Ignored
It has been ten years since I left Dehradun with my family. We kept moving until my father retired from the army and we finally had our first permanent residence in Shimla. I am here to meet a dear friend of mine, Mr. Romi. Although he is quite old to be referred to as a friend in a conventional sense, in my understanding of friendship, it is the only form of connection known to mankind that holds no form of conventionality. It is unique in itself; I was in touch with him occasionally through emails, but recently he has stopped responding to them. I tried to contact him over the phone but failed to get a reply. I waited for over a month but then decided to take matters into my own hands and came back. I reached this morning and checked in at a guest house to freshen up.
I headed straight to Mr. Romi’s store to check if he was around. The store was closed, and I was looking around to ask someone if they knew about his whereabouts. I saw a woman walking with some groceries in her hand. I approached her, “Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where the owner might be right now?” I pointed at the shop. The woman took a brief pause and said, “Romi bhai? They said he died a week ago. The man had a fever and did not get himself checked on time. Such a stubborn old fellow, I tell you.” I was bewildered. I left that place, reached a nearby cafe, and just sat there until my mind clicked out of its state of vacuum.
Suddenly, my mind went back in time, realizing how much I had grown up since I left this place. While in my twenties now, I can keep up with these constantly changing surroundings. But that eight-year-old Amruta would not say the same when she moved here. And because it was my first time, the idea of living in Dehradun was a real “uphill battle.” This may be a vain attempt to advocate, but I was too young when I moved here, and coping with the idea of leaving everything I loved, lived, and cherished in my previous home was a new realization. But before I could acknowledge it, I was hit by another realization that I don’t know how many times exactly I am supposed to do this and for how long. I may not be an expert in understanding the ability of humans to adapt to their surroundings.
However, I believe that the ability to change comes from understanding the purpose of change. I would ask my mother, “Why should we make a new home when we already have one?” My mother tried to explain to me how my father’s job required him to do so and how we should support him in his career because he provides for us. I was not ready to settle with those explanations. Now if I were to describe my state of mind, then I would see it as a form of “secure attachment.””. It is a form of attachment developed by kids, usually towards inanimate objects. Toys, for instance, are a common source of such attachments, and when the attachment is lost, the child becomes insecure and looks for an equivalent. For me, that new house in Dehradun was not a fulfilling replacement.
This equal barter was not working well, and I was descending into loneliness. The new school, people, and fresh air were suffocating me. My parents could not bear my state of mind and tried everything they could to cheer me up. But I had surrendered to seclusion, stubborn to open up to their advances. I would often go out strolling to explore while enjoying some peaceful silence. One day, just as I was walking down the valley, I saw an old bookstore. As I got closer to the store, I could see the name on it, “Romi’s Bookstore and Library.” Upon entering the store, I realized that the interior was similar to an old house, which made the aura of this library rhyme with a book club.
While going through the books there, I could not see anyone else. Until I heard a voice, “How can I help you?”. I flickered for a second and turned back to realize that a man around his 60s was looking at me with stiff stature and expression quite opposite to his polite choice of words. I asked him, “Sir, are you the owner of this store?” he replied, maintaining his stiff expression, “Why would I offer you my assistance if I was not in charge of this place unless I am someone who is not cultured enough to mind his own business?” I realized it was time to excuse myself from this situation, so instead of replying in words, I just nodded my head in agreement.
I was about to leave when the man approached me with another question, “Are you new here? You don’t seem familiar to me,” I replied with a slight fear. “Yes, we just moved in here a few months ago; I was just trying to explore this area.” The man suddenly turned towards the table behind him, took out a pamphlet, and handed it over to me. “These are the list of books that I have in here. If you circle them around, I will take them out for you. I don’t like anyone messing with my arrangement.” I still am trying to figure out exactly what was funny about that line; till date, this interaction with Mr. Romi remains fresh in my head. This interaction marked the beginning of my friendship with Mr. Romi. After this conversation, I would always visit his bookstore after school and stay there until the store closed. He was reluctant to let me in for that long at first, but later he too enjoyed my company. We soon started having conversations about books, and other areas of interest that we shared. I also got to know a lot about his personal life.
He was a retired librarian from a public university here, and he decided to convert his maternal home into a library. His wife left him within a few years of their marriage due to some “unprecedented reason,” according to Mr. Romi. One day he returned home from work and found a letter on the dining table saying “Goodbye.”. Nothing more and nothing less, Mr. Romi did try to look for his wife until he received a call from her father apologizing on his daughter’s behalf as she fled away with her lover. Mr. Romi accepted his fate and went on with his life all alone since then. “It’s been a while since I found someone to actually listen to me, my wife would do that at first.
At least that’s what I believed because I never really confirmed if she was listening to me or not. It was after she left that I realized that my words were just hitting a mere wall and that it was never really a conversation because I don’t remember listening to anything. All I remember is speaking; if I had listened to her for once, I would have known that she never wanted to be a part of my talks. Maybe I subconsciously ignored what she said during those times.” He gasped and looked at me with a sweet smile. “I don’t know why I am sharing this with you, Amu; I think that’s my fault that I simply ignore what my surroundings feel about my actions.” I smiled back and replied, “I am listening to you, sir; it’s just that it takes me a while to comprehend what you said, but anyway, I should leave now as it is getting closer to my curfew.
So I will see you tomorrow, and please do not forget to order me that novel, Bye!” I remember him looking at me with a smile full of relief. I was finally adapting well to my surroundings and a new routine. This went on for almost six years until my father was transferred again. But this time things were not as bad for me as they were before. With all these years that I spent with Mr. Romi, I learned that no matter how bitter our reality gets, we must get on with it because that is all a human can do. I was sad with this separation, and I am sure so was Mr. Romi, but neither of us was ready to acknowledge it.
