Sands, the moor, the long lumber,
Just lonely me traversing the stillness,
Moonless night, sinking space,
Winds whistling in mournful tunes,
My fear of darkness accentuated,
By the sensation of piercing eyes,
An old bearded man so scary,
His hoary, toothless smile I saw,
Every step, closed eyes in fear,
Dim lights far down the distant road,
Bulbs of hope on delicate filament,
Rains lashing, pain so slant,
Slush and mud slow the trudge
Long shadows tracking this gloom.
Category Archives: Family
Should I believe?
This is a story several years old.
My dad who was a flourishing brick-maker was hit by what I now understand is a recession of those years… a sustaining lack of demand for bricks over an agonizing period of time. Bricks were stacked everywhere and despite severe price cuts there were few or virtually zero buyers. Construction had ceased. My dad tried his best to keep things going but with unsold stocks, it became near impossible to meet banker deadlines for repayments. On expected lines, the bankers retaliated in swift and forceful measure: in the beginning they curtailed and then withdrew bank credit limits.
Unable to make both ends meet, my dad borrowed heavily from friends and neighbors for large and small sums. Repayment deadlines were instantly transformed to default deadlines and obtaining fresh loans became near impossible. There was even voluntary rationing of all household demands. Meat and fish disappeared from the dinner table. I was experiencing the “frugal living and high (but bitter) thinking” phase not too quite stoically. As events unfolded rather painfully and day to day life became so difficult, I started losing faith. My parents would get up early morn and pray and to myself, by now an agnostic, I felt that prayer was a waste of time. I was unemployed and bitter at a world that did not seem to care ; the job search efforts were to me waves on boulders. I felt guilty that I was not fending for myself. As an aftermath of a rapid series of setbacks, I decided that faith was unwarranted.
One morning, from the blue, I got a call for an interview. The organization that called me for an interview was a thousand miles away. The cheapest mode of transport was by train. The train fare had to be paid … and my dad was neck deep in debt. I , on my own, tapped several probable doors, but we, as a family, seemed to have lost creditworthiness. The day before the interview, I saw my dad pray longer and I laughed to myself sarcastically; this was another futile attempt by a penurious man to ingratiate himself to an insensate Being, I reasoned.
I even confided my lack of belief to my mother.
Now, from my memory:
I have four hours to the train time and there is no sight of money. I resign myself to being unable to travel. My unusually reticent dad now asks me to pack to travel. I go inside and grumble to my mother “Why is he asking me to pack. we do not have the money even to buy a one way ticket”. My mother says fatalistically that God would help. “We are a happy family because we listen to each other”. “God will take care”, she says. I grumble that she has read Charles Dickens a bit too much!
Reluctantly I pack, so that I do not appear to be a disobedient son.
Three hours to the train. the cranky gate opens in un-lubricated pain. In walks a tall, middle aged stranger. He seeks to meet my dad “I have come to consult you on my proposed construction of my house next year”, he begins. My dad listens patiently. Standing by the door side, I frown. I am impatient as it is now two hours and half to the train.
“I have plans to construct a house next year and I have heard that you sell bricks. I want bricks for my house. They told me your factory is shut and you live here”. I am worried about the train in the next two hours and he is bothered about bricks now for next year!
My dad softly tells him: “Sure. Come in next year”. “Yes , yes, I shall,” he responds. ” But there is one condition, you will give me next year at today’s prices.” My dad smiles, unsure what to say. The stranger then says ” I shall pay half the value now as advance”. My dad gives him a price. The stranger, strangely, does not haggle. “Part I have cash and part in check.” My dad looks to where I am standing and nods unhesitatingly. As my writes the receipt, my mother says the stranger is God.
My dad asks the stranger if he could drop me off at the station. He wishes me luck as he leaves me off. As I wait for the train, I wonder if I should continue to be an agnostic. Will I get the job?
