The paltry birthday banner
U Sharma
Babesa, Thimphu
The sundown hour of 23rd September, Saturday, had reached its peak. An ash-colored Hyundai hatchback screeched to an uncomfortable halt on the dusty road just below the green-roofed, three-storeyed house.
Pawan, Roshan and the seven-year old Sisir walked out of an indoor badminton hall; semi-drenched with perspiration and, of course with a little bit of hunger too. Every malady has an antidote albeit invisible. A gentle and cold morning zephyr warmly chilled the three faces as they sauntered along the dusty road.
“Your son has a visible je ne sais quoi of becoming an ace player one day,” said Pawan to Roshan, giving a substance to his extempore remark. Roshan quickly retained the utterance on his searching head.
“Wow! You sound a novice- drummer, uncle,” said Sisir, feigning indifference. His mind swiftly switched back. He was feeling unusually restless that morning. However, he preferred not to display it. Ostensibly, he had his own reasons to do o.
Attired in day-Glo sportive shorts and T-shirts, the two friends walked side by side on the pebbled road, each carrying a racquet. Sisir walked from behind; engrossed in his own creative thoughts, of the techniques of badminton playing.
Dressed in Reebok tracksuits, the young, callow boy looked spic and span. He did look a sports boy. He held a barrel of shuttlecocks and hung a racquet sheath across his small, but broad chest.
Pawan and Roshan worked in the same school as teachers. While Pawan had his Master’s in science, the latter had the Master’s in Economics. Pawan hadn’t yet experienced a nuptial bliss. Roshan, on the other hand, was a proud father of his child, Sisir. Sisir was a second-grader in a near-by primary school.
“I got unusually knackered today,” said Pawan as he took a right turn down the road.
“See you in the school,” he said further, turning back and waving at Sisir with a smile.
Sisir reciprocated with a forced one. He didn’t want to; yet, he did. He didn’t want, probably, to let his idol down.
Roshan remembered the backlog at home. The embellishment and adornment in the room awaited a titivation.
“I am on leave today, Pawan. You know my homework. Further, I am expecting a friend of mine from Thimphu ,” said Roshan. “You remember that long-haired lanky guy who played basketball from our team last fall,” said he further.
Pawan stood motionless. He seemed to recapitulate.
“I have a faint picture in my mind. Is he that left-hander? Is he staying for few days en passant?” said Pawan, starting to walk down to the single-storeyed, clay- bricked house. He had been a lone occupant of it for a little more than twenty months.
Sisir stood beside his father, looking a bit ecstatic.
“Daddy, give me your racquet,” said he, stretching his free hand.
He loved badminton as much as his father did. He practiced on a regular basis with his father and Pawan. He always tailed his father when it came to badminton tournaments. Roshan had no choice but to accede to the wheedling plea albeit weird. Sisir had asked his father’s racquet for the first time. That was, sans doubt, an unusual behavior of Sisir.
“Here it is,” said the father, proffering the racquet. “But, be careful. A miss of grip would be catastrophe.” The duo of father and son walked up the stairs to the cemented forecourt of the house in which they lived a rented flat. Sisir carried out his regular homework of counting the steps.
“One, two, three_____ and thirty nine.”
The house where Sisir lived with his father on the ground floor was, sans a grain of doubt, beautiful with its facade facing the vast paddy fields down below. The landlady was a widow of sui generis nature. She looked a septuagenarian by looks as well as times. The locals called her Aum Tshomo.
She sat on a circular wooden bench eclipsed by a green-colored plastic canopy, on the forecourt. The unique canopy had, clandestinely, earned a reasonable amount of name and fame. Roshan had invested a handsome amount on its erection.
Aum Tshomo that morning wore an expression of deep gloom and stared into the vastness of the paddy field that was at a Stone’s throw from the house. A flock of rooks could be seen feeding on a carcass. It looked like that of a mare. Rumors were that it had been hit by a timber-laden lorry while it grazed on the road edge. One or two dogs nestled over the stubbles and gnawed at the flesh betwixt the bones in a network, occasionally snaring at the crows in action.
