The Magic Wand

My first crush had been Fatty. How i admired the suave, quick thinking, self confident 'find outer'. In fact he had given me the courage to tackle dicey situations, so what if I was a child. Mr. Goon, the bumbling policeman was no match for him, never would be. My library teacher embodied Goon. She loved books as much as i did, but for some reason, she hated to lend the books to the children. She was so nasty, such a sour faced character that the children were petrified to even be in her class, leave alone ask for books. But even thru her, and hence via my love for books, i learnt a very valuable lesson.

It happened like this: One day browsing in the library, i discovered 'Anne Of Green Gables' and  was instantly hooked. Alas! My teacher thought otherwise. There i stood, a wee little thing, all of ten, my chin hardly reaching her desk, and i had the temerity to  choose something that was sooo beyond my years ?! She ordered me to pick a 'Noddy' or some other Enid Blyton. Though i loved Blyton, dearly, i stared back, my glasses glinting defiantly at her. Riled, she changed her mind, and told me, face thrust into mine, eyes glaring back, that i could keep the book. But. When i returned it, i had to tell her the story, as well as the meaning of any words, she chose to ask me.

Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, i nonetheless enjoyed the book, albeit going over each page for meanings i didn't know. My livid mom, threatened to go to the principal to complain about her, but petrified of the consequences, i restrained her. I entered the library, heart thumping so loudly i was sure she could hear it. There she sat, the embodiment of Scrooge ( the Christmas Carol one, certainly not my beloved 'Unca Scrooge Mcduck' ) Fingers crossed, i tried to hide behind the bookshelves, but alas, her eyes narrowed, lips pursed, she reached out a hand and drew me out. Then began the inquisition. As it progressed, i metamorphosed from a quivering bundle of nerves to a confident almost cocky figure, answering all her queries with a firm, if high pitched, voice. Feeling almost like Matilda vanquishing principal Trunchbull ( 'Matilda,' Roald Dahl) i stood my ground. Finally she backed off, teeth gnashing, bald pate glistening, directing her wrath at the poor soul whose turn was next. That day, i learnt to stand up for my rights, that might is not always right, and for these reasons,  the 'Anne' series occupies pride of place in my collection now.

She was awesome, Agatha Christie. Oh, how i adored 'Miss Marple' and loved Poirot wholeheartedly. Her books gave me a love for mystery. It opened doors that i hadn't even known existed. I  was on the outside, peering in, while i explored the human psych, vis a vis Christie. The whole household was in  an upheaval the  day my mum lost her precious diamond ear rings. My dear absent minded mum periodically had these spells wherein she misplaced stuff, which we then hunted for with great gusto, for it meant an icecream or two for all of us. But this time it was serious. As time passed, and they were not located, mum grew increasingly frantic. Then i got down to sleuthing. As Poirot would, i asked a few questions. When had she last worn them ? Two weeks ago was the testy reply. Where had she gone ? Had she returned very late? Which clothes had she been wearing ? The replies had been getting more and more terse, but at this last question her eyes lit up. "Oh, Of course !" she exclaimed slapping a hand to her forehead. Diving into her closet, all we could hear was incoherent mumbling from within, until she finally emerged triumphantly holdin aloft the said ear rings. Since it had been very late, she had slipped the ear rings into her dress pocket, intending to put them away the next morning.

Ah the 'Mills and Boon' phase of life. Was a boon to my hormone riddled teenage. Fortunately, there were no tall and dark and handsome types anywhere around, except in my dreams and so i progressed. To the world of Harry Potter. I had grown up with spells and elves and magic, but the magic these books brought into my life lasted seven years as i grew up dreaming big dreams, encouraged by all these fabulous people, both fictional and non, who enriched my life beyond measure. Enchanted with 'Scarlet', in love with 'Rhett Butler, i read Gone with the Wind as if my life depended on finishing it. Ah 'Roots'. Oh 'To kill A Mocking Bird'. No hero could however match the stature, in fact, i'm quite sure even my future husband will have a tough time measuring up to 'Mr. Darcy' of Pride and Prejudice. I so embibed Elizabeth Bennet, that it took my mum considerable patience to make sense of the old world English i started spouting, after reading it.

