Homecoming (VI)

That evening, the children were more excited than they ever were.

"Why did you not miss other dinners, we would have had lots of good news then, you would already have been the next Amitabh, Daddy", exclaimed the younger daughter. The family just smiled at her. He wore a bemused look. A minute ago, there was that secret pact of not buying into their father's excuses, and a minute later, they wished their father never made it on Saturdays. As they dug into their rice heaps and gulped the tomato soup, they kept on asking questions about the theater, its grandiose, the actors, Shah Rukh, camera and lots of other things, which even he had never seen. He went on painting pictures like only he could. The theater would be modified, embellished with grand chandeliers brought from Jaipur, there would be lots of bandwallhs welcoming the guests, there would be velvet seats, lots of paani-puri and chaat stalls, and that his family would be sitting at the front to see him perform. As for Shah Rukh, we will let him go find his Kkkiran first, he said. The children gleamed in pride, feeling vindicated.

That dinner, he thought, was more precious to him. While there was a lot of chatter on how the father would prepare for his act, and how the children would prepare for theirs, the background, as it always does, kept thickening with emotions. While he was talking, he could not help but imagine a lot of things. The children kept making stories on their father’s stage debut, real, for once, and he kept correcting them, helping them on their visualizations and dialogues. In hindsight, he remembered what happiness meant to him, he remembered what success meant to him, he remembered what responsibility meant to him, he imagined was success would mean for him and he imagined what happiness would mean to him. Responsibility, he never cared much about. What would it mean, he thought, doing what he always wanted to do? He was confused in his thoughts. He wanted to step out for a while, out of the flow that his life had been, and look back, so that he could be the outsider, and retrospect on the volume of events that slipped by. He had always been content on doing what he did. Would he feel a sense of underachievement or would he try and justify that time spent in the emotional wilderness? Would he try and correct what he, as an outsider, would think needed correction? Was this as big as his children thought? How would the contours of the call shape out? He was as eager to know as his children were.  

The children insisted on stories, as the mother mopped the place. This was not a story, they said. This was what was waiting to happen all the while. A story happens when there is something untrue. While this was said in all earnestness by the children, fresh from their dose of excitement, he felt a pang. Had his life been untrue or did he try too hard to be a hero he never could be, until today? His wife was looking at him, trying to advocate the children's childlike intentions. He was not flustered, and nodded at her in acknowledgement, while the children fiddled with the doll's hair. What if it actually turns out to be a story? He recollected the events of the day, which were themselves no less than dramatic, peppering the occasional bit with his flavors. By the time he finished, the children were drowsy. She put them to sleep while he kept looking at her, in anticipation. Today, he felt like talking to someone so that he could rid himself of the mountain of expectations and rationalize, even to himself, what he should expect from his life.

They sat together, after a long time, the husband and the wife.

“I am not sure if I am going to get this one”, he said. She was still thinking about the story he had for her, perhaps. He repeated, and she quietly nodded.

“Why do you tell such stories to our children? You realize that they don’t take them seriously, don’t you. Yeah, some of them are fascinating, but someday they will grow up to realize that stories are meant to be fascinating. We don’t have the luxury of living fairy tale lives, when we struggle to meet our finances. You know that once they grow up, they will ask you questions. Would you have those same stories then?”

“You think they took this one far too seriously?”

“Perhaps. I think they forgot about the fact that you do this every time. I think they thought this was real, the way they became excited…”

“Don’t you think it is for real?”, he asked, cutting her short, with a little skepticism. She always gave the impression that she was indifferent to his stories. Today, it seemed, she was not.

“You always have stories. I don’t mind you stories or what you tell them, but what’s the one you had for me?”, she said, casually dusting the bed, with an eagerness in her smile. Although she wanted to, she could not look into his eyes with this question of hers.

“This, my dear, is for real. I am late because I was expecting a call. You don’t know what happened today, you would not believe. I am late because I did not want to miss that one opportunity of making it big in my life. You know what I have been doing these six years, right? Of course there is some element of truth in my stories, but that is as much as it is. I don’t want our children to…”

“What? You mean you don’t want our children to think that you have struggled most of your life? Don’t you think they have started realizing that their father is not a hero; that their father does not want to spend too much time with the family? Of course, I don’t blame you for whatever it is, but they are children. Did you not see how disappointed they were, until you began that story of yours?” she muttered impatiently. By the time she was finished speaking, the air was already reeking of uneasiness.

“Why are you being so caustic today? You never had issues with my stories. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I have been going through. ” he scowled.

There was a moment of quietude. He was a patient man, she was a patient woman. Neither wanted the small matter of his stories to blow up. They lied down, avoiding each other’s gaze. She never spoke to him on what he wanted from his life, what he thought of their family, precisely because she had too many questions. She had led his life with him. She knew that he was a man who took immense pride in his past. Discomfort was never what she wanted in the few moments they spent as a family. He never spoke of what transpired outside of his family because he was never quite the family man. One might be forgiven on thinking that he did not want his family to accept that he was just another someone, who had to slug it out.

“Do you not think it would be better for us if you settled down? You know there are much better avenues for you, and still, you want to do it your way. Times have changed. You have a family now,” she mumbled, and turned towards him. He was still gazing into the emptiness, eyes wide shut.

“I know,” he said, half mocking at himself. “I never could do it.” He turned towards her, his face pasted with serenity. “I think, after these six years, this is one story I always wanted you to know.”

The sounds of the night had become too loud. It was not windy, as if everything had paused, wanting to hear what story he had for her.

“I think it has been a long day. You seem very tired. Why don’t we do this – let us go out the next Saturday, and you can tell us your story. Don’t be late then.” She chided him gently, and brushed his forehead.

The moon retreated, and the leaves rustled in agreement.