Eternal Journey of Love
Sandeep Palakkal
The old man was reading in his study since morning. In fact, he had been reading for years, every day of his life. In the past he used to find time to read even during his busy work schedule. But now that he had been retired for years and he had nothing else to do, he was free to choose his favourite activity day and night.
It was midday when his wife, an old woman herself, came and sat near him. She gazed at him with a face gleaming with joy from the thought how delightfully immersed was the old man in his reading. She always loved watching him this way. As though sensed her gaze and thoughts, the old man raised his eyelids around which there were thin white hairs, and looked at his wife, smiling. The wife read the title of the book – Love in the Time of Cholera. She exclaimed how many times she had seen him reading the same book again and again. He replied that he was always tormented by Marquez's this tale of love – a love that began quite innocently, unknowingly, and then waited for long years, from one century to the next, for its fulfilment. Like the love of Florentino Ariza for Fermina Daza, the entire novel had been disturbing him like a flame in his heart ever since he first read the book, he said. As Forentino and Fermina were on an eternal journey up and down the stream in the wild Magdalena river that passed through the Carribbean, the old man wanted to read the novel again and again, eternally. The woman saw the old man's eyes shining with joy as he spoke of the novel. There was another book, lying on the table, which she remembered buying a week ago, on an evening, when they went to the town. It was a recently published book, which the old man showed her as a masterpiece of a writer who won the Nobel prize last year. He wanted to start reading it immediately after finishing the present book. During the last one week, the woman had seen him many times taking that book, reading the reviews on the back, skimming through the pages, and smelling the leaves. And she knew how passionate he was about books and reading. She loved his passion, though she used to tease him that he was crazy.
It was midday when his wife, an old woman herself, came and sat near him. She gazed at him with a face gleaming with joy from the thought how delightfully immersed was the old man in his reading. She always loved watching him this way. As though sensed her gaze and thoughts, the old man raised his eyelids around which there were thin white hairs, and looked at his wife, smiling. The wife read the title of the book – Love in the Time of Cholera. She exclaimed how many times she had seen him reading the same book again and again. He replied that he was always tormented by Marquez's this tale of love – a love that began quite innocently, unknowingly, and then waited for long years, from one century to the next, for its fulfilment. Like the love of Florentino Ariza for Fermina Daza, the entire novel had been disturbing him like a flame in his heart ever since he first read the book, he said. As Forentino and Fermina were on an eternal journey up and down the stream in the wild Magdalena river that passed through the Carribbean, the old man wanted to read the novel again and again, eternally. The woman saw the old man's eyes shining with joy as he spoke of the novel. There was another book, lying on the table, which she remembered buying a week ago, on an evening, when they went to the town. It was a recently published book, which the old man showed her as a masterpiece of a writer who won the Nobel prize last year. He wanted to start reading it immediately after finishing the present book. During the last one week, the woman had seen him many times taking that book, reading the reviews on the back, skimming through the pages, and smelling the leaves. And she knew how passionate he was about books and reading. She loved his passion, though she used to tease him that he was crazy.
“It is lunch time, and everything is ready,” she pointed out.
The old man put a marker on the page he was currently reading, kept the book on the table, and rose from his chair. The woman stood nearby. Placing his hand on her fragile shoulder, he told her that he hoped he could finish the book by the evening, as there were only around forty pages left. She smiled and led him to the dining room.
The lunch was simple – a little brown rice, vegetable curry made of raw banana and fish curry with coconut; added to it was pappadam and mango pickle. Both the husband and wife enjoyed their meals; they served each other, and, telling a lot of jokes and stories from their old days, they laughed till the end. As he washed his hands, the wife asked if he was going back to his study to continue reading. But the old man wanted to catch some sleep. He knew the lady slept everyday through the afternoon. And he wanted to sleep with her.
As they were lying down on their backs on the soft cushion bed, he said he was going to dream waking up in the evening and resuming his reading, savouring a cup of black-tea made by her. Giggling, she turned her body to his side, put her hand on his chest, and sank into sound sleep. Feeling her warm breath on his neck, he also fell asleep when he could not tell. When she woke up, the sun had descended from his thrown, and the birds were welcoming a blissful evening with their songs. With a rested, serene mind, she went to the kitchen and prepared tea. She called him when she brought tea into the bedroom. He was still in the depth of his sleep. And the old woman tried to wake him up by shaking his arm which , suddenly, she felt frozen like ice. She sensed the coldness of his body entering hers through her fingers which held his arm for a long time, and flowing through her nerves to her heart. Suddenly she realized that the light of her life – the warmth of his love – was gone forever, and she was condemned to live in that cold loneliness the rest of her life.
As they were lying down on their backs on the soft cushion bed, he said he was going to dream waking up in the evening and resuming his reading, savouring a cup of black-tea made by her. Giggling, she turned her body to his side, put her hand on his chest, and sank into sound sleep. Feeling her warm breath on his neck, he also fell asleep when he could not tell. When she woke up, the sun had descended from his thrown, and the birds were welcoming a blissful evening with their songs. With a rested, serene mind, she went to the kitchen and prepared tea. She called him when she brought tea into the bedroom. He was still in the depth of his sleep. And the old woman tried to wake him up by shaking his arm which , suddenly, she felt frozen like ice. She sensed the coldness of his body entering hers through her fingers which held his arm for a long time, and flowing through her nerves to her heart. Suddenly she realized that the light of her life – the warmth of his love – was gone forever, and she was condemned to live in that cold loneliness the rest of her life.
She was not an avid reader like him. She used to read sometimes – that was all. But she continued reading Love in the Time of Cholera, again and again, until she died one day, again leaving a few pages unread. She wanted to be a part of that eternal journey of love, up and down the river through the jungle. In this way, she could feel his warm presence in her soul. She read the other book, which the old man had left without reading on his table, with a sense of fulfilling her husband's unrealized dream. She kept that book always with her, and used to smell its leaves to inspire her memories of a lost, warm love....
Chennai,
May 24, 2010.
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