After a brief moment of silence Emma and I looked at each
other. She said, “We lost our father when Charles was barely three years of
age. My mother died of grief soon after.”
I continued to stare at her as she sat there facing me with the look of
a sad, grown-up person who was learning to take the rough and tumble of life in
her stride, while her brother sat in front of us sipping at his coffee indifferently.
I could see from her demeanor that she had referred to the
sad episode of their life rather inadvertently and perhaps, if Charles had not
made that unusual display of temper, she wouldn’t have mentioned it.
I fumbled for words, but just managed to say,”Oh, I am sorry
to hear that!” Emma gave me a hearty smile like a seasoned
soldier, as if to say, “Come on now that you know it, let’s get on with life.”
But that did not help me in overcoming my uneasiness in the presence of such
overwhelming fortitude. I said, looking
at Charles, “Perhaps we had better not talk about this.” Emma understood my
meaning. She said, looking at Charles from the corner of her eyes, “He is used
to people referring to it. He has just begun to understand that we are
different from other children. That lady who was with us the other day in the café
after the singing session was over—she is our aunt who looks after us now.
Charles still remembers our mother and he fights her off vehemently as if she
is responsible for taking him forcibly away from his mother.”
I was still wondering about how the tragedy struck this
angelic pair of brother and sister when I noticed Emma fidgeting with a rather
heavy-looking watch on her slender wrist. It looked very odd on her wrist
because it was the kind of watch I generally noticed on the wrists of army—personnel.
To be contd.
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