My grandfather was absolutely right when he returned to that `nondescript' village Naira, every 15 days. Though I always knew the reason, now I realize it. He liked staying there more than he did anywhere else. He boasted of five homes (those of his three children, one at our ancestral place and the one in Naira), and it was the one in Naira that he liked the most. His children and grand children (me and my siblings) tried their best to convince him to stay with them. But he always had his way.
The reason he gave was simple. He once told me that in that village he had people to talk to. Initially, I wondered as to what exactly he meant. Did he mean we never talked to him? No. Now, I realize that he wanted people who would listen to him—patiently. But, with the kind of lives we are leading, we do not have any time for others—and certainly not for people who have 40- or 50-year-old stories to narrate. I was close to him—may be because I was the eldest grandchild—and he used to tell me all sorts of experiences he had through out his life. Some of them were interesting, some not. In fact, I could not relate to many of those episodes.
Given our pre-occupations, we could never become patient listeners to him. And, that is where, I believe, we lost him. He kept going back to `his' people, people who listened to him, who could relate to his stories, if at all they did.
Now, the question is why I'm writing all this. Of late, I had certain experiences which almost convinced me that my grandfather was right. I came across two individuals—a lady and a man—in their late sixties.
The lady runs a laundry in my neighborhood. At times, I wonder how she manages to lift that hot and heavy iron press box at her age—not for a few minutes, but hundreds of times, through out the day. But she does. And, she is not forced to do it for a living. She has two capable sons who, very happily, support her. She does it, as she says, to pass her time. I found that a bit strange, though.
She says it is something she has been doing for the last 20 years. And, every time I go to her, she has a story to tell, a new one. And, there are no prizes for guesses as to what those stories are all about. Her experiences, of course. She would tell me how they (she and her late husband) came to Delhi, how they started their life, how they struggled, what made them happy and what not, how this particular area has developed over the years, and so on and so forth. And, as I started lending a patient ear to her, she made sure that my laundry was never done in time. She would keep my clothes untouched until I went back to collect them. And, as I waited, she would start a fresh episode, every time. Though annoying at times, the experience was different.
Then, there is the old man I was referring to. We used to take the bus on the same route almost at the same time every morning. I commuted to my office, and never cared to know where he went. But, during those 30-odd minutes we traveled on the bus, I, once again, became a patient listener. He started telling me stories about his school days—I repeat, his school days. He told me what kind of a wooden slate they used to write on. I also came to know that the leaves of one particular tree could be used as a duster or eraser on those slates. Having spent more than 50 years in Delhi, this fellow-traveler of mine has developed a kind of possessiveness for the city. That is why he did not mince his words while saying that he did not approve of certain changes the city has undergone over the years. He discussed all this and much more. Most importantly, such narrations got repeated many a time.
I noticed a pain (if I can call it one) in all the three lives (those of my grand father, the old man on the bus and the lady at the laundry). It was loneliness that was haunting them. All the three of them wanted people who could share time and a few words with them. It was just a search for a patient ear. Having reached the evening of their lives (I think I can use such an expression), they very naturally have more memories than dreams. It is not that they never had dreams, but they have already outlived them. Now, they are alone—all in their respective ways. All they want is people who could listen to them and share certain things with them.
It is not that only people of their age confront such problems. Each one of us is prone to loneliness—though, the degree may vary. With most of us, it is so less that it generally goes unnoticed. But those, who are above the line, suffer like anything. At times, I find myself above that `threshold’ and the silence becomes unbearable. I run away from it. I go out into the street, but the noise is equally intolerable. I find myself caught between noise and silence. And the midway is far from sight.