People in the neighborhood, said that Tenzin had widowed Aum Tshomo, a decade ago. He had died a victim of malaria while serving in the army as a Major General. It is said that he had left behind a huge stock of booty. The shrewd widow further grasped the opportunity in her hands; she lawfully claimed the benefits that were due in her husband’s name. Thus, she had found herself in a comfortable stand financially to construct the three-storeyed house where Roshan and Sisir rented a flat. Standard of her living had shot up since then. Vicissitudes in her life, therefore, changed to hr advantage. It ostensibly looked like she borrowed the Midas touch magically.
Sisir crossed the wooden bench and stood pro tem.
“Daddy, you said you are on leave today,” said he in a low but touchy voice. His somber manner and sincere tone did convey a concern.
Roshan smiled at him ironically, if not satirically. He never knew that his, otherwise, smart son was so forgetful. Sisir seemed to have forgotten something _____ that mattered a lot.
“Don’t you know it’s your birthday today?” said Roshan, smiling with a touch of sarcasm.
Sisir found himself dumbfounded. He laughed to himself. He, then, remembered.
Fifty five invitation cards had been sent already. It was, in fact, he who designed them on the laptop of his father.
“I have spent hours on the work,” he whispered. Suddenly, he realized that he was going to the first day of his eight year that day. Still, he looked distressed. He walked towards the door. His deep eyes fell on the banner that hung on the door. Room was elegantly decorated the previous night. His father had spent a good number of hours in titivating the decoration for his only son.
The seven-year old Sisir was the only child of a proud father, who was a teacher by profession.
A tall boy at his age, he loved wearing fashionable and elegant glad rags. He loved chess as much as he loved badminton. While he sat for a round of chess with his father every evening, he accompanied him to school for badminton every morning. A computer crazy lad, he had even lately developed interest in driving and fishing. He was a proper boy and Roshan had reasons to be proud of.
“Why this gloom and anguish when she has everything in life?” Roshan uttered, looking at the wrinkled woman.
Her twin daughters, who were in their late twin teens, were the sore trial. They hardly stayed at home. Jamborees and night clubs shelved them under the blankets till late in the mornings. And, that, sans doubt, brought a colossal tempest in the old lady’s mind. She lacked companionship albeit she had a strong yearning.
Roshan pushed in the ajar door. His eyes fell on the wall clock. It read 8 a.m.
“Sisir! Hasten and wash yourself,” said he, entering the kitchenette. His son displayed morbid respect and obedience.
“What would you like to have, my son, for breakfast?” asked Roshan.
“Usual one, daddy,” replied Sisir. “A double omelet of cheese and mushroom as a supplement.” He walked into the shower room.
No sooner had Sisir come out; breakfast was all set on the Mahogany dining table. The usual packet of milk, bread and cornflakes was added with whisked omelets. He ate the yummy dish with relish and more sumptuously than usual. The dose was a little bigger, unlike the regular diet.
Sisir came out of the dressing room looking as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. The school dress suited his young and elegant looks. Roshan was proud of his son for he was in excellent in books too.
He looked frolicsome; more aptly, excited.
“Daddy, today our house will be graced by someone special especially for me,” said Sisir, blowing his own trumpet. Roshan stood agape, looking flummoxed and his face puce with mystery.
“What you have said is all Hebrew to me,” said he, looking at his wrist watch.
“My friend Paras has a new mother and he is going to bring her to my birthday celebration tonight, “said Sisir. “ He says his father married her after his mother died three months back. And that she loves him more than his real mother loved him.”
Roshan listened to his son. He didn’t know how to respond him.
“I wish my mother be back too by the end of the day,” he whispered, moaning deeply. “ I don’t want her to miss the gala tonight.”
Roshan pondered for a while. He looked at his son.
“Daddy, by the way, when is mommy coming back from granny’s place? My birthday celebration would be incomplete without her presence,” he said, showing signs of poignancy on his handsome and broad face.
Roshan found himself stoned and wordless.
“What should I say now?” he said to himself, preparing to tell an out-and-out lie to his son. He didn’t look at his inquisitive son. All those days he kept the issue arcane and esoteric from Sisir. He recalled the contents of the note that was left behind by his wife before she eloped.
