Twilight

I wait for dusk to fall as eagerly as the struggling world awaits a new dawn. It is the time of the day when the activities of the world ebb and the laboring humanity return home to rest and recuperate, a time when the harsh light of the day mellows and explodes into the fading soothing colors of an evening, when the blue of the sky deepens to indigo and the birds return to roost, and the family members come together but only to lose themselves in their separate rooms. I look forward to that time when I could walk the earth like a free man, a man without encumbrances, without hopes of an unborn dawn or the entanglements of a dead night, the only time of my life when I meet people of my age, all in one place. In the evening of our life dusk is our meeting time, the community hall our meeting place and the hoot and clatter of a train our common refrain.

I shed my pajamas and change into a brown cotton trousers and a plain white bush-shirt. Adjusting my spectacles, I bend slightly to pick up the walking stick that was leaning against a corner of the room. The fist curls over the knob, but before I could grab it, the stick slips on the smooth tile and clatters to the floor. Ths sound from the fallen stick bounces off the walls and the ceiling and dissolves into silence, leaving a dull echo in my mind. The slender aluminium body of the stick gleams pitifully in the fading light. I push a cane chair close to it. Holding the arms of the chair in order to break the fall, I lower myself gently into it. I pick up the stick and using it as a prop I hoist myself up, groaning from the effort and cursing out of habit at nothing.

From a window sill I collect the lock and key, my mobile phone and wallet. I step slowly out of the apartment and lock the door. I double check the padlock by pulling it down twice, check to ensure I am carrying the mobile phone and the wallet, then slowly turn round toward the staircase. I hold the bannister for support and feel my way down with the stick one step at a time, taken slowly, ponderously, like I was hauling down a load.

As I round the street toward the back of the apartment blocks, a train chuggs past the community hall - I am late by a few minutes. When I reach the hall, I find that my comrades are already chattering and shuffling about in short awkward movements. It is a large hall, ideal for ceremonies and celebrations. We take turns to be the secretary and assume responsibility for its upkeep and arrange functions on public holidays. On a normal day, like today, we just get together and talk to one another until the train returns after two hours.

After the usual greetings I limp to a plastic chair and go through the circus of occupying it. The voices echo from the high ceiling and linger for some time like murmuring spirits. Women speak longer and louder than men. We all sit in an imperfect circle, turning this side and that side, or looking ahead leaning far out of the chair sometimes to hear better or to respond to queries.

We don't have an agenda for these meet-ups. We meet simply, casually, for companionship, for having someone to hear and talk to. Growing old is painful physically and lonely psychologically. We overcome the physical inconvenience in order to share a few moments together; we are then no longer lonely or feel out of place in this fast changing world.

Each of us has one single unchanging characteristic that distinguishes itself from all other qualities of the person. Call it a trait, a habit or an obsession or what you like. It is something that is so innate and intrinsic to the person that he or she may be easily identified with it. The person and his or her distinguishing quality are so inseparable that the person is the very embodiment of the quality.

Sarala is talking to Manohar about her grandchildren. She has short scanty hair that ruffles as she shakes her head this way and that way, making a point or gesticulating with a sense of hopelessness. She is angry that no one in her house cares about cleanliness any more. She expends a lot of her energy in cleaning the dining table, the curtains and the furniture. She spends a good deal of her time arranging things around the house. Manohar says he has been to her house a couple of times and found nothing to complain about. He tries to change the subject, but she keeps returning to it.

One of the helper boys comes in with a small steel drum of hot tea and sets it up on a table. Manohar excuses himself and gets up for a cup of tea. Sarala turns to Lakshmi and continues her harangue without interrupting her flow.

Lakshmi is a soft-spoken woman who rarely exhibits strong emotions. She looks frail and her forehead is creased with lines as though she were in a perpetual expression of anxiety. She has a granddaughter who spends most of her time partying and shopping. Her son is an artist who has had a modicum of success, for his paintings appear now and then in the art galleries. He is too preoccupied with his work and his wife, who works in a government office, is also very busy. Lakshmi is a pious lady who performs pooja twice daily and listens to the bhakti channel on the TV regularly. She has a duaghter who is married to a business man whose fortunes fluctuate on market conditions. She speaks to her often and enquires of her well-being. Lakshmi lost her husband a few years ago and since then she has devoted herself to praying, seeking divine munificence towards the families of her son and daughter.

I have known lakshmi for a number of years. She was religious, but not much given to rituals. However, as days passed and she was getting older she became more and more attached to the gods, going on pilgrimages, listening to religious discourses, performing the rites and praying, praying and praying.

The two women comfort each other as they share their mutual hardships, anxieties and helplessness. The tea is served, and it is drunk cold. The women continue their chatter as if talking it over together is going to resolve their problems.
TO BE CONTINUED...

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