Homecoming (III)

He was expecting a call; one that, some thought, would change his life for the better, but his usual self trudged along with his everyday life, without asking questions, without seeking answers. What began as a quiet morning had already progressed onto an eventful afternoon. The logical end awaited him even as the daylight, an unabashed voyeur, struggled to stay alive to witness “the” defining moment of his life, battling with a growing number of stars and that marauding darkness. He was singing, he was ebullient, he was nervous. Some bite nails and some scratch heads. He chose to throw a stone into emptiness. Of course that window prevented him. He greeted the neighbor with an awkward smile, and moved on. In his hindsight, finally, a thought came up, something that he had battled through for a better part of his life. He thought he could wish it away, just like he used to wish his childhood demons, only forgetting that they would come back stronger. He did not want to answer whether this was a reflection of the rest of his life, when he tried to express himself and then restrained. He could not, perhaps. It is often an uncomfortable realization, a poignant one, where he knew he hadn't been man enough to chase away those demons, and instead chosen the greener pastures on the other side. From a certain perspective, it was the better choice, but had the grass really been greener, he wouldn't bother. No one would. Not for nothing do they say that the grass is always greener on the other side, notwithstanding which side you are on. Green is not always green, he thought. Today, he was at the cross roads.

He had been summoned to the director’s office later in the day. After that toilet thing, he had been chatting with his fellow sweepers when the writer overheard their conversation. He was blaming the actor for his callous remark on the writer’s effort to put joy to words. He was blaming the culture of breeding anonymity on the one hand and stardom on the other. He was trying to justify his past and juxtapose his present with the rest of his meandering life. He was being his true self. “Seldom would I see such honesty, and celebration of a life riddled with disappointments”, thought the writer. In that moment of spontaneity, and brutal honesty, the writer managed to get hold of something – having already started seeing the sweeper on the stage, the writer witnessed his moment of “unbridled joy”.

“I don’t blame myself for my failures, if you think I have not been successful, in most of my endeavors. To me success does not mean celebrating a moment of mediocrity with a bunch of like minded people. For me, success means being a champion for oneself. For me, success is when you accept that you could not have been successful, and move on. It is not a forgiving place that we live in. So much so that it has become difficult to be honest with oneself. I am happy that I quit music. Not because I did not love music, but because I don’t believe in having my family suffer because of my interest. Come on, let’s be honest. I could have done much better with my music, had I not had a family. But I can’t let them struggle for my whims. I think I am successful because they are happy with their lives.”

This was a sweeper who had not had the best of opportunities and still tried to make the most of whatever life he had. This was a father whose children were not too fond of him, and yet they waited for Saturdays. This was a husband who could not promise a lot to his wife, and yet she smiled every morning when he left. This was man who, perhaps, did not like responsibility, and yet did not want to shrug to off.

He was standing with the writer, in a plush office room, staring at the shining floor (trying to find his reflection); too occupied with himself to pay heed to whatever was transpiring between his companions. Between his reflection and the squeaking chairs where the other two sat, he occasionally heard them talking about the subject of their play. For long had the theater been a home to extra-ordinary stories – stories of miracles, stories of heart-break, stories of celebration, and sporadically, stories on history. It was time they brought to stage, and life, everyday stories – where there were no miracles, no happy endings, but an acceptance of what life brought forth. He got the sense of something big about to be in his life.

After a while, they came out, smiling. Towards something more consequential, thought his kin. To him, it was something long due - his homecoming.