The world is my oyster now, as i dive into historical fiction. Hitler and the havoc he wrought on the Jews, their valient battles of survival as described in 'Exodus', The struggle for independance by the catholics in Ireland. The heroics and the violence that was the upbringing of Babur and the Mughul rulers of India.

Oh yes! Books have been the time machine which took me back and forth thru the ages. Oh, a last piece of advice, dear reader : Don't forget to smell the old tomes you own. That fragrance is magical, and not to be missed.  Books are the magic wand  i discovered, that helped me create my own magical world.

"So what if you are an only child," my mom often told me. "Books will be your companions. Your whole life."  I discovered that she was absolutely right.

Of Dads, Moms and Kids !

When is a woman most vulnerable ? When she is pregnant. I found that out the hard way. I had been happily sailing thru married life, on course, when the boat of life hit uncharted waters. One moment i was happily munching on deep fried prawns, the next i was holding my breath, clutching my hand to my mouth and racing off to the nearest washroom, like a cheesy heroine of a  B-grade movie. Something in the prawns, i announced to the smirking aunt in law, who sat next to me at the table. "Noooooo, beti !" was her knowing retort, " You !" she said accusingly almost, "Are in the family way. " As i frantically tried to shush her, my husband went from blue to purple to pink, as he realised the implication of what she was saying. We both sat stunned. " Don't believe her", i tried hissing to him, "It's just the prawns." But even as i was saying it, the waiter placed garlic chicken on his plate.  That did it ! I took off again, washroom wards as fast as the legs could go.

After that 'hit in the gut' feeling passed, i went from shock to disbelief to a strange contentment as i headed from denial to grudging acceptance. The hubby and i, we found ourselves sitting on the promenade of Marine Lines, watching sunsets and dreaming, talking animatedly, or sharing a nariyal paani, or just sitting, my head nestled against his shoulder, his arm around me, something we had'nt done since our engagement, a good six years ago. What really made me rub my hands in glee, was the role reversal at home. The transformation of 'Peter Proud,' i called it, as my husband stood at my beck and call, handing out basins, for the times i threw up, to glasses of water to my spectacles, even the TV remote. " Way to go,"  My friends, grrreen with envy, told me every so often.

Confined to the bed in the first few weeks, i fretted and fumed. Unused to this inertia, hyperactive me, chaffed at the bit. "All i have to do is go from bathroom, to i pad, to TV, the whole day,"  I grumbled to my patient husband. Wordlessly he beckoned me to the window. I peered to where his finger was pointing. All i could see was a crow, sitting in its nest. " I've been watching that bird. In four hours, it has shifted it's position, about twice." I should have retorted, "I'm not a crow !" Instead, I found myself crowing, "That's what we mom's are all about ! She's my hero ! "

As the stomach went from taut to bulgy, i went from confident to cantankerous. "See Karishma kapoor, who would believe she's got two kids," my hubby tried placating me. Turning my gaze from the mirror i glared darkly at him " So you don't find me desirable, anymore, huh ? Why can't you say so directly." As the poor guy retreated hurriedly behind his paper, i waddled off kitchenwards, a bitterly spoken, "quack quack' left in my wake.

But most days, i was in a world of my own. Carrying a real live human being inside you, knowing i'ts 'your baby'  in the truest sense of the word, is the biggest high in the world. I found myself observing children more closely. Cherubic ones in the park, where i strolled these days, were many, but even the kids playing on the streets caught my eye. One baby i almost picked up, was playing on a pile of stones lying on the street corner ! Aghast i looked at it, the great black eyes looking innocently into mine, it's little fingers and  bare feet, grimy and red. Only the sight of the mother, uncaring, sitting nearby, got me enraged. Do such babies survive, even, in these days of myriad infections? Or maybe they are the sturdy ones, who have an inborn immunity towards disease.

