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aruneshgoyal · 4 years

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The Contextual Major Plot Featuring India-Pakistan World Cup Tie as Also Wedding Anniversary of the Main Protagonists

Mahesh and Saraswati are well settled now in India (old Delhi) with kids, Shaloo - thirteen years of age, and Brij - nine years old. Mahesh is a devout Hindu, especially dedicated towards Goddess Durga and his wife, Saraswati is a pious Muslim lady before marriage by the name – Shakila.

Now, husband and wife for the last fifteen years ever since 15th February, 2000, Mahesh and Saraswati are all set to celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary along with another grand event, Indo-Pak World Cup cricket clash planned for the day, viz. the fifteenth of February, 2015.

Cricket has always been their cup of dilemma and duel especially due to Shakila’s brother, Hussaini Bhai, being a member of the Pakistan cricket team for the last ten years as an all-rounder (medium pace bowler and a power hitter just akin to our Kapil Dev).

This World Cup, in particular, is especially important for him as he is going to announce his retirement after the Indo-Pak match; moreover, Pakistan, sensing victory, out of the rather low morale of the Indian team due to repeated defeats on its tour of Australia, just on the eve of the mega event, are going all out this time to break the jinx of having never beaten India in a World Cup fixture as yet.

After marriage, being a dedicated wife as she was, Saraswati alias Shakila was always in a state of turmoil – whether to support her husband or her brother! The children too were at loggerheads on this issue. Hussaini Bhai also adopted certain Hindu customs after the marriage of his sister to Mahesh, which included the celebration of the much wonted and acclaimed ‘Raksha-Bandhan’ festival with the tying of the sacred thread on his wrist by his sister, elder to him by a good seven years.

Whenever Saraswati would handcuff him with a sparkling ‘Rakhi,’ he would seek her blessings you guess what, your guess is as good as mine – asking for his team’s victory over India in the upcoming matches. February 15 in 2015 was no different. He had already sought his sister’s affectionate blessings the previous year in the wake of his upcoming retirement from international cricket. Before leaving for Australia-New Zealand, the venue of this year’s edition of the World Cup, Hussaini Bhai had touched his sister’s feet yet again, promising to call her before the all-important Indo-Pak contest.

True to his word, before leaving for the cricket arena on the actual day of the match, Hussaini Bhai had called his sister, Shakila alias Saraswati, and said – “dear sister Shakila! Please bless me so that not only do I perform well with both bat and ball but also our team does well and goes on to defeat India!” Shakila, in reply, said simply – “dear brother Hussaini! I am a wife more now than a sister. Still, I pray to God that you perform well in your last encounter before retirement. As for defeating India, I cannot say anything but only that it be an absorbing contest between the two teams for the spectators to feast upon and the better team which does better today win!”

Mahesh and the two children – Shaloo and Brij, were standing just nearby, overhearing the entire conversation between the brother and sister team of Shakila and Hussaini. Mahesh said jokingly – “don’t you dare to spoil your dear brother’s mood today! Just see the extent to which he has gone, how much he has been preparing, and looking forward to this – his last and final outing in cricket!” Brij added – “it’s going to be my Mamu Jaan’s day today and Pakistan will beat India hoarse, hollow, and outright!” Meanwhile, Shaloo, listening to all this talk, just couldn’t bear the thought of India losing this particular ‘prestigious’ match, and joining in the conversation, said mockingly – “even if Mamu Jaan takes the blessings of the entire household in India, nay Pakistan as well, God will see to it that my India doesn’t get defeated today!”

“Okay, okay! Everybody, listen now! Enough discussion has already taken place on the issue. Let’s not waste any more time over the matter and straightaway get into the act, by having our breakfast quickly and then settling down lest we miss any of the live coverage by Star Sports. Remember, we have specially subscribed to the channel for this occasion and only about half an hour is left before the live action begins, beamed right from Australia to so many countries around the globe including our India” – intervened Saraswati alias Shakila, suddenly taking control of the situation.

Everybody fell silent now and there was no further talk about the upcoming cricket action during breakfast time. Finally, as the clock struck exactly 09:00 hrs. IST, everyone settled down, taking their own vantage positions in front of the HD color ONIDA television set, once so much famed for its “owners’ pride, neighbor’s envy” ad.

