MY TERRACE HAS A SOUL

I watched the last of the people who came back to the house, after the funeral standing on the terrace of my house, watching the house that looked alive in our little street. He had died in his sleep and had a massive heart attack and just dint wake up in the morning. His wife screamed in agony seeing her partner of 24 years lying there lifeless cold in his bed and she kissed his forehead not knowing what else to do.

My mother and bubbly had been there all day watching over the dead and the alive that were coming in numbers to watch the last remains of their friend, colleague, relative. I had visited the house and looked at him and watched him lie there perfectly still, lost to the world around him, there was a sign of grief on his face or possibly it was just my imagination, or possibly because I had never seen him without a smile in the years that we were neighbors. His smile had a thousand meaning every time I passed Bharathi’s house, it would be a nod and a smile and acknowledgement that I had passed in his presence and he was aware of it. The last 10 years I don’t remember having ever exchanged a word with him, but he has watched me play cricket in the street, he has watched me ride on the streets lazily on my cycle unable to think of anything else to do to exhaust my energies as a boy.

No words exchanged and still a bond and an absolute comfort with each others presence. I wondered how the both of us had managed all these years. Even when my dad had died I remember he had just patted me on my back and walked away, but I had felt all the sympathy he had needed to convey with his touch and the look on his face. I stand here smoking my joint and wonder why I had never ever spoken to him at all or exchanged pleasantries. I never even knew his name until today I just thought of him as Bharathi’s father all the time and that remained. Now Bharathi’s father was dead and I would walk down the street and I would not see that familiar smile forever. 

I had seen her seated by her father’s body at the house, aloof with her back to the wall, her long hair flowing across her face, which she mopped it back on her head with her free hand. There were no tears, no loud wailing, just silence and nobody bothered her. She even offered a weak smile when our eyes locked for a moment. I dint know if I had to approach her and I dint, the house seemed too noisy for me to say anything meaningful. I dint know anything meaningful anybody can say when you visit a house where someone has died. I wonder what you could actually tell them it will all seem so false and rehearsed, if I had one wish I wanted to hug her and give her a shoulder to cry on.

Her mother had cried more than her fair share and every new person walking into the house increased the ferocity of her voice and fresh tears sprang from the unending resources of her eyes. I have never seen her this way; I guess she has never known herself this way as well. She was a petite woman; I remember her walking around the “thulasi” plant in the morning with her hair tied in a bundle with the help of a wet towel that she had possibly used for wiping her hair and offering her prayers to the sun god and for some strange reason the thulasi plant as well. The fragrances of the incense burning in the air and offering anyone who passed their house in the morning a feeling of sacredness. I knew she particularly never liked me in all the time I had been her neighbor, I was the kid who spoilt her siesta, or broke the pots in her little garden while we played cricket. The small dislike for having spoilt her siesta many, many days and for having broken few of her pots, stayed as barriers in her mind to acknowledge my presence in the street, she never smiled at me and I never expected one. Unlike her husband, who always acknowledged me with his smile? I wonder standing here on my terrace, maybe Bharathi’s father actually liked me because he had to hear about how I had robbed her off her sleep every after noon during summer vacations or climbing up on her compound wall to pick up the ball.

I watched the evening turn to night as I smoked my joint and thought about “mortality” for the first time, how life could just change over night for all concerned and I thought about my father buried sex feet under, with his unfinished dreams and hopes. I wondered what happened after we died and if there was a heaven or hell. The stars shone brightly in the sky and I looked at the familiar one that Bubbly and me used to watch as children sitting on the terrace saying that it was our father and he came out in the nights to watch over us. I felt a strange loss in spite of having not known him well enough, just like a ray of sun that warms our bodies during winter. Certain that it was “love” and his briefcase had further sanctified and held the belief strongly in my mind, it was love and nothing else, unconditional love you received from parents. I wished I will be a good parent to my kids, when I have one and love them just the way my father loved me as “top priority”.