The Integral

He turned his eyes back to the table. The diary he was staring at was replaced by a plate of food. There was a chapatti, some cooked vegetables and curry.

The meal was delicious. At least it looked to be so. She would make him a different type of curry and use different vegetables everyday. She ensured that he had three meals every day. He did not have much strength in his body, but he would eat his meals well. He had a good appetite and a taste of good food would always linger in his mouth.

He looked at the TV and broadcast had resumed. Using the towel that was hanging from his chair he wiped his mouth after finishing the meal. The hands retracted to a convenient position on his lap and eyes fixated to the CRT.

“I will come a little late tomorrow”, she told him while lifting his plate from there.

“Why? Everyday you come late anyway!”, with a shrewd smile he replied.

“I need to go to the market, the vegetables in your fridge are all over.”

“Why don’t you make some black chana for me tomorrow?”, saying this his face lit up. “If you don’t have the time, just soak them in water before you leave and I will make it myself.”

He really liked chana (black chickpeas). It was also something that he could cook. It is simple. Just stir fry in some oil and add some pepper and salt to taste. Voilà! The chana were ready, as he liked them! There were some more simple recipes that he could prepare. One of them was French Toast. For him it was as simple as dipping the bread in a batter of egg, milk, and sugar and then shallow frying it in some oil.

Before leaving, she refilled the glass of water on the table. Once she left, the house was back to the state it was in before she came. Only now it felt a bit hotter after all the cooking. He was tired. There was a photo of a lady hanging from the wall in front of him. She looked a bit old, though not so old as him. She was wearing a simple sari with a piece of it covering her head. There was an enigmatic smile that at first sight seemed natural. Though it was more like the smile on a person’s face once he or she has realised the truth out there. The smile showed satisfaction and completeness. Looking at her would make you feel happy from inside.

Turning off the television, he looked at the photo and closed his eyes in silence. Almost as if to pray. Yet another day had got over…

Please note: This story is part 1.5 in continuation of Melody of Life

She removed her chappals at the door and walked in straight to the kitchen as soon as he opened the door.

He came back and sat on the chair, with a thought in his brain that had started even before he had opened the door. He was staring at the door. Was he looking at the door? Or the grill? Or beyond? I vividly remember the scene in one of my favourite movies ‘Patch Adams’ where Robin Williams sticks out his hand in front of a patient’s face, with his four fingers well apart from each other.

He asks the patient – “How many do you see?”,
“Four”, says the patient.

Patch repeats “How many do you see?"… “Look closely, look through the fingers, beyond the fingers. Tell me how many do you see?”.

The old patient looks at the fingers again… and then with a stutter, says “Eight…”.
“Eight is a good answer”, says Patch.

If we look at an object trying to maintain the two images created in our two eyes distinct from each other, they try to create a parallax. That was happening with him. There were around eight bars in the grill on his door, but he was seeing about sixteen of them. He looked up at the clock once again and called out to her,

“बाई, जरा सेंक दे दो” (Please get me the heat bag)

He referred to the hot water bag that she would refill every evening with hot water and give him to place it along his back. Within minutes she came out with the red hot water bag and stood in front of him. He looked up at her. She was tall, and huge. Even on standing erect, he could only come as high as her neck. Holding the table firmly with his two hands, he advanced a bit so that she could keep the heat bag along his back. She placed the bag between the chair’s back rest and a pillow, which she kept along his back. His skin was frail and thin. He could not take the heat directly from the bag. That would hurt. The heat bag however, gave him relief. Enough to last till he went to bed.

After the heat bag, he would become a bit more active. Physically, and mentally. He opened up his diary kept in the drawer. And started flipping pages, trying to read hard, and find something in it.

Please note: This story is part 1.3 in continuation of Melody of Life