Being a Sunday, Mahesh was off from his office work and the children too were free from their respective schools. Mahesh worked for a leading MNC in Gurgaon, travelling to and fro daily in his Honda car. While Shaloo was pursuing her studies in a central convent school and had come home specially to join her family for the match, Brij was studying in the nearby Jesus & Mary school. The school van would come daily to pick him up from home in the morning as also drop him back after school time in the afternoon.

The match had a significant sidelight too – a touch of the Indian cinema. Mr. Amitabh Bacchhan, the veteran actor well known for his versatility, and the famed anchor of the popular soap opera and Sony’s TV show – “KBC (‘Kaun Banega Crorepati’),” was making his grand debut in the commentary box, for a change this time, during the course of the match. It may be pointed out in this context that Amitabh Ji’s voice is his greatest asset and everybody, whether from India or abroad, was keenly looking forward to listen to this golden voice on the occasion. Star Sports, who had roped Amit Ji in for the event, was particularly keen on cashing upon his worldwide popularity and up the ante as far as TV ratings were concerned.

Before the match, there had been frequent calls from Shakila’s family and other near and dear ones from Pakistan all of whom were rooting for their home team and wanted Shakila alias Saraswati to fall in their footsteps and follow suit. Only Saraswati knew how tormenting all those moments had been. On one hand, she was supposed to and had to support India in the wake of her foremost relation as Mahesh’s wife and on the other, she couldn’t afford to displease her native relations too, not to speak of her role as a sister to Hussaini Bhai.

But, there was one very good point and factor working in her favor.

Mahesh knew his wife well, trusted her, and supported her through and through. Furthermore, he was not a jingoist or a cricket fanatic and was wise enough to understand not only the intricacies of the game but also the significant fact, missed by many but not him, that after all, it was only a game in which one of the two competing sides had to win and the other to lose.

Sometimes, he just brooded over and told himself that people were, by and large, foolish enough to put at stake so much for their chosen team, even going to the extent of gambling and betting heavily on the outcome. All this, he so wisely surmised, added to the ever increasing pressure on the players from both the sides and everybody else genuinely concerned about the game, which in modern times, had already acquired and taken the form of an explosive volcano, ready to erupt anywhere anytime.

He stood by his dear wife, Saraswati, often consoling and calming her down with soothing words, telling her to take all the discomfiture in her stride and that things would take their own course and everything would eventually work out well, God willing, or ‘Inshallah,’ as they say in Urdu.

Mahesh also had the good sense to realize that the game and so to say, everything in the modern world, from education down to health facilities, had become too commercialized, especially, of late, for comfort. The common man was hard put to even afford the “grand luxury” of going to a cricket stadium to watch and catch the action right in front of his eyes, not only due to the heavily priced match tickets but also taking into account the fact that as no outside food was allowed these days at the stadia, he would have to foot the bill for the highly over-priced eatables and drinks being offered and available at the match site and that too of much inferior quality in comparison to their rates.

Anyway, as he sometimes would take up and broach these topics with his wife, she would tell him to be ‘practical’ and not think too much but enjoy and, rather, relish the fun of it all, as if “any fun could be greater than humanity,” thought Mahesh although he used to keep and remain silent, accepting Saraswati’s views, but only outwardly. His inner senses were just neither willing nor ready to accept this hard reality and these harsh facts of life and he always wished he could do something about it. But, “what could he do,” all alone. He needed outside support and backing to buck him up in his mission and in this instance, his own wife was telling him in plain words to be ‘smart’ and ‘practical’ and let things go their own whacky way, whether “right or wrong,” how it mattered!

His conscience would prick him no end and he often thought and wished he could write a book and express his views and opinions openly without any fear or regret whatsoever. As of now, he had a family, may be small, but it was after all a family with a beautiful young wife and two decent kids to be taken care of and he just couldn’t afford to put their lives at stake, for the time being, at least. “All right, let me be rid of my family responsibilities and my office as well after retirement. Then, possibly, I can take a chance and would be able to write, fulfilling my cherished wish for so long!” he told himself consolingly and softly.

