thecreativespace
I felt a sea surging within me while I stood on the London Bridge watching the ripples and listening to the musical flow of the water on the River Thames. Many a wave has dashed and sobbed against the walls of my heart. Innumerable waves have struck on its shore in a frenzy and left the foam with the froth behind! Outwardly everything was calm and cool, though I was burning inwardly.
I remembered the first and the last day I came to see the beach far away in my country. My father was also with me. Squatting on the golden sands my doctor friend talked and talked. I don’t exactly remember what he talked, though it sounded warm and cordial. As I had natural reticence in talking, I did not talk much. I was seeing him for the first time. He was my pen friend. A doctor from Madras, much older than me. I was a college student then.
I was very ‘talkative’ only in letters. But I failed in keeping this eloquence of my letters in my direct conversation. It was my nature with my friends and classmates. As a result, I did not have any intimate friends, though I longed to have some.
He had brought many gifts for me from Madras. How forgetful I am! I don’t even remember the things he brought for me.
Our correspondence continued even after he left for England. I do remember one sentence he wrote in the letter he sent me from England as soon as he reached there. It was tinged with grief and disappointment. “I don’t get even an iota of love anywhere in this metropolitan city. I miss my people; I miss my country.”
I remember what he wrote in one of his earlier letters while he was in India. When he was a student in Medical College, he married a girl out of his parents’ compulsion. She was their old friend’s daughter and the marriage took place as a part of their promise to their friend. But she was a mental patient and the marriage failed very soon. As his only interest was in his studies, he qualified himself as a doctor and became a practising doctor.
It was shortly before leaving for England that he visited our place. He stayed in a hotel, one of his Malayalee friends had arranged beforehand. I accompanied my father when we went to the hotel to take him to our home one day and he had evening tea with our family. We treated him to some snacks and a few of our specialties as well. It was a friendly visit. It was during his short stay that we went to the beach in Alleppey. After one or two days he left for Madras.
It was in the first letter from London that he wrote nostalgically about his people and his country.
After one year he sounded romantic and emotional when he wrote in one of his letters, “When I looked into your eyes, I thought I was looking into an ocean. Among those whom I miss, you are the one I miss most dearly!” Then after one or two months, another letter came. “Can you give me the love that this metropolitan city has failed to give me? I feel so lonely here. Will you marry me?”
I felt bewildered. I was only a postgraduate student then. This man must be at least twenty years older than me. I did not know what to do. Finally, I wrote to my elder sister about it. After a few days, I got my sister’s reply. She had mentioned the financial constraints of our family in the letter. Our parents would not be able to marry me off easily. ‘After all, he loves you dearly. An older person will have true love. You can agree.’ My sister might have been speaking from her own experience.
A thunder resounded within me. I was stunned.
My mother’s vigilant eyes had seen the postman giving me a letter, and me reading it. “Whose letter is that?” my mother asked. I told her that it was from Suseela, my elder sister. “ Give it to me. Let me see.” Mother said. I stood numbed without being able to hide it or tear it up. It was quite unnerving to me. Mother forcefully took the letter from me and read the letter. What followed was a Tsunami. The waves that raged hard into my heart receded after causing much havoc.
“Put an end to your writing this very day.” Mother shouted.
I was shivering when I sat up to write to him,
“ Dear Doctor, I won’t write to you anymore. Please do not write to me either.”
When I took the bundles of letters he sent me and tore them off, I felt as though the walls of my heart were tumbling down like a pack of cards.
Decades have passed after that incident. Occasionally I used to wonder where he was. If only I could see him at least once. Was he still in England? Or, had he come back to his native place? I didn’t remember his address. No trace of his memory was left in my collections. He must be pretty old now. In his eighties, perhaps. If I could see him only once. We had always been good friends till that fatal letter tolled the knell of our parting forever. If I could only renew our friendship. I waited in vain for his coming from beyond the seven seas.
“Come on Meera, let’s go.” Arun, my husband put his hands around my shoulders. “It’s time to reach the place.”
We had reached London for a few days as part of our European tour. Back in India, I had expressed my desire to Arun before we made arrangements for the travel. He had made some inquiries with his friends over there. They had finally found out the person to be staying in St.Joseph’s Hospice in London following an attack of Alzheimers. Arun thought a halt at the River Thames would refresh me before the meeting.
Our car reached the front door of the hospice. I was shivering and Arun pressed on my shoulders gently. “Cool down, dear!”
Arun held my left hand tightly as we walked towards the room. My heart was beating harder and faster. The nursing assistant went ahead of us and opened the door for us. She ushered us in. An old man, the shadow of an old person, was lying on the bed. Did his eyes shine for a moment when he looked at me closely? Oh, it must be my fancy! I mentioned my name in a feeble tone. He gripped my hand and looked into my eyes for a few moments.
“Do you remember me?” I trembled when I asked.
“Can I ever mistake your eyes?” Did I hear a murmur?
Then he directed his eyes to the wall facing him. I followed his eyes and saw an enlarged antique-looking black and white photo he took of my father and me four decades back! When I withdrew my eyes from the wall, I found a smile lingering on his lips.
(Aniamma Joseph: Former Professor of English, she is a bilingual writer. She writes articles, poems, short stories, novels and plays in Malayalam and English. Her novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye received the Kesari Award from DC Books. Other published works include Hailstones in My Palms, a collection of poems; and Ardhavrutham, a novel among others. She is also a translator, and 3 of her translations including a novel Ahalya by Dr. Rani Binoy (into English) and Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe (into Malayalam) are to be published shortly. Email: anniejoseph10@yahoo.com)
(Image credit:Adina Voicu from Pixabay)