One Grey Morning

This is a story I wrote quite sometime back. The story is basically an attempt to capture the melancholy I was feeling when I had visited my home back in the December of 2009...

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)”

*

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