“How many?” asked Harsh, holding a piece of ice in the tongs.
“Three.” Viren answered, gently swaying to the music playing on his phone.
Harsh dropped three cubes in a glass, took out a peg measure, meticulously filled it close to the brim and poured it in. Viren was watching his every move in rapture.
“Cheers!” they clinked their glasses, each taking a generous sip.
“Ah! I missed this Scotch!” Viren exclaimed. “Thank you so much for bringing it! It’s so hard to get here.” He admired the color of the drink through his hazy glass.
“Come on, papa! I had to!” Harsh smiled as he took a sip. His face twitched as he struggled to take it in. “It’s a bit smokey for me.” he said, responding to his father’s amused expression.
“That’s the beauty of it!” Viren smiled as he put some masala peanuts in his mouth. “Tell me something.” he chewed down the peanuts. “Why do you measure the peg? At your age, I was drinking straight from the bottle! And here you are counting each drop!”
Harsh took a deep breath and said, “I like to keep a track of how much I’m drinking, papa. You know it’s not good for you.”
“Nonsense! There are only a few things in life that are worth living for! And Scotch is one of them!
“Your generation…” he paused. “You hold back too much! Scotch is not good for you…Fried food is not good for you…Counting calories…Keto diet…Pedo diet! You’re all too much!”
“Pedo diet! God, I hope not!” laughed Harsh.
“Whatever it is! Point is – you all don’t know how to live. You spend your days like a machine. Morning to Evening — Work, Exercise, Kids’ classes, their activities, then work again till late night.
“Your food is all boiled and flavorless. I don’t know how you live like this!”
Surprised at the sudden outburst, Harsh sat in silence for a moment, studying his father’s face to ascertain if he was being serious or simply pulling his leg. His instincts told him to simply nod along and steer the conversation away to something lighter but a sudden rush of blood within him, peered open his lips, and these words spout out, “I try to live a balanced life, papa.
“I want to enjoy things just like you do. But you need to have some discipline if you want to be healthy in your old age. I don’t — ”
“I rather have fun and die young, than be a healthy, old man! Who wants — ” Viren interrupted.
“Well…you almost did!” Harsh shot back. “Several times…”
Viren kept mum for a moment and then said, “I rather live life on my own terms and face the consequences than live a life prescribed by some Doctor or Dietician.”
Harsh was getting worked up now. “You know, there’s more to life than just eating good food and drinking good Scotch!”
“You’re telling me?”
“Yes, I’m telling you! Look at yourself! You’re seventy-two but you look like you’re in your Eighties! You’re overweight. You have heart problems, Diabetes, host of other issues. It’s all because you lived your life on your own terms”.
Viren sat in silence as he pondered over what Harsh said. What started as a casual banter between a father and son over a drink, now seemed to be escalating. He wanted to say something but could tell that Harsh wasn’t done speaking.
“I don’t want to end up like you!” He finally declared.
A small sensation of a pin prick ran through Viren’s chest. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of how Harsh felt about his lifestyle but to hear him say those words hurt his feelings. His instincts told him to call truce and steer the conversation to something lighter, but a rush of blood was now flowing through his veins.
“What you call health problems, I call battle wounds.” he declared.
“It’s a proof of a life…A life lived to the fullest! I didn’t carefully measure every little thing I did. I didn’t seek validations from my watch on how many steps I walked that day or post pictures of myself every time I finished a workout in a bid to get some virtual likes!”
Harsh was now livid. He wanted to retort but his words failed him, and so he did what he could — tossed back the glass and wiped it clean. He got up from his seat and walked over to the bar to pour himself another drink.
As he dropped ice cubes in the glass, he said, “You never change, papa. You always have critiques for others. But never accept any of your own.” He was starting to pour the Scotch straight from the bottle into his glass but stopped just in time to use a peg measure.
Viren smiled and held his glass up to Harsh, “Pour me another one!”
The night went on as the drinks flowed between light banter, heated political debates and some soothing nostalgia. The pair surely stretched their bounds that night, with the newly arrived Scotch well beyond the half way mark of the bottle. When the clock over door of the room was quarter of the way past the eleventh hour, the pair decided to have one last drink, albeit a small one.
A lull took over the night as they both nursed their drink. The steady stream of chatter had finally given way. It wasn’t for the lack of topics to speak of, but more so something playing in each of their minds. Much like a dam of hesitation holding back the flow of conversation behind itself.
“Tell me something” Harsh finally said.
Viren broke out of his thoughts and looked back with a knowing smile.“Ask me.” he said with his eyes.
