20 years ago…
Shy and timid, the little boy stood alone on the cement platform. With the eyes of a hundred strangers set upon him, he was reminded of his first day in school; how he had felt entering the classroom full of unknown faces. But this time, there was no looking back to find two smiling faces on the threshold, reassuring him that everything would be all right. They now lay veiled under white sheets on beds of sandalwood in front of him.
He felt weak and hungry. He had only eaten a soggy sandwich from the hospital canteen, which someone had handed to him in the morning. The hot summer Loo beat against his face, his white kurta was drenched with sweat. The Vedic chants of the Priest were mind-numbing. The thick grey smoke from the havan had stung his eyes, and had left his throat parched. And yet, his face showed no sign of discomfort. Perhaps, he was yet to come to terms with the grief and sorrow that had besieged him.
The Priest handed him a brass vessel and instructed him to sprinkle Holy water on both the pyres. He then gave him a long wooden stick with a cloth wrapped at one end. Even with both his hands, the boy was unable to support its weight and raise it in air. The priest asked him to call someone from the crowd to help him.
The poor boy looked on to the crowd looking for faces he recognized. His eyes were wandering in the second row when he spotted someone familiar. Although, he had hitherto only seen him in an old fading photograph in the drawing room wall, but he knew exactly who he was. Although he did not know much about the man, he knew that his birthday lay on 20th September. He remembered, because on that day each year, his father would take them to the Gurudwara to seek blessings for that man. The boy stared at him in anticipation.
Following the gaze of the boy, many in the crowd turned around and looked at the tall Sikh gentleman. He stood out in that crowd. The tightly wound turban, the jet-black beard, a regal bearing, and an expressionless face. He seemed to be unscathed by the events unfolding around him. He presence here seemed to be more out of obligation then choice. Sensing unwarranted attention, he merely turned his head and started staring at something in the distance, hoping that he would be overlooked.
A young girl standing by his side, nudged him with her elbow. The Sikh man turned to look at the girl. Her eyes welling with tears, she whispered something in his ears with folded hands. Shaking his head in irritation, the man walked up and stepped on to the platform beside the boy. Without even looking at the boy, he reached out and supported the torch by placing his hand over the little boy’s while the Priest lit it. Then together, they proceeded to light the two pyres. The second pyre had barely been lit when the Sikh violently snatched the torch from the boy’s hands and flung it in to the nascent flames. As the boy reeled from the shock, the old man turned around to leave. The man had barely stepped down from the platform when the boy called out, “Daddu”.
The man stopped abruptly, and looked at the boy from the corner of his eye. But just when some semblance of emotion was about to come on his wooden face, he recomposed himself, and started walking again.
“Daddu.” The boy called out aloud again.
The man quickened his pace, ignoring him. The child jumped of the platform in desperation and started running after him. Everyone looked on shocked. He was just about to get to him when someone stepped in between them and picked him up in her arms. It was the same girl that had been standing next to the man. He tried hard to wrestle to out of her grip, pushing her, punching her, kicking her. But all his attempts were in vain as she pressed tightly against her chest, bearing his blows silently. Tired and defeated, the boy stretched his neck and peered over shoulder hoping to catch one last glimpse of his Daddu. But he was gone; lost in the crowd, leaving behind a grandson orphaned and abandoned.
