A Minute is all it takes....

A Minute is all it takes....

It was a beautiful winter morning but the everlasting chill of December made the gravity around my bed 10 times the usual strength. All I longed was for a hot cup of coffee while I stay wrapped up in my red blanket. There was something unusual in that particular morning; the birds seemed quieter and there was hardly any movement outside. The usual noise and bustle of the street had died down dramatically after the episode. A dense mist of tension seemed to hang over the neighboring roads too. It was as if all lanes had decided to cast this eeriness in harmony. Holding the cup of coffee in my hand I waited for the newspaper delivery which normally got home before I got up every morning; which was the actual reason why I hired that agency for my newspaper delivery. The newspaper dint arrive; impatiently I shifted to watch the TV news but all I could see was dense black and white dots all over the screen creating unimaginable illusions and patterns when I got a little mesmerized by the alternatively colored dots. The patterns seemed to know what created them, what caused the lack of signal in those early hours of morning. They started painting images of the events of the local boulevards.

{
It’s a normal morning like every other Sunday of the winter. The birds have left the nests in search of grains and worms. We, the humans, work throughout the week for the monthly grain (gain) to feed our families, to suffice our ever-increasing needs, our ever-lasting hunger for ‘More’. On Sundays we get to see the smile on the faces for which we are the load-bearing-asses on the week days.
Its 8:00am and I’m resting on my arm chair watching the street flooding with the wheeler shops selling veggies, fruits and also those per-item-Rs.5 wheeler. One can also see the fat shop owners lounging on the cushions near the cash box ordering around underage boys to fetch the items the customers asked for and then shoving out his fat fingers to fetch the green papers from the customers that he had pocketed from his superior after being-an-ass for a whole month. The teen boys working in the shops were of my son’s age. I was lucky to have got a job good enough to have been able to send my son to one of the most reputed school in the town. Although the school fees takes away more than half of my salary per month, still me and my wife are happy to see him studying every evening for hours and we often talk at night, after he is asleep, about how he will grow up to be a doctor and take away our poor living. My wife is very supportive of the life we lead and how I plan our future. She never declares any extra-ordinary needs before me which I cannot fulfill. Her needs are often limited to buying sugar or washing bar-soap if the supply dry up before the suspension of the current month. I buy her a saree every 6 months when I get a little bonus for a festival and the bonus fetches a new pair of shoes or attire for my son. Seldom do I spend any money for my outlook. My factory has a work uniform and the factory administration itself provides 2 pairs of trousers and shirts every year. That’s all I need for dress, if I talk about my life outside the 4 walls of my house.

My recollecting thought id broken when my wife brings me a cup of coffee and my son approaches clinging her pallu. Seeing him I put down my cup and pull him into my lap. I ask him about his school and his cricket matches. Cricket seemed to be in the heart of every Indian child as if Indians were born with a cricket gene in their DNA. I myself am a big fan of the 22 yard game. He runs back into the (only) bedroom of the house to set himself up to his books. I was proud to see his studious nature. After the coffee, I go in and announce that we would be going out for a walk and then would have lunch outside. I recently had received a Christmas bonus and as always wanted to make my family smile out of it. Half an hour later every one was ready and we got out to the street. My wife is wearing a plain green cotton saree and he is on with a blue T-shirt and red shorts. There is a truck, which may have arrived when we were getting ready, which is unloading some goods at the fat shopkeeper’s stockpile garage. And there is this new Ice-cream stall which attracted a lot of kids from as distant as a kilometer away and already seemed to have started making profits after his initial investments in setting up his stall. It is around 9 o’ clock when we reach the street. My son tugs at my kurta and says, “Baba, Ice-cream?” I smile at nod my head and ruffle my hand through his curly hair. We move towards the Ice-cream stall. He orders a chocolate cone and my wife looks at me as if asking if she could have one too. I smile and nod again. She lights up like a Christmas tree and orders a butterscotch cup for herself. I don’t feel like having an Ice-cream in this winter, although the sun has risen and the temperature has, probably, reached mid twenties; still I have a spoonful when my wife feeds me from her cup. I shuffle my pockets to pull out my wallet but realize that I left it near the TV. I reach my wife’s ear and whisper that I’ll be back in a minute after getting the wallet and till then they ought to be standing at the same spot. I climb the stairs of the building and reach the 5th floor, unlock the door that opens into the balcony and then the front room.

I turn around in the balcony and look at my family 5 floors below on the street still stuck to the same spot as I left them. My wife points at me saying something to our son and then he shows a wide smile and waves at me. And then everything, as if, happens in very slow motion. The truck starts but instead of going in the forward direction it reverses in the backward direction and with a force hits the electric pole that is the epicenter of a million lines: the electric, the phone and the cable cords. The pole snaps into two and falls directly on the road. The tip of the pole hits the diesel tanker below the truck. And then suddenly, every one stats shouting as all other poles starts disrupting from their positions. And then a sudden blast erupts and I fall backwards. The glass of my house window shatters and a few pieces pierce my arm. As I lay on the balcony floor, I suddenly realize what has occurred. With great might I get up to my feet and see that on the streets there’s no hustle, no honks of vehicles, no high pitched voices of women bargaining for veggies. I glance to the spot where a minute ago was an Ice-cream stall, now replaced by red color, a web of wires and a strangled pole. I run down as fast as I can, tripping a couple of times; once losing my foot-wear and the next time hitting my nose hard enough to start instant bleeding.

I reach the spot and fall down to my knees. My eyes do not leak. My throat doesn’t scream. I stay kneeled till the news spreads and police along with the ambulance arrives. There also arrives a big white van that has a big over-turned umbrella on the roof. My wife and son are un-recognizable when I get to see them 18 hours later in the hospital. I was made to finish the remains of my family.
}

The black and white dots came into focus as the full event of that evening passes through my mind. One moment I was buying them Ice-cream and the next I was watching them turn to ashes right in front of my eyes. My family is finished but I still live. Do I have a reason to stay on this earth? Is there any destiny left? I lived for them, worked for them; now no more. With this thought in my mind I moved to the terrace to finish off what’s left of this family.