“Quick, Cynthia! It’s begun…” In the kitchen, a loud clanging. Followed by desperate footsteps, then silence. With his wife finally seated beside him, Mr Fernandes hit the volume button.
“Why did you wait to start it, silly?” Cynthia chided her husband. The man she’d been married to for more than 60 years.
“Have we ever watched it alone?” he asked, tenderly.
Her eyes moistened. It didn’t matter what part of the show they’d missed in the few seconds it took Cynthia to take her seat. They had gained so much more…
The unexamined life is not worth living.
— Socrates
Mr Fernandes repeatedly reminded his wife of this, his favourite quote. Both were in their late 80s, after all, and there was plenty that could be examined about the lives they had lived.
When she scolded him for repeatedly thrusting these words at her, he’d say something to the tune of: “Silly bunny! One day I shall be gone. I want you to know, it was all worth it…”
“And what if it wasn’t?” she’d joke playfully. He would laugh in earnest, because he knew she didn’t mean it. After all, she loved him a lot. Even if she never said the words.
‘I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this buffoon’
Once upon a time, the Fernandes living room had been filled with squeals of laughter. Mostly of their son, David, who gave them purpose. The same son who had migrated for greener pastures and never looked back. For a few years post-marriage, David would visit with his wife and children. Until the visits became less frequent, before stopping altogether.
The Fernandes family had a fine bungalow in one of the quaint Bandra bylanes. “What’s the use of us living in this big house?” Cynthia remarked one morning, as they were sipping their chai in the garden.
“Well, it was my father’s. And before that, his father’s.”
“What’s the point of all this space, if my grandchildren can’t enjoy it?”
Edward seemed wistful. He placed his cup of adrak chai (one of their life’s few pleasures, concocted by their full-timer Kanta) on the table and said, or rather, sang, “You fill up my senses, like a night in the forest.” Annie’s Song by John Denver. Their favourite. Cynthia blushed.
“Silly froggie! What does that have to do with…”
“There’s just too much of you to contain in a small space, my dear.”
Cynthia dismissed her husband with a wave of her hand. Ever dramatic, that silly pig. Still, he always made her feel like a princess. Right from the day they had first met.
It had been at a dance at the local Willingdon Club. They were both single, looking for someone to partner with at the annual New Year’s Eve dance. When he walked up to her, she had a premonition, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this buffoon.”
What drew her to marrying him was his strong sense of values. Values they had tried so hard to imbibe in their son, but somehow failed miserably.
“I think I’ve failed as a father,” Edward told Cynthia one night, in between sips of his favourite whisky. The doctor had advised him against drinking, to which Edward had said, “If I don’t drink, I will die.”
“No, baby, I have failed as a mother. You were the best father any child could have.”
That was the way it had always been. She supporting him and vice versa. At night, when Edward couldn’t hold his urine, she’d clean him up and get him a fresh set of pyjamas. If she felt faint, he would load the washing machine for her. They didn’t have a full-time nurse or ward boy, just Kanta for the household chores. Still, she had been instructed to not do everything.
Doing chores made them feel useful at this stage of their lives. Who would insist they get help, anyway?
For every grave in the ground, there’s a space in someone’s heart
One day, after Edward was gone, his refrains made sense to Cynthia Pixabay
The one thing that bound them more than anything was the soap opera they watched daily, Monday through Friday. They had once lived full lives, and the show was a way of their living vicariously through the characters. Each time it ended, they would have an hour-long discussion about it. Then it would be time for dinner, followed by bed.
It was about the little things. Waking up together, dissolving khari biscuits in that fabulous adrak chai. Then feasting on the yummy chai-soaked khari, the way her grandchildren had feasted on Cynthia’s homemade cookies.
She wondered where they were now. If they even remembered their grandparents…
What hurt her most of all was being forgotten. She knew Edward felt hurt, too, though he would never admit it. He was the strong Papa Bear, she the hapless Goldilocks.
Then, one day, while watching their favourite programme, Edward fell. His head simply plonked onto Cynthia’s shoulder. She knew instantly that something was wrong. That was the one time Edward would never sleep. Their time.
Nobody came for the funeral. All the people they knew were dead and gone. Cynthia hadn’t even informed David. Their parents had long been dead to him.
A year after Edward passed, Cynthia sat in her garden and relished her chai-soaked khari with wistful glee. She looked to the chair beside her. She knew her silly Casper was there, a button on his pyjamas undone. That sloppy fool!
Over the last year, she had mulled over that saying Edward had nonchalantly sprinkled into their conversations, time and again. One day, it all made sense to her. On examining her life, Cynthia had realised her life’s crowning glory. The small joys of khari and chai, watching TV together.
We want so much to get somewhere in life, not realising what we need is sometimes right there with us. Old, enduring love is characterised by care, not romance. A care that’s forged between changing channels and diapers. No fame or money can match up to that. Only love can.
For every grave in the ground, there’s a space in someone’s heart, to carry their beloved to the beyond. The Edwards and…the Davids, too.
Rohit Trilokekar is a novelist from Mumbai who flirts with the idea of what it means to love. His heart’s compass swerves ever so often towards Kolkata, the city he believes has the most discerning literary audience.