Back to our match, the little Indo-Pak cricket encounter. Pakistan, winning the toss, had elected to bat first on what appeared to be a paradise of a pitch for batsmen, laden with runs. And, keeping in view Hussaini Bhai’s impending retirement immediately after this significant contest, he was asked to open the innings along with Mohammed Shehzaad, a young, elegant to watch, and gifted opener. May be, the move to send Hussaini Bhai upfront was meant to take India by surprise and upset their rhythm, especially during the first ten power-play overs when only three fielders are allowed outside the inner circle. Be that as it may, Hussaini Bhai was out first ball, yorked by Umesh Yadav, the fastest bowler of the lot on the Indian side, much to the disdain of Brij but amusement for Shaloo. Shakila too was a bit upset about this particular dismissal, knowing in her heart that her brother would be even more upset about it, especially in view of his last outing in cricket.

The whole of Pakistan was stunned into silence and rubbed its eyes in disbelief. Meanwhile, Mahesh, calm and composed, as always, came forward to soothe Saraswati alias Shakila, telling her that Hussaini Bhai still had a chance to bowl well in the Indian innings, and that all was not lost as yet. Misbah-ul-Haq, the skipper of the Pakistan team, walked in next and boy, what an innings he played, simply breathtaking and out of this world! Along with Mohammed Shehzaad, the diminutive young opening batsman, he put up a bewildering partnership of one hundred eighty runs, in which his own personal contribution was a marvelous one hundred fifty runs, full of strokes all around the ground, comprising twelve fours and a towering eleven sixes, to boot.

Although he got out soon after reaching this milestone, trying to hammer another six and caught brilliantly near the boundary by Suresh Raina, who took a low tumbling catch running a good twenty yards to his left, followed almost immediately by Shehzaad, who played a rather needless rash shot in trying to up the ante even more, Pakistan reached a respectable and healthy looking score of two hundred seventy runs eventually, losing five wickets in their allotted fifty overs.

For India, Umesh Yadav took three wickets with Mohammed Shami and Ravichandran Ashwin being the other two successful bowlers, bagging one wicket a piece. Suresh Raina, a part time bowler used by India, strangely turned out to be their most economical one, conceding just thirty runs off his ten overs, giving him an economy rate of three per over, which was simply stunning under any circumstances.

It was lunch time now and the whole family, Mahesh, Saraswati and the two kids – Brij and Shaloo, gathered around the dining table to enjoy the package of Daal Makhani, Rajma, cauliflower, Pulaav, Raita and Tandoori Naans, home delivered to them by the nearby “Wah Ji Wah” restaurant, especially for the occasion. Mahesh had also ordered a special candle-light dinner at the restaurant later in the day to celebrate his fifteenth wedding anniversary with Saraswati. Brij and Shaloo too were to accompany them and join in the celebration, especially as a special chocolate vegetarian cake had been ordered the previous day by Mahesh for today’s special evening. During the course of their lunch, Brij was a bit sulky while Shaloo was her usual chirpy self. Mahesh and Saraswati, on their part, tried their best to keep Brij’s spirits alive and not bring cricket into the picture or mix it up with their much needed meal, especially after three and a half hours of rigorous and continuous cricket watching on their TV monitor/screen.

After a lunch break of exactly thirty minutes, the match began again at 13:00 hrs. IST. At this stage, India were the hot favorites and expected to win, keeping its record over Pakistan straight in World Cup encounters. This was keeping in view the fact that the pitch was still batsmen friendly and benign towards them. Moreover, India had a strong batting line up with stalwarts like Rohit Sharma, Shikhar Dhawan, Virat Kohli, Suresh Raina, Anjika Rahane, and the captain cool, Mahender Singh Dhoni himself, to boot, in its ranks.