Revisiting my old home…
My old house, a home then,
In my mind memories flood
Of another year, sweet muse,
Weekends of short shrifts ,
Calves, cats and cups of tea,
Of untiring dicta by elders,
Of sly curiosities of young,
Of neighbors’ indifference
Fear of lanky, haughty, lenders,
Hoping death of debts,
Praying for pelf,
Yester grandeur,
Spurned, shy loves,
Rain water gushes,
Dreams in reams,
Barefoot realities,
Kindled thoughts,
All that I now recognize,
The tamarind tree,
Sadder than before,
On seeing me, a tear
Of compassion
Offering me renewed shade
Me, now a weary stranger
To my own house,
A tired traveler
Dispossessed.
I am sorry, Dad, that I am not what you wanted me to be …
You encouraged me to read when I was ten. You read loud to me Alfred Noyes’ ‘Highwayman’ and Charles Kingsley’s ‘The Sands of Dee’ . Your stentorian voice enlivened those rather lonely evenings of my life as I sat at your feet by the fountains of the lawns of our sprawling but dilapidated house. Your financial difficulties had left you with few friends and perhaps poetry was an escape from reality. I was the net beneficiary.
I then felt that you did not have as great an accent as compared to my beautiful English teacher, whom I adored. Despite your ‘bizarre’ accent, you ignited a rare passion in me for reading classics. You had studied Maths and Eco but you had a fond passion for Literature. I guess that it must be the tribulations of your difficult adolescence that led you into poetry and literature. I now believe (“in tranquil restoration”) that the great ‘like’ button which you pressed for English language transformed me to be a good human being. Thank you, Dad…
By eleven, you had encouraged me to write. I wrote short stories, which I now feel were of little worth . Patiently, you read through and edited. You would then ask me to go to the post office and register them to local newspapers … print media was strong then Dad… The post man had a quiet smile on his face as I managed to obtain rejections on a scale of 9 on 10… yet you were never disappointed… “Keep trying”, you said. I do that even now, Dad, I sincerely heed to your advice. I am not dejected when I do not get readers. I should try to improve, is it not?
You told me to write with a purpose. You told me to have a great ‘intro’ and then you quoted Shakespeare “All’s well that ends well”. So I knew I had to start and finish well.
You told me of the Athenians and the Spartans and of their words ‘logos, ethos and pathos’…and of the need to apply these to writing. You redefined ‘logos’ as logic in writing which flows between an arresting beginning (many years later when I heard the word ‘Achtung’ on Frankfurt’s railway platforms, I knew that people had to wait for the great train to arrive at its destination when reading… a writer hasto carry through to a destination) and a memorable conclusion.
You reinterpreted ‘ethos’ as culture. You suggested that I ought to have ‘immaculate’ sincerity in writing. “Be dignified and do not cheat the reader” , you said. I must tell you that I try to maintain that poise which you imparted to me.
You laughed with tears in your eyes as you explained ‘pathos’ : you taught me that “life distilled is somewhat of a sad story”. “Your writing”, you exhorted, “must incorporate these three elements”. I try, Dad, I really try hard.
You constructed the Cs for me : concept, clarity, coherence, consistency. I must confess that I struggle even now, Dad, with these. I sometimes think I understood c as convolution and complexity!
You advised me not to meander in thoughts but to stay focused. Dad, I am helpless as a thousand horses run through my little mind. You had told me to yoke them to the bullocks of slow, cogitative, rational thinking. I cannot bridle these ‘Lochinvarian’ steeds.
Your mathematical mind is analytical. Now with the advent of inescapable time which attacks your memory, as you struggle to recognize my face, I still think that you are clinically sharp. Dad, I tried hard to assimilate these analytical skills in my writing; but somehow those seem to bypass me.
As you recommended, I struggle to gather evidence in writing to substantiate my claims. I falter at the altar of analysis. I feel that my writings are a jungle of words. It is then a bundle of ‘unpredictabilities’… it is then ambiguity… I feel that it is deceptive to the reader… I try not to rush; I try not to hurry; I keep it overnight, read them the next morning to see if it really is good… and then, I give up….
You taught me not to be superfluous. You quoted Shakespeare’s Hamlet to “brevity is the soul of wit”. However, I repeat, I recant, I retract…
No dad, despite your several tips, I am sorry I am not as yet a good writer. You went broke educating me high. You never ever hinted to me but I know you had high expectations. Sitting by your bed of arrows, in this long night together, let me hold your hands and assure you, I am trying to be a good, truthful writer.
