‘JK, you don’ t need to go out now. It’s just been three days. Take your time.’
***
Fifty years ago
On a particularly cheerful Monday morning, a 25-year-old young man set out of his humble home, dressed in a white full-sleeved cotton shirt and beige trousers, cycling energetically along with his friend towards his new office where he had secured employment as an accountant for a small salary. He was a happy and proud man, embarking on a brand-new journey, looking forward to meeting life in all its splendour and vigour – determined to unearth opportunities, ready to meet challenges and make happiness his aide. Everything around him seemed to come alive. His eyes sparkled with confidence and his face radiated positive spirit.
‘What Jayakumar, you seem to have given your moustache some special treatment,’ said the man’s friend, with a tinge of laughter in his voice. JK blushed a little. ‘No da, Raja. Just some trimming. First day at the new job, no?’
And he pedalled on, his chin held high, his silken straight hair flying timidly in the breeze.
Forty-seven years ago
JK was a go-getter. He never left anything to chance. He would have a go at anything that he felt he was good at. He was a habitual winner. He was not afraid of failing. He would blow negativity into pieces with his unwavering confidence. So, his career climb was the stuff of dreams for many and had the jealousy-prone grinding their teeth in envy. But JK wasn’t one to care. He didn’t care much for praise, leave alone envy. Nothing really shook him except his father’s commanding voice and presence. But now, the tall, dusky woman next door, with her beautiful, attractive eyes, made him go weak on his knees. The new neighbour, a part of a large family that had moved in recently, made his heart skip a beat and he couldn’t get himself to look at her face without tickles running all over his body.
His four close friends − Raja, Mani, Swami and Balu – were the first to know. During a weekend, as the four of them sat chatting on their cycles at the end of the street where JK lived, they saw JK’s eyes follow a woman who walked by. ‘Adei, JK,’ cried an enthusiastic Mani, slapping his friend on his back, ‘When are we going to hear the wedding bells?’
Forty years ago
How much had happened in those seven years from when he first set his eyes on Kumudha! JK did things he never thought he would ever do in his life. Like going against his strict father. As someone who lost his mother when he was barely 10, JK revered his father. For him, his father was his God. But what’s this thing with love? Why was it so beautiful? How could he let go of a woman who stole fond glances at him, making him realise again and again that there was a heart beating inside him?
He stunned his older brother and sister, by walking up to his father and saying ‘Appa, I want to marry Kumudha. Nobody else.’ He kept a straight face, didn’t dare to look his father in the eye, but said the words nonetheless. His father slapped him. Hard.
But six months later, the stern father realised the extent of his young son’s resolve. He relented, albeit half-heartedly, and JK married Kumudha. For JK, life seemed beautiful. And perfect. With the woman he loved by his side, everything about the world seemed conquerable. He bought jasmine strings for her, spent soulful minutes looking into her fish-shaped eyes and sighing deeply. He shivered when she ran her long fingers through his hair.
JK and Kumudha wept in joy when their daughter, Radha, was born, and then in despair, when they lost their second child, a son, at childbirth. They firmly believed that the boy returned to them when Kumudha gave birth to their third child, Sriram, three years later.
‘You, Radha, and Sriram are my world,’ JK told Kumudha, that day. And he meant that in every possible way he could think of.
Thirty-two years ago
‘Why was life in such a hurry?’ JK often mused, especially when he saw how quickly his children were growing. The middle-age-years were tricky. The phase’s energy was both invigorating and draining. JK loved its pace but also wished sometimes it would slow down. Responsibility was the word that ran through his mind almost always.
JK often reflected on how his equation with Kumudha had changed – they both were busy in their own ways. He, with work. And she, with home. They had to think of saving money. They had to think of managing expenses. Compromise and understanding effectively replaced romance. The equation between his father and Kumudha had transformed. The ailing old man looked up to her like she was his mother. On the contrary, he and Kumudha argued often. The dullness of routine at times got on to them. The children were the magic of their lives. They healed all wounds and worries. They gave them hope.
‘Isn’t it strange, Kumudha?’ he asked her once, ‘that everything looks so different from how it was when we got married?’
‘That’s life, isn’t it, JK?’ she responded, ‘when are things ever the same? Even with love?’
JK sensed the bitterness and despair in her voice. He wished he could undo that for her sake. He wanted to try but he gave up because he was so caught up in the web of responsibility. There were so many other things that seemed more important at that moment.