As also, the fact that it had been able to restrict Pakistan to a target well below three hundred was an additional advantage working in its favor. And, the men in blue didn’t disappoint their fans, beginning well with Rohit and Shikhar putting up a decent one hundred partnership upfront off just eleven overs. At this point, Hussaini Bhai was introduced into the attack by Pakistan skipper, Misbah. And, off his fourth ball, he had Shikhar Dhawan caught behind, off a thin edge, with a late out swinger. In his next over, he sent back Rohit Sharma too, catching him plumb in front of the wicket with a peach of a delivery, that came in just a bit, for an easy LBW decision by England’s Ian Gould, one of the two umpires doing duty in the match along with S.Venky, the one from Sri Lanka. He virtually sent the crowd, the Pakistan fans, in particular, into a tizzy, by claiming the prize wickets of Virat Kohli and Suresh Raina off his next two successive deliveries, achieving the rare feat of a hat trick in a World Cup final.

There had been no addition to the Indian score of exactly one hundred and its batting backbone had been literally broken and virtually torn to pieces, with four wickets gone already. Rahane and Dhoni tried to rev up the innings a bit, adding a crucial and vital eighty runs, before Rahane too was snapped up by Hussaini in his last and final over, not only for the match but in his cricket career as well, caught at short leg, while fending at a well directed rising bouncer on his chest. Even though Hussaini had got out for a duck while batting, he had bowling figures of 10-3-45-5 for the match, a five wicket haul anybody would be proud of and he so very rightly got a standing ovation from the supporting crowd as he finished his quota. Whatever the result of the match, he was relieved now that he had after all done justice to his last game of cricket. In fact, he had made his retirement a memorable occasion, an occasion he could remember with pride and recite to his probable future grandchildren.

It was anybody’s game now with exactly ninety one runs to get off the final ten overs for India while Pakistan was looking to finish off things quickly and wrap up the remaining five Indian wickets as well. But, its main concern was that its star performer of the day, Hussaini Bhai, at least with the ball, accounting for all the five wickets that had fallen so far, had already bowled out his full quota of ten overs at a stretch. India, on the other hand, was relying on Dhoni single-handedly now to apply the finishing touches and get the required runs at an asking rate of almost nine runs per over, which he was perfectly capable of doing. But, knowing that it was a crunch match, a big pressure game, nobody on either side, was yet ready to take any chances and predict the outcome. But, one thing was for sure. Whichever side doesn’t wilt under pressure and choke down, would be the winner.

Moreover, it was no longer a game to watch for the faint hearted ones. For Pakistan, Junaid Khan and Yusuf Parvez, the two of their fastest bowlers, had to bowl the final ten overs in tandem now while Ravindra Jadeja, a promising young all-rounder (left arm leg spin bowler who could bat as well) was giving Dhoni company at the other end. Both Jadeja and Dhoni were fast movers between wickets and played for the same franchise – Chennai Super Kings, in the IPL (Indian Premier League), a 20–20 or T-20 cricket tournament in which only twenty overs a side are bowled instead of the usual fifty as in one day cricket.

Pakistan did well in the first six overs, restricting India to just twenty five runs. Dhoni and Jadeja tried hard but found the duo of Junaid and Yusuf difficult to get away as they bowled a tidy line and length and at a good pace too, sometimes in the vicinity of one hundred fifty kilometers per hour. Be that as it may, they had no option left but to play in the T-20 mould now, if they were to get the remaining sixty six runs in the four overs left for the day. Nobody was giving them even a semblance of a chance or counting on them to even get anywhere close to the target, leave alone achieving it!

But, M.S. Dhoni had other ideas. He started off with his famed helicopter shot for six over mid-wicket in Junaid’s next over, followed it up with a crunchy straight drive for four off a full length yorker, a shot which only he could play, and then cover drove him, playing inside out for a massive six over the extra cover fence. With sixteen runs off the first three balls of the over, the crowd was on its feet yet again. As he took a comfortable single off the next ball, it was Jadeja’ s turn now to take over and hit the remaining two balls for successive boundaries, one a square cut that sped towards the point fence in the twinkling of an eye, and the other, a delicate leg glance to the fine leg boundary.

It had turned out to be a very good over for India, with as many as twenty five runs coming off it, in all. But, it still required forty one more in the next three overs, by no means, an easy task. Dhoni, once again, didn’t disappoint his fans, by hitting three massive hefty shots for the maximum, over long on, long off, and straight over the bowler Parvez’s head, off the first three deliveries in the next over, the forty eighth of the innings. Young Parvez completely lost his line, rhythm and length, and just didn’t know where to bowl to the Indian captain. To add to his woes, he bowled a wide no-ball next. Two runs were added to the score and a free hit was awarded to the batting side, viz. the Indians.

