MY SHORT STORY ," RESIDUAL HAPPINESS"

                                        

THE RESIDUAL HAPPINESS

He disappeared at 18. No fight. No note. He just left for tuition and never came back.

For two years, his father, Ashok Kumar, lived on railway platforms :Jammu, Pathankot, Delhi. In Jammu, he would show a laminated Class 10 photograph to tea vendors, constables and beggars. "Dekha hai?"

He would come home late, shoes full of dust, and say nothing. Inside, his wife wept without sound. A weeping that never stopped, just became quieter, like a radio left on in another room.

Then time did its work.

They had a daughter. She was married. Her husband, a schoolteacher from Udhampur, came one winter with a small truck. He took their two almirahs, their bedding, and them.

"Papa, ab akela kya rehna."

With a grandchild running in the house, life came back. A different life, but a happy one. The son-in-law never made them feel like guests. The daughter pressed their feet at night. Fifteen years passed like that.

Only sometimes, when a boy of that age went past on a motorcycle, the mother would go to the kitchen and stand there for a long time, looking at the wall. Then she would come out and become normal again.

Then one day, a neighbour returned from pilgrimage and dropped in to give prasad. There was no other family member in the room. He looked at the old photo on the wall.

"This boy? Long nose, mole on the cheek? I saw him. Ashram above Rishikesh, near the forest. Saffron robes now. They call him Swami Bhaktananda Giri."

The next day, Ashok Kumar told his wife and daughter that he wanted to go to Ganga Ji for a holy bath. He took the early bus at 4 a.m. to Haridwar, then came to Rishikesh. The ashram was three rooms and a prayer hall, all under a huge peepal tree. And he was there. Thicker. Head shaved. But the mole was still there.

The father stood before him. The son looked through him first. Then his face broke.

"Maa kaisi hai?"

Fifteen years of searching ended in those two words.

"I want to see her. Just once," he said.

Ashok Kumar  felt a terrible cold clarity. He had come there to find his son. He now understood he had come there to lose him a second time.

He put his hand on the saffron shoulder and said softly, "No. You stay happy in your world. Don't take away the little  residual happiness we  are left with . Don't disturb us for another fifteen years. For us, you are no one now."

He said it without his voice breaking. The son looked at him, his eyes filled, then went empty. He nodded.

The father walked down the forest path. He did not look back.

He came home. His wife had made kheer. He ate two bowls. He laughed at his grandson's joke.

Three months later, there was a major landslide in Rishikesh. The son-in-law read from the newspaper , " many buildings and roads washed away. Many bodies recovered from debris. The Ashram of Swami Bhaktananda Giri also  washed away . Swami Ji's dead body retrieved from the debris. Thousands gather to have last Darshan of Swami Ji ". The mother said, "Hai,  koyi Mahatma hoga," and went to put the cooker on.

Ashok Kumar  stared at the floor. He felt nothing. And in that nothing, there was a strange peace.

He had finally understood ,'some doors are not meant to be opened again. Some people are loved best by never seeing them again' . The house was warm, the kheer was sweet, the grandchild was shouting. The rest was just the wind passing over the forest.

(Avtar Mota)