The Posthumous Award

Creative Writing Competition 2012 India
CODE	778
SETTING	Old Palace OR Bungalow
OBJECT	Any Jewellery – Necklace, Ring…
THEME	A Strange Day/Night

Family Short Story – The Posthumous Award

Madhav dropped by last evening for a social call, a week after Neeta and I had returned to Arizona from our vacation in India.  We had ushered in the New Year, 2008, in Bangalore, before our return. Even as we talked of ‘cabbages and kings’ over our beers, Madhav’s eyes fell on a photo on the mantle piece.

‘This appears to be new. Who are these people? Your grandparents, I assume—is all well?’

The faded photo—in sepia, a tint popular some fifty years ago—was framed in dark wood, and the protective glass sported cracks at the corners. The image was of a wrinkled old man and his wife. The man looked stern and his face commanded respect. The lady was petite, with a wisp of a smile on her kindly face. A gold chain, girdling the frame, encompassed both of them.

‘Well, this picture has a piece of history behind it, if I may say so’, I replied.

‘History? What do you mean, Raj?’

I began my narration.

**

Thursday, December 13, 2007, must rank as an exceptionally unusual day in my life. For, I met the lady you see in that photo, on that date.

She was an inmate of ‘Homes for Happiness’ (HFH), situated a few kilometres outside of Bangalore and serving as a home for senior citizens. It was started by a philanthropist who first acquired an old bungalow in Narayanapura village and converted the eight bedrooms in the building as living quarters for seniors, either couples or singles. The rooms are adjacent to each other in a circular layout, and each room opens out to a corridor. At the centre lies a covered courtyard which functions as a dining room, library and TV room. The old kitchen has been refurbished, and a verandah at the entrance to the building serves as a lounge. With the vast garden around, the stately building brings to mind the Victoria Memorial in Kolkata, though on a smaller scale.

My interest in HFH was as a possible abode for my parents, who are getting on in years. Neeta and I have settled, as you know, for several years now in Arizona, and we visit India only occasionally. Appa and Amma are, no doubt, looked after by one or the other of my siblings, but eventually they will need their own independent space, and who knows, even round-the-clock nursing services.

The Secretary of HFH, Kashinath, had no objection to my walking around on my own and meeting anyone I wanted to speak with.

The door of Room 6 was ajar and I peeked in. An old lady sat in a chair, staring at the open spaces beyond the window of her room. A pair of spectacles, which seemed quite opaque with scratches and cracks, sat precariously on the bridge of her nose. I wondered how she could see anything through them. She was perhaps a nonagenarian. A blackened, withered banana adorned a peg table in the corner; a plethora of bottles with capsules and tablets of different hues, along with a jar of water and a drinking glass, occupied another table. A narrow bed and a rack for the old lady’s badly-dented steel trunk completed the picture. On an impulse I greeted her, ‘How are you, Ajji?’

The woman turned around slowly. I could see that she was hardly able to move about, and almost unable to see. Flashing a toothless smile, she responded in a quivering voice,

‘Vijay, you have come at last! Do you know how many times I sent messages for you? I knew though, that you, as a devoted grandson, would surely come one day. Pity, I am nearly blind and can’t see your face, but mercifully I can hear and recognize your voice.’

Vijay. Vijay?  It was evident she was expecting a grandson of that name to visit her. I decided to play along. Still standing at the door, I said, ‘Ajji, I am here and I want you to know that you have always been in my thoughts, even if I did not visit you. Tell me how you are, and if there is anything I can do for you’.

With great effort she rose and clambered on to her bed. ‘Come in, Vijay. Sit down. Let us not waste time talking about me, here today, gone tomorrow.’ She paused for maybe a minute, as if to gather her thoughts, then continued, ‘Tell me about Sunita, yourself, your kids—you call them Shiva and Ajay, isn’t it so?—and yourself. Where do you live? Do you earn well?’

I talked about myself for a while, avoiding reference to my wife or kids’ names. She listened to me intently and asked me about my children’s studies and what they wanted to become in life, whether Sunita worked at any job, and when I would retire. I gave real-life details of my wife and children and my own job. Ajji listened to me with great attention, and then said, ‘How stupid of me! You must be tired and hungry. There is a banana on the table, please take it; that is all I have to offer for now. Lunch is still a while away.’

I looked at the banana and realised it was only the peel of the banana. Ajji must have eaten the fruit and forgotten about it. Momentary loss of memory, perhaps? I did not want to embarrass her by saying so.

‘I am not hungry, Ajji. Tell me now about yourself. Like, when you came here, how you like the place, how well you are being cared for and such matters.’

The next hour went by with Ajji’s description of how her own son and his wife were facing serious health problems which prompted them to settle her in HFH, her life therein, and the ailments she was being treated for by the visiting doctor. Her narration was without any complaint or bitterness against anyone.

