By Paramjit Singh Bakhshi
The sun was just peeping out when the old man came on to the balcony. Apart from an old rocking chair, a small marble topped table and a few flower pots, it was largely empty. It was his favorite place in the small flat that he lived in, and he liked it uncluttered. Unlike other balconies this one had a low guard wall. Jacques had requested the builder to keep it low to enable him to see far even when seated on a chair.
“One day you will fall over and die Jacques”, Zack, the builder, an old friend had warned.
“I have given God enough chances to take me. If he has kept me alive till now, it is unlikely that I will fall off from my own house”, Jacques had replied jovially.
Zack knew his friend had indeed led a life of adventure and taken many a risl in his checkered life. So instead of arguing with him had quietly obliged.
For Jacques the days of taking chances were long over. He was seventy and for the past six years had led a sedentary life. In his younger years he wouldn’t have termed his current existence, a life at all. But as he had aged, Jacques had acknowledged that one gets suckered into situations one never imagines. Once extremely impulsive, life had now slowed him down to such an extent that he barely managed his most basic needs. His life now, he reflected, comprised merely of meaningless moments and unending duties.
Jacques rarely even knew what day the of the week it was, unless somebody visited him to share a cup of coffee or a drink, and mentioned it during the course of the conversation. He was more aware of the dates though, especially at the beginning and at the end of the month. On the first of the month, his office would send over his monthly pension through a messenger and he would immediately sit down and allocate the money for the necessities. In thick brown envelopes, which he had suitably marked, he would put aside the money for the weekly groceries, for the medical outlay for his wife and the little bit left over he would put in an envelope marked “Joy”. This money went towards buying some liquor, a few packets of cigarettes, a book or a DVD, which somebody would sometimes recommend, and an occasional trinket which caught his eye. As the days went by and the envelopes grew lighter, he would know that the end of the month was around. There would always be some money left over by the time the next pension came. He would put this in an envelope marked ‘savings”. In the beginning he had wondered what he was saving for. Both his children were well settled and lived far away in different cities. They had no need for the pitiable amount in the envelope. But then he thought that in spite of earning well, they might be spending a lot too. They hardly ever called him, except to occasionally inquire about their bed ridden mother. Perhaps it would go towards paying for our burials, and the travelling expenses for the children if they came at all, he thought and kept adding to the amount in the envelope.
Every morning on awakening he would come to the balcony to catch the morning sun and breathe in the fresh air coming down the mountains. Today was no different except that he sat there much longer thinking about his kids. A dream had refreshed his memory of them. He remembered them as small children, and he thought that for so many years his life had revolved around them completely. And prior to that he had devoted himself to Nora. Now of course none of them bothered about him. He sighed and got up from the chair. Opening the front door, he picked up the newspaper, lying on the doormat. He left it on the table in the foyer. He never read the news in the morning. He had never done so, not even in his working years. Never in the morning, because he felt that it filled him with unnecessary angst. In the evening, he would read the sports page with some absorption, and lightly skim over the rest. There was a universe inside him which demanded his attention more than the events taking place in the wide world. Politics and finance bored him thoroughly, but he loved romance and he loved travel. Being in any one place or in a static relationship always got to him. It is love and excitement I have looked for, pondered Jacques, and have had paid dearly for not being able to accept the compromise that life largely is. But compromise, he had always known, killed the spirit. Or the soul as some called it. Would his life had been easier if he had, like many men he knew, spent his evenings guzzling beer and watching soccer on the Telly. Or formula One racing. Then I would have got a daily dose of harmless excitement on the television and my life would have been lived on an even keel, he mused. I could have even gone on an annual holiday to different places, instead of changing jobs and residences. Yet somehow, he had never abandoned Nora. It would have been easier if I had he thought.
The doorbell rang as Jacques was making his morning cup of tea. He knew it would be the nurse come to care for his wife. He opened the door and found to his astonishment; a young girl dressed in a mini skirt.
“Hi” she greeted, adding, “I am the replacement for Giselle.”
“Why, where has Giselle gone?” He asked. Giselle was the frumpish nurse he had gotten used to. She rarely needed his help when she went about her duties looking after his wife.
