March 16
March 16, winter was receding, and the arid Ahmadabad summer was yet to set in. This ‘on the cusp’ season would usually result in pleasant mornings. At 5 minutes to eight, a good two hours before the school bus would pick him, he was all dressed up and ready.
“Maa, I have a math test and need to memorize tables.” he cried out the rehearsed lie and rushed to the terrace of his three-story apartment. The plan was simple; keep an eye on the gate and wait for the white ambassador car that gets baba back from his office trips.
He had been waiting for today morning since the time he had overheard his aunt tell his neighbors, “Eeshwar was not supposed to come back like this. His return flight was to be a month from now on March 16.”
Yesterday night, he hadn’t slept a wink in anticipation of today morning. For most of the night, the images from the past month — of unexpected evening guests, a furiously ringing landline phone, extra hours of television programming covering the crash and vague memories of him trying to act strong and hide his tears by crying under the bed sheet or in the bathroom with the water running — had kept him awake.
To drive away those unpleasant memories, he would imagine his baba stepping out of the ambassador the coming morning. The thought of his baba returning was not utterly impractical, as they never opened the coffin. He had heard his uncle say, “Eeshwar’s silver Titan watch helped us identify him.” He thought that to be quite lame, as his baba’s watch was old and rather ordinary.
An hour and 15 minutes had passed waiting on the terrace, but there was no sign of the ambassador. Just when he was about to lose all hope, a white ambassador pulled up near the gate. He was almost sure; that his aunt’s prophecy of his baba returning home on March 16 had come true. As the door opened, he saw a tall man alight the car and instantly realized it was not baba. At the same time, it also struck him that it will never be baba!
There on the terrace, a month after his baba passed away, he cried in the open without inhibitions. In a way, an eleven-year-old would and should! He must have cried for fifteen minutes when he heard his maa’s voice calling him, followed by footsteps. He wiped his face and opened the textbook, pretending to read. But the moment he saw her, he burst out crying, “I don’t remember the table of Nine. I had memorized it before!” He lied to her again!
“It’s ok, it’s only a test, and you are doing great. Everything will be fine, like before!” Maa said, hugging him. She had always seen through his lies. Today, he saw through one of hers when she said, “Everything will be fine, like before!”
