I
looked at Charles. The little guy, though as yet unaware of the need
for self-definition and self-determination in the adult world of
contradictions and strife was quietly busy folding up the sheet of
brown-paper in which he had wrapped up that precious image. I did not
know how to relate with the two of them who, it was quite clear to me
now, were in need of me. Though I sat there facing them at that moment, a
chasm of continents and culture separated me from them. I did not know
if Emma was aware of this.
“How was your day at school today? Do you
get to practice your choir lessons or piano lessons?” I asked to keep
her mind away from the past. She looked at me despondently. Then
brushing off the gloom, she said with a smile, “I haven’t been able to
make much progress with piano. I have neither the money nor the time for
that.”
I had not been watching her carefully after she said this. I
was lost in the memory of my own home and family for a while. But when I
looked up I found her looking at me with a sort of adult curiosity. I
wondered secretly if she knew I was getting a bit drawn to her. I was
quickly on my guard lest I betray any such sign of slightest involvement
on my part. I folded my hands across my chest and bore an expression of
detachment. She asked rather abruptly, “Do you write?” I said,
pretending not to have understood her meaning, “Write? Write what?” She
said, “Oh, I mean…Are you a poet or a writer—of some sort?” I tried to
look properly offended somewhat at that and said, “Some sort? Oh, do I
look ‘some sort’ whatever?”
She gathered herself defensively and
said, “Well I just thought so.” I said, “What gave you that impression?”
That was a difficult question for her to answer. She reflected for a
moment and said, “Perhaps there was something…well, something that
appealed to my…” At that point I saw her almost swallow the word ‘heart’
as she paused there in embarrassment. She continued and said in
completion, “To my…imagination.”
I said, “I am not a practiced
writer. Well I mean that’s not my field really”. I was actually staring
at the coffee-mug in her hand. The coffee-shop where we were sitting was
decent but not so well looked after it seemed. There was a small crack
showing on the otherwise beautifully crafted mug and in that despondent
moment it seemed to open up a lane of memories leading me down to the
boyhood days. I remembered the day when it was raining in torrents back
in India on the day I was to embark on my career as a navy- cadet, my
journey from home to the railway-station, my parents accompanying me, my
mother silent, and my father looking after the details of my journey in
a cool, business-like manner, hiding behind his stony exterior those
days of admonishment, acerbic criticism and his constant effort to
instill a stoic fortitude into my irresponsible adolescent days. But on
that day he had hugged me tightly and in that embrace he seemed to pass
on all the sorrow of his life’s wisdom to me. My mother had hugged me
ever so lightly because she was engaged in fighting off her tears.
All
that seemed so long ago as we were sitting there in the coffee-shop.
Did I ever write? Did I write about all this to anyone ever? Well, what
was there to write about it anyway?
I found Emma staring at me and
watching patiently. I realized that I had not answered her question yet.
She was a bit scared, looking at my grim silence. I smiled in an
attempt not to look as grim as that.
She said, “Oh, Perhaps I should
not be so curious. I really don’t realize when I start intruding on
people’s privacy. But that happens only when I begin to like a person,
you know!’ Then she immediately went on, “But I feel you must write; I
don’t know why I feel so; but you will write wonderfully well.” I
laughed. I said, “What do you think I am? A music maestro or a
song-writer? I wish I was one. Then I would have written lots and lots
of lyrics and set them to music for you.”
“And then we would have
made lots and lots of money too!” She completed the fantasy. Then she
looked at me with her peculiar penetrating gaze and said, “You seem to
be dreaming a lot. I saw that while we were sitting opposite you in the
coffee-shop. Of course, Charles and I didn’t know you then.” I found it
interesting how she would include Charles in all her fantastic thoughts
about me. The phase of childhood which linked her closely with Charles
was not yet over. She seemed to be eager however, to probe the secrets
of the life of the mind and heart; she was certainly poised at that
curious stage. Anyway, so long as she was not curious about my
profession I was not inclined to tell her that it was far from a poetic
one and as marine engineer on a naval ship my job was to handle
machinery and not imagination. Besides, I could not forget that a moment
ago I had hurt her by completely misapprehending the situation when
they were eager to share the most precious thing in their possession and
that too in the complete innocence of childhood and there she was: this
young girl, responding to and encouraging a stranger to express what
she perceived to be a creative imagination.
I said, “Dreaming is
something everyone can do, but not everyone can write stuff out of
dreams”. As soon as I said this I remembered that she had said something
about her father being a dreamer or some such thing. I asked her, “Was
your father a dreamer?” She broke into a smile that was lovely to watch.
She looked at me and said, “That’s funny. You know, I feel that it was
my mother who should have joined the military. The way she used to rule
over the household and over him. But she would break down easily under
stress. And yes; he used to dream a lot though he would never share his
dreams. But don’t you think that a soldier’s profession is incompatible
with dreaming?”
On a spur of the moment I said spontaneously, “No, it
isn’t.” She looked surprised at my unguarded revelation, and looked at
me, as if in need of a clarification. Then she uttered her words
slowly, “Are you…a soldier?” Charles was looking at me with dilated
pupils now. The mention of his father and his father being a soldier had
sent waves of alertness and curiosity in him. His was suddenly out of
his mood for pranks. I kept looking at the crack in the mug.
I said, “Soldiers are in need of dreaming more than anyone else.”
That
meeting ended on that inconclusive note. For Charles it was a vague
understanding of something that teased him and waited to be found out in
the image of his father which stared at him tantalizingly always;
something which his sensitivity, hovering between childhood loss and
the tenacious demands of life, was unable to explain to him. Emma had
looked at the watch on her hand and made herself ready to go. Charles
had followed her reluctantly, turning around to look at me a couple of
times as they moved out of the coffee-shop. I expected Emma to turn
around and say good-bye to me; but she didn’t.
When I reached my
lodging it was dark and as I switched on the light I saw the three
letters which I had left there on my writing –table. They were still
lying there unopened.
Posted by Sushama Karnik
