Dichotomy
It has been eight months since he was posted to the remote hill station, far away from the warmth of his home. Winters had turned to summers, but it all seemed the same to him. Hours wouldn’t pass without him thinking about his wife or his little boy. The call of duty was such that he couldn’t take leave, how much so ever he may long. Being a police officer for more than twenty years, he had developed a strictness in his life. That strictness helped in dealing with the atrocities he saw. That strictness would not soften even when he would be with his kid.
He was patrolling the premises of a high-profile Minister. Standing in attention, wearing the uniform and a gun, he scanned each face that passed by. Faces, he could tell so much from them. But today, in all the faces, there were only two lovely faces he searched for. Unable to dismiss his longing, he chided himself on being distracted, on not fulfilling his duty earnestly. He decided to stroll along the tree-clad road. His eyes mindlessly followed the shadows on the charcoaled ground. A sound of a bell broke his monologue. Bell. It reminded him of his wife praying in the morning, and ringing the bell at its closure. Sometimes she would use the same bell to wake him up. He looked around to find the originator of the sound. It was an ice-cream seller, standing across the road, with his wobbly ice-cream cart. Two children were perched on the cart, one with her head inside the hollow of the cart. How much excitement a piece of ice can generate! Such are kids, easily pleased, easily hurt.
Standing there, he was struck by another memory. Memory. For him memories were never old, memories were his present, he played them on repeat, he lived on them. This time he played the one when on one hot day in June, his little boy had purchased five ice-creams and eaten them all together, not even sharing one with their home keeper’s kid. How much he had scolded him for that. How his four-year old son had just stood with his head held in shame. How his little soldier had stopped eating ice-cream after that. How he wished to go back in time and give him a tight hug.
Not realizing that he had been moving, he was surprised to find himself across the road, standing next to the ice-cream cart. Slowly, he turned to the vendor, and said “One orange bar please”. Orange bar was his little soldier’s favorite ice-cream.
The train was bound for ten past 7 in the evening. It was already half past six, and the mother-daughter had a lot of distance left to walk. The little girl was very excited, for she was going to meet her maternal grandma and uncle after so long!
The mother had no luggage in her hand, nor did the daughter. It wasn’t because they didn’t need it, but because carrying it would have been difficult. They just walked, hand in hand, talking, chattering, laughing. The little girl who hardly reached the waist of her mother asked her mother, “Maa, have I grown taller since yesterday?” “Yes, Billu, I think you have. But you got to eat well if you want to grow each day.” The girl would bombard her mother with questions and remarks of all sorts, “Maa, let us build a flying train”, “Maa, how do I know that I am not in a dream?”. Sometimes with patience, sometimes with wonder, her mother satiated her with an apt reply. Sometimes the mother herself would throw a googly at her lamb, and then be enthralled by what her monster would say! Despite the long distance, the race with time, or the honking vehicles passing by, the mother was blissfully enjoying this walk with her child. To add to their enjoyment, the road they were passing on had many intriguing shops lined up. The mother told her that they would return someday again to have snacks in one of those shops. And they continued walking, filled with their careless conversations.
Unknown to the mother, the girl had quickly turned her eye away from one of the toy shops. The six-year old had instantly developed a liking for a kite displayed in it. The girl didn’t want to leave her mother’s side. For she knew she was her mother’s support. For she knew, without her, her mother would have problem in walking. For her mother had once suffered from polio, and since had a troubled walk.
Unknown to the girl, the mother was feeling bad for making her little girl walk so much. But there was no alternative. Her little girl was afraid of buses and never stepped inside one. She couldn’t afford to go anyway else. The ghosts of unpaid bills continuously sat on her shoulders. Time was ticking faster than ever, and buying another ticket was unthinkable. But none of those mattered more than walking with her daughter, enjoying her innocent chatter.
