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Authors: Khushwant Singh
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her own life here, years ago... her laughter reminded me of mother's laughter that night.
'Bano, did your mother tell you something about my mother?'
'How does that concern you?'
The doors of the deserted house rattled in the wind.
'Bano, when I was ill, sometimes I had strange feelings. I felt I was also like Mother â that there was something common between us, something which no one likes. I saw an apparition wrapped in snow, whose hands were white as marble and it remained dangling in the air. An apparition which, coming from behind suddenly bottled me up â and then I fell apart from my own self. Yes, from my own being, Bano!'
Bano shook like a leaf and her eyes grew wide with fear.
We were all packed and ready to leave. Labels of 'Simla-Delhi' had been pasted on all the boxes, bags and bedrolls, with Father's name in bold letters below. The servants and peons from Father's office ran all over the place, busy with the arrangements. The house bustled with activity.
Mother was in her room upstairs, doing nothing. Father had asked me not to go to her. Perhaps she was not well. I had not met her since she had returned from her aunt's place. She had arrived in the night when I was asleep.
Having nothing to do, I knocked about the house till I felt suffocated with boredom. Keeping out of everyone's way I escaped from the house.
Descending the footpath I started along the ravine, picking pine cones till both my pockets were stuffed with them. On the distant hills the late sunlight still lingered, too tired to merge into darkness.
I had come a long way from home and when I started walking back, I suddenly spotted uncle Biren's tiny cottage down below, cosily ensconced amidst a cluster of trees. I remembered that particular evening when I had come to the cottage with Mother. Since the time Mother had gone to stay with her aunt, uncle Biren had stopped calling on us. Once I had asked Father about uncle Biren. But his expression had become so hard that I dared not pursue the subject.
I walked down to the cottage. In the western sun, the sloping roof had become a glowing red. The wicket gate was open. I tiptoed on to the lawn. The wind sighing through the grass added to the sense of desolation. At the edge of the lawn I could see the stone bench on which Mother had sat.
I gently knocked at the door, 'Uncle Biren, uncle.' My voice went ringing through that lonely, mute cottage. I felt it was not my own voice, but an unfamiliar one, which chased my own.
'Come in. The door is unlocked.'
I went in. The dim light of the table lamp fell on the book and the papers which lay in disorder on the table. Uncle Biren asked me to sit on his bed and pulled up his easy chair beside me.
'Have you walked alone, this long distance?' He took my hand in his and smiled.
Suddenly his eyes fell upon my bulging pocket and I went red in the face.
'What have you in those pockets of yours?' he asked me. 'Pine cones?'
I nodded.
'What will you do with them?'
'They are for the train.'
'For the train?' Biren uncle's face had become a question mark.
'Yes, we are leaving for Delhi tonight, uncle.'
He looked at me without blinking. Then he got up and without taking further notice of me started gazing out of the window. A suffocating silence filled the room. I felt he had already known about our going away. When he turned from the window his blue eyes shone.
'You remember the photograph you took that day?' he asked me. 'Its ready. Would you like to see it?'
He took out an envelope from the almirah and handed it to me. 'You are quite an expert,' he said. 'The photograph has come out very well.'
I looked at the photograph. The event, which I had consigned to the limbo returned vividly.
Against a hazy backdrop of mountains, I saw uncle Biren standing close to the railing of the balcony, his arm unknowingly touching mother's
sari.
And mother... she stood with half-closed eyes, her lips parted, as though she was on the point of uttering
'Bano, did your mother tell you something about my mother?'
'How does that concern you?'
The doors of the deserted house rattled in the wind.
'Bano, when I was ill, sometimes I had strange feelings. I felt I was also like Mother â that there was something common between us, something which no one likes. I saw an apparition wrapped in snow, whose hands were white as marble and it remained dangling in the air. An apparition which, coming from behind suddenly bottled me up â and then I fell apart from my own self. Yes, from my own being, Bano!'
Bano shook like a leaf and her eyes grew wide with fear.
We were all packed and ready to leave. Labels of 'Simla-Delhi' had been pasted on all the boxes, bags and bedrolls, with Father's name in bold letters below. The servants and peons from Father's office ran all over the place, busy with the arrangements. The house bustled with activity.
Mother was in her room upstairs, doing nothing. Father had asked me not to go to her. Perhaps she was not well. I had not met her since she had returned from her aunt's place. She had arrived in the night when I was asleep.
Having nothing to do, I knocked about the house till I felt suffocated with boredom. Keeping out of everyone's way I escaped from the house.
Descending the footpath I started along the ravine, picking pine cones till both my pockets were stuffed with them. On the distant hills the late sunlight still lingered, too tired to merge into darkness.
I had come a long way from home and when I started walking back, I suddenly spotted uncle Biren's tiny cottage down below, cosily ensconced amidst a cluster of trees. I remembered that particular evening when I had come to the cottage with Mother. Since the time Mother had gone to stay with her aunt, uncle Biren had stopped calling on us. Once I had asked Father about uncle Biren. But his expression had become so hard that I dared not pursue the subject.
I walked down to the cottage. In the western sun, the sloping roof had become a glowing red. The wicket gate was open. I tiptoed on to the lawn. The wind sighing through the grass added to the sense of desolation. At the edge of the lawn I could see the stone bench on which Mother had sat.
I gently knocked at the door, 'Uncle Biren, uncle.' My voice went ringing through that lonely, mute cottage. I felt it was not my own voice, but an unfamiliar one, which chased my own.
'Come in. The door is unlocked.'
I went in. The dim light of the table lamp fell on the book and the papers which lay in disorder on the table. Uncle Biren asked me to sit on his bed and pulled up his easy chair beside me.
'Have you walked alone, this long distance?' He took my hand in his and smiled.
Suddenly his eyes fell upon my bulging pocket and I went red in the face.
'What have you in those pockets of yours?' he asked me. 'Pine cones?'
I nodded.
'What will you do with them?'
'They are for the train.'
'For the train?' Biren uncle's face had become a question mark.
'Yes, we are leaving for Delhi tonight, uncle.'
He looked at me without blinking. Then he got up and without taking further notice of me started gazing out of the window. A suffocating silence filled the room. I felt he had already known about our going away. When he turned from the window his blue eyes shone.
'You remember the photograph you took that day?' he asked me. 'Its ready. Would you like to see it?'
He took out an envelope from the almirah and handed it to me. 'You are quite an expert,' he said. 'The photograph has come out very well.'
I looked at the photograph. The event, which I had consigned to the limbo returned vividly.
Against a hazy backdrop of mountains, I saw uncle Biren standing close to the railing of the balcony, his arm unknowingly touching mother's
sari.
And mother... she stood with half-closed eyes, her lips parted, as though she was on the point of uttering
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