It’s the
Affection That Matters
The glowing red ball of light was about to
go into the sea and the vast sky above it started turning into darker shades of
tranquil blue color. I was sitting on a huge rock in the deserted beach with my
best companions--a notebook and a pen. I had not shared anything with them
lately, but they silently waited for me to open a whole new world of
experiences or imaginations in front of them. It had been almost a week since I
had not written anything.
While I was thinking about why I was not
able to write for so many days and why wasn't I able to remember any memories
to produce a story, poem or a thought; I saw two figures coming near the rock
where I sat. As they got closer, I scrutinized both of them. One of them was a
young boy of about 19 years with a strange expression of contentment, which
usually was absent in boys of that age. The other was an old man who was
completely expressionless. I searched his face for a while to catch even the
slightest glimpse of pain, anger, happiness or satisfaction that might cross
his face, but was disappointed. According to my description you must be
thinking that it was an ordinary sight, but let me tell you, it was not. The
reason for that is, they were not simply walking on the beach, but the boy
pushed the wheel chair, on which the old man sat, over the stubborn sand.
They came to a halt, not very far from me,
near a small rock. The man, still expressionless, did not make any movement.
Only the blinking eyelashes distinguished him from a statue. He looked old,
very old. Probably older than his actual age. His face had criss- cross wrinkles
and his eyes were deep but emotionless. It was obvious that he was ill at
health.
The boy sat on the rock and took out a
sheet of paper, some bottles of cold colors and a pencil. I sat there and
watched him for hours. I didn’t know why I was so curious to know what was in
his mind that he was going to draw on that sheet. After an hour or so, he
finally put his paint brush down and showed the sheet to the old man.
The old man’s face brightened up and his
lips curled slightly to take the shape of a smile. Seeing this, the boy’s
happiness had no limits. He smiled heavily and then gave the old man a light
kiss on his cheek. My own face lit up seeing such a touching site. And my eyes
got filled with tears.
While I dried my eyes with a handkerchief
and turned again to watch the lovely scene, I saw their figures diminishing
faraway and the sun finally taking away its light and making the beach dark and
gloomy.
That night, the thought of the boy and the
old man came to my mind quite often. “Surely the old man was the boy’s father,”
I thought to myself while having dinner. I had never seen such a relationship
between a father and his son, especially these days. I had heard of fathers
having a fight with their sons over money, bad habits, late night parties, bad
company etc, but not heard lately of a dedicated son who spent his time with
his ill father not thinking about friends, party or money. It was astonishing
that the only thing that mattered to that boy was his father’s smile.
Days passed and I almost forgot about the
lad and his father and got busy in my daily work. After a week or so, I was
again sitting at my favorite place at the beach with one of my friends. We were
having a good time chatting and eating wafers. Suddenly, the boy and the old
man I had seen a few days ago appeared on the site where I had seen them
before. I had not noticed them till now. The boy was again painting ardently
while the man just sat without any movement.
I excused myself from my friend and went up
to the boy. I was so curious this time that I could not help but go to him. He
was painting with such dedication that he did not notice me at first. “Excuse
me,” I said softly, not wanting to bewilder him. He looked at me and replied
politely, “Yes!!”
We talked for a while and he cleared all my
curiosity. He showed me his painting. It was of a man and a little boy walking down the beach in
the evening. The painting was so exquisite and detailed that it almost looked
real, like it was happening in front of me. The shocking part was that he had
painted numerous duplicates of that painting. On asking the reason, I was told
the most amazing yet sad reality.
The old man
was the boy’s father as I had guessed. He was paralyzed. His hands, legs and
neck were incapable of motion. Only his facial muscles could show slight
movement which barred his speech to a certain extent. His paralysis had decayed
his memory. He was nothing more than a breathing dummy.
The only memory that the boy had of his
father healthy, walking, laughing and playing was what he drew on every page.
He was five years old at that time. He drew it each day on the beach and showed
it to his father to remind him of that happy time. He did not want his father
to forget that particular memory ever. He portrayed it beautifully on every
page and reminded his father and also himself about their happiness.
While telling the story I expected the boy
to breakdown and spill some tears, but he told the entire story to me with a
warm smile. It looked that he was happy for what he had and it told me that the
boy was filled with positivity.
I came back home and shed some tears while
lying down and remembering each and every word told by the boy. From that day I
went to the beach daily to observe both of them. Many times we just exchanged
smiles and once or twice I talked to the old man while the boy painted.
Obviously he did not answer me even once and I did not expect an answer too. The
thing that made me happy was that I had become capable of making the old man
smile once or twice.
Days passed and I kept on coming to the beach
daily and saw both of them sitting. But, one day, after a few months, the
picture changed. Only the boy, with his big cloth bag came to the beach. He sat
on the usual spot and did what he usually did there...painting. I got up from
my place silently and went close to him. He did not notice me or rather just
ignored me and continued painting. I peeked into the paper and was shocked yet
again. The painting had changed. This time the painting represented him and the
old man. He was sitting on the rock, on which he sat at that time, and the old
man was on the wheelchair .The beach looked exactly the same as it looked at
that time. I gasped and my heart became suddenly heavy. The boy looked up at me
and I saw that for the first time his eyes were scarlet red with tears. He did
not speak anything and neither did I. After a few moments of uneasy eye contact
he whispered, “This is the memory that I don’t want to forget EVER.” With those
words, a tear trickled down my cheek.
.........................................................................................................
Devika Sinha..........................................