“Take no trouble_____ waste no time to look for me. I am getting married to my beaux. His wife had died a month back leaving him a nouveau riche. Take care of Sisir though it may not be for long.”
He took a long and difficult breath.
Sisir stood in front of him, waiting for an answer. Roshan picked up the water bottle from the table and lubricated his scorching throat.
“She should be coming any moment. The last time I called her, she said that the granny’s health was still iffy and vulnerable,” he uttered a complete lie, keeping back the water bottle on the table.
Sisir digested least of what was just said. He picked up his satchel, preparing to leave for school.
“Daddy, let me drive the car up to the school today,” said Sisir, as the two of them walked down the stairs to the road. The large-breasted rook that was sitting on the roof of the car flew away with harsh caws.
Sisir’s statement sounded a bit ironical. Roshan looked at his young son straight into his eyes. His face was displaying a pensive expression. The spacious visage showed imminence of danger; though concretely abstract.
The flummoxed father ignited the engine. Sisir sat by his side, semi-engrossed in an euphoric state of contemplation.
“Daddy, I will take a walk back home today. You need not come to pick me up,” said Sisir, alighting from the car in front of the school gate.
Roshan couldn’t understand the substance of the epigrammatic proclamation of his son. He looked at the unusually, strangely behaved son, leaning on the seat of the car.
“Daddy, try to call up mommy and see if she‘s coming,” said Sisir in a sad but ironical ton as he walked into the gate.
“Take care, my boy,” called Roshan and maneuvered the car to the fuelling station.
The audacious statement of his son floated in his mind. He recalled his son’s words. Yet, he couldn’t comprehend them to a T
“Why does Sisir want to walk back home today, of all the days?” he said to himself, walking into a newspaper kiosk. Holding a copy of a Weekly paper, he sauntered into a nearby Gorkha Departmental store as if he had all the time in the world.
At 8.30 a.m. Roshan started for home. His mind ran back to his son’s imminent words one more time.
“Daddy, I will take a walk back home today. You need not come to pick me up.” He recalled his son’s unusual words.
He felt restless. His fingers searched for the ‘play’ button on the stereo. Soon, Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven’ deluged the inside of the car. Engrossed in music, Roshan drove along the dusty road running parallel to the river down below.
Suddenly, the car came to a halt. Roshan craned his snaky neck outside the window. Down below, a boy skillfully threw fishing reel into the silent waters of the Punatsangchhu. Anon, he remembered Izaak Walton’s lines:
“Oh! The gallant fisher’s life
It’s the best of any;
‘Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And, it’s loved by many.”
He remembered his son who was a lover of fishing too, though a novice. He moved the vehicle. Music was still alive on the stereo. His eyes fell on the amulet that was worn by Sisir. It lay on the foot mat. He picked it up and shoved inside his pockets.
“He should all the time wear it wherever he goes,” he remembered the words of a sooth-sayer. That was three years ago when Sisir had fallen ill to the periphery of death.
At 9.10 a.m. Roshan ascended the stairs to the forecourt of the green-roofed house. He sat on the wooden bench, resting his forehead on his left palm.
The school down below was buzzing. Restlessness enveloped his mind. He looked at the mountains touching the horizon. They appeared to be moving away. The rivulets seemed to dry up apparently. The dark green woods tended to disappear. A big emptiness seemed to hover in sight. The morning sun looked like a moon. The peaks of white clouds appeared to be glistening like the night stars.
Roshan heaved a sigh of grief and burden, for reason unknown and untold. Unseen sorrow and pains pricked him to nobody’s beliefs.
Then, he remembered his wife. She was a tall, lissome –bodied and beautiful lady. A soignée lady, she wore a sui generis style of layered hair. Long nails had matched her wiry fingers. The plum-shaped eyes were always adorned. A shady patch of kohl titivated the decoration.
He remembered how she fluttered her eyebrows and how swiftly he had come running to her when they first had a nodding acquaintance.
Out of nowhere, his excessive reading of books ran to recollect Samuel Rogers’ lines:
“She was good as she was fair,
None, none on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are
To know her was to love her.”