The next day, i was near an overbridge, when i saw three little boys, babies merely, ranging from one to three, holding hands and walking along. Following them, was a dog, a biggish stray, wagging its tail and trying to mingle with them. A little afraid, they tried shooing it away, "Ja, Ja ! " Shouted the eldest, was he even three?, pulling  the other two along. In an attempt to get rid of the dog, they hurriedly climbed the steps of the overbridge, the littlest one, resorting to crawling up it with both hands, and feet. As the dog easily climbed with them, the eldest one, seeing the fear on the other's face, turned, stood arms' akimbo and shouted " Teli ma ka ........ ! Hut ! " Did i hear right ? Good Lord ! i was half laughing, as i realised that he had just spoken the f word in lisping Hindi ! " He hardly knew how to talk, but he knew how to cuss.

So i entered a magical world. One dominated by kids and all things kiddie. My partner in crime, my husband was a 'changed' man,  from hard nosed business man, and dapper husband, he went to impulsive shopper, one who wanted to gift me the world, just because i was carrying his baby, and mushy father to be.

Having a baby, i knew was the best thing that had ever happened to us.

Hen pecked ? Who Me ???

There they all were. All ready to board the aircraft. All five of them. Dad, mom, grandma and two kids. Mum was dressed in western style clothing, pants and loose top, a trifle uncomfortable, she was so used to the Indian boon of a dress, the salwaar kameez. Pants ? Tight ones, specially, were so well... tight no? specially in the lower regions. With grandma casting diapproving looks at this transformation of her 'bahu ', she had to appear unconcerned, nonchalant even. Patting her newly coloured hair, with a sigh, she settled down into her seat.

A short distance away, sat her beaming husband. Everything was so under control. The family was excited. They were flying to Europe for the summer vacations, for the first time. After 'dropping' grandma at his brothers' home in London, they would proceed for their vacation.

The announcement to board had them on their feet in an instant. Running to join the queue, the man somersaulted over his mother's legs, then furiously glared at his wife for being slow. Hadn't he told her, they needed to board first, to  get hold space for their bulging hand baggage. Once on board, the luggage, kids and granny (still rubbing her sore legs) ensconced in their proper place, he was beaming once again. During the flight, when food was served, out came a plastic bag. Food that was not consumed disappeared surruptiously into its depths.

The  old lady across the aisle tried sleeping to drown the kids voices, as they ran to and fro. "Hey, young fellar, will you keep still," she tried reasoning with him. "Sorry ma'am, he is too restless, his first trip abroad, you see." the father tried explaining, apologetically.  The mum merely gathered him in her lap, and softly, slowly lulled him to sleep. Peace prevailed.

Ah. The hen pecked husband abroad. With family. On a vacation. What's the betting, first into the flight, first off it, first into the bus to the terminal, first off it, never mind granny's feet, kids or bulging bags. The one peering lifting the flaps of the luggage window over the conveyor, trying to see if his bags are next ? Yup ! Him.

You will recognise him dear reader, when you see the guy who runs around arranging his  family around the 'sights ' shouting, "photo khichon, photo khichon !" You will hear him as he anxiously queries, "When, toilet stop ? " of the bus driver, adding hurriedly "For my child. " You will observe that he closes his teenage child's eyes, when he sees a couple kissing on the streets of gay 'Paris.' He will carry the camera and the money belt, while his wife will lug along the kids and the other gear. He is chivalry personified as he lunges for the only available seat at the airport, then surrenders it to his wife, while he goes exploring the 'scenery.' He will chuckle to himself, as he hauls up an uncooperative foreigner, using the choicest expletives. In Hindi.

The guy who sucks in his stomach, and feigns an accent, when addressed by the pretty air hostess ? You guessed it. When she smiles indulgently at him and states, "Married, travelling with family" he will look around and reply, "Who ? Me?" in an injured tone of voice.

