Life! The Great Leveller

This time he was scared. He lay on his bed, in his room. The one place that was so him. That belonged to him, from the worn much beloved sofa, to the ledge by the window, his eyes swept across the room, as if he were seeing it for the first time. The bookcase housed his precious collection of books, authors that he had grown up with, that had entranced him. From the classics, to the historical fiction, that he had so loved and treasured. On the walls hung the masterpiece, a copy of 'Creation.' He never tired of studying it, each time discovering some nuance to it that captivated him. That is why he had to own it, even if it was only a copy. To one side, the side with the windows, lay his guitar. The endless hours of passionate music, that transported him to the skies and beyond. Those nights, when the raindrops pattering on his roof, the dark monsoon clouds, towering over the city, while he painted them, were emblazoned in his memories.

How had he lived to be so old, he wondered. Tucked in his bed,  his life played out before him like a motion picture. He concentrated hard to remember his mothers' face, a good seventy years ago, when he was twenty, a callow youth. Strangely, he remembered best her voice, as she sang while doing her household chores. The smell of her, when as a child, she tucked him in bed. These were far more poignant, than events, he associated with her. After her death, his father had retreated into a world of his own, while he roamed the world, leading a bohemian lifestyle, the remnants of which stayed with him, in that he loved his leisure as much as he loved his work. Ah, Paris. The city that he never tired of going to. The city that he had romanced, the fine dining, the stylish girls, who had brightened his life. The Indian girl, he had mistook to be a Parisian, had brought Paris into his home, when she married him and came back to India with him.

Arm in arm, they had wandered the streets of Paris. With her vast knowledge of art, the city, she introduced him to a world he had known existed but never found. The small inns, the museums, the galleries, the meeting of east and west had been explosive. Until the accident.

He had driven the car that night, the drive to the hill station, was always fraught with danger, but he had driven carefully. Their little son, strapped in the seat behind was asleep. His curls, falling over his forehead, long lashes falling on silken cheeks, this baby was their greatest gift.

The avalanche was heralded by the first great stone, that raced down the hill and fell on the car cruising below, smashing into its roof. The three occupants were buried before, they even realised what had happened.

When the rescuers came, they found that miraculously, two of them were still alive. The mother had in death, crouched over the child, saving his life, even while her own was snuffed out.

Life. Had to carry on. A single father, he returned home, haunted by memories, but too busy being a parent to brood, except when he was alone, his son fast asleep in his cot. Tough times, but with the help of his father, who had offered to stay with him, temporarily at first, but permanently afterwards, he had coped. "This too shall pass, son," his father often said to him. "This too shall pass." It did. But he never returned to Paris.

In bringing up his son, he discovered his own father. The two men bonded, at first out of neccessity, then increasingly out of love and respect. His father mothered his son, while he worked to build up their lives. When he had died, he and his son now a youth himself, had grieved  together, helped each other to overcome their loss.

The heart attack came, when he least expected it too. But his fathers' words ringing in his ears, he had overcome it. After all, his son was getting married the next day. Now ten years later,  it had struck again. Did he have the will to get over it this time ? He didn't know.

"Dad ! Dad ! Wake up. You are going to be fine. I want you to be fine. We've some unfinished business to take care of, so i'm not letting you lie in this bed for long."

Four months later, he sat having coffee and croissants at the table by the street. The Eiffel Tower gleamed in the background. "Indeed, life was a great leveller. It gave back, even as it took away," he thought, a small smile playing on his lips, as he saw her coming towards him, her auburn curls bouncing behind her, her small arms stretched out to him. Yes, she was the splitting image of his wife, this little grand daughter of his. Her mum, speaking rapidly in French, was towed along with her as the child continued to run towards him.

Death could wait.