Today he turns 59 on the narrow lane to being a cherished
senior citizen. As he stands in that queue of reluctant folks he is reminded of
the path ahead. At the end of the path he will be falling off the edge of a
cliff deep into a never ending gorge, into the depths where he will be
enveloped by an empty space from where the eyes cannot see, nor the ears hear,
nor the nose smell or when the arms and legs cannot force themselves out of
their stupor.
He peeps ahead and finds the line of people ahead
disciplined, well rehearsed as if they are there by compulsion and would love
to get out and away from this queue. But the narrow lane does not allow an
exit, its side walls so tall that it will be impossible to even attempt an
escape. They are all glued to their places, reluctant to move ahead, the
movement in the line is also slow as if taking a cue from the reluctant folks
queued up for their fate.
Having nothing much to do, he tries to turn his mind away
from the future into the past a past which may allow him to smile or grimace
depending on what memories throw up at the moment. He tries to remember his
childhood, when he was an infant, crawling the floor and the dirt paths in
front of his abode. With darkened knees and running nose he was a spectacle to
behold, someone who didn’t mind the flow from the nose or the dirt that has
stuck to his tender feet and knees. He does not rue the fact that he is all
unkempt, dirt strewn all over him. He still had the innocence to receive a kiss
from a neighbourhood auntie or an elderly kid.
His attention is diverted by a mosquito that had just had a
taste of its ‘red wine’; he musters a weak swipe missing it by yards. He shakes
his head and remembers the days when his throw was accurate as a champion. He used
to come home, marbles filled his pockets and the sides of the pocket wore a
dirty look like a child who would have highlighted the edges of his contours in
school to make his maps stand out. Those were the days when the now famous
detergents were at its laboratory stages, the poor mother having to sit and rub
and scrub to clean it all up. He didn’t feel for his mother because that was
her job wasn’t it or was it? How would he care? The lure of winning a few more
marbles the next day kept him on his toes.
Ah! The person ahead in the line has moved one place; he
steps onto where someone else was standing not long ago. That reminded him of
the headlines in the newspapers of manual scavenging being declared a crime. In
his younger days he would often meet men and women with human faeces collected
in a tin storage bin being carried on their heads for disposal. He would cross
paths with them but never considered them to be lowly or unclean. It was a job
that they did without any recourse else how would our places stay clean? He
wondered if any one of them was in his queue. Why after all this discrimination
had we all to stand in this same queue. This is injustice, why can’t we have
reservations here; maybe they could go ahead at a faster pace?
Looking out onto the highway he finds children with their parents’
queuing up for the school bus. He was reminded of his own when he had missed
his bus because he was a little late. Had wanted to ask the driver uncle why he
couldn’t stay put until he had arrived. Maybe driver uncle would have given him
a lecture on the virtues of time management and decision making. He would have
simply told him that he had to make a choice between waiting for him and
getting all the others late for classes inviting his superior’s wrath.
He remembers the time when in order to catch the waiting bus
and fearing that the driver was about to take off he ran and tripped over his
tiny legs strewing mama’s lunch and his tiny books, slate, rubber (eraser is a
modern terminology), and sharpened pencil onto the road. His brother has to
turn back and help him get everything back, though not in perfect order but
thank god the Lunch box has refused to budge open, probably a sign of mama’s
love that went beyond his tiny imagination.
At school he remembers throwing in his lot into an English
essay class and being surprised by the praise he received from the teacher,
early signs that he could coin some satisfying lines. In games he would always
be at the threshold of selection but never actually getting into the team. At
times when he got the rare occasion he would excel in flashes enough memories
to last a lifetime and help make up the satisfaction levels.
With girls it was the same always shy to make the first move,
wondering why seemingly inferior guys would always take away your intended
interests. They probably had some tricks that he couldn’t fathom. Later in life
they would tell him in selling classes that persuasion was the key. Gosh! Why
hadn’t those lucky ones told him about this secret weapon? Why didn’t they
teach selling skills in school? Then they probably didn’t have to teach those
in later years. Now he is too old to unleash, the charm fading and the
shrivelled crumbling lines clearly visible to all, counting the years just like
the rings on a cut trunk of a tree.
In office he would always push the envelope, what did he gain
except a few words in praise at farewells? Diplomacy they say would have gone
beyond the present, the outcome would have been more visible. But he was never one to mix emotions, to
mince words, he would spell that out which was lingering in the heart. He
didn’t care about what others thought as long as he could answer the call
within. Now that he was queued up and had time on hand he could reflect on the
days gone by and outcome of those actions that had satisfied a few and
antagonized maybe many.
Suddenly the queue seems to hasten looks like a few fellow
travellers have fallen off the edge of the cliff all together; he has to hurry
his steps to keep pace with the flow of life. He now has enough time to weigh
the past using the future expanse that opened up so suddenly before him.
