The Lonely Hill Top

A lonely hill top. No snow, but a rude sun. No grass, but sharp rocks. The river that used to run down with sparkling water has dried leaving behind the dark stones.

“Papa, where are the deer?”, Gatu pulled his father’s shirt. Gattu’s eyes were not filled with innocence, nor were they inquisitive; they were no close to the eyes of a boy of his age who had persuaded his father for so long to have a look at the green fields and white snows. His eyes were tired, as if he had forgotten his excitement, as if his excitement was murdered by the harsh trek he had with his father. The sweat drop had now formed a stream; it was about to drip from his tender chin when his father wiped it off, bent down and lifted Gattu in his arms. His muscles were fighting against his will, for the first time he felt his 12 year old son’s weight. His bones creaked. It’s perhaps the age, he thought. He wasn’t exactly old, but he looked tired and sick. He had succumbed to the weight of the fat files and his boss’s taunts. While climbing the rocks, he was constantly thinking about the politics in his office, the hike in the petrol price, the regret of buying a new refrigerator, the shame of not having an erection last night, the risks about taking an education loan for Gattu’s higher studies. Gattu was in his arms. Both of them had felt by now, that the question was rhetorical. They now turned back and walked with their tired feet towards the rock that casted a cool shadow against the scorching sun.

“Papa, I don’t think it was the right day for a trek!”, Gattu said sipping the warm water from the flask. The label on the flask said – Cool Stream- keeps water cool forever.  Shyamlal looked at his son’s eyes, they were focussed on the flask. He was trying to hide the discomfort after drinking the warm water. Shyamlal remembered the time he bought the flask, and cursed the mallu vendor who had insisted that the flask is the best in the market. He also knew it wasn’t the best day to trek, but he had no choice. He needed to prove a point. He needed to show his colleagues that he too can be a great dad. He wanted Gattu to say to his friends, “Mere papa sabse acche!”. He wanted his wife to stop complaining and kiss him like his honeymoon night. He wanted to show the society that he too has the capability to turn the wheel of fortune backwards. He wanted to throw off his baggage from the apex and scream his frustrations out. Alas! He has to go back as a loser. He has to go back to the world where he is just a laughing stock. His baggage will never be lightened. A day-out for him will just be a crappy-all-goodie family film at a cheap single screen cinema. He isn’t blessed like the other fathers who take their sons for a ride, or take their wives to a candle light dinner. Shyamlal will forever be a clerk, with a complaining wife and a disappointed child! The rock’s shadow was now being shorter, he looked at his watch- 14:25, sun, 22 may 2009.

Gattu lied down on Shyamlal’s lap and closed his eyes. Shyamlal looked at his son’s tired face, it was filled with disappointment. He felt like humming him a lullaby. He had never liked listening to music, he started humming a tune. The tune took shape of words and the words wove a soothing cot of  lullaby. Gattu’s frowns slowly started to fade. His tired face slowly started to relax. Shyamlal took some water and wiped it on Gattu’s face and blew slowly as he sang. A smile appeared on Gattu’s face. Shyamlal could hear tablas playing, a flute and a guitar joined the orchestra. A cool breeze found its way to their faces. The harsh sun was gradually hiding behind the cool clouds. The rocks became cooler. He continued to sing. As words came out of his mouth, nature danced and ensured the song a perfect treatment. He was surprised to see his wife walking towards him. She was smiling. She was wearing the same green salwar that she wore during their honeymoon. Shyamlal looked up- the sun had given up completely against the lullaby. He smiled and continued to sing. He felt the hard rock beneath getting softer. He reached for it and felt the char pai. He remembered him re-weaving it. It belonged to his mother, he smiled. How she was so possessive about it, and after her death how he had insisted to keep it on his terrace. Geeta never liked it. But she was smiling now, she looked so pure, like an angel in that green salwar. She walked towards him slowly, smiling, shaking her head, adjusting her hair, lifting her dupatta; oh she was looking so beautiful! She came and sat next to him, held his arms and leaned on his shoulders. Shyamlal stopped for a moment, perhaps was really amazed by the happenings around him. Geeta turned her head towards him; tiny frowns had developed on his forehead. She gently moved her hand over his eyes and closed them, the frowns faded away. She began humming the same tune and started singing, Shyamlal smiled and joined her. Together they sang as she leaned her head on his shoulder. Gattu silently noticed them. The breeze caught the notes of the music and danced. Green grasses peeped out from the rocks. Flowers bloomed all around. Water found its way out of the hill and flowed down the slopes, sparkling and singing. The river added acciaccaturas to the tune. The lullaby had now taken the shape of a love song, taking the three suffered souls to a land far away from the society. They danced, but slowly. Kissed, but gently. Sang, but softly. Smiled, laughed and swung in each other’s arms.

They slept on the pillow of the starry skies and covered themselves with the blanket of the rainbows.

I think, it will be better if we (the society) don’t bother them further. We have tortured them enough. After all it’s their life; it will be better if we leave them as they dance to the songs that we never sang for them. We have our own business to mind, isn’t it? So, be happy seeing Gattu, Geeta and Shyamlal happy and pray for them. May they be successful in building their little heaven on the lonely hill top! Cheers!