Does he remember?

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.