The Faded Curtain

The windows were tightly shut. Shut to the world outside, the curtains were drawn. They used to be pretty, once upon a time, cream in colour embroidered with red cherries and small pink flowers, the bottom was lined with frills and tassels, but the passage of time had weathered them and their owner.
Time has its own effects on everyone. Some people mature with time while some just grow old. The Tithonus like refugee was growing old, old without love or care. He used to be prosperous in his youth. His father had had a flourishing jute export business. However the times were getting hard. Business was getting difficult day by day. He had heard his father say many a times “The British should just leave India alone, with so many strikes and lockouts how do you expect a common man to do business?”
He was too young and himself full of revolutionary ideas to comment anything.
He had run away from home at the age of twenty six. He wanted to help India in her freedom struggle. He was inspired by Mahatma Gandhi. He ran away from his home in a small village in Bengal to Sabarmati Ashram in Gujarat. There he was greeted well, young blood is welcomed everywhere. He was touched by the way of life in that Ashram. The daily routine was tiring however. He would wake up at five -thirty in the morning, by seven-thirty he would go to the main hall to hear Gandhiji give his morning sermons, at eight a light breakfast of two bananas, a handful of nuts and a glass of milk would be provided, after that they would work. At twelve-thirty a sumptuous lunch of rotis, sweet pumpkin and daal would be given. He enjoyed his stay there, however he missed the luxuries at home, so in four months he found himself boarding a train back home.
         When he came to his village, everything had changed. These four months seemed like four decades. The Hindu Muslim riots had ravaged his village. His family could not be traced. Lonely and scared he sat near the remains of his house and cried. He wished to see his mother’s smiling face, to feel the comforting touch of his father’s hand, he wished to be with friends and family, he wished that god would give him these four months back.
         From that day till date he has not seen, heard or known anything about his family. This young man was made of strong material. He did not lose heart, for him now, his country was his mother and its people his family. He went to Calcutta- the hub of all freedom movements. He grew and matured in the city of joy. It was heartening to see a rich “Marwari Baniya’s” son to change into an effective statesman. He would give speeches, organize rallies, initiate bandhs, and propagate anti-governmental ideologies. It was the turbulent years of 1947. India was on the verge of independence. People could feel the crumbling British Empire falling around them. This man could too.
         He was ambitious. His separation from his family had made him ruthless and emotionless. He could now do anything without fear or feelings. This man had joined the Indian Army after independence.
         The years were tough again. The times were of the Indo-China war of 1961-1962. He was commanding the Gurkha Rifles. His cantonment was posted near Manipur. On the sly information of a spy that a village had been captured by the Chinese and that they were now ransacking it, the regiment was tricked and taken Prisoners of War.
         The next twenty years of his life were spent in an airless dungeon in a prison somewhere in Beijing. His eyes had not seen daylight for years a score. His face looked aged his body weak but still he was strong in his heart.
         Then one day a prison guard came and opened his goal. He said “You are free go, go to your country and live, this is a small gesture of friendship towards India on behalf of china. You will be handed to the Indian government on your fortieth independence day.” He got up old cold and lonely but soon the warmth of happiness filled his heart.
         He came back to his country. It felt good; however the suffering had made him oblivious towards life. He had no means of income, no means of living. He was too proud to beg. A lady not more than forty five took him under her wing. She was compassionate and treated him like her father.
         Now he is eighty-seven years old. Its been four years since his daughter- the compassionate passed away. he had the house however he was lonely again. No one cares for him, now even his eyes hurt looking at the daylight. His room is dark, reflecting his life, his heart is dark with pain. At seven in the morning a small girl comes and does all the household chores. She cooks, cleans and opens the faded curtains at seven to wake him up. He grumbles, he does not like it. After she has gone, the windows are tightly shut again. Shut to the world outside, the curtains are drawn; the faded curtains are drawn to shut the sunshine out of his life.