The Journey After, by Rakesh
His face bears a thousand lines, like a map through which Ataabul traces the path to return to his yesterday. His eyes are moist. Many questions seem alive in them, rising as if from deep inside his turbulent heart. The walls of the new house have not been plastered yet. The threshold is without a door. Ataabul sits beside it, his back to it, his legs folded under him. He is wearing a white kurta pyjama. Light is flooding in from the door-less threshold, hiding his face in darkness, loosing itself in the grey walls of the house.
Ataabul is around 45 years old. His little daughter is walking around the room. Her doll house has broken, but she has brought it with her to their new house, even as her friends have all got left behind. From time to time, she halts in front of it, picks something up, tries to piece something together, puts it back in its place, and resumes her quiet circling of the room.
Ataabul looks in her direction and says, almost to himself, “It will be a long while before those days return.” Ataabul's wife sits in the other corner of the room. Her withdrawn face doesn't reveal her questions, or whether she can hear her husband's silent mutterings.
The journey to the edge of the city, and then beyond it to Ram Park, in a tempo filled with things from the house which lay in the centre of the city, was filled with the resolve to begin afresh, again. They had reached here in the middle of the day. The roof of the house had not yet been laid, and Ataabul, after unloading the tempo and arranging everything along the four walls of their new home, and gone to the market to buy cement sheets. He covered the house with these. The walls and the bare floor found a roof, but the household things lay as they had been placed the first day – their backs to the walls, as if still trying to get used to their new surroundings.
Ataabul sat thinking about his setting age, and rising responsibilities. His other daughter, who was preparing fish in the kitchen, was almost his height now. And his son's feet had grown enough to fit into his father's shoes. Grown accustomed to the proximity of those who lived near him, in his neighbourhood, Ataabul sat feeling like a vacant space, wondering how he now had to begin filling himself again. His wife and children were with him, as was everything he owned and had gathered up in his house. But something had got left behind in the home of yesterday. What was that? Ataabul tried hard to figure this out in his mind. Something kept calling him from inside him, but he couldn't locate the sound. He turned towards his wife and said, “What can we do if something has got left behind! It doesn't matter. We will think of something new, again.”
Someone walked to the door and said, “Is everything alright? Any problems?” Ataabul's beetle stained teeth shone through his lips as he smiled and replied, “No, there is no problem”. With a simplicity he finished, “We will see what comes our way.”
The slanting rays of the sun were receding from the house now. Ataabul pieced together, for the umpteenth time in the day, another morsel of courage from inside him. Time may have slipped out of his hands for now, but he knew he still had the capacity to bring it back into his home.
Ataabul looks in her direction and says, almost to himself, “It will be a long while before those days return.” Ataabul's wife sits in the other corner of the room. Her withdrawn face doesn't reveal her questions, or whether she can hear her husband's silent mutterings.
The journey to the edge of the city, and then beyond it to Ram Park, in a tempo filled with things from the house which lay in the centre of the city, was filled with the resolve to begin afresh, again. They had reached here in the middle of the day. The roof of the house had not yet been laid, and Ataabul, after unloading the tempo and arranging everything along the four walls of their new home, and gone to the market to buy cement sheets. He covered the house with these. The walls and the bare floor found a roof, but the household things lay as they had been placed the first day – their backs to the walls, as if still trying to get used to their new surroundings.
Ataabul sat thinking about his setting age, and rising responsibilities. His other daughter, who was preparing fish in the kitchen, was almost his height now. And his son's feet had grown enough to fit into his father's shoes. Grown accustomed to the proximity of those who lived near him, in his neighbourhood, Ataabul sat feeling like a vacant space, wondering how he now had to begin filling himself again. His wife and children were with him, as was everything he owned and had gathered up in his house. But something had got left behind in the home of yesterday. What was that? Ataabul tried hard to figure this out in his mind. Something kept calling him from inside him, but he couldn't locate the sound. He turned towards his wife and said, “What can we do if something has got left behind! It doesn't matter. We will think of something new, again.”
Someone walked to the door and said, “Is everything alright? Any problems?” Ataabul's beetle stained teeth shone through his lips as he smiled and replied, “No, there is no problem”. With a simplicity he finished, “We will see what comes our way.”
The slanting rays of the sun were receding from the house now. Ataabul pieced together, for the umpteenth time in the day, another morsel of courage from inside him. Time may have slipped out of his hands for now, but he knew he still had the capacity to bring it back into his home.
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