Although Dhoni could manage only a couple of runs off the free hit, hitting the full toss bowled straight into the hands of the fielder at deep midwicket, viz. Shehzaad, he reverse swept the next two balls for successive fours as if he was facing a spinner instead of a fast bowler. Thirty runs had come in the over bowled.

With just eleven to get in the remaining two final overs of the innings, the game had again turned around and come full circle in India’s favor. However, the ever cool Dhoni got out in Junaid’s final over, trying to repeat his favorite helicopter shot, which he had been able to play successfully off the first ball in the bowler’s previous over. It was neither needed nor called for at this stage of the game, when they could easily do it in singles and two’s.

It was rather uncharacteristic and unlike Dhoni’s calm approach, disposition, and temperament. But, the damage had been done and Pakistan allowed more than a glimmer of hope. May be, the first two dot balls off which Dhoni had been unable to get any runs, had got to his head. Dhoni had got out to the third ball of the over and the batsmen had crossed while the catch was being taken. Jadeja was in the hot seat now. And, just like Dhoni, he played out the first two balls he faced as dots and couldn’t make any use of them. He stepped out to the final ball of the over, trying to play a hefty cover drive, only to see his middle stump cart wheeling and flying off the ground.

India had lost another vital and crucial wicket again, this time of Ravindra Jadeja. Junaid’s final over had turned out to be double wicket maiden one and he was virtually on the moon, clapping and celebrating with his team mates with high fives all around. Everybody was on his toes now for the final over of the Indian innings to be bowled by Yusuf Parvez, the upcoming young fast bowler from Peshawar. At this juncture, India still needed eleven runs to win with just three wickets intact. Pakistan needed to bowl out the final over for less than ten runs to win.

A distinct third possibility had also come into the picture. And, that was India getting no more than ten runs off the six balls it was to face, resulting in a ‘tie,’ or a drawn battle, so to say. Ravichandran Ashwin and Mohammed Shami were the two Indian batsmen at the crease now to take them through with Shami at the non-striker’s end. Umesh Yadav and Mohit Sharma, in that order, were awaiting their turn to bat, if required, in the pavilion.

The first ball – a bouncer over the middle stump! No runs! Ashwin looked at S.Venky, the umpire officiating at the bowler’s end, appealingly for a no ball for extra height above the batsman’s shoulders, but there had been no signal from the square leg umpire, Ian Gould, and Venky simply signaled one bouncer, for the over. The second – a slightly wide full toss had Ashwin groping for it and flew to third man for a single. Mohammed Shami on strike now! The equation – ten to get off four balls!!

The third ball by Parvez was a full length yorker, dug out somehow by Shami, and they stole a cheeky single! The equation – nine to get off three!! The fourth, a short one, was pulled fiercely by Ashwin to the mid-wicket fence for a welcome boundary for his team! Ashwin had proved his batting credentials time and again for India and this was no different! The equation – five to get off two!!

The next ball, the fifth, was a quick good length one, and they ran an even quicker single like two hares running for their very lives!

The equation – four to get off just one ball!! Oh, my, my goodness me, it was all topsy-turvy and could swing either way, although Pakistan seemed to have a slight edge at this point of the game. But, nothing can be said in cricket till the final ball is bowled!

The final ball of the over and the innings was a fierce yorker by Yusuf Parvez, the young lad from Peshawar, who was learning all the time and had bowled a great last over. Mohammed Shami knew nothing about it; Ashwin was already half way down the pitch, screaming out to Shami to run; meanwhile, the wicketkeeper, Yaseen Jaffer, had thrown the ball to the bowler’s end but there was no one backing up; Shami started to run; the ball was stopped near mid-off by Misbah-ul-Haq, the Pakistan skipper, who threw it wildly to the batsman’s end, trying to run out Ashwin; both the batsmen reached their respective ends safely and tried to run the second as well and managing it too; the throw was so wild that it caught all the Pakistan fielders napping and unawares, going to the fine third man boundary and crossing the fence for four overthrows; while India needed four runs off this particular ball, they had been allowed six, much to the chagrin of the Pakistan team, and Parvez, in particular, who had done nothing wrong in this over.

