2. The Balloon Man

Ramu, fondly addressed as Ramuji, turned seventy that year. There were creases on his forehead but his skin shone in glee. The colour in his eyeballs had faded but the twinkle in them hadn't. His nose had become crooked yet it seemed to pull a quick one at itself. His pink cheeks were sagging but the curve of his smile held them up. Naked jaws hid behind his pencil-thin lips but a yellow tooth still stuck out in all its boldness. The flimsy stubble on his chin was as white as snow but not the little hair that peered out from the sides of his head. Age tried to tamper with his body, but the happiness in his soul was visibly overpowering. Clad in a clean checkered shirt and dark cotton pants, he still exuded the vibe of a dandy he used to be in his prime. Everyone who knew him unanimously declared, "If life appoints an ambassador, it has to be Ramuji!"

Ramuji was awakened in the mornings by the first rays of the sun coming into the interiors of his chamber through a half-opened window. The daily rituals of the old man began with an intent communion with his late wife, whose picture adorned the wall opposite to his kingsize bed.

"And here I am, taking leave from you

to breathe in the newness of another day

But don't you worry darling, I'm not afar

dusk shall fall upon us, mortals and

I shall return to you with untold tales", he prayed.

A few verses from the holy scripture which he had memorised as a child, completed the supplication. After a hot bath, he rode down to the neighbourhood park. He was healthier than most people of his age thanks to the active lifestyle he maintained. His bicycle was painted bright red with lemon yellow on the crossbars. Though largely discoloured, it looked like a miniature jungle gym with wheels. To the few early risers who caught a glimpse of the merry old man biking in the wee hours of the morning, it was almost like a herald of good tidings.

Ramuji sat on the parapet outside the park, watching countless number of pigeons alight on the minaret that stood across the street. Sometimes he managed to strike a conversation about the weather or politics with one of the joggers. On his way back, he stopped at a coffee shop to have breakfast. He was a regular there and the shop-owner, Danny was the son of an old friend. A wholesome meal comprising of a plate of boiled eggs, a few slices of brown bread and black coffee was laid out on the front table as the ringing of the bicycle bell reached Danny's ears. "Thank you Danny boy!", Ramuji exclaimed as he relished every morsel of it. He always did. The sight of a sumptuous meal brought back memories of the days when he was a teenager riding around town with a beaming face and a growling stomach, looking for little children tugging at their father's trousers to buy them a pair of variegated balloons tied to his bicycle handle.

At around eleven, Ramuji got to his desk making diary notes about the many different things that consumed his old brain. He always wrote in black ink, using a fountain pen with a golden nib that made writing seem like a regal experience. It was cathartic and the parchment absorbed every drop of the ink. If you scoured through his wooden cupboard, you'd find a record of every single day of his journey from a dewy-eyed balloon-vendor to an astute businessman. When his son Hari took over the bike manufacturing business twenty years ago, he retired to the comfort of his two-storeyed villa, far from the hubbub of the city. It was built when the business began to thrive and the wheel of fortune turned in his favour. Hari lived in the city close to the factory and visited his father every weekend. He brought his kids most of the time and they loved to spend their vacations with him. They were fascinated by the multi-coloured balloons their grandfather got them. Lately, Ramuji had been writing a lot of letters to his dead wife, telling her how adorably naughty their grandchildren had become and how fast they were growing and how much he missed them when they went back after every visit.

The serenely silent mornings were interrupted when twenty-year-old Meenu rang the doorbell. She fixed lunch for Ramuji, which consisted of a small portion of rice, roti, dal and sabzi. Meenu was a good cook for she cooked with love. Meenu's father, Pappu used to work in the factory when it was looked after by Ramuji. She was a kid then. Ramuji used to give her chocolates whenever she came to the factory holding onto her mother's little finger. When he crossed fifty, Pappu left the job at the factory and became a watchman at the villa. He came around at dusk and left when the sun came up. But he was always a call away since he lived less than hundred metres from the villa.

After lunch, Ramuji reclined to his chamber. During those short naps, he often dreamt of his younger days when he and his friends used to go fishing in the lake behind his house. These dreams took weird twists when a wild lion appeared by his side, brushing its mane against his shriveling body. Sometimes he saw a herd of sharks darting towards him as he stood by the seashore or a giant eagle swooping down on his partially bald head. He did not remember being too scared when he woke up. But the beads of sweat on his forehead gave him the aftertaste of an excruciating struggle for survival. Sometimes it was so intense that he felt someday he wouldn't be able to free himself.

In the evenings, he went over to the country club for a game of cards with his buddies. All of them were in their late 60s or early 70s, leading peacefully retired lives. They laughed over old jokes and teased each other with stories from the past. By the time he returned home, Pappu would be slouched up in the portico, smoking a beedi and staring into infinity. Meenu packed dinner for the two of them. As they ate together, Ramuji rambled on about the frogs croaking in the garden and the rocking chair that screeched too much. Pappu delved into his own world of thoughts, contributing an opportune nod or an empathetic smile to the conversation. There were visitors on festive occasions. Ordinary days were mostly drab and Pappu's presence mattered. They knew the end was not far and any disparity felt trivial then.

Ramuji went to bed early. He often lay awake for hours reminiscing about that wintry morning he met his wife for the first time. In the comfort of darkness, he relived the love that withstood many a trial, unknowingly slipping into an esoteric realm to which he would eventually lose his soul. The stillness amazed him. The experience was so mesmerizing that he turned into an embodiment of sublime affection. There was no sense of separation. Relieved from the preoccupations of a wakeful spirit, he felt one with a higher reality.

Ramuji was growing old, giving in to life yet never giving up. One of those days he surrendered his all. It was a silent death. It was late afternoon and he was sleeping when he started breathing hard. A gasp or two and he was gone. Like a balloon blown out of sight by a wind passing by, he was forgotten and rendered insignificant with time.