The only guy, who will help an old  British lady to locate and board her flight, on the interminable Heathrow airport, never mind that he risks being the last one to board his own ? Yes. Indian.
     

  

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.

Fat Returns

It was just awakening. This huge, humongous city. The area around the market was already abuzz with people who had been up ere the sun. Trucks loaded with crates of chickens, squawking indignantly as they were hung upside down on bicycles, legs tied together, filled the narrow lane leading to the market. Vegetable vendors preparing to tackle prospective customers, bargained noisily adding to the din. Buyers and sellers, urchins and beggars milled around.

The band of boys nimbly made their way thru the chaos. Dressed alike in shorts and tees, their heavy running shoes in place, they dodged the fisher women, standing, seeking transport to the fish market. Their load of fish kept on melting ice,  their hands incessantly shooing away the pesky crows that swooped in for a fish or two, they chattered away in Marathi., the local dialect.

They were out for a run. The Promenade just a short distance away, they had been lured to go for a run, being promised a breakfast of their choice, at the posh restaurant, along the promenade. "You'd think we never get enough exercise during college hours, huh ?" bitterly spoke the heaviest among them. " Ah, yes! you do sometimes climb the stairs, when the lift is not working, " laughed his lean friend, easily keeping pace with him. "Look at that audacious crow!"  a third called out. " Maybe that's the way we should fish too," he smirked, pointing at a cab loaded with fish, being hotly pursued by a crow, who had almost managed to peck  out a fish while flying alongside the speeding car. "Let's have a race," his friend replied, Knowing he could easily beat the other three. "No way !" the fat one balked. "I don't even want to walk. Let's take a cab." But the macho amongst them had spied a group of pretty joggers, and would not take no for an answer. Not only would he have the pleasure of showing off his running prowess before the girls, he would look like a winner by outrunning the others The market having been left behind, he ran on ahead, egging them on. As the girls, kept giving him side long glances, he became more vociferous, " C'mon boys, pick up your feet ! Old ladies could walk faster than you guys," Grumbling and moaning, the fat one followed, more aware of his panting heart and  protesting body, than the girls.

Hearing swiftly approaching footsteps,he turned to look behind. On their heads were amazing loads. Six, no eight water melons, each easily weighing two to three kilos, he swiftly calculated. A total of twenty upwards kilos, placed in baskets on their heads they jogged along, slowly, the two men. Clad in half lungis, and singlets, worn chappals on their feet, the men were puny looking, only their arms bulged with muscles. They were the 'mathadis', the daily wage labourers, the fruits of their labour, a few paltry rupees, at the end of the day. Stunned, 'fatso' was ashamed for a split second, then chagrined. "They must be so healthy, this is their exercise, this  job their wage earner. " By now the others had gone far ahead. He hesitated, then resumed his pace.

When the three others reached the end of the promenade, they were greeted by a cheery wave from a figure who sat on the rocks at lands' end. " What !" exclaimed the fit one. "How did you get here, you.. you cheat! " then seeing his beatific smile, he burst out laughing, "You cabbed it didn't you, fatso ! he exclaimed. "No. " he said. " I got a lift. From her. " He pointed to the long legged beauty, doing the Surya namaskar. Disbelief written large on their faces, they berated him for lying as well. Holding up his hands in protest, he explained, "It happened like this. "  Seeing the laborers, he decided that he would indeed take a cab and give them a lift. He called out to them to stop, asked them where they were going and hailed a passing cab. As they were getting in, the girl who had been walking behind  them, heard him, and asked if she could come along too. When getting off, she had clicked his photograph on her cell and paid the fare, telling him she was a journalist and this was just what she needed to write about. As his friends still scoffed at him, she finished her exercise and headed back towards them, " Bye, take care, " she said waving to him in passing.

"Life can be so wonderful sometimes. Getting up early was so worth it. " He grinned at the crest fallen faces of his friends. "Learn from the guru," he advised them sagely, munching away happily on his croissant at breakfast. "Never be in a rush to do things. Never run, when you can walk."

