They were colleagues at a work place.
Less of colleagues, more friends.
One was a bachelor, the other - a married man with a young family - a wife and 2 little children.
The bachelor - from Karnataka. His friend - from UP
They shared the same passions - books.and theatre.
The much married friend, penned the plays and also directed them for the annual event at their office.
The bachelor friend, otherwise a very shy person, acted in every one of these productions.
The bachelor lived as a PG at Grant Road.
The married friend, at Dahisar.
At one point in his life, the bachelor friend walked out of the PG
dig.. without making arrangements for an alternative accomodation.
His friend, being the friend, asked him to move in with him at his
house in Dahisar. The house was a one bedrooom kitchen affair.. in a
'baithi chawl' as it was called in those days. a row of houses..one
attached to the other such that each house shared one common wall of
every room with the adjacent house.
He was made welcome. The
lady of the house, bhabhiji to the bachelor, served them a hearty
breakfast of parathas ...garma garam parathas each morning. The friends
now left for work together.
And so this happy arrangement
continued for a couple of months, until the bachelor arranged for
another roof over his head, and moved out.
He remained in gratitude.
Later, several years later, the bachelor friend married, had a family
of his own, changed his job....He remained in touch with his friend
through the annual Diwali card.
One year, they visited each other with their families.
Oh, I remember that visit to Dahisar. Dad's friend now had 3 children. The youngest daughter was about my age.
I must have been around ten, then. i remember playing with these 3
and the other kids in their neighbourhood. we chattered away, happily
swinging away on a small jhoola fixed on to the door frame of their
kitchen. Soon, lunch was announced..we, the children were served our
food in the kitchen. I remember one item on the menu. Raita. the
daughter pronounced it with a nasal twang. It was bits of boiled
potaotes in dahi, garnished with coriander. Koshimbir? i asked.
"nahi.. yeh Raita hai" they said. it was an unfamiiar term at that
time... and 40 yrs later, I haven't forgotten it.
:-)
they visited us too. Auntyji gifted me a woolen jacket she had
knitted, navy blue with little colorful squares knitted in a warm
cream, peach and light blue squares. a sleeveless jacket. The oldest
daughter gave me a doll. it had a gown fashioned out of circles cut out
of sponge, and pinched at intervals with glittering bead,
As a
child, i had often observed my father open a slim suitcase and fondly
open a small envelope. It contained little black and white pictures of
my father in the various characters he had portrayed on stage, during
his stint at his first work place.
and there were 2 group
photographs. ..amongst the many young men in these 2 photographs , was
dad's friend. Mr Dixit. A dapper Mr Dixit.. My father would tell us -
me and my mother - about 'those ' days.. and he never failed to
express his gratefulness for that young couple, who welcomed him into
their home
Decades passed and the annual ritual of the greeting
card, continued...until one year my father decided that he would
discontinue the practice. this also became the point when the families
lost touch with each other.
We often spoke about the Dixit
family, recalled those happy memories, but somehow never got around to
visiting or even calling them up.
My father is now in his eighties. Physically weak..Bed bound. We have a wardboy who comes in to help us look after him.
One particular helper, hailed from Virar. He had been working at assisting a senior citizen in Dahisar he had told us.
Dahisar. My father immediately was nostalgic. His illness had made
him a dull man, with absolutely no interest in things around him. And
yet, when he heard about Dahisar, he began conversing with the wardboy.
Any activity, even speaking, leaves my father gasping for
breath. yet there he was... recounting.. 'Mazha ek mitra hota...
Dikshit ..dahisar la rahayche. station javal" and suddenly my father
was sharing the address details. He remembered the name of the wadi,
the locality, the house number. He asked the wardboy - do you know
this place? would you go and look for this address?
He was now animatedly telling us of the garma garam parathas bhabhi ji cooked. naram rotis, phulke...
we were taken aback.... such clarity of thought.. voice...
at every meal...breakfast lunch dinner, he didn't eat a morsel without mentioning bhabhiji, and the rotis.
then one day he asked me to locate his friend.
our telephone book at home, no longer had his contact. my father gave
me his full name. I looked up the online telephone MTNL directory..