“She is on a month’s leave from today”, said the girl.
Well, Giselle should have told me that he mused. Nobody ever tells me anything nowadays. His world now ran without his assent. But still it would have been nice to know. I can’t take surprises anymore. Though this one is a cheerful change he thought.
“Why aren’t you in a uniform,'' he blurted out before thinking. Actually, he did like her in what she wore. And she was pretty too.
“Miseur, this is not a hospital, is it? “She said with a hint of mockery in her eyes. Oh, she had pluck, he thought. He liked people with spunk and women seemed to have more of it than men.
“No, it certainly isn’t and you my pretty lady are most welcome''. He smiled and waved her in with a flourish of his hand.
He caught a whiff of her floral perfume as she brushed past him coming in. That is the nice thing about women he thought. They smell nice.
“I am making tea and if you sit down here,'' he said pointing to the sofa in the lounge, “I will bring you a cup”.
“I don't drink tea but a cup of black coffee will be nice,'' she purred lowering herself gently on to the couch.
Yes, she would be a coffee drinker, Jacques thought as he went to the kitchen. The young now all drink coffee. It is more fashionable. Maybe because all the initial dating takes place in coffee houses, before it moves to restaurants and bars. Tea shops are down market and only the old and the poor frequent them. She is helpless in the world she is in, he thought and the resentment he felt for having to concoct an additional brew subsided.
He carried the coffee and a few cookies to her on a small tray.
“You make a good cup of coffee,” she said with a smile, after a sip.
“Yes, I do, taught myself how to make a decent cup”, he said. Oh God how I wish I was younger, he thought. It would have been nice to smell her perfume up close.
“So, what do you do Mr…………., “she asked, suddenly embarrassed that she had asked a personal question before the introductions were done.
The introductions over, Jacques replied, “Yvette, I am a retired man, and don’t do anything. Except reminiscence, about old times.” The last bit was a lie but Jacques now cared little about the truth. His being truthful for long had made little difference to anybody around him. His family, he knew would have been more comfortable with lies told kindly, rather than his blunt truths.
“What did you do before? she persisted.
“I have retired from life, dearie. But the professions I have left, are many. I was a soldier, a trader, a lecturer and a writer. But my pension comes from my last employment as a night shift supervisor at our local garment factory.
“I knew you were a soldier. I just knew it. And something tells me that you were brave. You must have won a medal. No. “she screeched delighted that her guess had been somewhat right.
“No sweetheart. I was a coward as a soldier. In fact, I left the army in disgrace. But perhaps I was brave in other ways which don’t matter at all’, he confessed. It always easier to bare your heart out to strangers he mused. If I get close to this beauty, I will start having secrets from her too. Wanting to end the conversation before they became too familiar, he led her to his wife’s room.
“Nora,” he called out to his wife. “This is Yvette, she is the substitute for Giselle.
“I can hear you so there is no need to shout. I heard everything you both talked about,” retorted Nora who stared nonstop at the new nurse.
It made Yvette uncomfortable but Nora kept looking at her. When she finally shifted her gaze, she screamed at Jacques.
“She must be the new whore you have brought home under the guise of looking after me. You bastard you are still the same even in dotage. “
Jacques was embarrassed. That changed to alarm when he turned to look at Yvette. Her ears and cheeks had turned red and tears were streaming down her face. Before he could react, Yvette turned and ran out of the room. He followed her panting and caught her wrist just as she opened the front door. She looked at him bleary eyed and shrugged her shoulders. He let go of her hand and she walked away slowly without once turning back.
In utter defeat, he walked back to the balcony and fell into the rocker. He could still hear Nora screaming and his head seemed to throb uncontrollably. Nora’s lack of love and his search for it had undone them both. Holding his head, he started pacing on the balcony.
Hours later later, a couple of young lovers walking the deserted street by the block saw the twisted body of an old man on the sidewalk. The skull had cracked open and blood mixed with grey matter formed a round orange circle around his head. It somewhat resembled a “stop” light.
By Paramjit Singh Bakhshi
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