New Stories, of Old Men

This is the story of an old man. Someone you wouldn't notice otherwise. Frail, walks with a limp, and feels awkward whenever he is being spoken to. But then, you might notice him for his smile. A half-shy, heart-felt smile that lights up his pock-marked face and wizened eyes. I have known him for years now. As I sift through memories dating back decades, I find a man who would let his emotions come to the surface rather than smothering them in. He would grumble, grudge and even yell at times. Over the years, his anger has given way to meek acceptance, and his defiance to helplessness. He has gone numb. And no, not “Comfortably numb”!

This is the story of an old man. You wouldn't get to meet him. Unless you go to that dark room and make a conscious effort to look for someone who is oblivious of his own existence. He sleeps, sleeps for the greater part of the day. Sleeps away, and as I watch him sleep, memories take over. Even a few years back, he had been a mighty old man. There were times when he had even come across as self-obsessed; a couple of notches above the ‘normal’ mark. And then I saw him losing it all. Dementia they called it. And I saw him withering away; all that was left was a shell and a fragile one at that. The rest went to sleep, perhaps forever.

And now, the story of an old woman. She still smiles, even though that faint smile fails to mask the palpable sadness in her eyes. I miss the ‘khichudi’ she used to cook on special occasions. Dollops of ‘ghee’ and dollops of love – that’s what used to go into making it. I have had ‘khichudi’ on various occasions later on, cooked to perfection but somehow that flavor was missing. She used to be one jovial woman and her laughter was infectious – would translate into a smile on your face. That laughter is gone, marks of defeat loom large.

And much as I love them, I don’t want to meet them. I don’t want to be left interacting with shadows of their former selves. For the people I knew are lost forever.