Come evening, there is a visit by a family of friends: father, mother and daughter, carrying a box of pastries and a bouquet of lovely blue- green and magenta orchids arranged tastefully in a basket.
I am pleasantly surprised, overwhelmed and falling short of words, in how to thank for the thoughtful gesture: the present and the effervescent ‘Happy Birthday’ wish proofed in unison, mumble some thing...
The box, containing Black Forest and Pineapple pastries, the pastries to be savoured slowly, is destined to the fridge, the basket, the Orchids to be admired at leisure, to the centre of the dining table.
As the days pass, one by one, the pastries, slowly, dwindle in number, enjoyed in small bites and pieces, the orchids on the other hand, strangely, day by day grow by millimetres, both in height and beauty.
Somehow, in the growing Orchids and dwindling Pastries I discern a subtle ’Message of Life’: its beauty, continuity and finality.
The Gurudawara at Anandpur and Kababs at Chandigarh
It was getting dark on that chilly, remembered, December evening of the year 1999. From Chandigarh, past Bhakra, climbing up, to Una in Himachal Pradesh and on to Bangara, Dharam Singh’s home, a hamlet of just four houses, mostly in second, gear on the twisting and turning, unpaved track of a road, I have been driving since morning.
Now, returning back to Chandigarh , both of us tired, Jeet frail and weak, back from the recent long and debilitating journey from , New York, possibly deep in her own thoughts, a victim of cancer, that though defeated twice but not been vanquished is, once again, quietly stirring inside her, is unusually quiet.
I am a worried man and a concerned husband, concerned about her and worried, already getting late in the night with Punjab recently returned from the heavy bout of insurgency coupled with so many other imponderables lurking at he back of my mind, of making it safe to Chandigarh.
In a hurry, I am pressing the accelerator down and pushing the NE 118 hard on the lonely narrow dark road lit only by the twin car headlights as it hurtles ahead, with the engine humming smoothly, the reassuring, sound somewhat soothing to my troubled mind.
On our way up as we crossed Anandpur Sihab, Jeet, was keen to pay her respects at the gurudawara, already late and I in a hurry to reach Una, where Dharam Singh, my section JCO from 1962, was waiting for us, had suggested to pend it for the same evening return journey.
Nearing Anand Pur Saihab, I slow down and breaking her reverie indicate to her the gurudawara, now visible from the window of the moving car in far distance, perched on a hillock, flood lit and shining like a jewel.
Sensing the latent tension in my tone, Jeet, perceptible as usual, responds “It is getting late; let us leave it for some other time.”
I know that she would be sourly disappointed if she misses this opportunity and now already late, I reckon that now, another hour or so would not make much of a difference: ‘Who knows when we will come this side again.” I say and spin the steering wheel left, turning the car off the road and on to the track leading to the gurudawara.
At the foot of the hillock, where I park, is a shanty market with the stalls doing roaring business, selling nick knacks, Karas, Kirpans and other souvenirs of the visit to the holy place to the devotees and eatables to the accompanying children. I wait in the car as Jeet opens her side door, gingerly steps out and starts her slow trudge up on the winding path.
I, in a pensive mood, watch her slow laboured progress. She must have been half up when some thing hit me and exploded inside. “What am I doing here sitting in the comfort of the car, while she is struggling up, taking each step with the force of will power, I ask myself? In desperation I jump out, bang the car door and run up the track, taking the steps two at a time, hoping to catch up and join with her before she vanishes from sight in the milling multitude of the devotees.
Huffing and puffing I do make it, surprising her in the processes. She, seeing me there unexpectedly, possibly experiencing frisson and as I hold her hand gives me a vane smile: both of us enter the portals of the holy place and following the customs, side by side, perform the required rituals and pay our obeisances.
With the divine hand now looking after us all the way, we made Chandigarh safe and sound. However, on reaching the city, Jeet, though an extremely poor eater had an intense urge for Mutton Kababs. All the restaurants of the town did have Kababs but of Chicken. Mutton, we did manage finally in a five star hotel, after going around all the eateries, as the last resort. That however is another story, another episode, in the Odyssey of our life together to be narrated some other time.
Brig Lakshman Singh (Retd)
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