That ‘jal-bat’ (Badminton Racket) with a red and white net having black steel rims is as fresh in my mind as today’s pre-dawn meal. You didn’t bought only that badminton but along I demanded the wooden bat and ball, I guess some few toys more. They were really beautiful. They say, “Beauty kills the beast.” That may be so. I was 6 years old or less back then, and I still remember the old man with the white beard, whom we would call Abeil Kak, a pious soul indeed. I figure and find that those were not only the best people, but that time was also unmatchable in every respect. I miss that time and those people too. This advanced world that you call the “global village,” the “digital revolution,” that has all the facilities available, appears to me to be nothing less than a sinkhole. I crave to be again in that period with ‘tangas’ as a means of transportation, mud houses as a shelter, and meagre resources as a livelihood but never a dearth of tranquilly and solace. For a long time, I’ve been after it but found it nowhere. It’s true: Wordsworth is right, and I mean damn right, in his “Cuckoo,” when he mourns and screams for being too uneducated to decode what he could effortlessly during his childhood. Those childhood days that fled too fast.
During my postgraduate studies in the English department, we were taught the Prelude of Wordsworth, and the story that touched me deeply in that was the boat-stealing episode. I could easily relate to that of mine when I, along with some naughty kids, stole the shady, broken boat near that dam, where my maternal uncle would always find me playing cricket and beat me to pulp, not because of playing cricket but in his love. I was a nasty fellow who would untidy his clothes soon after they were bought. I was the apple of everyone’s eye. After all, I was bestowed with good looks. Nani still has the same say: “You’re the complete admirer of yourself, a perfect example of a narcissist.” She has so many related tales with which she makes her arguments strong. You know, she leaves me dumbfounded at times; where from has she accumulated so much knowledge? I guess from the radio, which always remains next to her pillow and cushion. She discusses and debates in detail about geopolitics, state governance, and so forth.
Anyhow, I’m sure you remember my boat-stealing episode, when he (my maternal uncle) came to you with a barrage of complaints against me, for he too knew and knew well that no one insinuates me more than your strange, unloving looks and thick, infuriating voice. I hope you can easily recall that day when I came from school with all my fingers cut. I remember, I told you I fell from the stairs; such a good liar was I. You picked me; I know that, but why you didn’t react—that was quite strange.
I was crafty and could easily forge your signature when my grades fell. Those teachers were very innocent; I guess they were very respectful towards you, which is why they would not like to call you to school to address all the complaints against me. I wish I could reach a small step in the honour and respect people still have for you.
Those high ankle white shoes you would buy for us from Jammu, I miss them, and I miss the half kg of Amulbutter pasted with a beautiful cocoon; no, it doesn’t bring that taste now or that smile and happiness too.
This Ramadhan, I would have hardly sat for a few minutes in the kitchen. I couldn’t stay long there; I would get flashbacks, recurring flashbacks, of when you, my sister, and I would eat together in that trami, you would love those green grinded chillies and would eat them with fervour. You know, sister was the sharpest of all; she would steal my piece of meat, as I never liked eating meat and pass intimidating looks for not uttering a word about it before you .
Can you recall? You’d have a strange love for foreign fishes and would tell mom to prepare them with reddish and spinach leaves in that pottery vessel; that too would taste unparallel.
I met your friend Gaffar uncle a few days ago at his shop. He has turned old now and often complains of having health issues; old age is tough to deal with. You know, I would rather prefer to die young, but who knows what destiny has in store for me? Gaffer uncle, reminded me of my childhood days when, on every day of Ramadan, I would take meat from him in that small back polythene bag. You know, I’d have the notion that he doesn’t take money from you; I’d think there is no money dealing between friends. You were his best friend, since you would spend a lot of time at his shop before buying mutton meat from him. If your memory allows, I asked you once why you sit on the wooden table for a long time before you take meat from him. You answered sagely; I was too young to understand that “time is a race, it belongs to none.” I didn’t then understand an iota of what these two lines meant.
It was in 2006, when I accompanied you to market, for you had to travel to Ganderbal to settle the family feud, and you gave me a 5 rupee paper note that used to have a tractor at its back, but I refused to take it soon after you bought some clean chestnuts from that vendor, who still sits near your friend’s shop and who sells books and newspapers; he too was dear to you, I know. They were actually three: Gaffar uncle, Muzaffar uncle, and Qadir uncle, who run a chemist’s shop and is a well-versed man with a BSC and LLB degree. He teaches me legal terms and sections of IPC and CRPC. He too misses you and tells me, “I haven’t seen a silent, well-read man like your dad.”
You remember, you would wear those white Force-10 shoes those days; you had a strange liking for them. It was the same day when you told me in a mild tone, “Take this 5-rupee note; you will miss me once I disappear for ever.” I do miss you, and badly now!
Spending Eid alone and buying items alone without your guidance makes me cry and weep and feel what your presence meant. I miss you, but I’m happy for you to tell me, “My son, go wherever you desire to go with raised head; for your father has never been dishonest in his affairs.” I know you would be enjoying yourself in the eternity; I love you. I know you are seeing me from somewhere, so I’m wishing you Eid Mubarak.
(Author is RK Columnist and can be reached on: [email protected])