In the end, it had been a comedy of errors, of a sort. But, eventually, it was India who had kept their nerves and done the needful, beating Pakistan by three wickets, with its final score reading two hundred seventy three for seven. Of course, it was helped by the Pakistan fielding in the final over; but all said and done it had ultimately and finally prevailed over Pakistan in what had been a hard fought, pulsating and nail biting game of cricket.

Meanwhile, the much talked about and the much hyped over Amitabh’s stint at the commentary box had come a cropper. It simply had to. After all, everybody can’t do everything. Acting is one thing. But performing in reality is a different ball game altogether. If Amitabh Ji had to act out the role of a commentator in a film, it would have been a virtual cakewalk for him. But, describing live action and moreover a game like cricket with all its buzzwords and peculiar jargon is only a job for professional commentators. Some of the ex-players too have made a good job of it. On his part, Amit Ji were graceful enough to quit right in the beginning itself and fellow commentators on Star Sports (Hindi commentary team) eased him out quickly lest it became an embarrassment both for Mr. Bacchhan and Star Sports. Anyway, most of the audience didn’t complain and accepted the walkout gracefully. May be, they already had a lurking idea that it would be a tough endeavor for Amit Ji to carry out.

Moreover, you can’t become a cricket commentator straightaway. You need time and graduate gradually from local matches to regional ones onto national level and finally arrive at the international level. You see, it’s a step by step gradual process. The only exception to this general rule could be ex-players who have played cricket at some level or the other. But, even here, everybody doesn’t succeed and turn out to be a good commentator. Rohan Gavaskar, the illustrious Sunil Gavaskar’s son, is a very good case in point with no ill-will towards anybody, especially the latter, who by all means, is an excellent TV cricket commentator himself.

Before moving on to the two flashbacks from the lives of Mahesh and Saraswati alias Shakila, just a little word about their fifteenth wedding anniversary together, the T-20 format of cricket, and the IPL.

The couple solemnly celebrated their much wonted anniversary in the evening along with their two loving kids, Brij and Shaloo. First, they feasted upon the aforementioned specially ordered chocolate cake and followed it up by whetting their appetite to the maximum on the candle lit dinner, which had several courses, of course, all of them purely vegetarian and only soft drinks and fresh fruit juices.

Coming to the T-20 format now; while, the reduced number of overs makes the game finish within three hours and the spectators get to watch all their favorite players in one go as also the outcome, we shall also have to say that the T-20 format of cricket suits the batsmen more than the bowlers, who are just left hapless and literally at the mercy of the former. Another valid point is that from a pure connoisseur’s point of view, T-20 is a very poor format and it has adversely affected (of course, along with one day cricket to a lesser extent, though) Test cricket too, which sometime back was his sublime delight.

Before I round off this first part of the story and the narration, a word about T-20 tourneys like IPL. On the negative side, they have commercialized the game no end. But, the positive point is that many youngsters get to play with their seniors, not to speak of some of their role models as well, as also earn some decent money in the process.

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ahighwaychild · 5 years

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Under the Willows

‘Death is certain for the one who is born, and birth is certain for the one who dies. Therefore grieve not for what is inevitable.’ (Bhagvad Gita 2:27)

I was hesitant to sit on his bench, I hadn’t been here since he died, I spared a few minutes to read the engraving and thinking back to that epoch. Fifteen years on, it still looked relatively new and clean, which I was pleased about, I liked the idea of people unknowingly sitting on it, enjoying moments in time, reading his memorial and questioning what kind of person he was. He was gifted a bench in death, I would have given him something more, if I could. It served its purpose, I suppose, it was a sign that he was here, on this earth once, sand in his toes, guitar riffs ringing in his ears, life in his breath, his footsteps had certainly been here.

It was an extremely confusing time, I think my family tried to hide the severity of his illness from me, I suppose they wouldn’t want to worry a ten year old, only tell her what she needs to know, they probably agreed and I don’t blame them. I knew something was wrong, he was in and out of hospital, he became frail - skeleton like, our house was a cry for help then one day everything just became still. Screams of pain then nothing.

