Sudhakar

Sudhakar woke up. He looked around — he was on the couch. He had probably fallen asleep watching TV.

How long had he been sleeping?

He looked at the clock on the wall.

Four-thirty, is it?

“Asha, is it four-thirty already?” he asked his daughter.

She nodded at him, not wanting to get disturbed while watching the episode she had missed last night.

He looked at the TV to see what she’d been watching with such eagerness. There were two women — wearing expensive sarees and a lot of make-up. They were probably having a quarrel over something.

Must be her daughter-in-law.

He felt like confirming from his daughter, but then thought otherwise.

The door was open. His grandson had just gone outside to play cricket. He was proud of his grandson — he had been a topper in his school, was studying engineering in a prestigious institute, and from what he’d heard from his daughter, was going to make a lot of money, too. He often reminded him of his own youth.

Times were so different back then.

“Baba!” his daughter called out.

He looked at her. She gestured tea.

“Fine. Bring me a glass of water first, will you?”

She flipped through channels, increased the volume and went to the kitchen. He reached for his glasses.

India to face Australia in the semi-final of CWC.

He had been seeing a lot of cricket-related news lately. He didn’t understand much about it. His grandson had once tried to explain the game to him, but he couldn’t follow much. It made him sad — to not be able to relate with something his sweet grandson was so passionate about. He used to play hockey when he was young. Cricket was very different. Sometimes the game went on for five days; sometimes it finished in 3–4 hours. It was hard for him to understand cricket, but he had not given up.

“Here…” Asha gave him water and kept the cup of tea on the table.

He enjoyed the comforts in his daughter’s house. Back home, there weren’t so many news channels on TV, there was no A.C. Here, he got to live with his grandchildren. He’d get to read three different newspapers, and his grandson gave him a lot of books to read. He could always occupy himself with something.

But lately, he’d been getting bored quite often. No one had the time to talk with him — everyone seemed to have their own busy lives going on. And when they did talk, he couldn’t hear them properly. They’d lose their patience and give up pretty quickly. Back home, he had many friends to talk with; everyone in the village respected him. Here, no one really seemed to care about him.

He suddenly started feeling homesick.

Maybe I’ve stayed here more than I should have. Maybe it’s time to go back.

He got off the couch to talk with his wife. But where was she?

What time is it? Ahh, 4:40, yes. It’s too early for her to go for the walk.

As he took the first steps towards their room, he cried out in agony — his knees would always do this to him.

Eyes, ears, knees and now the heart, too… What am I to do with such a body?

He had never really understood the purpose of living. Being an atheist made it even harder for him to make sense of life. He had often felt like committing suicide; but at each point of time, he had had someone to live for — parents, friends, daughters, grandchildren — and now his wife. He had not wanted to marry her — he had not wanted to marry at all. But he had been forced to — by parents, by the difficult times. He had never really loved her like he should have; but she had always been caring and loving to him. He knew he owed an apology to her.

An apology… and a lot more.

He was waiting for the right time to say it — to say all that he had had in his mind for years.

He reached the bedroom. She wasn’t there.

Where the hell is she?

He went to the kitchen, she wasn’t there too.

“Chhaya…”

He reached the living room — and there she was. Behind the couch he had sat on — smiling at him through the frame on the wall.

Maybe I’ve lived more than I should have… Maybe it’s time to go…