So after a long pause, and a deep
breath, a smile broke out on his face.
He had long talked about his achievements
to his daughters. They had never known if what he talked was true. They were
not old enough, but five years is a long time. Never once in those five years
did they see him live any part of his achievements. He used to talk about the fluidity
with which his fingers caressed the guitar, and there was not even a broken,
hollow or solid wooden structure in their house to suggest that. He used to
talk about the reams of papers he had bought and type-written his stories and
novels on, but not one among those countless papers was to be found in their
house, let alone the typewriter. He had spoken so much about people envying
those lip-smacking roles he played onstage, sometimes a swashbuckling villain
and at others, a dashing romantic, and his family was yet to see him romance that
heroine or crack a joke, onstage.
His daughters were always spell
bound with his stories, but something in their questions, and they had many,
always suggested that, somewhere, they thought all this was too good to be
true. They had seen their father lead his life the way he did, and all this seemed
too rosy for someone who went to work with the same blue jumpsuit and did not
have one clean, white shirt to wear. But nonetheless, with their mouths agape, they
wondered at looked at their mother for a confirmation of sorts. The mother was
a quiet lady; she was very young, but her maturity belied her age. At most of
his stories, she just smiled in affirmation, not because she thought they were
all true – they had been married only 6 years, while the stories dated back to
when he was in his early twenties – but just because “those” stories were told on Saturdays.
After that call, he looked at his
watch again. It was earlier than expected, two hours earlier. Would this bring
good news for him? “I do not care, I had
stopped long before”, he thought. But only few in this world can claim to
be bereft of hope. He was not one. Never mind how bad you fare, there is always
that sense of something miraculous happening that would turn things on their
heads. He thought the same. Otherwise, he would not have picked up that stone,
nervously. He took it out of his pocket, again, smiled and let it roll on the
street, and watched as it rolled, with an expression of relief. Something in
him proclaimed a sense of victory, while a certain part of his thought it was
long due. Perhaps, all this was set in motion as the day unfolded. Everyone at
the theater was talking of it as it was the best that could have happened to
him for a very long time. Everyone was asking how he would be preparing about
that moment of his. And with every question, he grew more and more anxious.
Often, it is the people and the chattering
around you that lets the moment grow big on you. You never think you are good
at that certain thing until someone reminds you of the same. Gently, that one
turns into two and then many, until you start thinking the same about yourself.
Never mind that those praises reduce to a scant, stop altogether from quarters
that matter, it grows so big on you that you finally refuse to accept that if it
was that same growing recognition that grew big on you, the scant spell should lead
you to believe the opposite, and push you into introspection. “Once a star, always a star” had been the
story of his life.
He thought about the moment, when
he was too occupied with the ants on the floor while the director and the
writer were talking, and when he came out smiling, thinking it was his
homecoming. He could not shrug off that moment, and how big has that grown on
him. He went back to the day when everyone in his hometown thought he was
destined to be a music maestro, basis his ability to produce different sounds
from his mouth or by tapping on wood. He arrived in this city, and fifteen
years on, he had still to do anything with his music. While struggling with his
ambitions, he had similar experience, only this time it was about his
creativity and storytelling. Fast forward to that evening. He was still a
sweeper and had still to make it big.
Now, he was not thinking about
the day being a Saturday or that his family would be waiting; not about his
daughters and this, new story; instead he was thinking if could actually live this story. By the time he reached home,
it was already late. He was not greeted by his boisterous daughters, never mind
the fact that it was a Saturday. He tried to cheer them up. Today, he had that
doll from the marketplace; today, they did not want that doll. It was like he
had broken his promise. First time since his elder daughter could remember,
they had not gone out on a Saturday.
He had that anxious smile on his
face. Today, he had a story which his daughters could see him live.
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