Over a hundred people came to his funeral, I couldn’t believe it, myriads of sad faces but no heart as sad as mine, I thought. The wake was filled with unfamiliarity, strangers giving me their condolences, some just smiled, unsure how to comfort a child - they were temperamental at the best of times. I remember thinking my mum and brothers had done a standing ovation job of speaking to the masses, they looked after everyone that day but themselves and after everybody wept we swept up the mess.

My heightened anxiety was an instantaneous by-product of his untimely demise, much to the concern of my earth walking family. I had become an overthinker, prone to ruminating, his death enforced to me the transience of life, the fragility of it all, the loss of love had been excruciatingly painful but we all have our crosses to bear - at some point. I was fearful of my mother dying, then I would be an orphan, I never wanted her to leave the house - unjustifiable thoughts clouded my brain so there was no room for reasoning. I thought about the age difference between my older brothers and I, surely they would die before me, how would I cope with losing them? It was a plague of irrational emotions but they dwindled as I got into my teens, they hadn’t completely vanished into the ether, so to speak, they were still in my psyche and would resurface from time to time.

The bench was situated in a picturesque garden, it currently personified summer and beauty. Children were feeding the quacking ducks and poised swans by the small lilypad filled pond in the distance while their parents watched them closely, marvelling at their child’s youth. The clouds must have been on vacation as the sky was of the clearest blue, dragonflies hovered high above, seemingly unsure of what direction to take and a multitude of colourful butterflies paid me a visit from time to time. I held a long stem of lavender in my hand comfortingly, its blissful aroma working its way through my senses occasionally. The windy willow trees lit up a memory in my mind of being at The Harrow park, falling terribly from my bicycle, my knees violently cut - the blood seeping through within seconds (which would form a small scar that lived on my knee cap - well into my teenage years,) my left elbow sore and grazed. I welcomed his big arms as they scooped me up under the weeping willows to safety. Nursing my cry, wiping neverending tears from my red flushed cheeks, with tissues that he always had in his pockets. It’s sadly the only memory I can remember vividly.

‘Tell me about him?’ My therapist had asked me.

‘He was a wise soul... Very knowledgeable, it was like he knew everything about every subject.’ It felt weird talking about him in the past tense, even after so long. ‘Well, he worked in the British Library, an archetypal librarian, our house was overflowing with books, mainly philosophy, the occult and classic fiction - he was a prolific Tolkien collector. I take after him, my brothers are more philistines.’ It was something I prided myself on, my love of the arts.

‘Tell me, Natasha, is there anything else you can tell me about him?’ My therapist insisted, looking for his biography from me.

‘I don’t know...’ I thought about what I should say. ‘He loved music, reggae, jazz and rock, Jimi Hendrix in particular, Along the Watchtower played at his funeral... He played the electric guitar, we still have like, five, at my mum’s house. I guess she wants to keep them. He enjoyed films - foreign - obscure types.’

‘Is that what you remember about him?’ She tilted her head to the side, probing.

‘I don’t actually remember any of that, that’s what I’ve been told.’ My memories of him were scarce, blurred and dreamlike sometimes I questioned whether he had even been here, if he was an illusion, a fictional character. The bicycle episode was the only palpable memory which strangely I was thankful for, at least it was something. Maybe I had blocked them out, locked them away, it was harder to miss something you didn’t remember. ‘I remember his accent.’ I smiled fondly, recounting his gentle voice. I hadn’t even realised he had an accent until a kid at school had pointed it out, only then I noticed his tone was different to my mums. ‘He was Indo-Guyanese, he was tall and had curly black hair, that’s why I don’t look fully English, or maybe I do, I don’t know. When he died, I remember thinking about my culture… and how it had died with him... But, it soon came knocking at my door and like an old friend - I invited it in...’

My mum is English, your quintessential cockney from Bethnal Green and he was from Berbice, Guyana. It sounds like an incredible pairing when I think of it in that context and they were to be fair, if there is such a thing as soul mates, they were the blueprint. He had arrived, fresh off the - aeroplane, at fourteen years of age and met my mum three years later, they evidently, hit it off and were together ever since. Three children and twenty-five years of marriage, although it should have been fifty more.