The tintinnabulations in the school down below broke his reverie. He jerked his heavy head lightly. He tried to visualize the visage of Monica. Anon, he saw it hovering_______ a silhouette hovering in front of his searching eyes.
Regrets…..? Well, he had none. He consoled himself by reciting Katherine Mansfield’s words:
“Make it a rule in life never to regret and look back. Regret is nothing but a waste of time.”
He stood up and inside his flat. He stared around the spacious emptiness of the room. A feeling of detachment flooded his mind. He felt an urge to bare his soul to someone but, sadly, who would listen to the bare bones of his suffocating grief? He found it unbelievable to believe in John Keats’ line that lingered over his head. “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” he murmured to no substance.
“Where those are adorned eyes________ those catching eyes that seemed to have borrowed the morning rays from the sun. Those eyes to which the moon might have benevolently, if not generously, lent her beams?” he whistled to his own tuning. A sad one, anyway!
He felt the grief pricking his stoic nerves.
“What harm had I caused onto Monica? What made her desert me? Why did she ransack the house? Why did she sideline Sisir?” he asked a series of painful questions to the reticent walls.
“Woman is a cryptic being,” he uttered a self invented adage, extempore.
Restlessness compelled him to hark back lines of Sigmund Freud’s ‘Life and Work’: “The greatest question that has never been answered, and which I have not been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is, ‘what does a woman want’?”
“You are a jinx, woman,” he pronounced and went to bed for a siesta, totally grief-stricken.
Hours passed as fast as seconds. It was 4 p.m. Roshan was awakened in the middle of a ghastly nightmare. He pushed himself out of the bed. His body was perspiring profusely. Rooms looked bright. Rays of afternoon sun hit the window glasses directly.
He walked to the sitting room through the ajar door. He remembered he had forgotten to latch it. The wall clock ticked four times.
He looked around. He rubbed his eyes.
“Sisir, where are you birthday boy,” he shouted. Sisir was no where.
“Sisir!” he hollered, his voice sounding a bit hysterical.
“Sisir, S-i-s-i-r, S-i-s-i-r,” came an emulation in the room.
He remembered Sisir’s words. “Daddy, I will take a walk back home today. You need not come to pick me up.” He sensed something imminent.
“Announcement of something, if unpleasant, is imminent,” he uttered, scratching his forehead.
“Where is Sisir_____ my boy? He would have reached home by 1 p.m. even if he had walked,” he uttered and cried hysterically, looking at a large framed photograph of his son that hung against the wall.
Then, the nightmare ran over his head. He recalled how a rook hit against the window pane beside his pillow, shattering the glasses in shreds. The black-feathered bird had perched on a window rod by his pillow and made a harsh cry three times. And, the cry of the intruder had awakened him up from the nightmare- filled siesta. He walked to the bedroom. The window glass was in situ.
“Trrrng! Trrrng! Trrrng!”
Roshan rushed to the sitting room to receive the call.
“It must be Sisir, my son. He may want to inform me of how he was held up by his friends, greeting and wishing and all that stuff,” he muttered, picking up the receiver.
There was a startled ‘hello’ from the caller and the phone went dead.
Rosan stared at the walls, blank-faced. No sooner had he turned towards the door, there was a second ring on the phone.
“Hopefully, this is from my son,” he mumbled, and picked up the receiver.
“Sager is with me,” said a feminine voice and the phone went dead.
It was another hair-raising instance for Roshan.
“Who could be this total airhead?” he grumbled in the silence of the room. He assumed and realized that his body was sweating _____ in fact his body was filled with goose-pimples. It appeared to him that his temperature was shooting up.
Roshan, without shilly-shallying, dialed Sisir’s school number. The phone kept on ringing. He, then, realized, it was a Saturday___ a half day in school. He tried the mobile number of the headmaster of the school. There was a response.
“Hello. This is Roshan, Sisir’s father,” said he in a rush.
“——–,”
“He hasn’t come home from school,” said he, anticipating something concrete from the other end. He held the receiver and listened fro long.
“What time was it?” asked Roshan, looking startled and sounding touched to the nerves.
He doubly pressed the receiver against the ear. It looked like the answerer said something inventing.
“Thank you, sir,” said he and replaced the receiver.
