I met him at the doorstep where he was leaning against the wall holding the door for balance. He was like a malnourished bird wearing half-moon spectacles and would have been an easy substitute for Dumbledore in the next Potter installment if not for his emaciated figure.
“Say Hello to your house owner buddy!” said Mr.Mitra (my house broker) introducing me to the aging Sardarji uncle who was observing me while his fingers were digging deep in his mysterious whitey white beard which traveled well across his belly. I stared at him back forcing a smile (trust me, it’s difficult; try smiling at someone who is staring at you like you were some kind of most-wanted convict on the planet). He nodded his head in acknowledgement and started to speak in Punjabi to the broker for a good half hour while I was doodling doodles which would have sufficed Google’s need for two three weeks. Abruptly, he closed his door and locked from inside but not before passing me on a menacing look when Mitra tapped on my shoulder and said “Uncle says not to bring girls here”.
After I paid Mitra and sent him off, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time wondering what features of mine gave me away to my accusing house owner as a potential Casanova or a spoilt womanizer. I had been transferred to Mumbai all of a sudden and was in a hurry to settle down somewhere quick and that is how I ended up here. The mini-flat was well accommodating for my needs with a one room kitchen and a bathroom attached to it – all nice and clean which at the end of a month would turn into a shithole. There was a common door opening to the kitchen which I found later had to be shared with my house owner uncle who was occupying the other side of the flat. Though my frequent love for Maggi urged me to use the kitchen I was reluctant after that one of the few first days when I saw the Sardarji uncle wash and rinse, wash and rinse, wash and rinse all his utensils like crazy till I convinced him that I was a vegetarian. He paused for a while and asked if I eat eggs and when I stupidly nodded he continued right from where he left. Sigh….sigh….
Days passed into weeks and weeks silently conspired into months. By now, I was intrigued by my old man-next-door. He was a queer fellow with temperament exactly opposite to how his face looked. I would approach him sitting at his doorsteps when his face used to look all bright and happy only to get a cold stare at my efforts to strike up polite conversations. Having learnt similar lessons I would avoid him (occasional kitchen crossings) when he seems all sad and gloomy only to be pulled by him to his part of the flat and in no time I would be listening to his history. I enquired about him being alone to which he retorted indignantly that he was well taken care of by his sons abroad and he prefers staying close to his hometown. His sons’ family would fly down and visit him once a year staying with him till they flew back. Then he would talk dreamily about his grandsons while the crazy love and warmth glowing in his face (parts of which was not covered by beard) would make him so endearing. It was clear that he loved his grandsons more than anything, even more than his prized possession – the medals.
Uncle was an ex-army officer of some capacity and had a pretty impressive collection of medals arranged methodically in the display rack he had. He never let me or anyone touch them or even go near the rack ( pervy perversons, concentrate on the story pls… ). Later he confessed even his sons were not permitted to touch them. There were easily more than half a dozen medals and everyday before I leave to office, I would see him spread out the medals neatly over a newspaper and wipe them with an anti-rust solution and dry them with a clean napkin and place it back in the glass box. He looked to me like a paranoid monster guarding the secret key to a buried chest within which his heart is hidden. Still, I liked this about him as I believed this passion got him going in his final days as I started to feel the pangs of loneliness when it was only over six months and wondered how it must be for him staying that ways for years now.
Few more months passed and our bond was growing stronger despite the fact that neither understood the other’s language. Still we managed to get along well with uncle making masala tea in the evenings for both of us and me taking him to hospital whenever he fell sick – which was very often. One fine morning I saw him fidgeting all over the place with excitement and learnt that his younger son’s family was arriving the same day. Feeling happy for him I left to office only to see him clean and decorate the flat feverishly. Little did I know I would be in for shock when I would come back in the evening.
I had a rough day at office (you too would have a rough day at office if you had a cougar for a boss…duh…) and unlocking the door I realized I stepped on something. Flipping the light switch on and rubbing my eyes to see what it was….to my horror, it was a metal shard which would mean only one thing – a broken piece of a MEDAL. I was oblivious to the noises of the kids next door and still staring at it wondering vaguely how to explain this to uncle. The inevitable has to be done – making up my mind I opened the kitchen door and started to enter uncle’s room and stopped dead on my track as if bound by an invisible chord. The place was a freaking battle field. A total mess! The curtains were all stained with color inks, the carpet littered over with a pile of orange peels and empty soft drink cans which I didn’t recognize, newspapers torn and stuffed inside a torn pillow and confirming my worst fear was the display rack – opened and one side of it forced roughly leaving it shattered and broken around the edges and the medals strewn across like disrespectful coins in front of a blind beggar.
My heart fluttering, I analyzed the situation and rationalized it must be the result of kids amusing themselves and found one of them dripping saliva over a candy, no, a medal again. Uncle was sitting at the edge of his bed playing with another grandkid and to my supreme amusement, his face was serene and almost yogic, almost like that of young Buddha – not the one that said “Accept pain” but the one who said “Pain is no pain by itself“. I had never seen him like that in the past nine months and stood there looking at his exalted, peaceful face transfixed while being introduced to his son and his bahu who informed me that it was an urgent visit to the embassy and that they would be leaving India the very next day’s early morning. I took leave and came back to my room feeling more exhausted than ever.
Next day, before I was to leave for office, I paused next to the kitchen door to see the next room was empty except for the old man and I could see cleanliness and order had been brought back to the house. The Sardarji uncle was sitting in his usual position with a paper spread in front of him with the medals arranged methodically and cleansing each one of them and wiping them with the napkin. It was an usual sight except for the single tear drop which rolled down off his cheek furtively.
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