-trimmed hedges and
bushes. Even from a distance one could see several marble figures, of angles
and otherwise, devoted to the loving memories of departed souls. It was a
cemetery. Under one of those large trees, a small group was huddled together,
saying their last goodbyes to someone they had dearly loved. The ceremonies had
just been finished and the visitors were leaving with polite nods and
handshakes. There were some hugs and some more tears were shed. Some words were
exchanged-mostly the relatives consoled the parents. After a while, there was
no one but a man and his wife.
There was a circular platform constructed around the
circumference of the tree for people to sit down. He sat down heavily on it
while his wife lifted her already soaked handkerchief to her face. The world
moved on but for the two, life had stopped. Time didn’t mean a lot to them at
this point. He was a small man, balding hair and red eyes, probably the result
of lack of sleep and his grief. His wife was slightly taller than him. Her eyes
were also red and her face, once so pretty, was now shrunk in misery.
He was a stock broker and for him time had meant
everything, but not right now. Having buried his only son, he thought that he
could at least take a few days off and mourn. He wanted to spend a little time
with his son now…something he hadn’t done in the past eight years. The epitaph
read:
“In loving memory of our son
Edward Conner
(1990-1998)”
Edward Conner
(1990-1998)”
*
The sun finally was out the next day. It had rained
heavily last night and the ground was muddy. However, the dark clouds had
departed and even the birds were out in the sky, chirping and looking for food.
The heavy tense silence was broken. Horns and the sound of vehicles could be
clearly heard. It seemed that everything had come to life after a day of
inactivity.
James Conner sat on the chair, staring at the dining
table, where his wife had just laid the breakfast. He didn’t move. His hands
did not reach out for the toast or the glass of juice, like it did every
morning. His wife looked at him from the kitchen, silently. She knew what he
was going through. She was going through the same.
Every morning their son, Edward, would come and wish
James and Helena, his mother, a good morning. They would in fact wait for him
to rise and come to them. When Edward would have settled on his chair, next to
James, with Helena on the other side, then only they would start eating. It was
a small ritual that they had been following since a long time.
Helena came out of the kitchen and sat next to
James, the seat opposite to the one that Edward took every morning. James
pushed his plate away. Helena’s hands came out from somewhere under the table
and she laid them gently on his. James didn’t look at her. He continued to
stare at the plate that he had just pushed away. Neither of them had slept the
entire night. They both had been sitting and the time had passed away slowly.
They had nothing to talk about.
Helena recalled the scene three days earlier. They
had been sleeping when Edward had knocked on their door. Helene had come out to
find little Edward, shivering. He was very cold, he had explained. Helena had
placed a hand on his forehead only to find that he had very high fever. By the
time James had also come out of his sleep. They had taken Edward to a hospital.
He was down with some infection, the doctor had explained. He had added that
there was no need to worry and that the fever would be down by the morning. He
had administered some anti-pyretic drugs and an antibiotic to fight against the
infection. He had promised that it was something very normal. However, they
both had been worried.
The next morning his fever was not down and when
Helena and James awoke, they found him tossing in his bed, with a very high
fever. They had called the doctor and the doctor had been alarmed at his
condition. It was six in the morning. The doctor consulted with a few other
doctors and they had given Edward some injection. The drugs they had given
earlier had reacted and this had made his condition worse, he had explained.
Helena had become hysterical by then. James had somehow managed to prevent her
from attacking the doctor. Now she wished he had not.
The doctors had continued to give Edward some drug
or the other but his condition became progressively worse. He died at nine.
Nine was the time when James usually left for his
office. By then, obviously, Edward would have left for school. School, she
recalled. When the school authorities had been informed about this, they had
been shocked. Eight year old kid who had celebrated his birthday last month.
Edward had been popular in his class…his entire class had come to the Conner
residence to pay their last respect to someone who might have grown to be a
great friend…
The undertaker had done a fine job with poor
Edward’s body. They had asked him to dress their son in a suit they had bought
for him on his birthday last month. He looked like a perfect little gentleman
in the coffin at his wake. His blond hair were combed and his face looked
almost radiant, but not for Helena and James. They could only see the pain in
which he had died…away from his mother and father…the two people in whom he had
placed his entire trust…only to lose…
The coffin was filled on both sides with flowers. It
had been a terrible time for both of them. As more and more people came, they
offered their cold and empty words. Words that could heal no wounds…only inflict
more pain…they talked about Edward and the little time they had spent with him.
However, the worst part was when the kids had come. Edward’s entire class and
all his teachers had come to their home. Several of the kids had started crying
when they saw Edward in that small box.
*
James was thinking about how he had never spent
enough time with his son. He thought of all the times when he had been away
when his son had needed him. He was filled with regret and remorse. But what
could he do? There was nothing he could…he recalled how once he had taken a
little time off and had gone to Edward’s school to witness a small play that
the kids were performing. Edward had been a part of it. He recalled how his son
had been so happy when he had turned up. James couldn’t have seen his son
happier and at that moment he had vowed that he would make it a habit to be
there for his son…but promises are meant to be broken, he thought bitterly.
His work didn’t demand him to be away from his home
till late night but apart from being a stock broker, he also owned a store
which took up his entire evening time. By the time he would come back from the
store, Edward would already be asleep. The only distinctive memories that James
had of his son were the ones when Edward was either sick or of his birthdays.
Whenever Edward had been sick in the past, James had made sure that he would be
there with his son. On all seven birthdays James had made it a point to be with
Edward for the entire day. Except the last birthday when there had been some
very important clients who had come to meet him and he couldn’t make it back on
time for his birthday party. He recalled that Helena had called him and asked
him to come as quickly as possible because Edward refused to cut the cake “till
daddy is here.” It all seemed so far away…
They both sat there for some time, staring into the
void. There were no words and the tears that streamed down Helena’s eyes were
silent. The only sounds to break the silence were the distant horns and the
steady clicking of the hands of the clock. Time didn’t stop.
There was a soft knock on the door. Helena and James
both remained sitting till there was a second knock when James got up, as if
waking up from a dream. He went to open the door. It was the postman. The postman
handed him a small envelope and hurried away. It seemed that he had a clue as
to the tragedy that had fallen on the family. He hadn’t waved to James, as he
usually used to do when James opened the door.
James closed the door and turned around. He looked
at the envelope and a grim and painful smile crept over his face. It was a
bill. A bill from the undertaker…life, it seemed, goes on…
May
23, 2010-May 26, 2010 Pravesh Parekh