No, i was unable to find him
And then one day, google threw up a
search result. the name tallied... the address tallied. I got one
mobile number and one landline number. this was at 2 am . i was too
excited to sleep and eagerly waited for the morning when i could share
this with my father and then also contact the Dixxit family.
The next morning turned out be a busy one and it was only in the evening that i remembered.
the mobile number was an invalid one, but the landline - yes... it was Mr Dixit Jr who replied.
introductions were made and the moment i said I am Hegde's daughter...
the voice turned into a joyous one...Kitne saalon se mummy aur pitaji
soch rahe hain.. "Yeh Hegde kahaan chaley gaya..."
He handed over the phone to his father and our parents spoke... after nearly 30 years.
"Aapke haathon ki roti badi yaad aati hai" said my dad to Mrs Dixit.
addresses were exchanged..promises to meet soon were made.
and within a week we received a call... they would be visiting us the next evening.
i had known that dad's friend, was unable to walk easily. 'papa chal
nahi paatey'' was what the son had told me. i had assumed that it
would be Auntyji and her children who would visit us
imagine my
astonishment as i saw a very elderly gentleman in the front seat of a
cab, as it pulled in front of my building. Dixit Uncelji... 93 years of
age, had travelled all the way from Dahisar. He shuffled around ,
bent over a walker. His wife, came out of the cab, moving her hands...
for something to hold on to... i realised she couldnt see clearly..
once we entered our home, she mentioned... she had lost her vision... both eyes. Uncle D, was heard of hearing..
and yet... that afternoon, they had travelled that distance, to meet
one friend. ''Inhonein yaad kiya humko...humne aanaa hee tha' said
Aunty D.
She is very friendly, and great at conversation. It was she who led the conversation that day
they couldn't wait to see my father...
those were emotional moments.. as they met...
my father - bad of vision, great of hearing
auntyji...with no vision.
uncle jee who has difficluty walking... hard of hearing.. his eyes - as grey as his hair. ..
the three met... My father lying in his bed held out both his hands...
his eyes glistening with tears...in a broken voice,,,,.. in his very
broken hindi... main aapko bahut yaad kia..
..
uncle D with
his very unsteady hands. afflicted with a tremor.. held my dad;s hands.
the aunty jee flaying her hands in the air, managed to find my
fathers hands and holding them tight said.. 'dekho.. aakhir mil hee gaye
hum sab'.
in all the 3 hours that they spent with us, my
father in a quivering voice, with great effort, spoke only 3
sentences... aapke haath ki roti aur parathe yaad aatey the... humne
kitne natak mein saath mein kaam kia. har railway week... gaye woh din,
gaye! he must have repeated these 3 sentences at least 30 times.
Aunty D had thoughtfully brought puranpolis for my father. 'aap fone
par roti ki baat kar rahe the,,,roti nahi par puran poli laayi hoon aap k
liye'
Later we moved my father to the drawing room as we served
some refreshments. My father settled in a chair next to his friend. My
father cannot sit up for long. yet in those 10 minutes that they sat
together, the 93 year old was constantly patting his friends back in a
gentle rhythm. my 83 year old father held on to his other hand , as
firmly as he could.
The black and white pictures, from that
envelope in that slim black suitcase, were now in a proper album. our
familes ,had a good time revisiting those times.
we made for a
jolly group around the dining table that evening. 3 generations from
both families... the 2 friends and their spouses, their children and
grandchildren.
That night my father had the most contented expression on his face.
i could not but marvel at the magical .almost surreal moments that we had experienced that evening.
i am in awe of the Dixit family... who promptly fulfilled the
promise... Those weren't empty words when they uttered the ' jald hi
miltey hain!'
I am in awe of the friendship... of the bond they shared.
I am in awe of that gentleman and his wife, who did not let a physical disability , old age ... come in the way.
not many words were exchanged between the two friends, that evening..
but every glance was filled with affection.. every touch, the hands
held... weak.. yet trying to pass on and draw strength from each other.
the gentle patting.. they savored each others company that evening.
Happy to have each other around once again.