Starry, Story Nights

Grandma's tales. The image these words bring to mind is that of a fond grandmother, sitting surrounded by a host of grandchildren, listening with rapt attention to stories handed down thru the ages. True. Of any other grandma. Also mine. Only her tales were of a different class altogether. How so, you may ask. Well.

" I was playing with my friends. And it was the dead of night," Here her voice would lower dramatically. Head bent, eyes piercingly holding our gaze, she would continue, " Hide and seek. In the lanes of our mohalla." Stopping for effect, even as we kids hung onto every word, she carried on, " I was the den, i had to find all my friends. I darted back and forth, listening intently, my hands held out in front. Pitch dark the night, like i was blind, i felt my way. I found three of them and was hunting for the last one. Suddenly i heard her a small stifled giggle. I stretched out my hand towards the deserted house, and cried " Got you! " Triumphantly, i held her by the hand and dragged her out. I pulled her towards the others. Then stopped, as  we neared the lighted courtyard where my friends stood. The shrieks stopped me in my tracks. My friends, standing and talking one moment, turned tail and fled the next. Gone all of them. Perplexed, scared, i turned to look at what they were pointing, with trembling fingers, before they fled." Here she would stop. "Go and have your milk. Then I'll finish my story." Turning a deaf ear to our pleas, she would wait as every one of us, gulped down our night caps and raced back. Grimly she would start, " I turned and what i saw made my blood run cold. I was holding a hand. Just that. A hand." Chuckling at our spell bound faces, she continued. " The body, stood behind. A blood soaked face, a body covered from head to toe in white. "Do give me a hand  (here her voice turned gruff) it said, "The voice passing thru my body like an electric current.  As i bolted from there, the ghostly laugh rang in my ears, as it does to this very day. Never again have i played hide and seek. Ever. " The story ended here with the kids begging, beseeching her to tell them it was not true.

Or this one.

"I was only seventeen. It was my first visit to Ahmedabad. I was strolling wide eyed, thru the streets, when i heard the commotion. A bull, big  and black was running amok, down the street. People were scattering all over, trying to save themselves from its menacing horns.  As it charged down the street towards me, i stood rooted with fear, the mad gleam in its eyes hypnotising me. The spell was broken, as a young man burst upon the scene. "Run !" he commanded me. Galvanised i took to my heels. The three of us charged down the lane, myself, the young man and the bull. As we neared the corner, the man, turned to face the bull, grabbed it by its horns and propelled it round the bend, then jumped out of the way. As i collapsed panting on the kerb, he bent over me, helped me up and asked, " Are you all right ?" As her audience of little girls sighed, clasped their hands and asked "What happened then ? " Coyly she would reply, " I fell in love! Wouldn't you? I married him. Ask him. there he is. " As the audience turned, entranced towards grandpa, trying in vain to hide behind his book, he would hotly deny the whole thing, protesting indignantly, while grandma, eyes twinkling, would egg them on to get his version of the incident.

Had enough ? No ? then try this one for size:

"Get me the rosewood box from my drawer," she would command. From within it she withdrew an empty packet of chips, worn and old, then held it up, carefully for us to see. " This empty wrapper saved my life." As we settled in to hear and savor yet another of Grandma's gems, she continued. " I was standing under a tree near Chowpatty, twenty years ago. It was a hot summer evening, a very windy one and we had gone for a drive, your mother and I. After a stroll and a yummy 'baraf gola', i was waiting by the side of the kerb, for your mum, who had gone to get the car from the car park. I was looking around when a youngster threw this packet on the street. I asked him to pick it up and throw it in the dustbin, nearby. Defiantly, he refused. As a gasp of disbelief arose from us, she carried on, "So i went to pick it up. As i moved away and bent towards it, i heard a thud behind me. Hearing cries from behind me, i turned around to see the boy, who had been sitting on the kerb, lying flat on the street, unconscious, his friends milling around him, a crowd gathering swiftly to see what had happened. On the exact spot where i had been standing, a big branch of a tree had fallen. The youngster who had defied me had taken the full impact of the branch on his shoulders and was flattened. Had i been there i would have surely been killed. To this day, i don't know what happened to that poor boy." As we rose to hug her goodnight, she sighed and put the packet back into the box.

