Like
the Sun Disappeared Behind the Clouds
Prashila Naik
‘Mahesh, come and
hold this stool. Stop looking and do some work.’ The similarity in their voices
had the capacity to startle Mahesh even after all these years. He ignored it,
and turned around.
‘Mahesh, have you
gone deaf?’
‘Stop shouting. I
am not doing any work. I pay for all my expenses. I am not a free loader. And
this house is as much mine as it is yours.’
He could see
Vishnu's mouth open and then close like that of a fish. It meant Mahesh had
managed to conquer the argument, and yet he felt no triumph. Here he was. Seventy-two
years old, a widower, on medication for high blood pressure and type II
diabetes, probably childless, living with his brother in a renovated version of
the house where they were both born decades ago. ‘This house is as much mine as
it is yours,’ he repeated. ‘I am a pensioner, not like you, who came back with
his tail hanging between his legs at the first sign of challenge.’
Vishnu pretended
not to have heard, and steadied himself for the climb onto the stool. Mahesh
could see his arms fumble. Somewhere in his head, his words rang as unfair.
Vishnu had a near-death experience in the textile mill. Failure and fear were
two different things. For a second, he toyed with the idea of apologising to
his brother, or better still, helping him steady the stool. Mahesh took a step
forward, and then stepped back. Clearly, if it was that simple ... He turned
around.
There was the
sound of the stool crashing against the mosaic-tiled floor. Would there be
blood? Mahesh shuddered, unwilling to step out of the safety the kitchen
provided. The water in the glass in his hand was only half-drunk. Just when he
was about to take another sip, he heard Vishnu's first shriek. He was calling
out to their long dead mother. Mahesh was mildly offended that his name hadn't
been called out. But soon, he was relieved. That only proved what he already
knew. He finished the water in his glass and then put it back on the water
filter.
Vishnu was huddled
on the floor. There was a small pool of red around his forehead. His eyes were
closed, and his fingers had bunched into fists that pressed desperately against
his thighs. Mahesh heard soft whimpers.
He walked up to
his brother and bent down. Vishnu was a lot heavier than he was. And, what
would he do once he had lifted him off the ground. Maybe, a doctor would be
required. Where was the nearest doctor now and how would they get to him? And
money? How much money would be needed? What if the doctor said Vishnu needed
more than a few stitches and suggested an operation? How would he manage all of
this? How had he managed this when they were still little boys who had never
given a thought to wearing anything other than short pants? Oh, he was being
silly, trying to attach any sense to those days. Did they even count in the
long journey that had unfolded after.... Vishnu whimpered again. Mahesh touched
him on his shoulder.
‘Get up, Vishnu.’
Vishnu did not
respond. Mahesh attributed this to defiance. He clamped both his arms around
Vishnu's arm, and tried to pull him up. Vishnu did not budge. Mahesh moved
away, embarrassed at the lack of strength in his arms. He walked away and then
walked out of the house. His next-door neighbour Asha was out on her porch,
oiling her long, gray hair. Mahesh found it hard to believe that he had once
found this woman attractive. Somehow this made it easier for him to approach
her. The woman's two sons lifted Vishnu off the ground and put him on the bed. Blood
was still oozing a bit, but it was starting to dry out, solidifying into
ugliness. They asked Mahesh for a cloth to tie around Vishnu's head. Mahesh
brought one of Vishnu's lungis. The men offered to take him to the doctor, but
one of them, bluntly told him they were ‘running low on money and so would not
be able to help much more.’ The rickshaw driver said he could only manage three
people in the rickshaw, and one of them would have to share the driver's seat.
The bleeding man would have to lie down, he declared.
Mahesh struggled
to find a foothold on the driver seat, and the experience was terrifying. Separated
only by a piece of glass from the vehicles around him, he wondered if he would
come out alive.
The doctor
stitched up the wound, and said things that were meant to be comforting. He
also expressed amazement at seeing twins of this age for the
very first time. ‘So amazing that you two look so alike even now.’ His young
face was flushed with something that could have been warmth. A good fellow,
Mahesh decided, but boring. The doctor told them that the stitches would have
to be checked everyday, as it would be good to not take any chances. The
neighbour's son offered to organise the rickshaw for them. Mahesh said nothing.
The doctor gave him a slight discount, citing it was his first visit, and then
once more commented on how incredible it had been to see twins that age. Mahesh
said nothing.
Back at home,
Mahesh paced the verandah. The neighbour's second son had managed to send a
telegram to Vishnu's youngest daughter. All of Vishnu's daughters were married
and had kids. Mahesh did not know their genders or their ages, but remembered
seeing them all. He also remembered feeling no emotion for any of them. His
only daughter was older than all of Vishnu's daughters, and Mahesh was stunned
to realise he had forgotten her face. It had been over five years now. She had
come back to her parents, battered by years of emotional abuse from her
husband. But the prospect of having this jaded woman back in their lives had
terrified Mahesh and his wife. They asked her to reach a compromise with her
husband. She agreed and left. No one ever saw her again. His wife withered away
with that guilt. She believed their daughter had ended her life. Mahesh wasn't
so sure. His version of guilt was restricted to wiping out all memories of
their last conversation.
He thought of her
now. Why couldn't her life have turned out like that of Vishnu's daughters?
Sure, they had no achievements, but wasn't prolonged survival an achievement of
its own. It all seemed extremely unfair. The loneliness, the loss of
independence, the guilt, the failure, and then the loneliness all over again.
He had a huge urge to burst into sobs. Instead, he walked up to the room where
Vishnu lay.
Mahesh watched
his brother stare at the ceiling, his bloated belly rising in soft rhythms.
‘Why did you have
to change the bulb yourself? So many people could help.’
‘Doesn't matter.
You could have helped me.’
‘You don't get
it. This is not about me. This is about you. And you could have had it much
worse.’
This time Vishnu
turned to look at him. Mahesh struggled to read his face. He wanted to feel his
brother's pain, wanted to sit down next to him, and tell him it would all be
fine. That like the days of their boyhood, the wounds on his forehead would
disappear like the sun’s glare disappeared behind the clouds. But Vishnu had
turned his head away, and closed his eyes. Mahesh opened his mouth to continue
the conversation. The simplest of words eluded him. What was he even doing
there? He walked out of the house and sat down on the verandah bench. Asha's
granddaughter, a bony girl of around two was playing with their pet dog. The
child noticed him, and then smiled. Mahesh caught unawares, could only smile
back. He felt sad for that child. Someday all of this would cease to exist for
her. Someday, she too would turn into an unimaginable entity. How terrible, and
what a loss. He closed his eyes and lay down on the bench, struggling to
disconnect himself from the mild thumping of his heart. Soon sleep claimed him.
For now, life had moved on.
Prashila Naik is a writer and
technologist born and raised in Goa. Her short fiction has previously been
published in various online literary magazines in India and elsewhere, most
recently in the 2014 New Asian Short
Story Anthology. She likes to call herself a pescetarian, and is
particularly fond of reading in the dark. She is based out of Bangalore.
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