THE LAND OF HIS SUN

He was sitting at the rocking chair in the courtyard of his ancestral house, pondering, nostalgic, and slightly feverish. There was a book on the table by someone called Kavish… The coffee was unusually hot n scalded his tongue and the skin of his teeth. He shivered, and then smiled a little. He found himself tugging the strands of his waning memory to recall the phrase that was used by his friend to refer to this jittery shivery feeling. Vikram was one of those people who lived in a world estranged by the present day mechanisms of their life and driven only by nostalgia. The phantoms from his past were haunting him again. Not openly, but hiding in the nooks and crannies of happy moments. He has a family who he loves beyond everything and he looks like any middle class family man from the outside. But our world is a world of stories where everyone’s story is a thread in the human fabric. If you look at the human fabric, you will find that the pattern that each thread weaves out of the victories and failures of life is a unique story. Vikram was retired and more tired from all the work he did not do anymore. Not that his work gave him much joy before. He was more of a people-person who thrived in conversations. Nowadays, hardly anybody approached him like before or even called. His wife had gone to work, his daughter was studying and his son married. His days now made him feel there wasn’t much to do except wait. He did not know for whom or why he was waiting but was intriguingly and painfully sure he had to. Of late Vikram had started thinking of his childhood and in his attempts, often lost track of reality… ``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` It is morning around 6.30 a.m. Vikram wakes up at the call of Mahesh his cousin and both shoot to the pond nearby for their bath where all the boys of the family could be seen. Theirs was a matriarchal family where five women led their married lives in the ancestral home. Vikram’s mother was the eldest sister. In a uniquely and heartwarmingly simple set up, everyone ate together, cooked together, stayed together and for Vikram at the age of eleven, it meant everyone lived and played together. After school he would wait for Mahesh who was two years elder to him beneath the peepal in front of their school, sometimes joining in the cricket match going on in the field or sometimes talking to the other children in the market nearby. Life was simple at eleven eat with Mahesh, play, sleep, go to school (never study at home), and come back to play again. Time was not measured by anybody around him. One could stand under a tree and think aimlessly, not making any plans and doodle with a twig and nobody would worry your head off with alarming queries about the wastage of time. In summer there would be endless entertainment as the mango trees inside their compound wall would have to be defended against hordes of children from outside. In the lazy afternoons when only the children could sustain energy to resist a nap, they made statues and figurines of deities from the pleasantly pliable mud in their yard. In the rains, water would come up till the first step of his courtyard, while the rest of the village was under it. Then the light and speedy boats would be put out from the attic and used to acquire provisions and transport people who had to travel in emergencies. Basically the monsoons were to hear horror stories, scare each other and of course for boat racing competitions amongst the elder cousins, even girls. And in the autumn, as if the tangerine trees were tired of carrying the burden of green, shed their leaves all together. The skeleton branches of those trees were a favorite spot for Vikram and Mahesh for their bird spotting ventures. Winter meant 23 degrees max. Dew glistened on the small red and yellow blossoms in their garden and the morning mist would mark the beginnings of festivals of the winter. And spring, wasn’t it the most beautiful time of the year? The farmer’s New Year blessed with nature’s bounty, the festive cheer evident in the market where handmade crafts and utilities were exchanged in barter was a time when the two friends were never at home. School would have finished for the year by then and their world was limited to the market and the field nearby. The family deity’s festival coincided with the New Year and the celebrations lasted a full week. Both of them being avid followers of the percussionist performances, they would hang about in the temple threshold to listen and follow the rhythms of the drums… Meanwhile, the rhythm of their own hearts was taking them on separate journeys. It was books and more books for Mahesh while for Vikram it was cricket and music. But they had sworn a pact, to be together throughout life. How easily everything changed! It was just another simple day when responsibilities had only begun making an appearance in Mahesh and Vikram’s lives. They were at the temple grounds chatting; Mahesh told him that he was leaving home. Vikram was aghast at the news. Mahesh’s family had ostracized him because of his constant differences with them. He never listened to them in matters of education. He defended the servants; he fought with his uncles in the matters of his career. Matters had become unacceptable for his parents when he expressed his decision to marry someone from his college. So without much ado, Mahesh exited Vikram’s life as quietly as he had entered it. He never heard from him again and their parting was at a juncture where Vikram couldn’t fathom the reasons of Mahesh’s decisions or for that matter his family’s wrath about them. He was neutral in his opinion, young in age and genuinely very confused… so he didn’t speak. He didn’t dissuade him, neither did he support. He could see that Mahesh expected a response. But he couldn’t. So he kept his silence. How much he regretted it now… 10 years later, after he finished his graduation, his father died and Vikram’s world came crashing. Everyone he knew was grasping at whatever means to earn a living of their own. No longer was time left unmeasured, no longer did his homestead symbolize comfort. Everyone left at home was either old, or earning to support their own families. Their land had been redistributed and suddenly the leisure inherent in their lifestyle could no more be taken for granted. He worked hard as soon as he got a job, never looked back. He took care of his mother and his brothers and sisters. He travelled a lot, stepping out of the boundaries of his home for the first time to see the world in all its frailties and harshness. On one of his trips back home, he found himself married. His wife was a bright young woman who slipped into his life and understood his little quirks and habits as easily as if it was meant to be. They shared each others’ dreams, they built some together. Time sped past at a speed that shocked him sometimes when he saw himself in the mirror. Age had hidden the clever glimmer in his eyes. The grays made him appear wiser than he thought he was. He often thought of how easily silence at one point in time can make a difference throughout people’s lives. He always did take his promises too seriously and his silence was his only transgression. `````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` Something apart from the silence echoed in his heart still… drums? The knocking sound was not drums but somebody on the door. A graying man with crinkly eyes and round spectacles was standing there, wearing a forgotten smile that made his heart ache with the burden of its silence. They spoke less about the past and more about the present, Vikram being embarrassed of the mundane course his life had taken. They shared a smoke in their beloved courtyard. He furnished an apology for not being in contact with difficulty. Of course that wouldn’t ease the burden of guilt that ate at his heart all these years but it broke the silence he had been carrying… he broke down and cried like the child he felt he was. Vikram started and opened his eyes; he had been dreaming or was it the delirium of the fever??? Mahesh had smiled a little and pulled out something from his bag and put it on the table. It was a book. It was a memoir called the “the land of my sun”. The author was someone who went by the pseudonym Kavish. Vikram picked it up and looked at its second page. There was a short poem and a dedication: In my travels I might have been alone Only my body might have the battle scars borne But my spirit was in the land of my sun I am a child again, my journey just begun My friend, the sun had pledged his heart to me The rains watered my earth in perfect symphony I and my sun will meet someday To farm the dreams that we sowed yesterday Until then let the sun shine silently afar Neither distance nor time can keep us apart” “To the stealer of all my miseries… and my mangoes... My brother, my friend, my sun: Vikram”