I remember him coming to our house for the first and last time to bid farewell the night before we left. My parents had invited him for dinner. He did try to make a firm refusal but could not deny my request. All he said before he left was “Take care, Amu.” My thoughts were interrupted by a waiter who was ready to take my order: “Ma’am, what would you like to have?”. “I’ll have an espresso,” I replied blankly, but suddenly a thought struck my mind. I asked the waiter, “By any chance do you know anything about Mr. Romi from the bookstore down the road?” He immediately replied, “Oh yes, Romi sir was a regular here, but they said he was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago and then he passed. What a great man, I tell you. I had a hard time processing what he said; I immediately expressed my confusion, “What? He had cancer? When did that happen, and then why did the lady say that he died of fever?” The waiter replied with a muddled expression, “I don’t know about the lady you mentioned, ma’am; I am just saying what I got to know from others.
I even went to confirm at his house, but no one was there, so I thought maybe he was cremated by the hospital. I mean, he had no family anyway, and the old man was too stubborn to speak to others in his neighborhood.” My head was aching due to this distraction. I was too perplexed to say anything; there were too many questions in my head, “Why would Mr. Romi not tell me anything about this? Is that why he stopped responding to my emails?” I regained my demeanor, thinking that the only way to get my answers was to visit Mr. Romi’s house. During my time here, I have been to his house only once or twice when he was sick.
He never really invited me to his place, and even I was not bothered by it. I walked out of the cafe, apologizing to the waiter for wasting his time, and headed straight towards the house. After I reached his house, I saw that the main door was left open. I was skeptical at first but eventually decided to enter. Everything seemed fine, but the house seemed to have some human presence other than myself, and that added to my anxiety. I saw an empty cup on the table with some fresh residue of tea in it, which meant that somebody was living there. Suddenly I heard a loud noise, and I ran toward it. Upon discovery, I realized that it came from the backyard, and once I reached there, I also found out that the one who made this noise was none other than Mr. Romi.
He looked at me with the same old smile and said, “It’s been a while, Amu; I did not expect an unannounced visit from you.” The hope of getting answers to all the questions I had while coming here was crushed in seconds because now the doubts themselves seemed invalid. I could not bring myself to ask him those questions that motivated me to come here in the first place. “Well, I thought of surprising you. How have you been, sir?” He replied calmly, “Old age is not fine no matter how well you put up with yourself, but I still want to aspire to be fine, so I am as happy as sunshine.” We both sat on the porch. “So, I reached this morning and even went to the library, but it was closed, so I decided to stop by here.” Mr. Romi was looking at me with a blank expression; his face had grown pale and worn out. One could easily make out that he was sick or probably just exhausted.
He took some time but replied, “Oh, you know, these days I have grown so forgetful; I miss out on a lot from my routine. Also, I have been busy and could not reply to your emails.” He stood up and started moving towards the house while I followed him.” “My wife came to meet me last month; I was hesitant to let her in, but eventually I did. She said she had cancer and that her time was ticking close to the eleventh hour, so she wanted to repair all her regrets and die in peace. Her lover died a few years back, she said, to feel pity for someone who left you decades ago for their interest, and then they came back again, reeking of narcissism. Their scent of vanity is strong; it leaves no room for sympathy. Mr. Romi stopped near the dining table, picked up the empty cup, and walked toward the kitchen. I stood there contemplating what he said.
After a brief pause, I sat on the chair near the kitchen while Mr. Romi continued his daily chores in the kitchen. “What happened then? Did you forgive her?” He turned back to look at me and said, “I would have, but she was not seeking forgiveness; rather, she wanted to compensate for all the time she left me alone. She asked to live with me while she continued her treatment. I was not ready to accept her offer at first, but then I was too lonely to refuse. She stayed here for the rest of the month; I made her a part of my routine and accompanied her through all her chemotherapy sessions. I made sure that people here would remain unaware that I have someone who used to be a wife living with me.”
He chuckled with a little gasp and continued. “I talked a lot, and she listened. I asked her if she had kids, and she said no. We even discussed what would have happened if we had kids. We touched on every topic known to mankind, but I could not ask her if she ever really listened to what I said. Why did she never tell me about her lover? And out of all things, why did she marry me? But I could not do that; I was seeing her die bit by bit each day as it passed. She got a high fever last week. I called her doctor, and he prescribed me some medicines. Do you remember the boy I hired to clean the library every week? I asked him to get me those medicines. I lied to him by saying that I had a fever. Anyway, it was too late though; by the time I got the medication, she was already gone.
I saw a piece of paper crumble into her palm; I took it out. It read, “You are a Fool.” Mr. Romi chuckled again but later grew silent; he sat on a chair against mine. His face grew paler with helplessness. He was aware that his actions may disappoint him, but as he mentioned before, he was “too lonely to refuse.” I smiled at him and asked, “Have you been out since then? After that, I told him everything I learned through people since morning.
He laughed for a good ten minutes until he started coughing. I immediately got up to get him some water. After drinking, he calmed himself and said, “People must have seen me in and out of the hospital; I wonder if they did not see her, but maybe. I understand the fever as reason, and of course, I left town to bring her ashes to her maternal home.” He left a deep sigh to say, “So this is what it feels like to die alone. Maybe my wife was not as selfish as I thought she would be. When I reached her home, they told me that her parents had cut ties with her and she lost most of her savings to her husband’s ailment and then due to her health.
Running a household might have been difficult for her, so she came to me for free food and shelter. Now that I think about it, I would have done the same. Tell me, Amu, was it too foolish to believe her or to ignore what I believed?” There was nothing but silence; none of us was ready for a response, and we both looked away from each other and just did what we could do—ignore.
By: Juee kelkar
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