While he was here, there was no real fuss ever made about him being from Guyana, not that there should have been. I was so oblivious to my heritage, it was a quotidian reality, that I thought nothing of. As I grew more into my looks, more like him, I was frequently asked, ‘Where are you really from?’ which I didn’t actually find offensive, London is a multicultural city and I, equally curious about other people’s racially ambiguous aesthetics.

Our town was a suburban demographically British-white area, I would have bet all the money in my ten year old self’s piggy bank that we were the only Guyanese in town. All of his family lived in Queens, New York, in an area nicknamed Little Guyana, meaning there wasn’t any West Indian influence in our household once he’d left earth. I had more cousins than I could count, some of them I had met before but it’s hard to remember meeting family when you’re under five years old.

My mum had agreed that we could visit them in New York for my ‘Sweet Sixteenth’ birthday after I had been incessantly pleading for years. My family in NYC paid for our flights (they wouldn’t allow us to put a penny towards it) and we spent two life changing weeks in Little Guyana. They held a family reunion at my Auntie Shivanie’s house and I was overwhelmed with joy to see my ‘new’ family members - all here for me. I was showered with love, I had really not felt anything so euphoric before, it was as though we’d never been apart. My Auntie Shanti told me stories about my dads childhood, some which made me laugh and some made me cry. My mum and I looked at each other knowing what the other was thinking, ‘I wish he could be here’ but I knew he was there in a way.

Sitting at the front of the house was a common ritual in Richmond Hill, red cups, loud music and Guyanese food I’d never heard of or even tasted before - cook up rice (a sticky kind of rice with beans and other vegetables thrown in), katahar (jackfruit curry) , hassa curry (a tropical fish curry, it has the most unique taste.) I wasn’t keen on all their delicacies but hassa curry was now my favourite dish of all time which led my cousins to confirm ‘she ah true coolie white gyal.’ When my elders spoke, it was in such a thick broken English accent that I couldn’t decipher their words to anything understandable. To fit in, I would nod and smile politely, laugh when they laughed, it didn’t really matter to me. My cousins enjoyed mocking my English accent, I retaliated with my impression of their Guyanese accent (which admittedly sounded outrageous), this had them laughing all the way back to Kaieteur Falls.

There was no real resemblance between my cousins and I, you certainly couldn’t tell we were related. They introduced me to their friends, who were shocked at our revelation, ‘No way! You have a white cousin! From Eng-land, that’s dope!’ ‘Yo, she’s coolie too? No way?’ My cousins presented new genres of music to me - Soca, Dancehall, Chutney, Sundar Popo’s ‘Don’t Fall In Love’ was a song I had on repeat for a long while. Two weeks flew by too quickly. Two big jeeps filled with family came to wish us farewell at JFK airport, so many tears and so much love. I told them I would see them again soon.

‘D’you mind if I sit here?’ An elderly man asked me, pointing at the space next to me on the bench, The Times newspaper folded in his other arm. He was about six foot but had a thin frame, glasses sitting on the tip of his sharp pointy nose and mostly grey hair, well, what was left of it.

‘Of course not, be my guest.’ I smiled at him, budging over ever so slightly to create more room, it almost brought me back to reality as my thoughts had spun me into another universe altogether.

My trip down a very winding memory lane had been undeniably cathartic and overdue. A journey complete with introspection, contemplation on the effects of his death to now being still in the present moment as the author of my tale. His death didn’t define me, my race didn’t either nor my religion, I was defined by my spirit and everything else were merely influences on this life’s path.

The old man abruptly swivelled in his position, making me jump slightly at his sudden movement. He pushed his thin silver framed oval glasses up towards his small brown eyes and carefully read the words inscribed on the bench, ‘Ronald eh?’ He nodded at me. ‘I have to pay my respects to those who have left us, I always take notice of these things, I do.’ He put his hands together in a praying motion towards the sky then casually returned to his paper.

I looked at him shocked that he had acknowledged the subject of my visit, he noticed me staring conspicuously at him.

‘Yes?’ He turned towards me.

‘He was my dad.’ I smiled.

#story #short story #amwriting #writing #life #love #loss

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