HE fell! He hadn’t seen the paver block sticking out, uneven, arrogant, catching his worn out, treadles soles and throwing him forward with a lurch. He lay quietly, waiting for arms he knew would come to help him up. But there were none.
He thought of friends, men and women who would have rushed gladly to lift him up from cruel, callous ground, but knew they were not there anymore, they’d also fallen, into deeper pits called graves or had been laid on cremation fire that had smoked their souls away.
He lay on the ground and looked sideways at the road; he saw people glancing at him, “Hey,” he tried to shout, “Pick me up, will you!” But no sound came from him, and the people seeing his lips move looked at each other and shook their heads.
They did not want to get involved. Lifting an old man up, meant they would be late for work, for their movie, for a date, for their journey home, their bus that would come any moment. Lifting him up, meant involvement.
This was a city of concrete walls, concrete hearts. He pushed himself up a bit and slumped. Where was his son? No he had no son, not anymore. He had turned his face away at the bride he’d brought home. “How could you?” he’d cried. “We are Brahmin! We do not marry out of our caste! Get out!” His son had left with Muslim bride in tow.
He’d heard they’d had a daughter. As he lay on the ground he wondered how she looked. Did she look like his son, or did she have the pretty looks of her mother. “Her prettiness stole my son’s heart!” he muttered to himself even as he lay on the ground. He closed his eyes.
“Wake up! Wake up!” he heard the voice. He opened his eyes and wondered what the darkness was till he realized it was black clothing he was seeing, a woman in a burqa. “Wake up!” she said. “Ah good, your eyes are open! Now hold my hand and get on your feet. I saw you fall, I was at the bus stop, I thought you’d scramble up yourself, but when you didn’t I realized you needed help!”
She pulled him up. “What is your name?” he whispered and she told him, patted the dust from his clothes, smiled and slowly walked away. “Son!” he called his son later on the phone, “What name have you given your daughter?” “Dad it’s you. No, we have not named her yet!” “May I visit my granddaughter?” he choked his eyes filled with tears, “I have a name for her..!”