Roshan, in a state of utter confusion, perched on a sofa. He recapitulated what the headmaster had said. He could believe when he was told that Sisir was taken by a lady at 11 a.m.
“She signed as a guardian of Sisir but didn’t write the name,” the headmaster had said.
Roshan sat lost in deep contemplation.
“Who could that lady be?” Roshan posed an enigmatic question to himself.
“Could it be Monica?” he muttered, searching for an alternative.
He smiled; a foolish smile, indeed. He could have asked for the lady’s description to the headmaster.
“Sisir was looking excited; more to it, a little ecstatic,” the headmaster had further informed Roshan. And that remark had raised fear in Roshan’s mind, something, more than a suspicion.
He rolled himself on the sofa, trying to recollect if he had seen an ash-colored Hyundai hatchback before.
He got no clue.
“I walked up to the gate. The lady kept Sisir by her side and drove the ash-colored car straight towards Hotel Oak View through the narrow willow-lined avenue,” the headmaster had concluded.
Roshan had, then, interpreted an imminent outcome.
He covered the face of his only son, biting the nail of his left thumb. Poor Roshan! The time was 4.30 p.m. There was hardly half an hour for the guests to arrive for Sisir’s birthday gala.
Roshan dialed Hotel oak View’s number. He held the receiver stuck tight to his reticent
ears and listened with patience.
“A lady and a boy, in school uniform, had come at 2 p.m. They had a quick and light
lunch, bought two bottles of Cocoa Cola and drove back in a jiffy. The lady was looking
Champing at the bit,” said a girl from the hotel.
“Sisir in a car with a lady,” he mumbled, analyzing headmaster’s proclamation.
He had to find out who the lady was, albeit, it would be, sans doubt, a Herculean task.
He remembered Sisir; re remembered Monica, and he remembered the previous years’
celebrations on Sisir’s birthday. He looked around the room. It was elegantly adorned.
“Welcome to the 8th birth anniversary of Sisir23rd September, Saturday, 2006,” read a
large paper banner that hung on the front door.
Roshan, then, remembered the cake. It was to be delivered at 4.30 p.m. He called up the
bakery. No sooner had he replaced the receiver on the phone, there was a tap on the
door. As expected, it was the cake deliverer.
There was an consistent ring on the phone at 4.45 p.m. Roshan’s visitor hadn’t arrived
From Thimphu . The ring reminded him. He picked up the receiver.
“Hello, I am mid-way from Dochula. And I shall make it for the celebration,” said a male
voice.
Roshan recognized his friend’s voice.
“May be he has his own good reasons for being late,” he murmured, replacing the receiver and consoling himself.
By 5 p.m. invitees started turning up. Upon the advice of the well-wishers, Roshan de-
cided to inform the police about the missing birthday boy, Sisir.
It was the sunset hour. No sooner had Roshan touched the phone, an ash-colored Hyun
dai hatch back to a screeching halt just below Roshan’s house.
A corpse of a boy was taken out from the car. It was covered with a white sheet of cloth
over the school dress. The face was partially exposed. Three young men carried the corpse
up the flight of steps and placed it on the wooden bench on the forecourt.
The invitees, without dilly-dallying rushed out to the forecourt. Roshan joined the stam-
peding bandwagon.
“Who is Roshan, here?” asked one of the good Samaritans. Every one turned towards
Roshan.
“There was a dead body of a lady with this. The lady’s corpse lay on the edge of the road
while this body was inside the wrongly parked car. A sealed letter was held in his right
hand while a pendant was held in his left hand. A toque lay on his laps,” said a good
Samaritan, and over the objects to Roshan.
He recognized Monica’s handwriting on the envelop. The pendant and the toque were
presented by him to her on their 3rd wedding ceremony.
Roshan, who was already looking pale and terrified, walked close to the corpse. He un-covered the face. He got the shock of his life to discover the pacific face of his dead se had bitten the nail to the quick. Tears cascaded down his gloomy cheeks.
Roshan sat on the bench by the corpse and cried. No sooner had he recalled Shakespeare’s lines, “His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in it, that nature might stand up and say to all the world: This was a man,” he went into a coma, still holding the letter in his hand.