“Why do you drink so much? Growing up I always saw you drink socially, but never with this kind of regularity. And never by yourself. What changed?”
It was an odd moment for Viren where he wasn’t expecting this question and yet somehow was prepared with an answer. His smile changed from knowing to a conciliatory one.
“My evenings freed up.” Harsh looked back quizzically.
“Time can be cruel sometimes.” he said looking at the wall few feet away from him, but as if staring into a distance.
“Earlier my evenings were filled with social events with your mother — Dinners, Badminton games, social gatherings of all kinds. But when she passed away, it’s as if I had nothing to do for several hours of the day.
“There’s something that nobody tells you, Harsh. The social events that you attend with your friends, they exist because you have something in common. You for example, have two kids. All your social activities are with people who have kids of a similar age. Do you still meet your single friends? I bet you don’t.”
Harsh pondered on this for a moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he met his single friends.
“At first, when your mother passed away, people were very supportive and nice to me. They still invited me to our regular events, tried to keep me engaged and involved. I’m very grateful to them. But…you see…
“Things were not the same anymore. They couldn’t relate to me the same way they did before. I couldn’t relate to them anymore. So the events dried up. Sometimes they forgot to call me. Other times, I made excuses. We drifted apart. I tried to keep myself busy with other hobbies and tried other social circles.
“But it’s tough. It’s tough…to keep going.” he looked into Harsh’s glossy eyes.
“So to fill the void, I would have a drink and listen to music. I would invite some single male friends I made. Or one’s who wanted a break from their wives.” he laughed.
“That worked great for several years but eventually old age took them where old age takes people.”
“And now it’s just me….And scotch…” he smiled bitterly. “I am the last man standing.” he took the last sip from his glass.
It took everything in Harsh’s body to keep himself from breaking into tears. The person that sat before him was the same one that he had been clinking drinks with for the past few hours. But it felt like he had watched him transform before his eyes.
A cocky, confident, grayed man that had soaked in all of life’s experiences changed to a raw, vulnerable, frail old man that life had robbed many a pleasures from. He had seen many facets to his father through the years, but never this one.
He finally found in himself the courage…the courage to keep his composure…the courage to say something…something that he had wanted to say for a long time.
“You’re numbing the pain, papa…you need to feel it.”
Viren looked back at him, puzzled, “What do you mean?”
Harsh took a deep breath, “By drinking, you are simply numbing the pain of losing mummy. You’re in a sense, walking away from your problems. You’re not addressing how it makes you feel. You’re drowning your feelings in liquor.”
“Better than drowning them in tears, right?” Viren smiled with moist eyes.
Harsh smiled back sympathetically, “Perhaps…But sometimes it’s better to tear up than beer up!” Viren smiled back at him.
“Have you ever considered getting therapy?”
Viren had a look of puzzled amusement, “Why would I do that?”
“To unburden yourself…To free yourself from these thoughts and feelings that have been trapped inside you for so many years.”
“Oh, come on!” Viren laughed. “I don’t need a therapist for that. I can deal with my own problems. In our times, only crazy people went for therapy!”
“Papa, you’re not in those times anymore. Times have changed. You have been through something very traumatic in your life. And as you said, they don’t teach you these things. So what’s the harm in learning from a Professional, skills that you don’t have? If you wanted to learn the Sitar, you would go to a Music teacher, right?”
“I suppose.. But — ”
“Promise me.” Harsh grabbed his father’s hand. “Promise me that you’ll go for therapy. Try it…try it for me.”
Surprised by his gesture, Viren looked at Harsh’s hand on his own and slowly placed his other hand over his son’s. They both looked at each other in the eyes and gently smiled.
Viren loved coming to the park every evening. The colors of the sky during the hours of dusk, the gentle glow of the sun setting over the horizon, the carefully manicured lawns, the soothing fragrance of the roses, cured him of all his worries.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he turned to Sudha. She simply smiled in response.
“I love coming here at this time…with you.” he held her hand.
He admired her glowing face, her long hair carefully braided into a pony tail, the red bindi on her forehead, the dangling ear rings, the gold and black mangal sutra on her neck, the pink saree that he had bought her. She looked her best when she adorned these. But best of all, was her knowing smile. It’s what he loved most about her…it’s what he missed most about her.
“I always — “, he was saying as a man dressed in a crisp, white kurta appeared before them. He caught Viren by surprise as he was used to walking in the park with Sudha, uninterrupted. He strained his eyes in an effort to recognize the man. And he did.
“What are you doing here?” He asked Harsh.
Harsh simply looked back at him. “Did you know he was coming?” He asked Sudha.
