Not a True Story III

Not a True Story
Not a True Story II

Independence is important. So important that it might be the very basis of one's existence. There is financial independence, job independence, social independence and so on. The world was full of opportunities to create more and more independence until he started feeling that there was no limit to what he could achieve.

Every autumn he took a vacation in the hills. He liked the elevated existence on a cottage high up. Quite secluded except for the occasional merchant carrying fresh farm produce or cheap Chinese made electronic goods. Not much to socialize either. He visited for the air and with the beautiful Jacaranda blossoms coupled with marigold, dahlias and oleanders, the hillside of Shillong provided him with the rejuvenation that most of us require after a year of toil in the never ending rat race. He, ofcourse, liked his walks a lot. As a child he used to run up and down the hill sides, wade in the clear bubbling streams or collect 'touch me nots' and pitcher plants.

People in Shillong take walks in the aftternoons. Hardly ever in the morning. Mostly in the afternoons and sometimes in the evening. Take a long walk and return just in time for tea. He too took all his walks in the afternoons and returned in time for tea. Sometimes he took off early and carried a book with him. There, on a bench by the side of a narrow path leadig to a stream at the foot of the hills, he would sit and read his book. Vacation time was also time to catch up on reading. He loved to read in the gentle sun.

He was currently reading a work of fiction that was much in the news due to its alleged heretic views on a particular religion. Some of that was PR and some of it was the 'clinging-onto-controversies' characteristic of a people ready to jump at any controversy. He did not like such popular fiction but this book he resolved to read having been told by many as being quite outrageous. He sat on the bench and started to read where he had left off the last time. He did not even notice the small boy who sat next to him on the bench. Or rather, he was sitting there when he arrived at his favourite place to read.

He took no notice while the boy was tying the rubber band to one arm of his catapult. The boy was in deep concentration because knotting a rubberband on a catapult required skill as many who have used a catapult will tell you. The little head was bent severely over the wooden 'Y' while he tried to tie the band. He did not notice the boy and the boy took no notice of him. At length, he glanced over his book and looked at the boy. A head of curly hair and small pudgy hands. He was dressed in clean clothes that had seen much wear in the course of the day. He was about seven years old.

He could not but help notice the effort at the catapult. From the corner of his eye he looked at the little fellow and smiled to himself.

'There let me help you', he said.

The boy looked up. He had flashy dark brown eyes and a fair complexion now covered with grime.

'There give it to me', he repeated.

The boy got up and ran while he looked on. Soon the boy disappeared behind a hedge.

The next day was rainy and he could not go on his walk. He could take a walk inspite of the rain but it only meant that mother would give a shouting over dirty shoes and mud steaked trouser bottoms. So he stayed in. The next day was clear. So off he want with is book to his favourite bench. This time he noticed the boy albeit without his catapult.

'Hey little fellow we meet again. Mind if I sit here?' he asked.

'What is your name?'

He was taken aback. 'Abraham. Why do you ask?'

'I must not talk to strangers. But if I know your name, we shan't be strangers would we?'

He nodded as he sat beside him. 'What's your name?'

'I should say my name while shaking hands not before. What is that book you are reading?'

He showed the boy the book.

'Is it someting that grown ups read?'

'Yes'.

'Do you like to fly kites?'

'I used to as a boy. I was not very good'. He was not only bad, he did not know how to fly kites.

The boy looked crest fallen.

'What happened?'

'I wanted to learn to fly kites. But you can't teach me can you if you are not good'.

'Hmmm...but I can teach you to make paper planes that fly better than anyone else's'.

The boy brightened up at once. He took out a piece of paper from his pocket and made him a paper plane; one that he had designed as a boy. It was really quite clever because even at that age he understood something of aerodynamics and weight distribution. The plane glided beautifully. He gave it to the boy who unfolded the plane and folded it back to go over the steps.

'Cool!' he said. 'What else can you teach me'.

'I don't know'. 'What do you want to learn?'

'Can you tie my catapult?'

He smiled at the boy. He was good at tying knots. It was an easy job.

'Cool! You are great. Do you have children?'

'No.'

'Are you married?'

Children these days were so cheeky. 'No.'

'It would be cool to have a dad who can do stuff. Better if he can fly kites.'

'I am sure your dad can do stuff.'

'He cannot fly kites. Would you like to go down to the stream there? I have something I want to show you.'

'Ok.'

They walked down to the stream below. The boy ran in front while he followed slowly. When he reached the banks of the stream, the boy was bending over a bush. He walked over.

'Do you know what that is?'

'Yes. That's a pitcher plant.'

'It eats insects.'

'It is a carnivorous plant. Nepenthes khasiana is its biological name. Do you like curious plants?'

The boy nodded. 'I like to know about things. Dinosaurs, lizards, plants, butterflies, caterpillars, crickets.'

For a moment he looked at that enthusiastic face beaming over the pitcher plant. The boy looked familiar. It reminded him of his childhood and how he used to be as a child. Somethings just do not change. All of a sudden, he felt very attached to the boy.

'Time I went back. Mother will shout if I am late for tea.'

He glanced at his watch. It was 5 o'clock. He'd get a shouting too. They walked back up the hill.

'You did not tell me your name', he said.

'Will you come again tomorrow?'

He was returning the following day. 'No. I do not live here. I have to return to my home tomorrow. It is very far away and I shall go in an aeroplane. Maybe I shall see you next time I come here. What is you name?'

'I shall not be here long. Will you remember me?'

He felt it was a rather curious question. But somehow when he looked at those dark brown eyes he got a funny feeling inside. A sense of loss. It seemed weird but in some way he felt connected to the boy. He definitely reminded him of his childhood.

''Course I'll remember you. Here take my card and you can send me an e-mail sometimes. You do have a name don't you?'

The boy looked at him for a moment. Straight at his eyes. He smiled and started backing away from him.

'I have to go now.' Saying this he started running towards the road behind the bushes.

'Hey. Tell me your name', he shouted.

'Isaac.' came the answer as the boy disappeared behind a hedge.

Independence is a beautiful thing. It provides great power but sometimes the heart knows that there is more to be had and it has nothing to do with independence, rather it has more to do with the lack of it.