Yonder

He finished combing his hair, let himself share a slight half-smile with the mirror, and smoothened his sweater rather unnecessarily.

The silence in the room was overwhelming. There was an expectant air about his reflection that he’d change his mind, or wait for tomorrow’s game show episode, or that he’d want to wait for his grand daughter’s next call. He let his mind dwell on these thoughts almost indulgently, and he snuffed them out in patience.

The sheets were in place…the wardrobe arranged…the last book placed by the bedside lamp, bookmark et al. There was even an After Eight kept under the pillow. If she ever could return, she’d be home.

He walked with solemn purpose upto the various cabinets in the house, picking up the things he wanted. The family picture from happier times. The jokebook he’d read out to his kids. The chewing gum he’d kept secret from his doc. The money. The letters. And the medals.

Medals he’d won for long distance running many years ago. They no longer shone, and the inscriptions seemed like hieroglyphics now…but they were a testament, all the same.
They’d all been forgotten until a month back, when he was desperately rustling the cupboards for every memory she’d have left him. Those races now seemed to be so many lifetimes ago.

Those races were starting again. Tonight.

He slipped them into his pockets, rapped the wooden table twice, necessarily, and strode out. Mumbled what was supposed to be a prayer at the foot of his door, wiped the nameplate clean, and stepped gingerly onto the stairs….

The plan was to drop the letters and the cellphone at the post box, and to catch a cup of chai at the station. The plan was to walk to Panvel, steadily and yet at his pace, and to avoid the noisy roads enroute. If and when he did reach…the plan was to catch his breath, have another cup of chai, and check the schedule board for the first train out of the city.

The plan was chai in clay cups and the fourth seat in the sleeper berth. The plan was
to sit in the luggage room and wait for another train to another direction, if he did not like the people or the place he was with. The plan was to send postcards every week to the Sewree cemetery in Mumbai, where a dear old friend would quietly direct them to the correct address.

Beyond that, he was incapable of planning. He may just step out of the station and visit a town or a dozen. He may just take up a job at a Wheeler book store in some quaint Dom Moraes town. And he may just get beaten or robbed or sent to some home.

But he’d reached a point where nothing truly mattered. He’d lived a full life. He’d live again.

Now listening – Wanderlust, Mark Knopfler