Twenty-one years ago
On a Friday morning, as JK stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie, he noticed the lines on his face. Lines that age drew on his skin. Lines that years of chasing dreams, being strong-willed, and building a successful business had gifted him. He suddenly saw his father in his own face – the old man had passed away seven years ago. JK had felt grief wash over him when he saw the still body of the man who meant everything to him as a child. He didn’t cry during his father’s funeral, but sadness seized his heart and a tinge of that sorrow continued to dwell inside him.
Very often after that, he began mulling over the nature of human life – about ageing and the futility of wasting precious time and energy over meaningless pursuits. He was neither a spiritual nor a religious man, but his mind began wandering, seeking answers for the purpose of his existence. His children, now grown up, made him realise how time had flown, and in some way, the fact that they didn’t depend on him or Kumudha, as they used to before, made him feel a little insecure. He found it weird that his mind was playing all sorts of games with him. After all, wasn’t he once a young man who wouldn’t let anything shake him that easily?
Fifteen years ago
‘You’re so much like your father,’ Kumudha would often tell him during the times she began understanding him and JK would deny it vehemently. ‘Not at all.’
But now, he realised that he perhaps carried a great deal of his father inside him. As much as he told himself that he would let his children have a free rein in what they wished to do with their lives, he realised that when they expressed their choices about their careers and marriage, he became what his father was. He felt compelled to turn them down because he didn’t think they were good enough. But he eventually let them be because it was his time to mellow down just like his father had years ago.
Life was coming a full circle with he and his friends attending each other’s children’s weddings. With the children having flown off the cosy nest that he and his wife had built, it seemed like JK and Kumudha finally had their time to themselves again.
One evening, he took a long look at Kumudha’s face and told her, ‘You’ve aged so gracefully.’
‘That’s the best thing you have told me in a long time, JK,’ she replied.
They both laughed together. And for the first time in many years, they felt that they were back to being at least a shadow of their younger selves.
Five years ago
For JK, the few years since his retirement were memorable ones. The couple did all that they had dreamt of doing together – travelling, visiting their children and grandchildren, spending time doing what they loved and being with each other. The years were also marked by a determination to make the best of the time they had left.
‘Who knows when our call will come?’ JK exclaimed jovially once. ‘I wish I go before you,’ he told Kumudha. She smiled pensively. ‘That’s not in our hands, JK,’ she said, ‘Why talk about it now?’
Pretty soon, JK realised what it is to live with a body that was failing in multiple ways. The vigour and energy that had always defined him as a person were now falling prey to the demands of a withering body. JK worked hard to keep his spirit intact. But the day he heard that his dear friend Mani had collapsed unexpectedly, his willpower was shattered. Whenever he thought of how he was once the young man who believed nothing was impossible, he felt like going back in time and telling his younger self about how old age was the biggest lesson that one could receive as a mortal. It took lot of determination to overcome the physical and mental limitations that ageing brought with it. And the greatest truth was that there was no escaping it.
Three days ago
JK and Kumudha followed a simple routine every day. Every morning, the two of them would have coffee, go for a morning walk, meditate, enjoy breakfast while discussing the newspaper, and later unwind with some music. Then they would have lunch, take an afternoon nap and go for an evening walk. They would watch children play in the park. Sometimes they went for doctor check-ups, sometimes they spoke to neighbours, and sometimes with their grandchildren on Skype. And then they would have a light dinner and fall asleep.
That Thursday morning, JK woke up to find Kumudha still sleeping. ‘Kumudha,’ he called out to her, ‘wake up, let’s get some coffee.’ When she didn’t stir, fear gripped his heart. He was afraid, very afraid – to touch her. When he did, she was cold. He wailed. Loudly. Uncontrollably. He was devastated. Lonely. Clueless. She had left him behind. She was gone.
Now
‘JK, you don’ t need to go out now. It’s just been three days. Take your time.’
It’s his good old friend, Raja.
‘No, I am fine.’
JK gets off the chair he is sitting on. He goes stands by the window and watches the evening birds dot the bright orange evening sky. He can hear his grandchildren’s laughter outside the house – the joyous sound of life. He remembers his conversation with Kumudha a few months ago about how one’s life was a gift, a responsibility to be executed till it was time to leave the planet. ‘You know what is the mark of a life well-spent?’ she had asked. ‘To have lived it fully and having the grace to accept the death of our loved ones and our own impending and inevitable departure.’
JK nods as if he has heard her tell the words to him now.
The clock strikes 6. He picks his hat, puts it over his head, straps his watch on his wrist and heads out the door for his evening walk. He takes a few steps and a cool breeze touches his face gently. ‘Kumudha,’ he mutters, staggers a bit, and collecting himself, walks on for as long as his legs can carry him.