Sudha didn’t reply either. She let go of Viren’s hand and walked towards Harsh. They both looked at each other lovingly. Sudha gently caressed his left cheek. He smiled back at her.
She then turned around and said to Viren, “I am taking him with me.”
“Taking him? Taking him where?”
Sudha and Harsh, holding hands looked back at him with knowing looks on their faces.
“It’s time.” she said.
Viren was now miffed. “Time for what?”
He got no answer. They simply turned and started walking away from him.
“Hey! Wait!” He yelled out. He started to charge towards them but after a few steps he could get no closer. He struggled for a few moments before looking at his feet. They were glued to the ground.
He looked around the now dark park and screamed, “My son…Somebody stop her! She’s taking away my son!”
He kept struggling on the spot, twisting, trying to free himself. Harsh and Sudha continued walking further and further away. He could now only see their silhouettes.
The park went from chilly to toasty. His brow started to sweat. He felt his clothes getting wet. He looked at his feet and saw that his shoes were no longer on him. He heard a voice at a distance. A familiar voice of a young woman. “Papa!” she called out. He looked around but saw no one. Sudha and Harsh were now nowhere to be seen. He tried to let out a scream but his voice gave way. “Papa!” the young woman called out again.
He felt like he was falling into a deep, dark well. He closed his eyes as he kept falling, waiting to hit the ground, anticipating the pain. An invisible force was now moving him, shaking him from side to side. Like a set of invisible hands shaking his core. He opened his eyes to look around him.
He could now see some visuals — The visuals of a room, a chair, a desk, photographs on the wall, a face…a familiar face.
“Papa…papa,” Viren heard as he regained consciousness. He looked around his room for the source of the sound until his blurred vision and throbbing head revealed the lady who was calling out to him. His daughter-in-law was sitting by his bedside, trying to wake him up. As his vision cleared in the fully lit room, he saw her panic stricken face.
“What…what..happen — ” he said in his confused haze.
“It’s….it’s Harsh…something’s happening to him papa…we need to call an ambulance.”
Sometimes its hard to be certain if the seasons change due to the time of the year or due to the events in one’s life.
It was a calm and breezy Summer that year, when Harsh had first arrived for his annual visit from Europe. The clear skies quickly gave way to grey clouds when he was first hospitalized. On the night of his demise, few days later, the skies had opened up with a torrential downpour that lasted days on end.
Viren distinctly recollected these changes in weather during that month. But didn’t quite notice the grey clouds that persisted for the months that followed. His mind and senses were numbed to the events outside his own body. His son’s untimely demise had filled his heart with unimaginable sorrow and a sense of immense loss. A loss he knew all too well in his life.
A deep crater had taken shape inside him ever since.
But here he was on that cloudy afternoon, trying to put together the pieces of his broken life. Out with his old companions, in their usual hideout — an old, established restaurant, standing strong in a city that changed around itself. They would visit this restaurant each month, breaking bread and putting behind a few drinks over idle gossip and chatter over the politics of the country. A place where everybody knew their names, where they wouldn’t need to wait for a table to sit, where the wait staff knew what was to be ordered and the cooks knew how they liked their meals. A home outside their own homes.
That day, the usual buzz of the restaurant was replaced by a respectful silence, with the eyes of all regulars pointed in the direction of Viren. The patrons and the staff, together in their mourning for one of their oldest and most loved patron.
It took him all his strength and resolve to put aside his sorrow and put on a smile for his old crew. He was there on the advice of his daughter-in-law, who wanted him to step out of the house in a bid to return to normal.
The silence around the table faded as the crew comforted Viren with the warm glow of their age old friendships. They caught him up with the events in the city that he had missed and he in turn spoke in detail about his experiences in therapy. After a sputtering start, the conversations started flowing, then the wisecracks, then the idle gossip and eventually the drinks. His best friend, Romesh was ordering the first round for everyone, turning around to each person in that group of eight, old men.
He turned to Viren and asked, “What will you have? The usual? Scotch with three cubes of ice?”
Viren gently shook his head and said, “I’ll try something different today — Fresh lime soda with ice.”
There was a hushed silence across the table along with a few puzzled looks.
Romesh hesitated for a moment and then said, “Ah…why don’t you have a stiff drink, Viren? You can use it I’m sure. It’ll…it’ll help you cope.”
There were some murmurs of agreement across the table.
Just then, a tiny ray of sunlight peered through the clouds and added a touch of light to the dark surroundings of the restaurant. Viren looked up at the sky, briefly acknowledging it.
He looked back at his old friend and with a gentle smile said,
“I don’t want to numb the pain. I want to feel it.”
Originally published on author’s personal website.
