Make, Believe!

It is the only bus top in almost a 2-kilometer stretch on the ring road. As I passed it, I saw him; an old man of about 75, sitting quietly in the bus stop. Even as I passed him, I looked at him but neither he seemed to have seen me nor responded even by looking at me. He kept looking at the passing of the vehicles while murmuring something to himself, without making a sound. Looked a bit strange and I thought of going back and sitting down with him for a chat, but moved on.

Next day, even before approaching the bus stop, I could see him from a distance. Wearing the same white dhoti and a jabba; I pretended not to notice and walked past him and stole a glance at him. He was oblivious to his surroundings. I observed that like yesterday, he was looking at the passing of the vehicles and even following them with his eyes and murmuring something to himself, without sound. Again, I controlled my urge to speak and carried on.

On the third day, I noticed that he was not sitting on the bench. I was a little disappointed. Then I looked at my wristwatch to notice it was 15 minutes past 6 in the evening. I tried to remember the time when I passed the bus stand on the last two occasions and I knew instantly, that it was beyond 6.30. Thought of waiting but on second thought, I completed the remaining part of my walk and reminded myself to leave home a little late to catch the old man tomorrow.

I was reading a book when my wife called and said, “Why? Are you not going for walk today?” I looked at the clock and it was 5.30. I shook my head without lifting my head from the book and told her that I would leave a little late.

I was right! The old man was indeed sitting wearing the same white dhoti and jabba and as usual, talking to himself without making a sound while casting glances at the passing vehicles. I decided to explore a little more about the old man and the writer in me got better of sound judgment and commonsense.

I walked slowly towards the bench and sat a few feet away from the old man and looked at him. He definitely looked a few years older than 70 and had very sharp eyes and wasn’t wearing any glasses. He had an untrimmed white beard and wrinkles on his face. He had no walking stick and was not carrying any mobile as I could see. He didn’t even notice me sitting next to him and went about his usual business of watching the vehicles intently as if not to miss even one of them while murmuring something. Though I was sitting very close to him, I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  

We both sat quietly; me looking at him and he looking at the vehicles and finally, taking courage, I tapped the old man on his shoulder to draw attention and said, “Good evening Sir” The old man looked at me for a few seconds and asked me in a matter of fact tone, “Who are you?” I was a bit nervous and this direct question put me off. Pulling up of all my courage and hiding my nervousness I said; “Sir I normally walk in this road and see you sitting here daily. Thought I would just say hello to you.”

The old man barely took his eyes off the road and looked very briefly at me and continued his vigil without saying anything.

Now, I was intrigued. I sensed something unusual about his behaviour. The writer in me was rearing to go and gather as much information as possible to create my next fictional tale

I asked the old man “Are you waiting for someone? Because every day you seem to come at the same time and sit here and watch the passing vehicles.” 

“He must be coming any minute now. You see, my wife is bedridden and my only son is bringing the ambulance to take her to the hospital. That’s why I look at the vehicles. I don’t want to lose them; you see.” My heart skipped a beat and I simply stared at the man without saying anything. 

There is a saying in Kannada, when loosely translated, reads like this: a writer can see where even the sun rays cannot peep. I knew that something was bothering the old man and I was right in trusting my institution.

“How long your wife is being sick? And, what kind of illness does she suffer from?” I asked. The old man took his eyes off the road, slightly turned towards me and spoke. “She is terminally ill. Final stages of cancer, you see. My son is an engineer and works for a big multinational company. Because it is Friday today, he went by bike. I called and reminded him to bring the ambulance as we need to take my wife to therapy today.”

Although the writer’s instinct told me something seemed to be worrying the old man, I was not prepared for this; because there seemed to be lots of illogical things in that one long sentence the old man spoke. It is Sunday today. Which Friday he is talking about? Is it a hallucination or some incident has affected the old man’s thinking? I thought to myself.

