Coincidence
TGIF, is all I could think this Friday evening, at the end of what’s been a hellish fortnight. Menopause has once again stamped her foot and said, you’re not getting away that easily. And when it rains, it is naturally a deluge. Adding to the whole sorry mess is the worst case of sugar withdrawal, just two weeks into a cold turkey approach to fighting a growing addiction. And promoting the damned book for the first time in person has been an emotionally gruelling affair. Finally, there has been some upsetting news from our son, living half a world away. I am no masochist but even I wonder at my gruesome ability to inadvertently schedule all these events in the same short fourteen days. Hence the hellish reference. The spouse, the yoga teacher and assorted friends have faced the onslaught at my side and that is the only reason I am still standing.
It’s Friday evening. To celebrate, the spouse has insisted on a rare treat: the air conditioning has been switched on in the living room. He’s poured himself a drink, I’m sipping a fresh coconut water (how the margaritas have fallen by the wayside…) and we are making steady inroads on the chips and dip. He’s watching some rerun on TV, I’m absentmindedly working on a cross word puzzle, still feeling residual tinges of self pity. Then he begins to tell me of a business meeting he has just concluded. I listen with half an ear.
“I went to meet my business consultants before coming home. Shalini was running late with another client so I waited. They served me coffee. Then a young man, around K’s age ( our son is 26 years old), may be a couple of years older, came in to say she was ready for our meeting. Before we left the lobby, he turned to me and asked: Do you remember me? I’m Prayag. And I immediately knew who he was! He has just recently joined the consultancy firm, he lives in Virar and his parents live with him. I asked after them, he asked about my parents and K. He remembered that Mummy used to ask him his grades after each term’s examinations were done, and give him a little reward. He remembered playing cricket with K. I was really happy to see him after all these years. Then Shalini came in, and we both stopped chatting, out of awkwardness, I guess. When the meeting was over, Prayag quietly asked Shalini to take a photograph of us. He turned to me and said he’d show it to his parents. Shalini was surprised that we knew each other. He didn’t say much, just that our families had known each other years before. I too didn’t go into the details, just reminded him to send me the photograph so I could show you and K.”
The world was suddenly a brighter place. Prayag! After all these years. All my silly little troubles, all the weight of the last weeks fell silent. I told my husband that it was the best news of the week to know that Prayag, that bright little boy, who had so kindly befriended our baby son, who had patiently played with him, had lived up to his early promise. Just as wonderful was to hear that his parents, who had looked after us just as kindly, were happy and well.
Our son was a toddler when we first met them. They had accepted employment with my husband’s parents to look after their property outside Bombay. The young man, Ramesh (Prayag’s father), was quiet and shy. He had the greenest fingers I’ve ever known and a heartfelt love for all things “jeevith”. I was young too, preoccupied with my family life and it is only now that I remember the way the garden responded so lovingly to his care. I wish I had taken the time to learn from him. Prayag’s mother, Saroja was better educated than her husband. She was a confident woman, dignified and statuesque. She cooked the tastiest food with a light touch, and looked after her little home, keeping it spotless and neat. She took me under her wing, teaching me simple home remedies to soothe the babies, or recipes for nutritious food. Often, she took them away to her home, to offer me a respite or just the chance to eat a meal quietly. I remember her pleasant ways, the dignity she imparted to all that she did and her meticulous upbringing of her only child. I don’t recollect her ever raising her voice in anger at her son. She was quietly loving and indulgent of his high spirits. But he was being brought up to know his limits and was very respectful of his parents.
After a couple of years, Ramesh resigned from his job. He told my parents in law that he was leaving for the city to work as a diamond cutter. It would pay better and give Prayag a chance to go to a city school. His heart wasn’t in it, he was very much a man of the earth. But both he and Saroja were determined to give Prayag every chance at a better life. We could see that Saroja especially had a very clear vision of their future. Still, we were so sad to say goodbye…our son missed Prayag, we missed all of them. We remembered them often, their kindnesses to us all.
To meet Prayag again, to see the fruit of Ramesh and Saroja’s determination to give their son the best future he could achieve, was a wonderful thing. My husband and I kept turning to each other yesterday evening with smiles on our faces.
We live a jaded and cynical existence in this city of dreams. It is so easy to give up, to give in, to bemoan our luck. Everyone seems to be resigned to pollution, corruption, bad government, a loss of morality in the deepest sense. We claim helplessness- “But what can we do?” If we get one “development” project for our city after a few years of terrible quality of life, we consider ourselves lucky and promptly abandon any ideas of revolting against the status quo.
And then here is a Prayag. He has found his place in this world, he is making a better life for his parents and for himself. It takes a Prayag to continually remind me that there are big and small rewards for never losing hope and determination. It is an amazing coincidence that we have met him again after twenty odd years but it is no coincidence that fighting the good fight, never giving up in the face of adversity and hardship pays off. I hope to meet him one day soon. I hope not to embarrass him while I try to convey the deep respect I have for Ramesh and Saroja, and the happiness his story brought to this writer one Friday evening at the end of a foul fortnight.