It was old Mr. Vikram’s birthday and he was missing.
Ria, his daughter searched their modest apartment, and even glanced down at the compound where the housing society members often gathered.
But he was nowhere to be found. Then she remembered. Of course. The cemetery down the road.
She walked briskly. She had planned a small celebration with the society members.
She found him standing by her mother’s grave, shoulders slightly hunched, the morning sunlight filtering through the peepul tree. “Soon I will be with you,” he was saying softly. “And then at my funeral, people will say nice things about me at my eulogy.” Ria felt a lump in her throat.
He was lonely. She had been so caught up in the day-to-day bustle of life, she hadn’t realized how much he longed for companionship, for the presence of the one person who had truly understood him.
She wanted to step forward, to tell him that she was here, that she loved him. But before she could, something extraordinary happened.
The sound of footsteps approached. She turned and saw a group of people filing into the cemetery.
Neighbours, society members, old Mrs. Pereira from the first floor, the always-complaining Mr. Sharma, even the stern-looking Secretary Nair. They carried something—balloons, flowers, and a small cake.
Mr. Vikram turned, startled. “Happy Birthday, Vikram Saab!” they chorused, standing around him like a congregation at a Sunday service. “What… what is this?” Mr. Vikram stammered, looking at Ria in confusion. Mrs. Pereira, who usually had nothing good to say about anyone, smiled and said, “We wanted to let you know what we think of you—while you’re still around to hear it.”
“Yes,” added Mr. Sharma, clearing his throat, “we don’t need to wait for a funeral to say you’ve been a good man.” “You’ve been a wonderful neighbour,” said young Ravi from the third floor. “When my father passed away, you helped my mother with everything.” “You always keep our accounts clear and society meetings civilized,” said Secretary Nair, a rare twinkle in his eye. “That alone deserves an award.”
One by one, they spoke. Small things, everyday things. The way he kept an eye on the children in the building. The way he fixed the broken gate without waiting for permission. The way he always had time for a chat, a smile, a helping hand. Someone pulled out a knife and cut the cake. Mr. Vikram, too moved to speak, let the tears roll freely down his cheeks. The others chatted for a while, then, as suddenly as they had come, they left.
Ria stood beside her father in the silence that followed. And then—did she imagine it?—a whisper floated in the air, gentle and amused. “They couldn’t wait, dearest. For good people, nobody waits for them to die to say they’re good!” Her father smiled. “Your mother always did have the last word…!”
—(bobsbanter@gmail.com)