The old man once again started focusing on the road and started murmuring to himself; now I could hear the words. “He is coming. He is coming with an ambulance.” 

I now realised how correctly my writer’s instinct gave the clue that something was amiss. I was now sure that a tragic incident involving his wife and son must have caused lots of pain to the old man and must have affected his reasoning and logical thinking process.

Suddenly, the old man stood up and said, “He has already reached home. I must go now.” The old man simply got up and walked towards the narrow lane behind the bus stop while I stood there watching him go.

I sympathized with the old man. I once again went inside of my brain to look for, what could have happened to the wife?

I could barely sleep that night. My mind conjured up images of the old lady on the bed suffering from pain and almost in her last stage, waiting for her son to come home to take her to hospital. I virtually waited for the morning and got up at the sight of fist light. I opened my laptop and started typing about the old man and the possibilities of his disturbed life, as imagined by me. What if the ambulance that the old man is waiting for is not for his wife but maybe for something else?

I did not know how to end the story; I realised that I must meet the old man today evening to get a glimpse of what actually must have happed to make my story more realistic.

I walked briskly in the evening and realised that I reached the spot early as the old man was not to be seen.

I sat where normally, the old man used to sit and started looking at the passing of vehicles copying the old man’s mannerisms.

I was so engrossed in my activity, I didn’t even notice the old man coming and sitting down next to me as if I was invisible. He started his ritual of looking at the vehicles while murmuring the same sentence again and again, albeit, ever so slowly.

I looked at the old man and now I knew what must have happened but refrained from talking. After a while, I asked the old man. “Did your son bring the ambulance? Were you able to take your wife to the hospital?”

The old man got up and said. “I must be going. I am the only one at home along with wife and son. So, I have to make arrangements for the burial. The ambulance has already come bringing the dead body of my son.” The old man took the same small road behind the bus top and started walking even as I stood there in a shock.

I was brought back to the real world by the old man who was shaking my shoulder and talking to me. I realised that I was lost in my thoughts so completely, I forgot where I was sitting. I felt ashamed.

How can I, being a writer take the liberty and alter the incidents to create a fictional tale that too about a person whom I have only seen while passing on my way in the evening? I don’t even know his name! Just because he uttered a few words, I put the wings to my imagination and conjured up a story, that too killing his only son to make a surprise ending?

Can we, the writers stretch the liberty of imagination given to us and play with the life of people? My consciousness was fighting with the writer in me and without my knowledge, my eyes started watering and droplets of tear fell down on the old man’s hands; they were tears of shame and hurt.

The old man looked at me and with a face full of empathy and patted on my back. “Please don’t cry.”

How could he possibly know what I was doing mentally; killing his son! God, why did I even start writing? Can a writer’s pure imagination to do things which is unacceptable otherwise in the real world? For the first time in my life, I was utterly disappointed with my cheap and almost vulgar behaviour.

I did not know what I should say, I stood up and looking at the old man said, “I am really sorry Sir. I have no right to alter any one’s life. I am truly ashamed, please forge me.”

The old man too stood up and said in a confusing tone. “But why are you saying sorry? What did you do?”

How in God’s name can I give an explanation for my behaviour? For the first time in my life, I was completely at a loss for words.

I shook the old man’s hands with my eyes still wet, patted his shoulders and silently took an oath to delete the file from my laptop and destroy the draft print out I had taken. I should never ever to come to this road again, I thought and started to walk.

The old man too stood up and went on his usual road. I walked slowly on the footpath and my heart was heavy. I could hardly see the road as tears continued to roll out of my eyes.

I didn’t even see him; a middle-aged man was in my path and I tried to avoid him by getting down from the footpath to the road.

He looked at me and said. “I saw you sitting and talking to the old man. He is very disturbed. It is very unfortunate; He sits and waits there every day for his son to bring the ambulance to take his wife to the hospital. It is indeed very difficult to remain sane when someone loses his only son!”