‘Of course, your father must have told you all this. I cannot deny that your parents gave me a good life while they could. Unfortunately poor Dilip suffers from severe arthritis and Ambika has her vertigo problem. It is a curse to become old and not enjoy good health.’

I was getting a little uncomfortable with the allusion to my ‘parents’ whose names I had just got to know! Next, she might ask me some questions about them, to which I would not know the right answers! ‘Better leave now, Raj’, I told myself.

‘Ajji, you are tired. Would you like me to massage your arms, legs and feet before I go?’

‘See, you have not lost any of your kind nature. Who can resist an offer to soothe aching muscles?’

I set about giving her a gentle massage and Ajji soon slipped into a deep slumber. I felt mighty pleased with myself at having brought comfort to an old lady by enacting a little drama, without arousing any suspicion about my identity in her mind. After some minutes, reflecting on the unknown history of this unknown lady, I made a quiet exit.

A week later I received a phone call from Kashinath. ‘Have you taken a decision on buying or renting a unit for your parents, Sir?’ he asked.

‘No, it might take a while. By the way, how is the old lady I spoke to during my visit?’

‘Gangamma? I am coming to that. Can you take the trouble to come here one of these days?’

‘What is the matter? I hope everything is OK with her.’

‘She lived only for two or three days after you met her. She has left a packet and a letter for you.’

Pangs of guilt began to bother me. The poor old lady had probably left a gift for her grandson Vijay, and I, the impostor, was going to be given this gift—something I least deserved. I hoped that Kashinath had the real Vijay’s number.

Anyway, I decided to go to HFH the very next day. I straightaway confessed to Kashinath how I had pretended to Ajji that I was Vijay. Kashinath smiled and said ‘I know.’

‘You know? How?’ I could not hide my surprise or embarrassment.

‘Because she dictated to me a letter for you. A most interesting lady, she was. She would buttonhole me to play a game of chess whenever I was free—and she was very good at it too!’

I took the packet and the letter. The letter read:

‘Dear grandson, you have the same voice and style of speech as Vijay, but I know you are not my Vijay, but who cares? You thought it worthwhile to be kind to this decrepit old woman.

How did I know you were not the real Vijay? My suspicion was aroused when you called me Ajji, because he always called me Avva. I thought, perhaps someone else used to call me Avva?—was I was making a mistake that it was Vijay? I then invented the names Sunita, Shiva and Ajay. You did not disagree. However, my grandson is married to Kavita and has two daughters, Aarti and Priya. I knew at once that you had created a bubble of make-believe, not wanting to disappoint me when I thought you were Vijay. I decided to do likewise. I immensely enjoyed the little game we played with each other, and the soothing massage. Whoever you are, thank you.

I have two possessions I have always cherished—a photograph of Thatha and me, and a gold chain he presented to me for wearing on Vara Mahalakshmi day some years ago, but which I never wore. Thatha took ill a couple of days before the festival, and I could not bring myself to wearing it while he was ill. But then, he never recovered. I would like to leave these for you in appreciation of the joy you brought to me, for however brief a time it may have been. May God always be with you.’

Ajji had signed off initially as ‘Avva’—that was the only word in her own handwriting in that letter—which she had then scored out and ‘corrected’ to ‘Ajji’.

Phew! I could not help admiring the sense of humour and affection shown by the gracious old lady. I opened the packet to find the photograph and the gold chain, a token of Thatha’s love for Ajji.

Once again, I felt guilty. I said to Kashinath, ‘How can I take this? What about her real son and his family?’

Kashinath smiled reassuringly. ‘Do not worry; Ajji had several other possessions too; her family has been more than taken care of.’

Quite understandably, Neeta did not wish to use the gold chain, though she too was impressed by Ajji. We did not wish to gift it away either. Uncertain of what we wanted to do with it, we brought it, along with the photo, to Arizona.

As we unpacked, an idea flashed in Neeta’s mind. ‘Raj, why don’t we let them wear the chain posthumously, and date the picture to mark that special day of your meeting Ajji?’

‘Posthumously? But isn’t that weird?’ I responded.

‘Not at all. If there can be posthumous awards for bravery or other reasons, why not honour Ajji’s mental alertness? Do we not garland photos of people who have departed from this world?’

‘Fair enough, but ….. but Neeta, the chain belongs to Ajji. How can we gift to her what is her own?’

Neeta put up her hand. ‘Correction, Raj. The chain belonged to her until she gifted it to you, but it is yours now, to put a fine point. Surely, you can gift what is yours?’

‘You win, Neeta’, I said.

***

‘That, Madhav, is how I got this picture of my new Grandpa and Granny—and Granny’s gold chain.’

I rose to fetch some more beer. As I walked to the refrigerator, I said, ‘How nice of her to bequeath these to me! I feel so good about having met Grandma Gangamma, related not by blood, but only in our feelings, Madhav.’

Madhav looked intently at the photo once again. Turning to me, he smiled and said, ‘Indeed. One helluva grandma, wasn’t she?’

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