Believe her ? I did, then. It taught me a valuable lesson on saving the environment. One i never forgot.

  

Of Women. And Men.

"Why does she have to spend most of her evenings here ? " the old man demanded of his wife. " How much you women can talk, " was his added admonishment. His wife smiled indulgently. She knew him so well. Seventy five years of married life, and there wasn't a thing about him that she didn't know. Bed ridden, he more so than her, there life was confined to the four walls of their opulent home. The children and grand children, put in their mandatory appearance each morning before hurrying on with their lives. Except for the occasional visit from a long lost relation and the television, which they just saw, for both of them heard little, they didn't have much to look forward to. Except her widowed friends' visits.

"She is our only contact with the world, you know that you look forward to her visits too, " she chided gently. He only snorted in return, but if she didn't come for the next two, three days, he would inevitably ask if all was well with her. So  they spent time together, in the evening of their lives, reminiscising about the glory of the old days, and the decadence of the present one. "I saw my husband for the first time, on our marriage night." the old lady would say, looking fondly at him. "See, we've lasted for seventy five years together. Life has been good. " She would smile. "Nowadays, the girls don't want to marry until they are twenty seven !" Her friend would exclaim. "Why my eldest was ten, almost, and my three others born by the time i was that age." her friend would retort. " Can't hold a candle to you girls, either, you were so good looking. " he would put in slyly. "Sorry, are !" he would  hurriedly add.

Indeed they had had a long 'innings' together. Together, they were complete. A whole. Each looking to the other, in sickness and in health. Two operations for hip replacement, osteoporosis, diabetes and numerous complications were battled with. Yet, with his wife beside him, he fought back, his will to  live stronger than any of his ailments. When he opened his eyes every morning, his eyes would settle on her, sleeping on the bed across the room. Approaching his hundredth birthday, he worried that he would die and then who would look after her. He would voice his concern to all his  offspring, pleading with them to "look to your mother" after he died.

Then one day it happened. She died. In her sleep. When he awoke that morning, he found the room full of mourners. When he realised what had happened, he grieved. For days, he was in a daze, a man so bereft, so berieved, he just existed. A shell of his former self. He stopped talking, stopped eating, but death was unmerciful. It passed him by. Slowly he recovered. In turns he would be sad, then strangely joyous, as if a load had been lifted from his head. Maybe, because he didn't have to worry about her anymore.

She came to see him one day. The best friend. Sitting silently, awkwardly, she tried to find the right words of grief, of condolence. Then giving up, his sense of hearing defeating her, she merely clasped his hand, then left. He hardly ever saw her again.

After her visit, he was brooding for some days, unusually quiet.

"I want to marry again." He spoke softly, but all conversation in the room stopped. Looking at his entire family, assembled for his birthday, he repeated his words. At first, a small ripple of laughter went around the room. Then seeing that he was serious, his eldest son went up to him. "Father ? Why ? Are we not family enough ?" he asked. "It's not that. Nothing to do with you. I'm alone. I need a woman. Not that i want babies with her, " was his  brave, if foolhardy reply." I just need someone to  share my life with." Looking at the shocked faces around the room, his son rose to his feet, clasped  his dad's hand for a moment, then said a quiet, "We'll see. Let's call for the cake. "

They looked at him nonplussed. Then gradually, the conversation resumed in the room. They clustered around each other, catching up with each other, discussing their lives with each other. The old man sat in his corner, his little great grand child, looking up at him with great attention, as he slowly fed her bits of his cake.  Only the occasional side long glance, by one or the other of his progeny betrayed the storm that had been quelled so adroitly.