Piklu and the Old Man

Regular readers may recall occasional guest posts by Ghetufool, a short-story writer who lives in Mumbai. You can see the last one here. I’ve acted as his editor over the years, making his Indian English, where necessary, sound more international; and published a few of the best on this blog. This one may be the last of our collaborations, who knows? But it’s my favourite to date. (© Anup Roy)

     Two faint knocks on the door divert the old man’s long vacant gaze out of the window to his immediate surroundings.
It takes him a while to regain his composure. He’s been at a milky-white temple on a green, cloud-capped hill. The temple bell started chiming melodiously, increasing in volume with each strike. He rode lightly on the waves of the sound and entered his crooked old body, to the sensual immediacy of his own real house. Finally he hears. Those shy knocks have got bolder and faster. Someone is thudding on the door.
“Who’s that?” says the old man feebly. Talking tires him.
“Can I come in?” A thin voice, like a small child, outside the door.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Silence: the old man thinking what to respond.
“I want to come in,” says the thin voice, decidedly.
“No.”
“Why can’t I come in?”
“Because you haven’t been invited.”
“You meet people only when you invite them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The old man puckers his brows. Why doesn’t he want to meet anybody? People have always been nice to him. He has no problem with anyone. Maybe that’s the problem. He never thought about it before. Extraordinary! He waits for more questions through the door. None are forthcoming. Another small disappointment for a heart already broken. He wants the kid to come in. But he’s accustomed to being hard-hearted, like an indifferent husband. Ignore the pain. It subsides, vanishes.
Now he looks through the window again, to the vast green expanse. His eyes are getting weaker, twilight gets to him earlier than to others, morning light comes later than when he was young. The world around him is changing at a much faster pace these days. The body is slowing down, his once-trusted organs are making their adieus, asking to be let go. Time for a new body soon.
His room is dark, a little damp. The discoloured walls sport greenish spots with mosses growing wherever they find moisture. Indoors the air is stale, barely fresh enough to sustain the old lungs. His once-yellow bedsheet is blackened with mildew. Black lumpy cotton escapes from the side of his thin dirty pillow.
It doesn’t matter any more. He spends most of his time on this chair, resting his hands on the mahogany table pushed to the wall under the window. Rusted window bars, table, chair and old man: almost welded into a single unit, the only inhabitant of the room.
There’s no fan, he doesn’t need it. The tap in the bathroom has also rusted, needs a plumber. Water drips continuously into an aluminium bucket. The old man never needs to turn on the tap. The bucket fills up overnight. Enough for him.
Once again, the old man gazes at a distant mango tree. With its foliage of dark elongated leaves, it’s like a green umbrella. Round it, a few coconut and jamun trees along with others that never bear fruit.
Of all the trees, the mango is special. When she’s heavy with fruit, she sways less than her neighbours in the wind. She carries a full load of plump green mangoes. Some of them should be ripe in a fortnight. This keeps her serious, not dancing to every frolicsome breeze like her neighbours, those carefree lasses ever-ready to sway and gyrate to a tune. Every year at this time she smiles with inner serenity like an expectant mother. The old man watches her all day long, prays for her health.
The village is known for its mango trees. Everyone has one in their backyard, so children get their rightful share, no need to go out raiding. Nor do they come to play here, to this field covered with tall lush grass, green bushes and yellow creepers, home to venomous snakes of all sizes. Very few kids would dare.
The old man largely waits undisturbed, hoping for someone to disturb him, some day.
He spots a tiny hand grasping one of the bars in the window, now another hand. A small young face lifts his head, gazes straight at the old man’s eyes.
The old man frowns to signal displeasure. But his heart thanks this angel-face for coming.
“So, why aren’t you letting me in?” demands the boy. He might be seven, maybe eight.
The old man pouts his mouth, runs a hand through his white beard.
“Hmmm. Why are you here? I told you not to.”
“Why should I listen to you? You are an old man. You can’t run like me.”
“That’s true.”
“Will you play?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t run like you.”
“So what do you?”
“I watch you playing.”
“And?”
“And … I watch you resting your chin on your knees as you stare at those heavy clouds. I watch you slashing your stick through the grasses.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I am not that clever. Why don’t you tell me? You’re an intelligent kid.”
“No, but my baba can, he is clever.”
“And your sister?”
“Didi? Nah! She don’t know a thing.”
“And your mother?”
The boy’s eyes narrow while he thinks. He’s not sure.
“Maa is nice.”
“I am sure she is,” nods the old man.
The kid now directs his attention inside the room.
“Is there a ghost inside?”
“Yes.”
“Oh!” the kid loosens his grip, sinks a little.
“Where is he?”
“Here.”
“Where?”
“You are talking to one.”
The kid jumps down from the window, shoots off round the corner. The old man twists his head to follow him, but that kid is fast. So he goes back to gazing at the mango tree, pleased with himself.
“If you are a ghost why don’t you have red eyes and big teeth and claws?” The kid’s voice comes from the corner of the house. The old man can’t locate him.
“Oh! I wear them at night,” says the old man, louder.
“And in the morning?” the kid shouts from the corner.
“Oh! As the sun rises, I lose my power and get nailed to my chair. I can’t move.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Will you eat me if I come near you?”
“At night, I might. In the morning, I can’t. Come and see, I don’t even have teeth to eat rice.”
Now the kid appears again, trying to stand on tiptoe and peek through the corner of the window. The old man leans forward, opens his mouth to reassure him. Now the kid stands in front of the window, but keeps his distance.
“What’s your name?” he demands.
“Old man.”
“Guess my name.”
“Piklu.”
“Hey, that’s right. How you know?”
The old man smiles.
“So now tell me what’s your name?”
“Old man, I said.”
“Old man cannot be a name. What’s your real name? Tell me or I leave.”
“Don’t leave. My name is … Ghetufool.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“I know!”
“My name is Piklu,” says Piklu, trying to catch hold of the window bars, lifting his head to talk with Ghetufool.
“Nice to see you, Piklu.”
Piklu looks without saying anything for a while, till:
“So, why you don’t let me in?”
“I want you to be free. Go run, Piklu, it’s such a lovely world out there. Make this world yours.”
“Why should I run?”
“I can’t run anymore. So you must.”
“Just run like that?”
“Yes, just like that.”
“That’s so stupid.”
“Foolish is funnish!”
“Watch me,” Piklu jumps off the window and springs like a deer calf. Ghetufool watches with a glint in his old eyes while Piklu darts like an arrow toward the mango tree.

