Bleak Truth

"Hey, Bhagavan, what crime have I done" cried Ram Lal.

His eyes were already preoccupied with tears and his vision was blurred by that miraculous water for sure. With great difficulty, he tried to look at me. I could spot his success by his cunning looks. I was very sure that this village Numberdar was just about to number me out. He was a man in his mid-30s and the white hairs in patches of black hair could inform one that he is not too old. But the way he talked and walked and looked will unequivocally confuse you. He came closer to me, adjusted his spectacles, and looked very distrustfully. The look he gave me discomforted me very much. I wanted to break the silence because silence here in Milapur is always treacherous.

"So, I am Mala. I am from an obscure village"

His eyes remained the same. The same cold stare which promised that his thoughts about me were filled with suspiciousness. So I went on.

"I have come here to meet you. I am pretty sure you might not know me at all but you might certainly know my father".

My words were all enough to eliminate the cold stare from his eyes and bring in fear in his mind. It is like that. When you think about an elder closely associated with your childhood there is always a mixed feeling. A majority of them feel nostalgic, a few of them who would have had a harsh bitter childhood would only pity for their old self and would feel blessed to lead a better life. But one in million, who would have lived as the most notorious kid whose mischief would have outwitted even the brainiest, would end up laughing thinking about the past. This is in case you grow up to be an entirely responsible person in the future who has loads of responsibilities to fulfill. They would have no time for all these jokes and mischief because life has taken its turn of being naughty to them. 

But Ram Lal was different, he lived as the most notorious dirty man for the first 25 years of his life. Nobody liked him and wanted to take to him because then Ram Lal was equal to self brought trouble but after the death of his brother and partner in crime died, he turned so pale, quiet, naïve. He forgot to laugh, to smile. People pitted him and wanted him to come out of his grief and he did a little bit. He became a Numberdar and followed his family's tradition. In the evenings, he ran over to the temple in Milapur and sat there peacefully till the temple gates were closed by the priest. Nobody would have thought that a man who never changed as a child, as a teen, as an adult will in between became so respectful and calm. When I started talking about my father, his mind wandered with unknown fear.

" My father wanted me to meet you and so do I. I have heard a lot about you."

He wanted to ignore my talks and that was all I could understand. Why? I don't know.

"Listen, girl, I don't know who you are and where you're from and I am not interested in that either. Please be precise and don't beat around the bush." 

His eyes were marked with a sense of alertness. I could sense that he didn't like my presence. His eyes rolled all around which indicated that he was very impatient by then but...…

" Numberdar Ji! I brought papers regarding your broth...…

Sir Ji, who young is the lady? 

 tumhare rishtadar hai kya ?"

Then he turned to me and said " Very beautiful Madamji." 

Though he spoke in broken English, I was able to understand his intentions. I looked at that young boy. The torn shirt and nibbled trousers made him look like a beggar and he seemed to have not taken a bath. He seemed to be a boy of 10 or 12 years of age. He seemed to work as a helper somewhere. I wonder why that boy had to work rather than attending a free government school with mid-day meals. Though his looks and dress promised me that he was very poor, his smile was so pure and true. 

"I....bring...…later," said that young boy and ran away.

"If I am not wrong, then Mr. Shyamal is your brother," said I. I wanted to see how he reacts to it. I traced my way to a wooden chair and comforted myself. Ram Lal was so engrossed in reacting to what I said. He started to cry and sweat at the same time which confused me. I couldn't understand whether he was in fear or grief. Whatever it was, I wanted to wait for him to digest my statement and react to it accordingly. I took a glance at the house. It was a nice house to be in. It looked like a traditional Indian house. The only thing the place missed was a bunch of people. It was just a place with mere bricks. There was no place for affection, care, joy, sadness, and happiness over here The only thing that I could smell all over again and again was just a feeling of loneliness. It has been quite a while now and Ram doesn't seem to move from the place he was in so I tried to use that time to scroll through my WhatsApp messages. 

"Yes, Shama was my brother. Today is his death anniversary and Shama....." said Ram Lal and broke into tears. He turned towards a room that looked dirtier and clumsier from the exterior. He sat down right next to me and kept staring at that room all that while. Tears rolled down his eyes and seeing that I was astonished. See, I found it weird as he kept on crying and rivers of water found their way out of his eyes and drenched his shirt so badly. But I didn't want to judge a person when they are recollecting memories. Those were not pleasant memories, those were memories one would like to bury down along with the dead soul. I allowed him to comfort himself and myself as well. I got up from the chair and went into the kitchen to find a cup of water.

"It is there on the table, Minnie." said an old-looking woman. How did she know my name? She was not old but she was made to look old. Her eyes were so beautiful. Those two eyes looked like nicely ripened black grapes. Her lips were so pink and don't require any lipstick to show off her lip linings. Her hair was so straight and very long. Her eyes were hazel brown. She is one of those few Indians who look like a trans-shipped doll from Ukraine or maybe Belarus. So beautiful and so calm by her looks. But she was draped in an old white saree and she looked like a diamond put in a very smelly dustbin. Her face was darkened with patches of coal. This woman was an art piece and was made to look so bad. If she wore a nice saree and adorned her neck with a nice piece of jewelry, she would have looked like a goddess drifted from the heavens. But how did she get to know my name?

"Oh yes, thank you." said I. The more I looked at her, the more I felt why this beautiful woman working in the zamin looked so worn out and sad. The Numberdar was respected by all and from what I 've come to know, people said that he was so generous and kind but I couldn't see any generosity of his in the way the woman looked and how she expressed the pain and grief she went through as a woman in his house. I was able to understand all that with the help of the tears rolling down her cheeks. It seems that her tears were powerful enough to wipe away the patches of mud and dirt on her face but not the pain in her life. She seemed to be a very interesting puzzle one would like to solve but I thought I shall save it for another day as I had a little talking to do with Ram Lal.

Ram Lal seemed to have comforted himself by the time I reached the hall again. He seemed to look stern and clear again. He looked at me for a very long time and then sat onto the wooden chair. He placed one leg on the other and asked " What do you want?". Well, what kind of question was that. I thought he might ask how I knew about his brother's demise or did I know him personally but no he asked me what I wanted. I was definitely sure that this man wanted me out of his house and out of his life but I have come here to meet him. I have not come here to go back, I have come here to stay and learn about him and his life.

"I want to stay here" I said.

"For how many days?''

" As long as I wish to extend my stay"

He thought for a while and then with a cunning smile, looked at me and said " Well, I stay here all alone. I have a few visitors who come to meet me at times. It is not appropriate for a young girl like you to stay alone in this mansion with me so I suggest you to stay at a small quarters meant for visitors here."

What he said was very appropriate and right but...…..

But my interest to stay here widened, when I got to see the portrait of a beautiful lady who looked the polished self of the woman, I got to see in the kitchen. And yes it is the very same image. Who is she? Why is her portrait there affixed on the wall? How did she know my name?

Psst:- To know more, stay tuned...….