A smile...

blogging after ages.. been kinda away from net access for quite some time now.. but well.. kept on writing stuff anyways behind notebooks n all.. have abt 6 stories n first chapter of a novelish stuff written.. :D. here goes the first story:

Once again I woke up to the warm gleaming stream of light entering my small room past a crack on the wooden window to the right of my bed.I searched for my glasses on the handicraft stool to the left of my bed.That is where i always kept them.After fishing it out of a messy wreck of stashed cigarette packs and newspapers I reached the door looking for newspaper. I am not one of those people who cant have their morning tea without holding their newspaper first. It was the talk of the town that when an old man was thrown out of his own house by his kids, he had started a newspaper agency and loads of people had signed him up out of sympathy. I had registered too. I always used to wish him in the mornings. He would always reply with a warm smile. Nothing more, nothing less. Lately he had been getting progressively late in delivering the paper. Old age, I suppose, was beginning to catch up with him. Once the sympathy had begun to have its effect worn off, many of the people who used to deal with him moved on to younger agents who would come in their cycles and deliver the newspapers before dawn. Since I was hardly interested in reading the newspaper, it hardly mattered to me how late it came and hence I continued with him. All i actually cared for was his smile. A simple emotion that suffused in me an excess of thirst for life, a spur to my heart beats, a grand proof of the ultimate human desire - happiness. The door was ajar but I could not find the newspaper hanging messily as usual on the gate. I had gotten up late and was almost sure when i did that i would have missed him today.I was happy that he had not come yet.I wont be missing him after all.But then, I could not help getting a bit worried about him. It was almost 11 in the morning and my kids had already gone to work. The old man had never been this late. I came back into my room and looked around just in case somebody else got it in while i was asleep.All I could see was my clothes scattered haphazardly and the old untouched newspapers stacked neatly on the far corner to the left of my cupboard. I cleaned up the mess a little and piled all my clothes into a laundry bag and threw it on the sofa. I was sweating and I could feel my heart pumping hard.Each morning of the past four years of my life had begun with the old man.Though seemingly unimportant, the fact that I am very old made me resistant to changes.With so little to look forward to, each little thing I did on any given day was like an event for me, though they might be predictable and supremely boring to people in younger clothes.Somehow, meeting this old man felt unique every time. Its a wonder how a simple smile could mean so much to me while so less was uttered. The day treaded slowly and lazily past noon. I was painting, but, my ears were waiting for a door bell and a familiar sound of old feet dragging on the pebble strewn garden path leading to the gate. My eyes were waiting for that smile. Suddenly I heard a sound at the gate and I rushed to the door as fast as my lazy flesh and bones could drag me.It was my son's car at the gate. My son, his wife and my granddaughter stepped out of the car.It was not common for them to come back home at this hour.I stared at them. They could easily see a question in my eyes i guess. But none said anything. My son slowly came to me and held me tight and whispered something into my ears. I could not understand it. Rather, I guess my body refused to hear it. I moved away from him and looked at the road leading to our gate. I was still looking out for the old man. This was the most late he had ever gotten. I made a mental note to make him sit down and have a cup of tea with me or perhaps even lunch. He should be coming any time now, I thought. "when the newspaper comes, do tell me." I said to noone in particular and was about to go inside when my son stopped me. He held me and shook me and said, " Dad is dead mom.Dead". My newspaper man would never come again.


do comment. :)
cheers.

~M~