He shins up the tree-trunk. Now he swings from the branches like a monkey.
      Ghetufool wipes his eyes as they keenly follow everything Piklu does. He watches Piklu chasing butterflies in the grass. He watches Piklu make a paper boat to float in the pond nearby. Piklu claps as the wind blows, seeing it make patterns on the water, carry the boat to the middle of the pond.
      Piklu is knee-deep in the water, cupping his hands to catch the colourful guppy fry. His half-pants have got wet. He wipes dirty hands on his white shirt.
      Ghetufool watches Piklu dance in the rain and sing rain-songs till the sun goes low in the sky. Huffing and puffing,Piklu comes back.
      “Open the door before you turn into a ghost.”
      “Stay out. This is not where you should stay.”
      “Will you open or must I break this house?” Piklu starts to kick the rickety house, shaking it to the foundations.
      “Open the door. NOW!”
      “Piklu, the world is much bigger out there, you must leave.”
      “I love this place. I don’t want to leave,” says Piklu, suddenly pressing his face hard against the window bars, wide-eyed. Then, in a harsh adult voice:
      “Anyway, will you be happy if I leave you?”
      “No! …” Ghetufool almost throws up his hand in despair.
      “Will you be happy if I am old as you?” says Piklu, in a voice echoing Ghetufool’s—feeble, weak.
      “Oh no! NO!” says Ghetufool aghast, gripped with fear.
      “Then open the door,” says Piklu in his own voice.
      “Oh yes.”
      Ghetufool opens his red notebook. Piklu comes in through the window, vanishes into those black characters, without so much as a goodbye.
      Ghetufool closes the copy, sighs. Once again he’s failed to keep Piklu away.
      He’ll try again tomorrow.