Old Man and ‘She’

There was ebb in the flow of pen and hence, this blog, due to grand Indian festivities for a month or so but the spark did not extinguish. Challenges - and hence, inspiration to write - exist unabated; one does not have to wait but only need to trace the triggers. The indefatigable human mind continues to surprise by exhibiting tenacity and variety in dealing with events as big as demonetization or as small as a piece of cloth. 

Last fortnight, we – me and my better half – were revisiting the pleasure of ‘teenage of togetherness’ having entered into the seventeenth year of our welded …oops wedded life. To commemorate the occasion, my wife decided to explore some new dresses in vogue at the commencement of winter!

With melodies echoing in heart, she shortlisted a few garments. I was instructed to wait outside the fitting room. “Be here” was what i heard last before she went into oblivion.  Over the years, diligently waiting outside the fitting rooms has been the only cause of weariness and rift between the two of us.

Once again, I rested myself along the wall only to spot an elderly gentleman, with walking stick, held in shaky hands, stooping back and protruding lips, standing outside the fitting rooms – apparently waiting to hold his head firm for the next nod as soon as his wife would come out and ask him “kaisi lag rahi hoon?”¹

We exchanged smiles. We were united in experience, I sensed, though separated in age.

“Your wife?” he asked. I taxingly nodded and returned the query “Yours too?” He smiled with élan, in affirmative, head upright now; pride on his shoulders.

Bemused by his strange and gutsy demeanour, I continued the conversation, “Sir, we are completing sixteen years of our marriage.” “Great”, he said, “May you spend many more here. I already crossed 50 years of waiting”

“50 years of waiting?” I tried to clear my confusion.

“It is a pleasure to stand and wait for your beloved to come out and watch the smile on her face – it is unparalleled. We cannot afford new and expensive dresses yet we come here frequently just to try, and not buy, a few smiles. Remember the song from The Sound of Music

I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…..

I need someone older and wiser, telling me what to do
You are seventeen going on eighteen, I'll depend on you…..

We replay the moments of that song very often. While she enjoys new outfits and derives momentary happiness, I remain occupied spotting the best looking dress in other women occupants. By now, I have nurtured an illusion of being a fashion connoisseur. Nevertheless, we enjoy our experiments.”

“Waiting,” he continued, “breeds creativity, young man. It provides a blank canvas with scope of unfettered strokes of brush. The imagination may run wild! Euphemistically, it can be equated with cinematography with the scene changing with every blink of the eyes. While it may be loaded with pains, still it may give you diverse gains.

The life commenced with waiting – our mother waited for nine months for us to arrive. We longed for the school bell to ring for the final time. The endless road journey back home from school; the longing for the wall clock to strike 5 o’ clock in evening – the declaration for playtime; hope and despair in the days waiting for competitive examination results; a romantic wait for a lovely date and so on. All have myriad colours.”

The discourse was interrupted by the voice of a young lady who had just come out of the fitting room to win the nod of approval from her partner “Rohit, Rohit”. She shouted but he was busy on his cellphone a few steps away. Anger was injected in the call now, “ROHIT”. Both me and the elderly gentleman approached Mr Rohit and separated him from his cellphone as he rushed, trembling, to her as we glanced at each other.

“This wait is unique, I told you. It is a recess for the words but a deluge for thoughts. You just saw the engrossed young man” said the old man.

I was reflecting at my disposition over the years; the gentleman made me realize what I had missed by not utilizing these precious waiting moments. The agonies could be turned into romantic memories. While loss of time and lack of taste was often cited by me as the reason for repulsion towards waiting zones, this mild introspection led to different inferences.

“I have sealed friendships here with many husbands, boyfriends, brothers, colleagues, sons and fathers” he continued while I was still floating.   

“Do you drink coffee?”

“Yes, sir” I replied instantly, thinking it was an invitation.

“There is no romance in concocting your coffee instantly. It is not a functional beverage. It has many companionable qualities. You can’t capture and inhale the intoxicating aromas as they dissipate into the air unless it is brewed at right temperature for appropriate time. A good coffee turns into a page of romance, only after a patient wait. Can you get a whiff of the aroma here?”

“I can” he said, firm and resolute, after a pause, as I stood there split between my thoughts and repeated calls from my wife, “kaisi lag rahi hoon?”

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1.       kaisi lag rahi hoon? – How am I looking?